#they talk things over at greasy's diner

[nope-4]

Dipper had his suspicions. After all, more often than not meeting unnatural beings in the forest led to him and mabel getting attacked. However, this creature didn't show any signs of aggression yet... and he knew for sure that at the very least, ford hadn't met this creature yet. After all, he did read through the journals enough times to memorize which creatures were there and how they looked/acted.

...maybe it wouldn't be so bad to approach this creature and see what it was doing here.

----- danny pov ------

it looks like his projected feelings worked? the kids did look less ready to pull out a weapon on him now...

"Hey I'm not gonna attack you!! I didn't know anyone lived near here, where even is this? I didn't mean to drop by here, I just wanted to go on a quick lil flight, get a little break you know? I didn't think I was so tired I would get lost!"

"...so you aren't from around here? you didn't come here on purpose?" the boy asked. Danny thought it was a stupid question. Did he even listen to what he had just said??

"No I didn't come here on purpose! I have no way to get back to my city, I'm too tired and hungry to even think properly!"

At that, the girl (mabel, if he heard the boy correctly) perked up. It seemed like she was thinking up a plan, but sensing the boy's growing dread lead danny to think it was probably gonna be something incredibly stupid. It reminded him of ellie, though he hadn't seen her in a while since she was traveling the world nowadays, only checking in every few months.

"If you come with us we can get you some food!" she exclaimed, smiling brightly

at that, the boy turned to her and whispered sharply "mabel! haven't we been through enough supernatural boyfriends last summer??"

"oh come on dip dop you know I can't give up on love that easily! I'm still searching for my perfect partner, I can't limit myself to humans!"

at that, danny decided to interrupt them.

"hey guys there's no reason to argue over this in the middle of the woods! lets go get that food you offered first..."

look, food was a higher priority right now than preserving these siblings relationship! you'd do the same if you were starving and saw a golden opportunity for food like this.

"I dunno, how do we know we can trust him?"

"comeeee onnn broski! feeding the poor guy won't hurt!"

"I even have some money on me if that's a problem!" danny hurriedly exclaimed, not wanting to miss his shot at food.

"fine! have it your way, we'll talk over lunch."

with that, the siblings beckoned him over and started walking in a seemingly random direction, eventually reaching a worn footpath and some unusual wooden signs? weird.

a/n: I wrote this a couple weeks ago and have not continued it since, so I decided to just post what I wrote

Danny was tired. It was exam season, the ghosts hadn't eased up on their attacks despite the stress he had with school, Jazz was off for college (meaning his parents expected him to pick up the slack and add her chores to his chore list...) he was more than tired. He was EXHAUSTED. You couldn't really blame him for what happened. ...at least that's what he's been telling himself.

Why is be being so dramatic, you ask? Well... he may have... sorta accidentally spaced out while flying and found himself waking up out in the middle of a forest full of pine trees. And this forest looked NOTHING like the forest in Amity park.

Now this wouldn't usually be a problem, right? Amity has such a big ectoplasmic presence, he could sense it from anywhere in the world! Except... as previously mentioned, he was physically and mentally exhausted, had barely eaten 3 sandwiches in the past week, hadn't gotten more than an hour of sleep a night (some nights getting no sleep at all) for over a month now... and to make things even better, he couldn't even ask for directions to a nearby city!

Ever since the whole Pariah Dark incident Amity (as in the city spirit of amity park) had decided that staying in one place was "too dangerous", so she'd started moving amity around the US with no apparent rhyme or reason.

Maybe it was because amity was a rather young city spirit, but this didn't achieve anything other than getting the GIW out of amity (they weren't able to reliably track the city location quickly enough to get there before it moved again, and amity has developed a tendency to leave them behind while moving herself, at this rate they would lose their funding before they managed to develop a way to locate amity quickly enough)

All that to say he's currently lost in an unfamiliar forest in the middle of nowhere, barely conscious, just praying to all the ancients (that he hadn't fought) that he could get some food and sleep before anything hostile could find him in this weakened state.

So far he had only heard a few distant animal noises, and there was no way he was attempting to eat something from a forest (he might have grown up eating ecto-infused food, but that didn't mean he had no standards for the food he put in his body! He wasn't going to attempt to eat something from an unfamiliar forest!

Danny hadn't gotten any closer to civilization from what he could tell, and he was running out of energy way too fast. So in a move of rare intelligence, he decided to find a tree with a strong looking branch, fly up to it, and drape himself on the branch for some hopefully undisturbed sleep. He didn't want any big forest animals finding him while he was asleep after all.

- - - - - - - - dipper pov - - - - - - - -

"hey mabel, isn't it weirdly quiet here today?"

Dipper and Mabel had gone into the forest with hopes of easing their boredom (and more importantly, get away from grunkle Stan and Ford's bickering), but so far they hadn't seen even a single red pointy hat peeking out in between the pine branches.

"maybe there's some new creature in the forest today..." he voiced out loud, a small part of him still wanting to prove himself to ford by finding something he had missed in his exploration of gravity falls.

"if it's scaring away all the other creatures, wouldn't it be better to call ford for help?" Mabel replied, worrying they might not be able to deal with it by themselves.

"nah, we can totally deal with this! we survived bill's weirdmageddon, we can definitely survive some weird new creature! have some faith in our strength, Mabel!"

"yeah, you're probably right, there's no use worrying"

[hearts4hughes]

ೃ࿔:･ bsf!rafe gets caught staring at you

the air smells like greasy pizza and chlorine. too many people are packed into kelce’s backyard with music that’s always one speaker blowout away from full collapse.

you’re in a hoodie that isn’t yours—his, obviously—sitting on the edge of the hot tub with your legs in the water, sipping a white claw.

and rafe? rafe’s doing that thing again.

the one where he’s not talking, not really listening, just watching you like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks. like he’s memorizing the way your nose scrunches when you laugh, or how you talk with your hands even when you’re tipsy, or how your foot brushes his thigh under the water without even realizing.

someone notices before you do.

“dude,” topper says, with the kind of smirk that makes rafe want to punch him and himself at the same time. “you’re staring.”

rafe doesn’t look away. just shrugs, lazy and unapologetic.

“so what if i am?”

topper raises a brow. “you look like you’re about to bite her.”

rafe rolls his eyes but doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to. because you’re laughing at something sarah said, all flushed and golden under string lights, and it guts him.

because that’s his laugh. it should be. he’s the one who knows your coffee order and which songs make you cry and that you always check under your bed twice before sleeping. he’s the one who holds your hair when you’re sick, who keeps a toothbrush for you in his bathroom drawer, who knows you trace your name on your leg when you’re anxious. he’s memorized every inch of your being.

and still, he’s just your best friend.

you catch him mid-stare about ten minutes later, a slow glance over your shoulder like you felt it. the heat of his gaze burning through your spine.

“what?” you ask, teasing, grinning. “do i have something on my face?”

“nah,” he says. too quickly. too quiet. “just lookin’.”

you narrow your eyes, but you don’t press. you never do. maybe because part of you likes it. maybe because you want him to keep looking. maybe because you already know.

a little later, when you lean into his side and drape your arms around his neck in that drunk and tired way you always do, rafe lets his hand settle on your waist.

he doesn’t say a word, but his jaw’s clenched, his knuckles white, and god help the next guy who touches you like they think they can.

because rafe doesn’t just stare. he claims. silently. greedily. like he’s owed you in every lifetime, and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @43hughes @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife

[sexlapis]

*

“Toji?”

“Hm?” Toji makes a noise of acknowledgment. It’s far too late for the two of you to be awake but you guess it’s going to be one of those nights where you get your sleep after midnight.

Toji rarely ever got a good nights rest no matter how hard you tried to make him. Sleep late, up early. Such a schedule has been ingrained into him since childhood and then perpetuated by the unpredictability of his secret job.

You stare at his wide back and ponder on the question.

“When did you know you loved me?”

Even though he wasn’t moving much in the first place, Toji seems to freeze up. You cringe at yourself. You always said such silly things around him.

He rolls over to face you, his big, heavy body rattling the bed with such small movements. He was big in every way.

Toji eyes are shaded with a dark shadow that makes your heart ache. His hair is messy. There’s a blooming, indigo-coloured bruise growing on his cheekbone, a common stain caused by the life he chooses. He sits up to rest his head on his hand, lying on his elbow. Long, inky lashes flutter as Toji blinks the sleep out of his eyes. For a moment, he simply looks at you. And to you, he’s the most beautiful man on earth.

“Why’re you asking these stupid questions right now?”

You deflate, drowsy affection for him dissipating for a second before he gives you that smirk he gifts you with all too often.

If he really didn’t want to talk, he would’ve just ignored you even after he acknowledged you. That’s what he’s like; self-centred, crude, insensitive, downright rude. But he has too many redeeming qualities. He could commit atrocities, acts of brutality, yet you could stick by his side no matter what. That scared you.

You shuffle closer to him, and say, “Answer the question.”

Toji huffs, eyes rolling. He gets back underneath the covers, bringing the sheet right up to his chin, head cushioned on the pillow.

Just when you really think he won’t answer, he speaks too quietly for you to hear.

“Hm?” You sound, eagerly. You probably should’ve been calm about it, to not embarrass Toji or make him feel too vulnerable, but you wanted to know what made it certain for him, what solidified it in his heart to love you and only you.

Toji sighs. “When we went to that diner around the corner. After you patched me up. Remember that?”

Yeah, you remember. Toji had been gone for too long. You had worried so much that day, wondering if this was the time when his luck had ran out. You had bitten your nails clean. Then he had opened the window to your bathroom, tumbling through it, wet and bloody. Panic had flooded your already worried body as you fussed over him, questioning him, demanding to where he had been and what happened until he had shouted at you to fix him up, his voice booming loudly around the small room. Silence hung heavy in the room as you mended him, putting the physical pieces of his already scared body back together. You didn’t know what to do during the scarce moments he was like that. Toji sighed.

“I’m sorry.” He had choked out. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

You had been on the verge of tears since he had shouted at you and those words had only tipped you over the edge.

Toji hugged you for a long time. His fingers, bruised at the knuckles with sickly yellows and blues, his calloused hands hardened with violence and destruction had held you so tenderly in his arms and for the first time in a long time, Toji had treated something, someone, with real care.

“How about we go to that diner?” He had spoken into your hair. “The one you said we’d go to. Yeah?”

That was how Toji apologised, you believe. He can’t speak. He can never get those words out of his mouth; such words clog up in his throat and are ultimately drained all the way back down to his stomach where they sit and soak in acid.

But when you were eating greasy food, shoving fries in your mouth while he looked at you in the corner of his eye, you understood what he had meant.

I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m not mad at you. Forgive me, I can’t change.

It was a fond memory that feels like it happened lifetimes ago, though it wasn’t exactly the happiest day of your life.

“Seriously? That day?”

“I know. I know I was an asshole-“”

“A really big asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Toji dismisses with a wave of his hand, lip curling up. There’s a far away look in his eyes as he stares at the adjacent wall. “But…that’s when I knew. Yeah…”

You both don’t talk for a few seconds. Toji eyes flicker down to where you lay, soft. He seems so innocent in this darkness when he is nothing of the sort.

“What about you?” Toji asks.

“What?”

“You know…”

“Oh…” You gape.

When did you know you loved him?

You’ve known him for so long. You feel like you’ve know the man all your whole life, like family. Toji is a part of you, and you a part of him. You both can never be separated, never be forced apart without one of you breaking to pieces. Two hearts coming together to make a whole one that cannot function without the other half.

So you think long and hard about when you first fell for Toji. When it just clicked for you.

“I think…I think it was when you broke the nose of the guy who touched my ass.”

Toji barks out a loud laugh and you shush him quickly, smothering your little giggles that bubble out of you. You and Toji already receive enough noise complaints from your neighbours already.

His breath fans across your face as he speaks, “Yeah, I remember that. He was a fucking prick.”

“He was.” You agree with a grin.

“You liked that, huh? That’s what does it for you? Me beating up other guys?”

You nod. “I like when you defend my honour.”

“You’re fucked in the head.” He scoffs.

“Toji…I picked you to be my boyfriend. You’re only now just realising this?”

Toji stifles a cackle and shakes his head at you, a smile on his lips. One that dents the dimple in his left cheek. One of his rare genuine ones; not a smirk of snark or a malicious grin. A smile of pure fondness. Love.

Toji looks to the alarm clock on your side of the bed.

00:00

“Ah.” He raises his eyebrows. “Better sleep. Or your ass won’t be able to get up for work.”

“Hm? Oh right.” You yawn. Sleep is getting the best of you. “I was thinking of just skipping.”

“You got plans?”

“Mhm.” You rest your head on his chest, feeling it rumble and purr. “We can spend the day in. Watch a movie. Order food. Go to that diner for breakfast before we do all of that…Mmm, yeah…”

Your eyes are lidded. Cheek smushed up against the pillow, lips cracked, your tank top strap falling off your shoulder.

Toji thinks that it’s a good idea - he’d rather have this view, you all cosy and warm in bed, food smeared on your cheek and you forcing him to watch the show you’ve been begging him to watch while you lay your whole body on top of his.

That was all he wanted for tomorrow.

“Toji.”

“Yeah?”

“I knew you loved me that day.” You tell him, casually.

“‘That right?”

“Mmm. You actually used your own money to buy the burgers…You’re usually so damn cheap…”

“Oh, shut up.

You don’t tell him you loved him since the first time you ever saw him.

*

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

masterlist

[muwapsturniolo]

Cherry Pepsi 🍒ྀིྀི C. Sturniolo

Bunny!Reader x Doberman!Chris

"I saw you looking at it, we can just share it."

⟢ No warnings really, just fluff and kissing! This was inspired by THIS reel I saw on Instagram!!!

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

"Y'look cute like that."

Chris's words make Bunny look up and away from the menu, her eyes wide in confusion. "Huh? What do you mean?"

He motions to her face lazily, a soft and relaxed smile on his face. "You're looking at the menu and stuff with your face all scrunched up... You look like a real bunny." She giggles softly and looks back down at the menu, her cheeks growing warm.

This was only their fifth date, or maybe their sixth. The two couldn't figure out if their "first" date even counted as a date at all, but that didn’t matter to them—what mattered was that they enjoyed each other's company and how things were going at the moment.

Chris chuckles to himself, seeing her hide her face. He throws an arm around her waist and pulls her closer, resting his head on her shoulder.

"What are you thinking about getting?" He absentmindedly begins to toy with one of her curls, the soft coil springing back into place as he plays with it.

"Mmm, I was thinking the chicken tenders with fries. What about you?"

He points to the burger and a cherry Pepsi. "Cherry Pepsi? I’ve never had it before."

It wasn’t long before they placed their order with the waitress. A couple of minutes passed before their food and drinks were placed in front of them. The two immediately dove in, making small talk as they filled their stomachs with greasy diner food.

Midway through their meal, Bunny realizes she never ordered herself a drink, her mind focused on the way Chris was nuzzled into her. She eyes Chris’s drink for a few seconds before finally speaking up. "Can I have a si—"

"Go ahead," he cuts her off and slides the drink closer to her.

She furrows her brows in confusion, wondering how he knew what she was asking for. He answers her without her having to ask, "I saw you looking at it. We can just share it."

It was a small act of affection, but she couldn’t help but feel giddy over it. She wipes her hand and mouth with a napkin before grabbing the cold glass and taking a sip.

As she takes a few small sips of the drink, Chris can't help but stare at her lips. It wasn't a sexual stare; it was one of longing. He’d been holding himself back from kissing her, not wanting to rush their growing relationship—but today was the day.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Bunny asks softly.

He stays quiet for a few seconds before adjusting the way he’s sitting. "No reason. Just zoned out."

She hums and takes another sip of the carbonated beverage.

As she sips, Chris plucks one of the cherries from the glass, holding it up for Bunny to eat. She giggles and goes to bite at the fruit but is quickly caught off guard when Chris grabs her jaw and presses their lips together.

It’s a soft and delicate kiss—nothing harsh or lustful. It’s simply the first kiss between two people who have strong feelings for each other.

After a few seconds, Bunny is the first to pull away, attempting to hide the smile on her face.

"You kissed me."

"Problem?" Chris raises a brow, the cherry still in his hand.

She giggles and presses her lips against his once more for a quick peck before taking the cherry from him and popping it into her mouth.

"Nope!"

[gremlingottoosilly]

Waitress!Reader trying to do her job X Loser!Konig who thinks she's flirting with him

You give him his budget with a ridiculous amount of changes, without forgetting even a single one - and now, this man fully believes you're a waif material. Not even just a girlfriend or another pretty girl he is too shy to talk to - oh no. He is ready to get on one knee and give you a ring worthy of a year of your rent, but he doesn't have the ring right now, and he curses himself for not thinking about walking around with his late mother's wedding ring in a pocket. Who knew he would meet the woman of his dreams in a random diner? You're off-putted a bit. The huge guy who was stumbling over his order and made you rewrite it like three times, is now staring at the plate like you just brought him a dead baby a la carte. You were panicking already - did you forget something? Did you actually manage to fuck it up? Do you have to think of something new, to bring him some free drinks as an apology? Is he going to shoot you? Are you... "Sir, is everything good with your dish..?" "Ja. It's...perfect. Thank you, Engel" A pet name isn't something too unfamiliar with a waitress's life. It's usually some greasy men in their fifties, laughing in big companies and making you work for that 10 euro tip like it's going to buy you anything in this economy. However, this guy didn't seem like the type. He mostly seemed like someone who would shoot the entire place if you're completely honest...but whatever, you guess. Only, he leaves you a crispy 200 as a tip. Only, he starts to appear during the closing hours of your shift, somehow stying exactly when your manager would put you on the latest hours. You tried to switch shifts, but no one really wanted to be the closer, anyway - and besides, you already rocked a few thousand from the tips the creep is leaving you. Maybe, he is just bad at communication, but has some cushy IT job. Maybe he is just unlucky with his big appearance, but he actually is a fine dude. Maybe.... When you get home from the last time you closed the cafe, you didn't even notice a figure stalking you, following you to the nearest alley where you would usually cut half of the road home. It's weird, how such a big guy could be this silent. You're going to learn a lot more things about him, though.

[alohajix]

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐋𝐮𝐬𝐭

Description: working the late shift at a nearly empty diner isn’t glamorous—but it pays the bills. Savannah’s used to the quiet, the tired regulars, and the occasional flirt. But when a tattooed stranger with a slow smile walks in after midnight, the tension builds fast and burns hot. One cup of bitter coffee turns into a filthy, unforgettable encounter behind the counter.

Warnings: stranger!Harry, soft dom!Harry, kitchen sex, filthy talk, roughness, praise kink, fingering, oral (f. & m. receiving), consent check-ins, light aftercare. Readers +18.

Words count: ~ 6K.

*****

It was nearly 1 a.m. when the diner bell rang. I didn’t even flinch anymore—not this deep into the shift. The sound had become background noise like the soft sizzle from the kitchen or the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. I didn’t look up right away either, just scribbled the last few words of an order on my pad and slid it through the window to Richie in the back.

“Table seven’s still waiting on their eggs,” I called, voice flat with exhaustion.

“Tell ’em to relax,” Richie grunted. “They ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

I rolled my eyes and finally turned toward the front. That’s when I saw him. He was tall—really tall—wearing a loose white tee that clung just enough to suggest the kind of build that made you look twice. Ink crawled up both arms, black lines and shading peeking out from under the short sleeves. He had a mess of brown curls that looked almost too good for someone walking into a grimy diner at 1 a.m., and his jeans hung low on his hips like he didn’t give a damn. But it was his eyes that got me. Sharp and soft at the same time. Like he’d seen too much and still managed to find a reason to smirk about it.

He slid into the booth in the far corner, back against the wall, one arm draped along the top of the seat like he owned the place. I grabbed my pad, stepped behind the counter, and made my way over.

“You know we serve better food before midnight, right?” I asked, stopping at his table.

He looked up slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Then he smiled—and holy hell, it was lazy and crooked and completely unfair.

“Good thing I’m not here for the food.”

My eyebrow arched. “You lost or just feeling bold tonight?”

“Maybe both.” His voice was smooth, with a soft British accent I hadn’t expected. “Got in late. Was driving through, saw the lights on. Figured I’d take my chances.”

“You always gamble with greasy eggs and burned toast?”

“I’ve gambled on worse.”

I bit back a smirk and tapped my pen against the pad. “Well, mystery man, you want coffee?”

“Only if you make it.”

I gave him a look. “It’s from a pot that’s been sitting there since ten. My magic won’t save it.”

He leaned forward just slightly. “I don’t mind it bitter.”

There it was—just a flicker. The tiniest shift in his tone that pulled something tight in my stomach. I hated that. I also didn’t hate it.

“Black?” I asked, already turning.

“Please,” he called after me.

The warmth of his stare followed me all the way back to the counter. I poured the coffee, grabbed a mug, and headed back—ignoring Richie’s snort as he muttered something about me “playing waitress of the year.” I slid the mug onto the table in front of the stranger without spilling a drop. “Try not to cry when it hits your taste buds.”

He took a sip, hissed softly through his teeth, and nodded like he’d just accepted a challenge. “Yeah. That’s awful.”

“Told you.”

“But you brought it anyway,” he said, eyes flicking up to mine again. “That’s sweet of you.”

“I’m not sweet,” I muttered, tucking my pen behind my ear. “Don’t mistake sarcasm for kindness.”

“I won’t. But I like both on you.” Jesus.

He didn’t say it with a wink or a sleazy grin, either. Just…soft and easy. Confident in a way that didn’t feel forced. He was the kind of guy who probably got what he wanted without needing to raise his voice. Or his hands.

I cleared my throat and forced my gaze toward the order pad. “You hungry or just here to flirt with the help?”

He tilted his head. “Depends. What’s good?”

“Nothing after midnight.”

“Lie to me.”

I fought back a smile. “Alright. The pancakes are divine. Light as clouds. Eggs cooked to perfection. Sausage links that’ll change your life.”

He grinned. “You’re not even trying to be convincing.”

“You asked for a lie. That was it.”

He chuckled, eyes dropping to my name tag for the first time. “Savannah.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Your name.” He nodded toward my chest. “Didn’t wanna keep calling you ‘waitress.’ Felt impersonal.”

My face burned. It wasn’t even the way he said it—it was the way his eyes lingered for a beat too long, like he hadn’t just been reading.

I crossed my arms. “And you are…?”

He paused. “Harry.”

“Last name?”

“Do you need one?”

“I like to know who I’m insulting.”

He laughed again—quiet, genuine. “Just Harry.”

“Well, Just Harry, pick something off the damn menu before I decide you’re not worth the caffeine.”

He lifted the sticky laminated menu, held it between two tattooed fingers, and said, “Surprise me.”

“Brave,” I murmured, already writing something down. “You might regret that.”

“Doubt it,” he said, leaning back. “You’ve got a good face for trust.”

I snorted. “You’ve clearly never been here before.”

I slipped the order in with Richie—somehow convincing him to fry up a fresh egg without complaining too much—and found myself glancing back toward the corner table more than I meant to.

Harry hadn’t pulled out a phone. He hadn’t asked for WiFi. He just…sat there. Watching the world with a slight tilt to his head like it was all one big inside joke he hadn’t shared yet. He caught me staring. I rolled my eyes and turned back to wipe the counter even though it was already clean. I didn’t get flustered over strangers. And definitely not over the kind with arms like that and a voice that curled around my spine.

I brought his plate over about ten minutes later—eggs, toast, hash browns, and two sausage links I only cooked because I didn’t want him leaving too soon. He looked up, those slow green eyes locking onto mine like he already knew what I was thinking.

“Didn’t poison it, did you?” he asked, smiling as I set the plate down.

“Too expensive,” I said. “Besides, if you died here, I’d have to mop around your corpse until someone showed up. Doesn’t sound like fun.”

“Mm. Caring and practical.” He dragged his fork through the eggs. “You’re really ruining my whole brooding loner fantasy.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I deadpanned, though my lips tugged at the corners. “Anything else you need?”

He tilted his head, pausing just long enough for it to feel deliberate. “You gonna sit?”

I blinked. “Sit?”

“Place is empty. You look bored.” He motioned to the booth across from him. “Figured you could give me shit for a few more minutes.”

I hesitated. We weren’t supposed to sit with customers—not unless they were drunk or crying or both. But it was 1:30 a.m., and the only other table in the diner was too busy arguing over how toast should be buttered to notice anything. So I slid in across from him, arms folded, keeping the distance casual. He nodded like I’d done exactly what he wanted.

“You from here?” he asked, cutting into the sausage.

I shook my head. “Moved a couple years ago. Couldn’t afford the city anymore.”

“Same.”

“You just passing through?”

He looked up from his plate, meeting my eyes with that calm, unreadable expression again.

“Maybe. I don’t always plan shit out.”

I leaned back. “That supposed to sound sexy or mysterious?”

He grinned. “Did it work?”

I shrugged. “Kinda.”

We sat like that for a few beats—his fork scraping the plate, my eyes drifting to the tattoos curling over his forearms, the way his fingers looked wrapped around the handle of his coffee cup. He was the kind of guy I’d always told myself not to trust. The kind who didn’t talk too much. The kind who knew exactly how long to pause between words to make you lean in closer. But he hadn’t looked at his phone once. Hadn’t acted like he was bored or waiting for something better. He was here, right now, like this greasy, fluorescent-lit hole-in-the-wall diner was the most interesting place in the world.

Or maybe just I was.

“You always work this shift?” he asked, tone low and casual.

“Mostly.”

“Why?”

“Pays more. And I don’t like people.”

He smirked. “You like me, though.”

I scoffed. “I don’t even know you.”

“But you’re sitting here. Talking. Smirking.” His voice dropped slightly. “You don’t sit with just anyone.”

“I sit when I’m bored.”

“You’re not bored,” he said, his eyes holding mine. “You’re curious.”

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong. I hated how quickly he’d figured that out. How easily he could read between my sarcasm and the tired tilt of my mouth. Most people only saw the uniform and the attitude. But not him. Not Harry.

“You’re full of yourself,” I muttered, standing before he could see the warmth rising in my chest.

He looked up at me slowly, letting his eyes drift down just enough to make my skin prickle. Then he reached for his wallet and pulled out a few bills, tossing them on the table.

“You got anything else to clean up?” he asked, voice soft. “I don’t mind helping.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You want to help me clean?”

He smiled. “Not really. Just figured it might give you a reason to talk to me a little longer.”

I should’ve told him to go. That the shift was almost over and I didn’t need help from a charming stranger with too many tattoos and a voice that made me clench without warning.

Instead, I said, “Come on, then.” He followed me behind the counter. And just like that, the air changed.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click as I led him behind the counter. Technically, customers weren’t allowed back here. But something about the way Harry moved—easy, quiet, hands in his pockets—made it feel like he belonged anyway. Like this wasn’t breaking a rule so much as rewriting it.

I grabbed a rag from the sink and tossed it toward him. “Here. You can start by wiping the bar down.”

He caught it one-handed, cocked his head. “Bossy.”

“I’m not your boss.”

He stepped closer. “Pity.”

I rolled my eyes and turned to the coffee machine. It didn’t need cleaning, but I pretended to tinker with it anyway—mostly so I didn’t have to look at him watching me. But he was there. I could feel it. The heat of his body, just a little too close behind me. The low sounds of him wiping the counter in slow, lazy circles. Like he was taking his time on purpose.

“You always this charming?” I asked, keeping my back to him.

“You always this guarded?” I froze for half a second, fingers stilling on the carafe. “Didn’t mean it like that,” he added softly. “Just think it’s sexy, that’s all.”

I turned then. “My attitude?”

His eyes met mine. Steady. “Your fire.” God.

I hated how warm that made me feel. How the word fire in his mouth sounded like something private. Something earned.

“You don’t even know me,” I muttered, brushing past him toward the sink. Our shoulders touched—barely—but it was enough to spark something low in my stomach.

“I know enough,” he said.

“Like what?”

He leaned against the edge of the bar, arms folded, watching me without shame. “You’re tired but won’t admit it. Sarcastic to keep people at a distance, but your eyes soften when they’re kind to you. You wear black nail polish because it makes you feel in control, but you chip it off when you’re anxious.”

I looked down at my fingers, lips parting slightly.

“You’re a hurricane in a diner apron,” he added, voice dropping. “And I’d let you ruin me.” Fuck.

The rag in my hand dropped to the floor. I bent to pick it up—and when I stood, he was right there. Chest to chest.

No more teasing distance. No more safety net.

“Careful,” I said, but my voice wasn’t steady anymore.

“Why?” His voice was velvet. “You gonna bite?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I whispered.

He laughed under his breath—low and dangerous—and stepped even closer, crowding me against the counter. His hand brushed mine as he reached past me for the towel on the sink. The contact was small, but intentional. Like everything else he’d done.

“You gonna keep pretending this isn’t happening?” he asked, tilting his head, lips barely a few inches from mine.

I swallowed hard. “You’re the one pretending.”

“I’m not pretending anything, sweetheart.”

The pet name sent a jolt straight through me. I should’ve shoved him away. Should’ve walked out or told him this was a bad idea.

Instead, I leaned in just enough to whisper, “Then do something about it.”

His breath caught—and then he moved. One hand slid to my waist, gripping tight. The other came up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing the corner of my mouth. His eyes flicked to my lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured. I didn’t. I couldn’t. So he kissed me. And it wasn’t gentle. It was filthy. Hungry. Like he’d been thinking about it since the second he walked in—and now he was starving.

His mouth slanted over mine, hot and demanding, tongue sweeping against mine like he was claiming me. His hand stayed at my waist, pulling me in so tight my back arched off the counter. I gasped, and he swallowed it—groaned into it—like he’d been waiting for that sound. When he finally pulled back, I was panting. Dazed.

He looked down at me, lips slick, eyes dark. “Still think I’m pretending?” I shook my head. He smiled. “Didn’t think so.”

The second his lips left mine, I reached for him—fisting my hands in the front of his shirt, dragging him right back. Harry groaned, deep in his throat, as he crashed his mouth onto mine again. This kiss was messier, rougher, and so much worse—because now I knew what he tasted like. And I wanted more. His hands slid under my uniform shirt, fingers spreading wide over the bare skin of my waist. He touched me like he already knew my body, like he had the right. And I let him. Welcomed it.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he muttered against my neck, teeth grazing skin as he pressed open-mouthed kisses down my jaw. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this since I walked in.”

“You didn’t even know me,” I whispered, breath caught as he dragged his fingers higher, pushing my shirt up over my ribs.

“I knew enough.”

He gripped my hips suddenly, spun me around, and bent me slightly over the counter—my hands braced on the cold metal, his chest pressing into my back. I gasped, heat pulsing low in my belly.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, mouth by my ear.

I nodded, biting my lip. “Yeah.”

“Need to hear you say it, sweetheart.”

“I’m good,” I breathed. “I want it.”

“Good girl.” That fucking voice.

He yanked my leggings down, underwear dragged along with them, and the air hit my skin. My thighs pressed together on instinct, but he nudged them apart with his knee.

“Fuck,” he hissed behind me. “Look at you… soaking already.”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

He laughed—soft and filthy. “You don’t want me to shut up.”

One hand snaked between my legs, fingers sliding through my folds like he had all the time in the world. I gasped, hands flexing on the counter as he found my clit with maddening precision.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” he murmured. “Thinking about me doing this to you. Touching you like this… making you fall apart on my fingers.”

I whimpered, hips pushing back into his hand. “Please…”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop.”

That earned me two fingers deep, fast and unforgiving. I choked on a moan as my body clenched around him, legs wobbling.

“Shit,” he muttered, still pumping. “So fucking tight.”

“Harry—”

He pulled his fingers out with a soft wet sound, spun me back around, and dropped to his knees like it was instinct. I barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on me—hot, wet, tongue dragging slow and deep through my folds. My head fell back with a sharp cry.

“Jesus—fuck—”

He licked like he was starving for it. Like every filthy, wet sound I made was his reward. He sucked my clit into his mouth, hummed low in his throat, and slid two fingers back inside me while keeping eye contact. I came so hard I nearly screamed. My knees buckled, but he caught me, pulled me into his lap as he stood. His cock pressed hard through his jeans, and I fumbled with the button, desperate to feel him—desperate for more.

“You sure?” he asked, fingers gripping my chin.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I need it.”

He growled, shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself, then lifted me by the hips and sat me on the counter. I wrapped my legs around his waist and gasped when the head of his cock slid through my folds.

“Condom—?” he asked, breath ragged.

I reached into the drawer beside me and pulled one out without thinking. His brows lifted.

“Goddamn. Always prepared?”

“You’re not the first guy who flirted behind this counter,” I smirked.

He tore it open and rolled it on fast, grabbing my hips again. “Bet I’m the first one to fuck you on it though.” And then he thrust in. We both gasped. “Fuck, Savannah,” he groaned, forehead dropping to mine. “You feel—fuck—you feel so fucking good.”

My nails clawed at his back as he started to move—slow, then fast, then filthy. His hips snapped against mine, the slap of skin loud in the kitchen. His hand tangled in my hair, the other squeezing my thigh.

“You gonna come for me again?” he panted. “Let me feel you clench around my cock?”

“Yes—Harry—yes, yes—”

“Say my name again.”

“Harry,” I cried out. “Don’t stop—please—don’t—” He didn’t. He fucked me through it—my orgasm crashing into me hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. And then he groaned, hips stuttering, eyes locked on mine.

“Gonna come,” he growled. “Fuck—Savannah—shit—”

He spilled into the condom with a low, breathless moan, rocking through it, buried deep inside me. His forehead stayed pressed to mine, our breaths mingling in the thick, charged silence. The air smelled like sweat, sex, and diner grease—should’ve been gross. But somehow, it felt perfect.

Harry was still inside me, his hands firm on my waist like he hadn’t decided whether to let go yet. I didn’t move either. My fingers stayed curled in the fabric of his shirt, clinging like I hadn’t just let a complete stranger fuck me senseless in my workplace kitchen. I felt wild. Spent. Alive. And just a little dazed.

He finally blinked, brushing the tip of his nose against mine. “You okay?”

I nodded, voice barely there. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I whispered again. “Just… wow.”

A slow grin spread across his face, cocky but not in a shitty way. “Yeah. Wow.”

He kissed me then—softer this time. Slower. And somehow that kiss wrecked me even more than the others had. He pulled out gently, helped me down from the counter like I was breakable, and stripped off the condom before tossing it into the trash beneath the sink. Then he cleaned me up with a paper towel—silent, focused, gentle. Too gentle.

“You’re being nice,” I said, squinting at him.

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Feels suspicious.”

He smirked. “Maybe I’m just not a dick.”

I rolled my eyes and tugged my leggings back up. “That’s not what I meant.”

He stepped close again, crowding my space like he hadn’t just been inside me, like there wasn’t still a raw, buzzing tension curling between us.

“What’d you mean then?” he asked quietly.

I looked up at him—at the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark curl that had fallen over his brow, the softness still lingering in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Just… I didn’t expect you to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Sweet.” That made him smile again—smaller this time. Realer.

“I’m not always,” he said. “But I like being that way with you.”

I didn’t have a response for that. Not one that made sense, anyway. He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms, eyes on mine.

“So,” he said, tone lighter, “do you always keep condoms next to the forks, or was that a special surprise just for me?”

I groaned and shoved him playfully. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He caught my hand, pulled it to his lips, and kissed my knuckles. “Never.” God, he was dangerous.

I grabbed a clean rag and started wiping the counter like I hadn’t just come harder than I had in a year.

He watched me in silence for a moment, then said, “You working tomorrow night?”

I glanced at him. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Might stop by again.”

I tried not to smile. Failed. “You might get less than special treatment next time.”

“That a threat or a promise?”

“Depends on your tip.”

He stepped in close, just enough to make my heart stutter again. “I’ll tip you, sweetheart,” he murmured. “But I think we both know you already got the best part of me tonight.” Cocky bastard.

I shoved him again—harder this time—but he just laughed, turned around, and walked back out into the diner like he owned it. Before he reached the door, he looked back at me over his shoulder, eyes still sparkling, lips curved just right.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said.

Then he was gone. And I was left breathless, aching, and already hoping his plate showed up on my counter tomorrow night.

*****

hope you liked this one guysss 💕

[rangerbarbz]

Serving Up Romance

Author’s Note: Guys holy FUCK y’all have blown up my account!! Thank you all so much! I just can’t believe it like i'm going bonkers. Thank you so much for all your kind words and everything!! Also, I can’t believe I’ve never written for 80s Stan that’s crazy. (Also i know he’s never worn a denim jacket but i had a vision) 

“Serving up Romance”

You had been working as a waitress at Greasy’s Diner since you first moved to the strange town of Gravity Falls. While others might turn their nose up at waitressing, you loved it. You got the opportunity to know everyone in town, hear their gossip, and meet passer-bys driving through on road trips. You never knew who was going to walk through those doors or what incredible story they were going to tell you. One slow day at the diner, you were making a pot of coffee when you heard the bell above the door jingle. 

“Welcome to Greasy’s! Sit wherever you want, and I’ll be with you in just a sec,” you called out, pouring water into the coffee maker. You heard someone sit at the swivel stool behind you. 

“Take your time, doll. I’m in no rush,” a gruff voice responded. Hm. You didn’t recognize that tone. You turned around to see a man with dark brown hair in a white t-shirt and denim jacket, chewing on a toothpick. You noticed that there were patches of different fabrics and patterns all over the jacket. He hadn’t noticed you were looking at him because he was reading the small menu that was attached to the metal condiment holder. 

You smiled at him. “I like your jacket,” you complimented the handsome stranger. 

His attention quickly diverted to you. He chuckled. “Oh, this old thing?” He lifted up his arms to show off more of his patches. “Thanks. It’s been through the ringer let me tell ya. My ma taught me how to hand stitch so that any time I ripped it, I could fix it right up.” 

“That’s so sweet.” You reached out to point at one that was yellow with small, red flowers on his shoulder. “I like this one.” He looked over to see which one you were talking about and laughed. 

“That one I got from a motel pillow case! I accidentally caught my shoulder on fire.” You raised your eyebrows at him. His gaze became stern. “I learned to keep my distance from candles that day on.” 

You burst out laughing. “Now is this a true story?” you asked, propping your chin up on the palm of your hand. 

He grinned, moving his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “True as you are pretty, sweetheart.”

You giggled as a blush started to spread across your cheeks.“Alright, slick, what can I get you?” you responded, removing a notepad from the front pocket of your apron. He picked up the menu and gave it a quick once over.

“Uh… Give me the bacon and eggs. Scrambled, please, and one cup of coffee.” You finished scribbling his order and turned to put it in the window. 

“Can I get a name for this order?” you asked, winking at him from the coffee pot. You began to walk back over to him with a mug of black coffee. 

He gave you a wide smile. “Stan Pines, proprietor of The Mystery Shack,” he answered, hand outreached to you in greeting. 

“Y/N Y/L/N, waitress at Greasy’s Diner.” You shook his hand; it was firm, calloused, and felt very nice against your smooth skin. You turned over his hand to take a look at his scarred knuckles you noticed when he was holding the menu earlier. You dragged your thumb over the puckered, white lines.

“You got fighting hands, Stan.” You gazed at him through your lashes and grinned.“Sexy.” Now it was his turn to be flustered. His face grew red at your bold statement and laughed nervously. 

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh, used to box, and I’ve gotten myself into a fair share of…scuffles.” You gave him a small smile. You were about to comment on that until the bell dinged from the window signaling that his food was done. 

“Bacon and eggs are up!” the chef barked. His loud voice startled you which made Stan laugh. 

“Sorry, let me get your food real quick.” You let go of his hand reluctantly and went to get his plate. What you didn’t see was him smirking to himself and touching the scars you grazed. He couldn’t remember the last time someone genuinely complimented him. 

Things started to pick up after you served Stan his food, so you didn’t get to continue your conversation. However, you made sure that when he paid for his meal, you got to talk to him one last time. 

“Will I be seeing you again, Stan?” you asked, getting his change from the cash register. “You should come next Tuesday! We serve waffle tacos then.” He laughed as you dropped the coins into his hand. 

“Well, I obviously can’t miss waffle tacos,” he responded with a smile. 

“I’ll see you then. It was nice to meet you, Stan! Don’t go catching yourself on fire on your way out!” you joked as he began walking towards the exit. 

“No promises, doll.” 

Over the next couple weeks, Stan continued to come into the diner and sit in the same swivel stool as he did when you first met him. He ordered a different thing on the menu each time making it his goal to try everything you had to offer. Your conversations were playful, flirty, but, most of all, interesting. He had quite the colorful past, but that didn’t scare you off. In fact, it made you more intrigued. 

One day, during a particularly busy shift, Stan walked in as always. “Hey, hon!” you greeted him while placing a plate of pancakes in front of a fussy toddler. “I’ll be right with ya!” You then noticed he had one of his hands behind his back, and he seemed a bit nervous. 

He didn’t sit down this time, but instead stood at the cash register. You walked over with a confused expression on your face. “Stan? Are you not eating today?” 

“Um, well, no. Not today, doll. I, uh, wanted to give you these.” His face was bright pink as he presented you with a large bouquet of wildflowers. You gasped. “I hope you like them. I found a whole bunch of them in a field near one of the backroads.”

“Oh, Stan,” you said softly. You took the bouquet from him and held it gently, admiring it. “It’s just beautiful, but why?” 

He started to rub the back of his neck and looked down at his feet. “There’s a drive-in movie happening tonight outside of town, and I wanted to take you with me,” he murmured shyly. “I think you’re real nice and fun to talk to and you got a knock-out smile.” He paused. “I would…like to get to know you outside the diner.” He finally made eye contact with you to see your reaction to everything he had said. 

You hadn’t stopped beaming at him since he handed you the flowers. “Stan, I would love to join you.” You reached out to cup his face with your free hand and gave him a peck on his cheek, his stubble tickling your lips. “What time should I be expecting you?” 

His eyes widened at you, his hand touching where you had kissed him. “Um, I. The, uh, movie starts at 7:45, so I’ll pick you up at 7:00,” he stammered, face as red as his Diablo. 

“Sounds good, sugar,” you replied, giving him a slip of paper that you had written your address on while he was talking. “I can’t wait to see what tricks a romantic like you has up his sleeves.” 

Stan let out a giggle before quickly covering it up by clearing his throat. “I guess you’ll have to find out tonight. I’ll see you then, sweetheart.” He gave your hand a squeeze before walking out the way he came in. 

“I’m going on a date with Mr. Mystery,” you whispered to yourself excitedly, burying your nose in the bouquet. 

PART 2 COMING SOON

[ghoastixx]

Stanley pines x gn!reader where he keeps flirting with them and reader keeps playing coy and acting hard to get? both same age and he meets them at greasies diner? (I love old couples ahh)

Stanley Pines x gn!reader

A nice old couple

Synopsis: You meet the so called "Man of Mystery" that you've heard so much about since entering town.. he's one slyyyyyy dog. Takes place before the portal is opened.

"And that is Stanford Pines, Man of Mystery."

"man of mystery?" You ask lazy Susan suspiciously.

"Yes! He runs the Mystery Shack down in the woods. Real odd place that is." You hummed and went back to your coffee. Someone sat down next to you.

"I'll take one coffee, hold the creamer." He grumbled, he had on a cheap suit and had messy grey hair. Time had gotten to him, looks like stress too. He looked over at you,

"I never seen you here before, you visiting town? If so could I recommend the mys-"

"I just moved down here, I'm not really in the mood for.. tourist traps."

"Moved down here? Usually we don't get people moving down here."

"Well, my grandkids all grew up and stopped visiting, so I thought that small town would be the way to go. Can't move around the city like I used to, and I grew up in a small town."

He "cooly" stuck his hand out,

"names Stanford Pines,"

You shook his hand, "Y/N L/N."

and that was all of that interaction. You two would see each other around. You two didn't talk again til you met these two kids. Twins.

You had been sitting at the counter at Greasies, like you usually did, with the paper. You couldn't get enough of all these strange occurrences. Reminded you of when you were young hanging around John win- that's better left buried. These two kids came up to sit at the counter, the girl ordering a piece of pie as the boy pulled out this book with all these strange pictures. He glanced over at your newspaper and cocked a brow.

"Do you believe that? About that monster?"

You smiled a bit, "You best believe it."

You two had a very engaging conversation. You learned the kids name was "Dipper" which you thought was an odd thing to name your kid, and his sister's name was Mable. They were interested in the supernatural...So you started to tell them stories. One day, you were in the diner when the kids came in with that Pines guy.

"(Preferred title) Y/N?" Mable said, you smiled at her, "This is our Grunkle Stan!"

"Grunkle?" you asked curiously, he seemed a bit surprised that you were the one his kids were talking so fondly of.

"My great niece and nephew-" he said as he ushered the kids to go sit down, sitting next to you at the bar,

"So, you're the one who's been pumping their heads with crazy stories, huh?"

You frowned a bit, "Are they having nightmares. I thought they could handle it Mr.Pines, I apologize."

"No-no- they talk pretty fondly of you. I just- was surprised. Didn't take you as the type to be into all the loony crap."

"Loony?" you chuckled a bit, "From what I've heard, you run the mystery shack." He grumbled a bit and left.

About a week later you stumbled upon a book of myths and legends in one of the boxes you were unpacking. You thought of the Pines twins and wanted them to have it, maybe it would "help" them. You liked humoring their games. So, you got into your truck and headed down to the infamous mystery shack.

It was cute, you thought as you walked around. It made you giggle, that is.

"I didn't expect to see you here-" Stan said, skeptically.

"Ah- found a book I wanted your great niece and nephew to have.. hey how much for the sticker,"

After that, Stan seemed to be down at the diner a lot more, especially the times you'd be there. He would sit down and rant about everything under the sun to you. You would listen, it was charming. He liked your way of talking, you liked things he talked about.

Then one evening you were eating breakfast when he started to stutter around.

"Y/N?"

"yes Stan?"

"Would you..like to maybe.. have dinner with me? Without the kids.."

"Stanford Pines," You smiled "Are you asking me out on a date?"

"uh- yes."

"You sly dog. sure I will."

So you two started going out a bit more.

[love-bugsy]

good ol' gotham | jason todd

the worst thing about love

you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

two | three | four | series masterlist

content warnings: no editing, allusions to character death, (haphazard) depictions of grief, smoking + mentions of alcohol, swearing, completely ooc Jason bc he’s just my lil guy, medical terminology learned from greys anatomy lol

only jerks steal other people’s writing and mine isn’t even that good so no reposts

You and Jason sit across from each other in a diner booth, his restless leg bouncing under the table and your workaholic fingers tapping rhythms on the lacquer. The tired waitress who begged for your shift today brings over a plate of fries for you both, waving you off when you try to tip her. She gives your head an affectionate ruffle like she used to when you were 6, and you flush. As she goes to wait the next table, Jason laughs and says something about nepotism. You reach over and smack him.

He scoops up a heaping handful of fries, holding out his cigarette in his free hand so he can choke it down. He wipes his hands on his pants, taking another drag. You frown as your eyes dart between him and the ‘no smoking’ sign, glaring pointedly at the cigarette hanging half out of his mouth. He huffs, hiding a smile as he crushes the lit end on the underside of the table and flicks it into a nearby bin. You kiss your teeth, rolling your eyes but it’s entirely too fond to have any lasting effect. This damn boy’s got you wrapped around his battered fingers.

“Those’ll kill you, you know,” you huff, shoving a couple of fries in your mouth and basking in greasy diner heaven. Jason tilts his head, examining you, and snorts when you chuck a fry at his face. 

“So you tell me every time, and yet, miraculously, I’m still here.” He plucks the fallen fry out of his lap, not even brushing it off before he scarfs it down and reaches for another handful. You eye his hand, meant to shovel chips into his mouth but instead is littered with callouses and cigarette burns. It’s a stretching silence as you find your words.

“S’killing you slowly.”

“Lucky me.” He shoots you a toothy grin, leaning back into the booth, one hand laid out face-down on the table. The bruises on his knuckles are a motley of yellow and purple; your hand aches just looking at the scabs that litter the top of his hand. You’re sure he doesn’t feel it, though - he’s always healing, gaining new wounds before the old ones are finished scarring over. A veritable human ship of Theseus. 

His hand clenches into a fist under your gaze and you suddenly become very interested in the plate of fries between you. ‘M’not gonna stop,” he says, tone unyielding. You don’t know whether he’s talking about his smoking or the elephant-sized robin in the room. Probably both.

“But maybe you should.” You blurt out, and the way his face twists in anger makes you want to cover your mouth and hide. You hate how he clings to things - smoking, grudges, Robin - you think it’ll be the death of him one day. But you’re a hypocrite, because you love how he clings to you. Jason’s jaw feathers.

“Just fucking back off, okay?”, he snaps at you, and you go silent - you don’t want to have the same argument for the thousandth time. You study the way his eyes close and he sinks back into the chair - guilt washing away the enraged crease between his brows.

You forget - all the time - how angry he is, all of it built up under his rib cage. You think he gets scared to show it to you, like it’ll scare you away. For all his intelligence, Jason has yet to grasp the fact that you have Gotham in you too - spent your whole life atoning for the sin of your existence here. You’re angry too, of fucking course you are.

There’s no shortage of anger and fear and desperation in Gotham - they flood the gutters and hang dormant in the smog. Not many people choose to be kind here, it’s just too hard to. You think maybe your bleeding heart is at fault for how he tiptoes around you, but you wish he would just be honest. This diner, your friendship - it’s so far removed from the rest of his life… you wish he would stop treating you like a precious secret. 

“I-” You shake your head when he starts to apologise, waving your hand as if to clear the air between you.

“It’s forgotten,” you say, even though it never is. The tilt of his head reads you like an old book. Getting up, he rounds the table, shoving you further into the booth and looping an arm around your shoulders. Neither of you say anything - Jason reaching awkwardly for another chip - but the warm press of his side against yours is words enough. You shuffle - somehow - closer to him and take the hand that's over your shoulder, moving it delicately into your lap. You run careful circles around the bruises on his knuckles, trying to commit the warmth of him to memory. Trying to remember him while he’s still here. 

When you glance back at him, he’s looking at you with something wide and soft and world-ending in his eyes. The hand in your lap shifts around to thread your fingers together and he squeezes your hand almost uncomfortably. This boy, this fucking boy, who loves too much, too rough, too pure. “You can’t be real,” he whispers, and the diner melts away and all that’s left is his (blue blue blue) eyes and the way his hand holds yours like a lifeline. You hope you love him enough that it shows - that it spills out of the gaping seams of your stitched up heart. Clammy palms grip tighter to each other.

“I’m real, blue. This is real.”

“No. No,” he says, using your name in that careful, hard-edged tone he does when he’s serious, “It’s not.”

You wake gasping, shooting up in your bed as you try to catch your breath. Your hand crushes against your chest, trying to still your pounding heart. Fumbling in your sheets for your phone, you squint at the time. 4:02. You shuffle around, bare feet meeting hardwood floors and start to follow an unconscious morning routine - brain still foggy with sleep. It’s not until you’re wiping the steam off your bathroom mirror that you remember what day it is. The anniversary.

Reminders of Jason always hit you like a truck - blue mugs, cigarettes, hero complexes - but visiting his grave is another beast. You’re not one to let things get to you, moving too fast for anything to stick; but today is always cruel. In the entryway, you go back and forth between jackets, eventually yanking Jason’s old one from where it's hidden underneath all your others. Burying your face in the collar, you grab your keys and step into the biting Gotham wind. 

You take the metro up to the park by the Wayne Estate, stopping on the way to buy overpriced flowers and a travel sized bottle of whiskey. You stop outside the imposing gates - always closed but never locked - to take a shuddering breath. It’s never easier. 

Pushing open the rusted gate, you make the short trek up to the Wayne cemetery. Jason’s grave is a ways away from the others, hidden by an ancient sycamore tree. Autumn has come early this year, yellowing the sycamore’s leaves and burning your nose with the fresh scent of death. 

You really fucking hate this day.

It’s not the real anniversary of his death. You shudder to think about seeing Bruce Wayne here, and you doubt he’d even recognise you. Probably for the best. You’d tear him to pieces for existing when Jason is gone. No, today is the last time he left the diner - that’s the day Jason Todd died to you.

You remember staying up to watch the press conference Bruce Wayne gave after Jason’s death was reported. Sitting in a cold, empty diner, listening to his cold, empty responses, and grinding your teeth to bits. 

Wayne looks tired - beaten down, “No comment,” he says, when the questions steer to Jason. You’re furious that he could even bear to stay silent when you are tearing at the seams with things to say. Because Jason was kind, he was sharp as a whip and just as witty. And he was brash, and loud, and impulsive and full of a wild energy that hummed under the surface of his skin. And he was good. He was so good.

Somewhere between Wayne’s practised speech about the orphanage he’s opening in Jason’s name and his final statement, you mute the television and go back to washing dishes. It’s a herculean effort not to look up; waiting for Jason to start rambling about a book he’d read or someone he’d saved. You tuck your head down, avoiding the reminder that he was never going to keep you company again.

In the background, Bruce Wayne talks silently to a rapt audience.

And how they lauded him as Jason’s saviour - the homeless criminal turned social messiah by Wayne Enterprises. You want to scream; he was good already, he was good to the bone. But Gothamites - as much as they like to deny it - are obsessed with the idea of heroes. In a city of the uber wealthy and the poorest of the poor - everybody wants someone to save them. Big Brucie Wayne swooping in to reform a Gotham bottom-feeder? That’s a story everyone was taken by.

The crunch of a leaf underfoot pulls you out of your head and you realise you’re standing in front of Jason’s grave. Sitting yourself down, cross-legged, you face the grave; whiskey in one hand and flowers in the other. 

You’ve never liked his headstone. No pretentious quotes, no sardonic digs from beyond the grave. Just a dry, impersonal epitaph, etched permanently in his name: ‘In memory of Jason Peter Todd, loving son’.

You think he would’ve hated being reduced to someone’s son. You don’t think he was anyone’s anything. He was Gotham’s. He was yours. He was Batman’s. And then he was dead.

He was never any of those things at the same time. And he was certainly no one’s son. 

He was loving, though. You’ll give ‘em that.

“Well,” you say, unscrewing the bottle and downing half of it with a grimace, “Cheers, blue.” Nearly a decade and you still hate the taste of whiskey. You’d both made a pact that it would be your first legal drink - both with romantic ideas about what it would taste like. To you, it really just tastes like soap; but tradition is tradition. You reach out, brushing the thin layer of dirt that’s gathered over his headstone, eyes catching on the crude little bird carving in the top right corner. 

You’d carved it into his headstone the first year after he died; spent the whole year silently aching - haunted by empty space, reaching for him only to find air. That night was just the breaking point. It hadn’t helped that you were drunk off your ass either. 

You remember being miserably sick the next morning and - as you rested your head on the cool porcelain of your toilet - feeling selfishly satisfied that you were hurting at all. Visiting him early is selfish for you too. You want them to know you loved him first. You want them to know that somewhere, there is someone who mourns him into ruin. 

Or at least, into vandalism.

Now you drop the flowers on his grave - chrysanthemums and white lilies - and sweep away a stray fallen leaf. Crouched in front of his grave, you press your fingers to your lips, then to the bird. You feel the throb of a lump in your throat, and stand up fully, zipping up your jacket. The train home is loud and sweaty, but you feel more alone than ever.

You need a smoke.

~

Your apartment door is barely locked before you’re sliding up your window and ducking out onto the fire escape. Digging around in the pockets of Jason’s jacket, you fumble for your lighter, and the pack of cigarettes you’d bought on the way home. 

You lean over your fire escape railing, lighting up and taking a long drag. It’s a rare clear night in Gotham, and you close your eyes as you breathe out, listening to the faint, familiar whine of sirens. This. This is why you’ll never leave Gotham—these rare serene moments where you’re brought back down to earth by the familiar smell of rain and pavement; an early-Autumn breeze ruffling your hair.

Your moment of peace is interrupted when Red Hood swings down onto your fire escape, and you startle, dropping your - still-lit - cigarette over the railing. 

“Fuck!” You lean over the railing as if you’ll be able to catch it, letting your head fall against the cool metal in defeat. “Please tell me you don’t need stitches tonight,” you grumble, head still hung over the railing. A hand grasps the back of your shirt, pulling you - a little roughly - away from the edge. Your eyes flash up to his mask, only to find him looking away.

“No stitches.” He shifts uncomfortably. “I… I’m not- injured.” Your brow creases.

“Then… why are you here?” He pauses. If you hadn’t been slowly learning him over the past few months, you’d mistake his silence for stoicism, but his shoulders are drawn up slightly and his gaze is focused on a spot just above your head. He seems… sheepish? No. Caught. He clears his throat—hand in the cookie jar.

“I just…,” long pause, “Drop by sometimes. To check you’re… you know.” You do not know. You raise a brow and he nods over at the pack of cigarettes balancing on the railing.

“I’ve never seen you smoke before.” Not exactly a seamless subject change, but you know better than to pry when the other person has guns strapped to their thighs. Your eyes drift to the cigarettes, and back to Red.

“Only when I’m stressed.” He does that head tilt-y thing—trying to read you. 

“Something more stressful than surgery on a stranger in your apartment?” You just hum, turning away and reaching for another cigarette. Lighting it, you hold the pack out to Red as you take another drag and exhale. He shakes his head, “Quit a long time ago, doc.” Your surprise must paint itself all over your face because he laughs lowly, rasping out his response.

“Had a friend who hated it.”

Brows creasing, you tilt your head, appraising him in a quiet once-over. “You don’t seem like the type to change for anyone, Red.” Somehow he stiffens and relaxes at the same time; you get the sense that the answer to your observation is just as paradoxical, equal parts right and wrong.

“Yeah well, she was…” He trails off, gaze drifting from you and shoulders sinking. He looks… lost. Watching him feels like you’re intruding on a private moment, so you turn away, leaning heavily on the railing. You take another long drag of your cigarette and exhale the smoke into the wind.

“Was that you? The sirens?”     

He huffs, railing creaking as he settles next to you. “Yeah. Some asshole trying to rob a mom-and-pop store.” You kiss your teeth in mirrored disappointment, nose wrinkling.

“Good ol’ Gotham.” You feel his gaze boring into you and make a point to glare defiantly out at the skyline - avoiding him. The hand that isn’t keeping a loose grip on your cigarette begins to scratch anxiously at the rust on the railing. 

Red points vaguely at your cigarette, “What’s your stressor?” Without really noticing it, you clench your jaw and your hand moves halfway up to your mouth before you stop it. Old habits quelled by memories of bleeding nails bitten to the quick. You realise you’ve waited too long to spout a believable lie.

“Visited my friend’s grave.” You don’t even bother to school your voice, letting it claw its way across shards of glass to be heard.

“‘M sorry.” Red’s head inclines slightly, gloved hand inching towards yours. You just shrug.

“It’s been nearly ten years.” 

“Doesn’t make it easier.” He tells you and you know it isn’t false platitudes. Death is an old friend of the both of you. 

You pause, letting the city rush over you. “No,” you say finally, “It doesn’t.” Reaching again for your cigarette, you feel the weight of the day prickling at the backs of your eyes. The railing creaks as he leans heavier against it.

“Tell me about them.” 

“What?” 

“Your friend.”

You take a deep breath, brows knit, “He was…,” you roll your lips together, trying not to choke up, “Reckless.” Red snorts, hanging his head in surprised amusement. You smile for the first time all day. “I swear danger followed him around or something, I was always having to patch him up, even before—“ You cut yourself off, white-knuckling the railing. 

“He’s the reason I’m a doctor.” There’s a thick silence, which Red breaks with a staticky whistle. 

“You’re something else, doc.” Your brows knit, fingers drumming on the railing. The cold seeps into your bones, fire escape creaking with every gust of wind. Looking out over the city, you shake your head at nobody.

“I’m…” you swallow, dislodging the breath stuck in your throat, “I’m tired.” You fumble for the right words and Red waits, turning his back on the skyline, mask angled down.

Shaky hand brings your cigarette to your lips, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “So much of me is him… I don’t know—“ your voice cracks, “No one can help me carry the love he left me with. I don’t know where it goes.”

More silence—you’re starting to get comfortable with it. He lifts his head, and you think he might talk, instead, he carefully pulls off a glove, shoving it in his pocket so he can run a warm, calloused palm over your upper arm. You choke up at the gesture, gritting your teeth against the lump in your throat when your eyes catch on his bruised knuckles. Haven’t we been here before?

“Think ya just get bigger around it, doc.” Blinking at him, you dissolve into tears—a dam held in since this morning. Embarrassed, you close your eyes, tears running, unbidden, down your cheeks. 

Red’s mask pulls back slightly in shock, “Fuck, sorry, m’not good at this, don’t—” He flounders a little, hand gripping your arm with a ferocity you know is unconscious. The physicality of the action steadies you.

“I’m not—” you huff out a wet laugh, “It’s not you, I just… you lose someone and everything you used to share becomes a sign. My life is marked by a ghost.”

“Fingerprints.”

“… yeah.” You crush your half-smoked cigarette against the railing, flicking it over the edge. You stand, awkwardly, next to each other; neither of you wanting to leave but both empty of words. Your hands tap nervously on the railing and you shove them in your pockets - if only to have something to do with them. Pulling out your lighter, you flick it on and off absently, watching the flame flicker under your control.

The lighter distracts you for a little, but soon you realise that Red has gone rigid beside you; the silence between you just slightly too thick. You shoot him an inquisitive glance, trying to gauge what he’s thinking.

“Nice lighter.” he says, gaze locked on the bird etched into it. Your brows furrow.

“It’s not really mine.” The truth, if obfuscated a little.

“Is it… a robin?” You shake your head, a little laugh escaping you at how bad your etching job must’ve been.

“A bluejay.” The second the words leave your mouth, he goes still - so still you’re unsure if he’s still breathing. “Red?”

“Blue?” You wave a hand in front of his face, shaking him out of a thousand yard stare into his coffee mug. “Earth to Jason Todd.” He shoots you a flat look and watches as your face breaks into a world-ending laugh. Leaning forward, he raps bruised knuckles against the counter. You shake your head to hide the split second of worry in your eyes at the sight of his hands. Jason notices.

“So why do you call me blue?” He says, trying to innocuously tuck his hands back under the table. You huff, clumsy hands dropping the dish you’re washing in the sink with a clatter. You lean on the edge of the sink, collecting yourself before you answer.

“Why do you call me birdie?” 

“‘Cause you’re small. ‘Nd you got a pretty voice.” He must imagine the bashful way you tuck your head into your shoulder. Like you liked that.

Picking up the plate you dropped, you rinse and dry it, letting him stew in your lack of answer for a little. “It's a play on words.” Jason’s brows knit, trying to think of the connection you’d conjured. “Blue. Like blue jay.”

“Ha ha.” 

“I’m serious.”

His brows crease. “Why a bird?” (Why not a robin?)

You give him a funny look, eyes squinted like you’re reading his mind. You always seem to know what he’s thinking. Jason shifts in the barstool; feathers ruffled. 

“It’s just a nickname, Jay.” Jason knows you; he knows the word ‘just�� doesn’t have a place in your vocabulary. But he spots the tiny crease in your brow, your red raw hands, the single knot on your apron in place of a double knot—reads your language. He takes a swig of coffee from his baby blue mug, grinning toothily before he changes the subject. 

~

Bruce’s office door is closed when Jason returns to Wayne Manor, so Jason finds himself roaming the halls aimlessly. His feet carry him to the library—he still has to stand in awe every time he wanders between the statuesque shelves, spilling over with books. 

Slipping further into the maze of shelves, Jason doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for until he spots it. His fingers graze an untouched ornithology book, sliding it into his lap. Cross-legged on the floor, Jason flips it open to the chapter on blue jays.

... so i'm not dead, lol, and I am still writing - albeit very slowly and sporadically. the past few months have been very hectic, but I'm going to have a lot more writing time now that my first term of uni (!!) is nearly over. anyway, sorry to keep you guys waiting and I hope you enjoy reading my silly story :)

with love, bugsy

[imfinereallyy]

Dinner Date

For STWG daily drabble and, more importantly, for Goldie @steventhusiast. Happy Birthday, you deserve the world. I know you’re asleep right now, but it’s technically still your bday here. 

“Dingus, this is a really fancy restaurant.” Robin leans back in her chair, but her hand plays with the fork on her napkin. 

Steve sips his wine; some of it tips over the edge onto the tablecloth. “What? Can’t a guy take his best friend out to a fancy dinner?” He tilts his head and takes in his best friend. What was once an awkward teen now had a beautiful, but still awkward, woman in her place. 

“Steve, I love our friend dates, but usually they take place in a greasy diner or dollar pizza.” Robin picks the fork up and starts twirling it into her napkin. Steve watches her get mesmerized by the wrinkles that wrapped around the silverware, even though they both know the napkin should be in her lap by now. 

Steve smiles softly, moves his napkin from his lap to the table, and begins to mimic Robin. “Okay, maybe I wanted it to be a special occasion.”

Robin giggles at Steve's poor fork-twirling form and leans over the table to fix it for him. “All occasions are special when we are together, so that doesn’t really mean much.” Robin’s nose scrunches in concentration as she gently guides Steve’s hand. She has done this plenty of times before, guiding Steve where he needed to be. Like taking him to the bookstore near her college so he wouldn’t have to go into sex with Eddie blind, or when she taught him how to whisk eggs properly. Both are equally important skills he now uses in his everyday life. “But you seemed nervous. You keep sipping your wine, and I know for a fact that you hate dry wine.”

Steve puts down the glass that was halfway to his mouth, “It’s not my fault Moscato tastes like candy!”

Robin snorts, “Seriously, Dingus. It’s just me. What’s up?”

Steve puts down the fork and his glass and looks Robin in the eye. “I wanted to ask you to be my best man.”

Steve expects a lot of reactions out of her: excitement, an eye roll, hell, even straight-up rejection. Maybe a little speech about how weddings for them aren’t even legal. Instead, a look of betrayal crosses her face. “You asked Eddie to marry you, and you didn’t even tell me you were proposing?”

Immediately, Steve clenches his stomach in outrageous laughter, nearly having to bend over the table. Steve tries to take Robin seriously; he really does. But she is supposed to be the smart one out of the two of them. 

Rage takes over Robin completely as she reaches over the table to start slapping Steve’s arm. “Don’t laugh, you asshat! I am actually mad at you!”

“Ow—” Steve laughs. “Ow, Robin!” Another giggle escapes him as he gets her to sit back in her chair. “I’m laughing because, of course, I didn’t propose to Eddie without talking to you first.”

Robin settles a bit at this, “I’m confused.”

Steve reaches for her hand across the table; Robin doesn’t hesitate to wrap her fingers around his. “I’m asking you to be my Best Man first, doofus. Before I even pick out the damn ring. Which I definitely need you to steal one of Eddie’s rings for me so I can get the size; man watches those things like a hawk.” 

Robin squeezes his hand, “Wait, why would you ask me that first? Isn’t that kind of backwards.”

“I do everything kind of backwards, babe. Kinda the Steve Harrington special.” Steve rubs a thumb against the back of soulmate's hand. “Of course, I ask you about being my best man first. There would be no wedding without you, so if you say no, there would be no proposing.”

Steve could see tears beginning to fill Robin’s eyes, “What are you saying?”

“Whoever gets stuck with me gets stuck with you. We’re a package deal, babe.” 

Robin throws herself across the table, knocking the wine everywhere. Steve laughs and clenches her tightly. “Of course, I’ll be your best man! Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t hurt yourself going down the aisle.” She sobs.

Steve’s throat gets thick, “Pretty sure that’s the father's job, Robs. And you’d have to fight Jim for that role.”

“Fine.” Robin sniffs, leaning back to look him in the eye. “But I get stand by your side as you make a complete fool of yourself with your vows.” 

“Deal.”

Robin leans forward, placing her forehead against Steve’s. “You and me against the world, babe.”

Steve hugs her tight, “You and me against the world.”

[voodoochildthings]

Drizzle

Dean x reader

For @impala-dreamer's THROUGH HIS EYES – DEAN WINCHESTER WRITING CHALLENGE

When Dean sees your number flashing on his phone, he drops everything. Even though he knows you wouldn't do the same.

Word Count: 2 131

Tags: 18+ / hurt / smut and a broken heart, reader is emotionally unavailable

A/N: You might have spotted this one on ao3 already, but I'm so excited to share it over here in the through his eyes challenge 🤩

It's late afternoon, but it's already dark outside. The rain on the windshield is contorting the oncoming headlights into funny shapes when Dean feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He fishes it out, flips it open. He takes a sharp breath when he sees your name flashing up on the display.

"...Hi." His eyes are glued to the road ahead.

"Are you still in the area?"

"Uh, yeah, like two towns over. Why? Are you..." Dean shifts a little, trying to play it cool.

"Wanna come over? I'll text you the address."

"Yeah, sure, I can come over. I'm in the car right now," he says, glancing over at the paper bags with dinner for him and Sam on the passenger seat.

"See you in a bit." There's a click, and the line goes silent. A couple of seconds later, the phone buzzes again with a text message, reading Shady Oaks motel, Skinners Creek, R204. Dean turns around in the middle of the road, tires screeching, going in the opposite direction while he dials Sam's number.

"What's up, Dean?"

"Listen, Sammy, something came up. I got a thing that I gotta take care of, I'm not sure when I'll be back," he says, fingers anxiously drumming on the steering wheel.

"What? Now? I thought we were gonna have dinner, Dean, I'm starving!"

"Yeah, sorry about that. Go get yourself something from the vending machine, my treat. Talk to you soon," he says, and then hangs up before his brother gets another chance to protest.

He's nervous when he pulls into the motel parking lot. He gets out of the car in the drizzling rain, slams the door shut behind him. After a couple of steps he turns back, wants to fetch the burgers he had bought for him and Sammy. He goes to the passenger side door, reaches for the handle. Then he hesitates. What is this, is he going to bring you greasy burgers from some second class diner in a random ass town? He shakes his head, curses to himself and goes back to the staircase leading up to the upper floor.

When he reaches the door marked with the golden numbers 204, he tries to shake the raindrops off his jacket, runs his hand over his face and takes a deep breath. Then he knocks.

A couple of seconds pass, then he hears footsteps, and the door finally creaks open. The lights are low in the room, but he has no trouble recognizing your face. It's burnt into his retina. Your hair is up in a loose bun and there's a small cut on your left cheek, but you're still even prettier than the last time he saw you.

You smile as you welcome him inside. You close the door behind him and step over to the table, picking up a glass, take a big swig, emptying it. You run the back of your hand over your lips as you watch him take his jacket and shoes off.

Dean feels your gaze burning on his skin, and it makes him fluster a little. "So, the hunt go okay?" You watch him through hooded lids and nod. Then you reach for the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. So no small talk today.

Dean starts fumbling with his clothes, not being able to take them off as quickly as he'd like, and the visual of you in your jeans and the plain black bra he's seen so many times is not helping. Both of you start unbuttoning your jeans at the same time, and it's taking everything out of him to multi-task. He should be used to it by now. Getting naked and watching you peel yourself out of your clothes, unceremoniously revealing inch after inch of your beautiful, soft skin at the same time, but the truth is, he's not. He probably never will.

When you're finally both in your underwear, you walk over to him. You take his face into your hands and pull him in for a kiss. The moment you touch him, it's like a thousand volts zapping through him. Dean wraps his arms around you, fingers trying to reach every bit of skin they can get to. He kisses you back with all the passion in the world, hungry, open-mouthed. His tongue glides over yours, tasting you, before he moves over your jaw and down your neck, leaving a wet trail on you while he shuffles you over to the bed.

You plop down on the mattress, licking your lips as you tug at your panties while he does the same to his boxers. Them gone, he crawls over you, resuming his kissing. He can see the hunger in your eyes as you watch his erection bobbing up and down between his legs. He pulls the cups of your bra down, exposing your nipples, gently sucking on each of them. The moan it elicits from you is tiny, but it makes him shiver. Because he knows how rare it is. His hand goes to your breast, firmly grabbing on to it as his mouth wanders back up to your ear. He nibbles at it slightly, hungrily breathing in your scent. It's strongest right there, at the base of your neck. He bites at your skin as he whispers, "you taste so good, baby."

Even if he had his eyes open he couldn't have seen your expression because his face is buried deep in your hair. But he knows what it must look like when you quietly say, "don't call me that."

He freezes for a moment. He knows that's not the kind of relationship you have, and normally, he's fine with that. Well, he's not, actually, but there's nothing he can do about it anyway. So he goes along with it. But sometimes he just gets carried away, when he gets to touch you like this, feel you, smell you, his brain just wonders what it would be like if you were really his. He then apologizes. Quietly. And you resume what you were doing.

At some point, you turn around, on your knees, face pressed down into the pillow. You stick your ass up at him and there's not really any doubt as to what you want him to do. He'd much rather look at your face while he fucks you, but he'll give you what you want. Whatever you want. Funny how he's still thinking about your face, even with your pussy exposed to him like that.

He takes his dick into his hand, strokes a couple of times and runs the tip over your entrance. God, you're wet. It makes him smile. You might not have romantic feelings for him, but there's no way anyone could tell him you get worked up like that as quickly for any other guy. This is him, Dean Winchester, doing it for you. He teases along your slit for a little longer and then finally pushes into you. He hears the breath being punched out of your lungs as he pulls you onto him, fingers digging into the skin of your ass cheeks. When he's fully seated, he closes his eyes for a moment, inhales deeply.

And then he starts moving, fucking you like he knows you want him to. Your body rocks back and forth by the power of his motions. The mattress squeaks, but you don't make a sound. He knows that it's not because you're not enjoying it. The first couple of times it had made him insecure. He usually has the women he's with moaning in a matter of minutes. But that's not who you are. He's okay with that now. Even though he sometimes wishes it'd be easier to know what's going on in your head.

He thrusts into you at a steady pace, roughly, trying to pull you a little closer each time. He listens to your breathing, feels how your walls twitch against him now and then. He watches that muscle under your shoulder blade twitch from time to time. His hips keep smacking into your ass in a way that might even leave a couple of faint bruises tomorrow. You've never stayed long enough for him to find out.

When he sees your hand shooting down to your clit, starting to stimulate yourself, he knows you're close. He picks up his speed a little, drives into you even harder, and then he feels it. The hand that's not on your clit fists the sheets, you arch your back and your pussy clenches around him, making him almost blow his load then and there. But he's not gonna come just like that, he wants to drag this out. Just a little longer, now that he's got you under him. Your orgasm only lasts for a couple of seconds, Dean fucks you through it and then gently runs his hand over your back as your body goes limp. He knows you won't protest at that. You never do.

Dean slips out of you, lets you catch your breath for half a minute. He looks at you, drinking you in, lying there. Soft, warm, spent. In his bed. Well, not his bed. But still. The expression on his face is tender, almost loving, but he knows to get it back in check before he turns you around.

For you, he puts on a smirk, grinning that charming smile that's not honest but never fails to get a lady in the mood. He watches as you smile back at him. Yours is honest. He can tell.

He's still on his knees on the bed, between your thighs, his hand running up your leg and lifting it into the air.

"Any further requests?" He's back on his game now. He can be the sex machine you want him to be. He's not gonna slip up again.

"You could do that thing that I taught you to do," you say, licking your lips at him. Dean raises his eyebrows.

"You mean... with the thing?" You nod as he starts spreading your thighs. He marvels at the sight of you beneath him for a little longer, and then he kicks into motion.

"Alright. Let's do that, then."

Dean keeps you going for another half hour before he can't take it anymore, and then he comes, shuddering, movement stuttering. He grabs you tight when he does, as if he were holding on for dear life, and you let him. He then slumps down next to you on the mattress, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

You did eventually moan as you were approaching the third orgasm of the evening. He knows it's stupid, but it made him proud anyway. He looks at you, your chest heaving, his own breathing still ragged.

You look so pretty.

He wants to run his thumb over the cut on your cheek, nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck and just stay there. Forever. But he doesn't, and he won't.

And then you get up, start looking for your clothes. He lies there watching you as you clean yourself up, get dressed, pack the few things you had lying around into your bag. He hears you say that he can keep the room if he wants, that you have to hit the road. And something else, he's pretty sure it's just polite conversation. He's still in a bit of a haze after coming like that.

Dean feels like he's unable to move, like he wants to get up, grab you and keep you, but he knows that he might lose you forever if he tries.

And then you're gone. He's still in bed, naked. He takes a deep breath. The sheets don't smell like you. How could they, he doesn't know if you even slept in them for one night or if you just got the room for what you just did.

He waits until he hears the engine of your car fading away outside and then gets up. Gets dressed, takes the almost empty bottle of booze that you left on the table, pulls the door shut behind him. He walks down the stairs, back over to the Impala and sits there, in the parking lot, while the rain continues to drizzle.

Dean leans back, clasps both his hands over his face and sighs. He scratches his head, turns on the engine and starts driving as he reaches over and fishes a burger out of the paper bag on the passenger seat. He unwraps it with one hand and takes a bite. It's fine. Of course, it's cold, it has been sitting there for hours now. So are the fries. But it's better than nothing, he won't complain. He never does.

[illusioncanthurtme]

I have this Online Artist Disease where anytime I get an idea I feel like I need to make a thing in order to deliver that idea. Like, oh, a headcanon? Time to make a 5 panel comic to illustrate this vision. Well fuck that, I don't have the damn time. DIPCIFICA HEADCANON GO:

Pacifica keeps her job at greasy's diner for a long time. She eventually finds comfort from being there, routine, having some independence with a paycheck, having lazy Susan as a (very kind and loving) parental figure, etc. And dipper, teen years, crushing on her, sometimes takes his paranormal research work over there. Camps out in one of the booths for a few hours, hoping to interact with her a bit. And hes HORRIBLY awkward. He tries playing it cool, (oh, you know, nice to take my work outside the shack for a change, heheh *sweating*) but EVERYONE knows why he's there. He orders a coffee. Maybe he doesn't even particularly like coffee. Caffeine doesn't set well with him. But he drinks it anyway so she'll come back and refill it, and he'll get a chance to, at BEST, talk with her. Usually he doesn't muster up the courage. He just smiles awkwardly and says thank you.

Lazy Susan probably makes sure Pacificas the one who waits on his table. (Pacifica is very embarrassed - she likes him too but is in denial.) Dipper just thinks he's lucky.

Eventually, when they're dating, he still goes there with his work to spend time with her.

[sadhours]

the diner - part one

billy hargrove x fem!reader

cw: 18+ minors dni, stalking, murder, toxic relationship, trauma, hallucinations, flayed!billy, peeping Tom, masturbation briefly mentioned, horror

He survived. Somehow— someway. Billy survived. Took care of what he should have so long ago. But that monster lingers, still alive within him.

You’re an innocent girl who works next door to him and he can’t help himself. Could you help him or is he too sick?

read on ao3

part two

Rain slips down, leaving clean streaks across the scum splattered front window of the shop. It’s deep into the evening, town’s asleep except for the truck stop directly next door. Bright lights illuminating the gas pumps, convenience store and the 50’s style diner. The one you work at.

And in the darkness of Route One Garage, Billy stands at the window. Watching. Eyes following as your hair bobs up and down with your steps as you run around the diner. Taking orders, filling coffee cups, carrying hot plates of greasy food made on grills cleaned less often than the health department wants. He’s eaten there, knows you can taste the filth in the food. But it’s the only place to get food this late for miles. The place is full of truckers, different faces but they might as well be the same copy of a person. In and out all day long. Billy’s seen the way they talk to you, been witness to it and just sat there with his blood boiling. Didn’t do anything about it because he’s a pussy and also, because you don’t know him. Sure, he comes in semi-regularly but he doesn’t really talk to you. He can’t for some reason. But before he moved to this teeny, shithole of a place, Billy wasn’t like this. He could talk to any woman. You didn’t look at him like most women did, though.

He watches you like this almost every night. Every night you’re there. Fantasizes about the things he wants to do to you. Sometimes those things are questionable, violent even but sometimes they’re just fantasies of talking to you— making you fall in love.

But he did something that woke up these dark demons deep in him. Well, two things.

Billy still has visions of the shape shifting monster. Haunts his dreams. Recalls each time he led an innocent person to the monster. Regretted not leading his father to the monster. So when he crawled out of the slimy, pulsing portal. He found his dad. Did what he’d always been too weak to do. Billy wonders if that monster still possesses him. If there’s still some of those black, gunky slugs in his stomach. Puked them up for weeks, it felt like.

But he’s thousands of miles from Hawkins. Though it feels like part of him is still contaminated. Made him reclusive, awkward, scarred up. Maybe that’s why he’s scared to talk to you. He knows he doesn’t look like he used to. His hair’s longer, his eyes are darker, his body has starfish shaped scars patterned all over. That charm has been evacuated. He’s not as suave.

Obsessive. That’s how he is now and he knows it but he can’t stop himself.

Billy knows where you work, he knows what you drive and he knows where you live. He has the name of your boss, your parents and your ex boyfriend. He’s followed you to the dive bar in town, walked around the general store and kept his eye on you and the things you buy. He’s full blown stalking you. It’s not his fault, though. That monster gave him this sickness and this town gave him loneliness. A recipe for disaster.

And you’re just so fucking pretty. The way your face lights up when you smile stains his eyes when he closes them. If he focuses hard enough he can hear your voice. Same script over and over.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Shop busy, today?”

“Usual tonight?”

“Coffee, eggs over easy, hash browns , extra bacon and sausage, right?”

“Want some more coffee?”

“Anything else tonight? Maybe some apple pie?”

“Ya sure? It’s really good apple pie, I promise.”

“I’ll just get your check, then.”

Sometimes Billy can finish when he’s thinking about those words. Which is sick and he knows that but he feels like he can’t help himself. Wonders what you think of him. You’re not a bitch or anything but you don’t ever look at him like girls used to look at him. Nothing like the moms laid out by the pool. Not like you think he’s good looking but like he’s any other face you see. Which infuriates him but makes him sad about himself more than anything. Occasionally he looks at himself in the mirror until he feels sick. Until he sees his dad. Tells himself he needs a haircut, needs to shave the mustache. Sleep more so he can lose the bags under his eyes. Maybe you’d look at him differently.

The lights flicker, buzz loud enough he can hear it in the shop. He leaves. Locks up the place and his boots take him to the diner. To the same booth he always sits in. Lights up a smoke and meets your eyes from across the place. You don’t flush the way girls used to. In fact, Billy can’t register any kind of reaction on your face. So he flicks his ash on the floor because you’ll have to sweep it up and it feels like he won. Won what? He doesn’t really know, but he wants you to clean up his mess. Gives him some kind of satisfaction.

The script starts when you walk up. A variation of it.

“Late tonight,” you say, filling up his coffee cup without asking. “Must be busy.”

“Sure,” he says. Always keeps it short because you don’t meet his eyes and he can’t meet yours. Instead he stares at your hands, pretty fingers wrapped around the carafe’s handle.

You walk away. To put the coffee away he guesses. Stares at the mug, wraps his own fingers around it and takes a careful sip. His eyes find you behind the counter, giving a look of disdain to your coworker who said something and then you grin. Laugh at whatever she said to you. Then you’re back at his booth and his eyes fall to the table as the script resumes.

“Usual?”

“Yeah.”

“Eggs over easy, hash browns, extra bacon and sausage,” you recite from memory and Billy gets a bit of satisfaction from it. Proud of you for some reason.

“You remember,” he says, low and steady.

You scoff and chuckle, the sound makes his thighs tighten and you say, “Kind of hard to forget it. You’ve never changed it.”

Bold for some reason, he replies, “Maybe I should.”

“We do have a whole six pages on that menu. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you open it, though,” you offer and this is new. It’s off script. Both you and him.

Billy smirks, flips open the menu and peers down at the first page. It’s greasy, a stain of sticky jam at the top left corner and he immediately catches a typo. He purses his lips and continues to flick through it. You pull the notepad from your apron but he’s too nervous to look up at your face. He flips another page and then, finally, looks up at your face.

“What do you like?”

You look shocked. He likes that.

“Uh,” you laugh, a soft little sound and Billy’s skin is hot. “Our patty melt is pretty damn good.”

He closes the menu, slides to the end of the table as he replies, “I’ll have that then.”

“Wow, you’re full of surprises tonight,” you quip, “Fries or potato salad.”

“Why don’t you give me a surprise,” Billy says and then looks away because you’re too fucking gorgeous and he’s on a roll. Kind of feels like his old self right now and looking at you would fuck that up.

You pick up the menu and laugh again, “Sure thing.”

You walk away and he takes a hit of his neglected cigarette, ash falling to the table as he does so. Another mess of his for you to clean. Makes his whole body tingle at the thought. You don’t check on him before his food is done. But Billy keeps checking on you, eyes bouncing up to follow you as you work. Finishes his cigarette and coffee. Takes in the uniform you’re in. The big, bold name on the pin clasped into your blouse.

When you bring his food, you ask, “Got anymore surprises for me tonight?” and his mind runs wild. Sick fantasies. Ideas that make him feel guilty and the charm he’d felt after years slips far, far away.

“No.”

But you say, “Good. Don’t wanna overwhelm me too much.”

You fill his coffee again and walk away. Then he eats and the script resumes as normal. He pays. Sits in his car until all the lights in the diner shut off. Watches you walk to your car, waits a beat after you drive off before he starts his car and follows you. To your house. Keeps waiting until you go inside to park behind your car on the street and watch the numerous lights flick on and off. Aiding in him as he imagines exactly how your night plays out. He thinks you go into the kitchen first. Maybe you get a drink, perhaps a beer. When he’s followed you to the bar, he’s seen you drink beer. Then that lights flicks off and the TV turns on. Can see the variety of brightness and colors through the window. He thinks of what you might watch. Imagines sitting on the couch with you, cuddled up. His thoughts get perverted quickly and before he knows it, he’s staring at your window with his dick in his hand with the fantasy of your mouth on him.

After he finishes, he’s still watching. Until the changing lights of the TV go black and a different light turns on. Bathroom. That window is small. You brush your teeth, maybe wash your face. He takes this time to get out of his car, walk to the window on the side of the house, crouch down and peer through the broken blinds. Your bedroom. You turn the light on, back to the bathroom to turn that light off and return. Close your door and undress. You sleep nude but you keep a robe next to your bed. You flick off the light. Sink into bed and Billy stays for a while. Until he knows you’re asleep. He thinks about sneaking inside but he hasn’t gathered the gusto to do so yet. The whole watching you through the window is new enough. But he’ll escalate soon. Won’t be able to help himself.

Then Billy goes home. Back to his shady little apartment. Falls asleep on the couch with infomercials playing on the TV. He’ll wake up and do the same thing again tomorrow.

—

Dark tendrils wrap around his wrists and ankles. Pull him in opposite directions. His eyes are wide open but his body feels paralyzed. He tries to scream but it’s gargled and there’s a monster limb attaching to his mouth, pulsing down his throat. Fills his belly with baby slugs. The sticky limb retreats him and the constraints on his ankles and wrists unravel and he’s shaking. Thrashing. Screaming. Crying. Pleading.

Then Billy’s awake, sits up straight and pants. Looks around his room and there’s nothing there. Just him and the mess of his belongings. He cries. Then he showers. Makes himself vomit and he sees no slugs. No sludge. Just the dinner and foamy beers he had. Billy showers, water so hot it burns— turns his skin patchy red and tingly. He vomits again. Watches the sick circle the drain. Cries some more. Feels the loneliest he’s ever been. Wonders why he can’t kill himself. Why he doesn’t have the strength to do that.

He’s up too early. Doesn’t work for another three hours. Billy paces his apartment. Chain smokes and pounds coffee. He briefly thinks of Maxine. Stalks over to his freezer and reaches in it for the bottle of vodka he keeps in there and guzzles some of it down. Drowns out Max. Maybe he should make sure you get to work safe. He has to do something. Anything.

The drive to your house is routine, but he doesn’t often do it in daylight. Can’t risk you seeing him, so Billy parks a couple houses down. Chain smokes while he waits and soon enough, you’re walking to your car.

[samazing0831]

Midnight Milkshakes + Confessions - Steve Harrington x Reader

Steve Harrington x Reader

It's just another late-night diner run - until Steve finally drops the flirt act and opens up about how he really feels. Between fries, milkshakes, and a jukebox humming in the background, he confesses he's scared of messing things up... and more afraid of never getting the chance to try.

938 words

The bell above the diner door jingled as you stepped inside, the scent of greasy fries, sugary milkshakes, and something faintly vanilla welcoming you like a warm hug. It was late - way past midnight - but Hawkins never really slept, and the neon sign outside made everything feel a little softer.

Steve was right behind you, dragging a hand through his still-mussed hair from a long shift at Family Video. "God, if I have to rewind one more damn tape," he muttered, "I swear I'm gonna snap and start alphabetizing people's brains."

You laughed, nudging him as you made your way to your booth - the one by the window that always felt like it belonged to the two of you.

He dropped into the seat across from you with a sigh, elbows resting on the table like he'd aged forty years since clocking out. "C'mon, let's get you something before I start sounding like someone's angry grandpa."

The jukebox clicked softly to life in the corner, some nameless old love song playing low and slow in the background. You both pretended to look at the menu even though you already knew what you were getting. You always did - milkshakes, fries, and maybe pie if Steve could charm the waitress into giving you the last slice.

His knee bounced under the table.

His fingers tapped the laminated menu.

And then, finally -

"Hey, uh... can I tell you something?"

The tone of his voice made you look up. No teasing, no smirk. Just Steve. Honest and unsure.

"If this is another Family Video rant, Steve," you said, half-smirking, "I swear to God - no more complaints about tape rewinding, crappy movie selections, or people ignoring your expertly crafted recs. We're moving on tonight."

He laughed - relieved, if a little nervous. "Okay, fair. No more store talk."

Then his fingers brushed yours across the table.

"I mean it. I'm not trying to be dramatic, but..." he paused, searching your face. "It's different with you. I don't usually talk about this kind of stuff. But with you? I kinda can't help it."

The sincerity in his voice knocked the breath right out of your lungs.

"I just - I need you to know that you mean more to me than any of the crap I've done before. More than I've really said. And honestly?" He hesitated. "I'm scared I'll mess it up."

Your heart clenched, unsure if it was from panic or butterflies. "Steve... you're scaring me. What's going on?"

His shoulders tensed. "No, no - I didn't mean to freak you out," he said quickly. "I just suck at this. Feelings and stuff."

He dropped his head for a second, then looked back up at you. "I care about you. More than I thought I could care about anyone again. And I'm terrified you'll wake up and realize I'm just some loser who peaked in high school and isn't worth the hassle."

As if on cue, the waitress appeared and slid your usuals onto the table - fries, milkshakes, not a word spoken like she just knew. Maybe she did. You hardly noticed her leave.

"I - Steve. I had no idea. I mean, yeah, I knew you were flirting with me, but I figured you flirted with anything that had legs."

He gasped, mock-offended. "Excuse me. I am very selective about who I flirt with these days." He popped a fry into his mouth. "And I'll have you know, I've been on my best behavior with you."

You laughed, grabbing your own fry. "You? Best behavior?"

"I'm serious," he said, softer now. "I care. I don't flirt with you just to flirt. I like you. A lot. And yeah, maybe I'm bad at showing it sometimes, but I don't want this to be some flirty phase that fades out. I want you."

You blinked, the weight of it settling over your heart.

"...Maybe I could give Steve 'The Hair' Harrington a chance," you teased.

His grin exploded like fireworks. "Oh, thank God. I was two seconds away from begging."

He leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "But just so you know - now that I've got a shot, you're officially banned from stealing my fries."

You grabbed another one with a smug smirk.

His jaw dropped. "Unbelievable. I open up, and this is the thanks I get."

You raised your milkshake and took a long sip, eyes never leaving his. "You're lucky I don't charge you rent for how often you're in your feelings."

"Okay, fine. New deal," he said, nudging the fries toward you. "You can have 'em. But only if I get to call you my girl."

You arched a brow. "Wow, haven't even gone on one date yet and you're already throwing out labels. Getting a little clingy, Harrington."

He held his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright. No official titles until after the date."

You leaned in, voice low. "Play your cards right and maybe one day I'll prefer Mrs. Harrington."

Steve blinked, stunned for just a second. "Mrs. - okay. Yep. I'm definitely taking you out now."

He got up, tossing a few bills on the table. "Let's get you home, future wife."

You laughed, standing up beside him. "If we're gonna elope, shouldn't we kiss first?"

His smirk melted into something softer, more earnest. "Yeah," he whispered. "We should."

His lips brushed against yours gently, reverent. The kind of kiss that said thank you for choosing me. And when he pulled back, eyes still closed, his voice was barely a breath.

"You still in for that ride?"

You smiled; forehead pressed to his. "As long as I'm with you Steve... nothing else really matters."

[ichorai]

chiropterology — relationship advice booth.

drabble synopsis ; tim's total advice bill came up to thirty-six dollars. not including tip. warnings ; none!

series masterlist.

The sun was just beginning to set, spilling soft pinks across the cloudy sky. Kate neared the edge of the rooftop where Tim was sitting, his face buried in his hands. 

“What’s up, kid?” she asked. “You’re not usually this mopey on patrol.” 

“Sorry—” Tim said, immediately straightening. “Sorry, I’m just… thinking.”

She eased down beside him, watching the sun disappear behind a cluster of skyscrapers. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Hesitant, Tim said, “I wanted to hold my boyfriend’s hand and chickened out at the last second. When he asked what was wrong, I ran away from him. I can’t believe I did that! It was so embarrassing—I literally just… left him there.”

Kate’s features softened with sympathy behind her mask. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It happens.”

“Being with him makes me so happy. I really do love spending time with him,” Tim said. “But every time I try to make a move, I start doubting myself. I thought I had pretty good dating instincts, but now I really don’t know! Is dating guys anything like dating girls?”

Batwoman fixed the boy with an expectant look. “I am not the person to be asking that question to.”

Tim began tugging at his face once more. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than ever. “Right. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. I can figure this out on my own.”

With a nudge, Kate told him, “Just because you can doesn’t mean you have to. I’m always here to listen. But… if you need someone who’s a bit more of an expert…”

Tim, now changed out of his Red Robin suit, sat on the sticky red leather of a diner booth seat, nursing a cup of steaming coffee. Across from him sat you, picking off peppered curly fries from a greasy plastic basket. Kate lounged to your right, sipping a tall glass of iced tea. For some reason, Tim felt more intimidated than comforted sitting across both you and Kate. 

“I’m glad you called, hon,” you said in a consoling tone, noting his tense posture and his worried eyes. “So what’s going on? Kate tells me you’re having boy problems.”

Wincing, Tim shook his head. “It’s not Bernard. He’s great. Perfect, even. I mean… it’s me, I think. I keep backing away from him even though I want to take things further, I really do.” Tim popped a curly fry into his mouth and chewed, expression twisting with frustration. “I keep overthinking it. I don’t know if he’s happy with the current pace, or if he wants to move faster or slower, or if he was even happy to begin with—”

“Okay,” you said, reaching over across the table to pat Tim’s hand, which had curled into a pale fist. “Okay. Hold your horses. Have you talked to him at all? Asked him how he feels?”

“I—” Tim’s voice caught in his throat. “No. I haven’t. Not about this, at least.”

“Well, there you go,” you said, smiling encouragingly at the boy. “Tim, if he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t have agreed to be in a relationship with you. At least not this long.”

Kate nodded in agreement. “You have to trust him to tell you when he’s unhappy with things, as well. Otherwise, how would you ever know?”

“I just want everything to be perfect,” Tim said, sinking further into the booth, retreating into his hoodie like a turtle to its shell. “I get so nervous around him! I feel like I’ll just… fuck everything up.”

Both you and Kate exchanged worried glances. 

“Why do you think you’ll mess it up?” asked Kate.

“Because… I always do. I messed it up with Steph. With Kon. And now Bernard—”

Inhaling sharply, you shook your head. “Tim. If you convince yourself that you’re not being a good partner, you’re basically just self-sabotaging yourself. You’re so worried whether Bernard is happy with how you’re treating him, you also have to remember that relationships work both ways.”

“You don’t have to figure it out alone,” said Kate. “In fact, you shouldn’t. Talk to him. Treat him like a partner instead of your boss. You may be a great detective, but this doesn’t have to be another mystery you solve alone.”

“Help each other,” you said, nodding emphatically. “He’s not a mind reader.”

Kate arched her brow at him. “He’s not, right?”

“What, Bernard? I really don’t think so.” Tim took another quick sip of his coffee as if he was taking a shot of alcohol. You frowned at him—that boy really needed a nap after this. You made a mental note to text Alfred to place blankets by Tim’s favorite places to work on cases in case he passed out somewhere in the manor. 

“Hm. You should probably ask him if he’s a mind reader, too,” you said with a little huff of a laugh. “I really do hope you talk things through with him. Relationships only work if both sides are willing to communicate.”

Tim scratched at the back of his neck, embarrassed and unsure what to say. “Thanks, Mom. Kate. Thank you, really. I know everyone’s super supportive of this relationship so… I don’t know. I guess I feel a bit of pressure to have it work out.”

“We all just want the best for you,” you said. “If Bernard makes you happy, we’ll support you. Whether things work out or they don’t, we’ll be there for you regardless.”

Kate smiled at Tim. “We’re real proud of you, kiddo. All of us. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”

Tim sighed, cheeks dusted with rouge. “Thank you. I promise I’ll talk to him. I just—what happens if he tells me he’s not happy with me?”

At this, you couldn’t help but laugh a little. 

“What?” Tim said, now feeling all the more self-conscious. 

“Sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just… you’re so much like Bruce,” you said, shoulders still shaking. 

This made Tim straighten just a bit. “What?” 

“When Bruce and I first started dating, all he could think about was the worst possible outcome. He was so worried he would hurt me, or put me in danger, or that I wasn’t happy with the smallest of things—so much so that he convinced himself that I would be better off without him. It didn’t even cross his mind to ask me how I felt about us.”

Tim’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Bruce was… a hot mess. He needed a lot of reassurance that I was happy with our relationship. And he kept pushing me away when he needed help.”

“That… yeah, that sounds like him,” Tim murmured. The blue of his eyes warbled with uncertainty. “What made you stay?”

The corners of your mouth curled into a reminiscing smile. “Oh, silly. I love him. Simple as that. And if Bernard likes you half as much as you do him, I’m sure he’ll stick with you, baggage and all.”

Kate nodded, sympathy flooding her expression at Tim’s clear distress. “Don’t worry too much, kiddo. I’m almost certain Bernard would want to talk to you about the relationship.”

Tim drew in a deep, nervous breath as he mulled over you and Kate’s words of wisdom. “How did you and Bruce fix it?” he asked, voice small.

“Fix it?” you replied, surprising coloring your tone. “Oh, no—trying to ‘fix’ things permanently is like putting a bandaid over a bullet wound. That’s what relationships do, Tim. We make mistakes. We talk it out. We forgive each other because we love each other. And we move on and try not to make the same mistake again. Hell, just last week Bruce and I had a fight over Damian’s safety in school. And, you know, long before that, Bruce and I had such a rough time that we broke up for a few months. I moved out of Gotham and he was off conceiving Damian.” Tim winced, but you waved your hand about with an amused smile, as it was all a distant past to you now. “But the separation made us realize how much we loved and missed each other. I’d rather be with Bruce and all his flaws than without him at all. Trust that Bernard would do the same for you.”

Tim let out a discontent noise, massaging the spot between his temples. “Why does it have to be so complicated? Is dating guys as hard as dating girls?”

“Hah!” you guffawed at the thought. “Both are just as complicated. Trust me.” 

Kate smiled. “There’s your answer. And that’s life, kid,” she said, stabbing at a few curly fries with a fork. “You won’t get used to it, not really. But you’ll live.”

“I know it’s scary,” you said, tapping his foot with yours underneath the table. “But better you talk this out with Bernard now before it actually becomes an issue later down the line.”

This made Tim pause. He shut his eyes for a moment, and nodded as if he were in pain. “Yeah. You’re right. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, as soon as he’s awake.”

Both you and Kate glanced at each other, beaming like proud parents. She lifted a hand up for a high five, which you were quick to reciprocate. “We should form a relationship advice booth,” you said, giddy. “Charge a dollar a minute.”

Kate rolled her eyes fondly. “I’ll pass on that.”

The next night, Tim lied across one of the long metal dissecting tables in your lab as you tinkered on a new invention, talking your ear off about how he and Bernard had discussed things for hours—and they even held hands! You listened to every word he said with a wide grin.

Once he was done filling you in, he sheepishly said, “Thanks, Mom. If not for you and Kate, I really don’t know what I’d do. Probably freak out and ruin everything.” 

You spread your arms wide for a hug. There was grease and soot all over your hands and clothes from your hours of work, but Tim didn’t seem to mind one bit. He dove forward to accept your embrace, his head resting beneath your chin. 

“I can’t wait for the wedding,” you teased once you pulled away. He blushed a startling shade of red all the way up to the tips of his ears, and hastily made a poor excuse to dash out of your laboratory out of embarrassment.

[seresinhangmanjake]

The One I Want: Part 3

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Plus size!reader

Summary: You're new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Notes/Warnings: cursing, maybe. I don't think anything else. Sorry if there are typos.

Words: 1720

The One I Want Masterlist

---

Jake Seresin is a wizard. Or a mind-reader. Or some creature with wildly sensitive hearing. You’re sure of it. 

In the month since you moved into the apartment, your only moments alone come when you lock yourself in your bedroom. Otherwise, Jake is near you—sitting next to you, looking at you, talking to you. If your door opens, he follows not five seconds later. If you sit down at the island with your breakfast of bland cereal, he enters the kitchen within two minutes to prepare his own meal; the same meal every morning. Eggs, Canadian bacon, and a protein shake. If you dare to switch the television on, turns out he’s been meaning to watch that show for weeks. You had no idea he was into movie special effects competitions. 

It isn’t irritating, exactly—though, it wouldn’t shock you if others experiencing similar treatment would feel that way. You just can’t figure him out. He’s unfigure-outable. You’re pretty sure that’s a thing. If not, Jake Seresin just brought it into existence. And here you thought you were the mystery. 

“So I was thinking,” he says. 

You close your book without a second thought, having barely read and retained a line in the last fifteen minutes anyway. From the moment he came out of his room and plopped down on the couch—his leg bouncing and eyes trained ahead on nothing—you’ve been waiting for him to snap the tense band of silence between you.

His fingers clasp together, thumbs subtly twiddling when he finally looks over to you. “Maybe you could meet my friends. They’ve asked about you, and you’ve already met Nat so it’s really only the guys.”

That was perhaps one of the last things you imagined he would say. You’ve heard very little of his friends. They’re also pilots. His team. They all have weird nicknames. Half of those nicknames are animals. 

There are other tidbits Jake casually mentioned as well. Coyote is his closest friend. There’s a Rooster who recently found himself a chick. A Bob and a Phoenix—who you learned is Nat—are particularly attached. 

But every bit of that information you figured he was simply spilling to fill moments where you were in the same room but not speaking. Or perhaps it’s some method to draw out feelings of trust so you might participate in his little game of show and tell. In his eyes is always the hope that you’ll share something of your own, but you have yet to find the courage or need to do so. 

“Oh,” you reply, trying to gather the correct words to turn him down. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not really up to meeting a group of people today.”

You hate the way his face falls. Like a puppy denied a treat. But it lasts only a second as another thought brightens the green hue of his irises. 

“What if we went somewhere? You and me.”

“What?”

His body shifts on the couch, more of him now facing you. He’s wearing a shirt today. He’s been wearing shirts around you since you made the request weeks ago, but they’re weak at disguising the body underneath. Thin fabric pulled tight like a second skin. 

“You said no bars,” he continues. “How do you feel about diners?”

—

It’s an odd image—Jake framed in this setting. He’s all lean muscle and neatly styled hair with a clean-shaven jawline surrounded by greasy food and booths so old their plastic seats are cracking. As others watch him—particularly the hostess who cannot for her life keep from glancing his way every thirty seconds—he watches you. Says nothing; just watches until the waitress returns to set a few plates and mugs in front of you both. 

“There you go, kids,” she says. She’s older, and her hair is done up in a style that hasn’t followed the turning of the decades, but you like that it suits her; that she hasn’t paid attention to the change around her, or simply doesn’t care. With her hands on her hips, she says, “Now Jake, if I knew you were bringing a girlfriend I would’ve set aside some of that pie you like.”

Your eyes bug so much they could’ve fallen right onto the table, but Jake chuckles, smiling at you before directing it to the waitress. “Don’t spook her, Mags,” he teases. Then, “This is my new roommate.”

Her lips form an ‘O’ that holds for a few seconds too long before she blinks and tilts her head to the side. “Didn’t work out with the other one, honey?”

“Not so much, no.”

“Well, that’s just fine. I wasn’t a fan.” Mags takes a breath and straightens out her little apron; a costume element you’d rather die than wear, but much like her hair, Mags seems to take pride in it. You can’t fault her for that. You wish you could find a job you enjoy. Or a job at all. She shoots you a grin; nothing like the rehearsed smiles from someone in a customer service job, but a genuine curve of the lips that creates a warm little ball in your chest. “You, on the other hand, look like such a sweetheart. So be good to my Jake here.”

You don’t have the opportunity to disappoint her because she doesn’t wait for a response. Be good to her Jake. Not an ask. A demand. An unspoken ‘or else’ hanging in the air. And though she’s got at least forty years on you, you’re pretty sure she’s spry enough to follow through on her sneaky threats. 

Mags squeezes Jake’s shoulder and departs, leaving you in a confused state of mixed energies. Shock and discomfort radiate off of you like heat waves, meeting the cool calmness emanating from a beaming Jake. 

“Will you tell me more about yourself now?” he asks. 

Shaking off the questionable tone of the older woman, you reconnect yourself to the man in front of you. His words soak in; another unexpected curveball Jake has thrown you within one day. His friends want to meet you, and now your personal details are on his mind. What would come next? Does he want to know the last time you were thoroughly kissed? Your high school GPA? Height and weight? If so, he’s going to be terribly disappointed. 

Steaming, wispy tendrils invade your vision, and you finally register the blueberry hint hitting your nostrils. Jake had whispered the order to Mags with the explanation that he already knew what you wanted. And being the mind-reading wizard you’re convinced he is, on a menu of nearly one hundred items he magically happened to pick something you enjoy. 

You hold yourself back from digging in, instead meeting his eyes as you cross your arms over your chest. “You think free pancakes are a good trade for my life story?”

He slowly slides a mug closer to you. “I got you coffee as well.”

When you raise an unenthused brow, Jake sighs. 

“Fine. You’re leaving me no other choice than to guess,” he says. “But if I get it right, will you be honest?”

With a snort, you pick up your fork and take your first bite of the sweet fluffy cake. It’s undeniably delicious. Fucking wizard. “Sure,” you say, and akin to a child, Jake’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree. 

He ignores his own food and drink to once again watch you. Observing. Your eyes to your lips to your neck and back again. When he comes to a conclusion, he leans back in the booth. “You are a fan of the beach and before you die you intend to live in every beach town this country has to offer for at least two months each.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “Are you kidding?”

“Well, since it appears that I am wrong, I’m going to say yes I am kidding because I’m very funny like that.” He stares some more, eyes narrowing. “You’re searching for a long-lost family member.”

“No.”

“You are only attracted to Navy men and thought you’d travel to a hub.”

Again, as he likes to do, he leaves you lacking words for a moment. “That better be another one of your ‘I’m very funny like that’ attempts,” you eventually manage to say. “And you know I wasn’t aware this was a Navy town.”

Jake nods and then leans forward in his seat, arms overlapping on the linoleum tabletop. You can sense the sudden shift; a new energy. The glint in his eye doesn't quite go with the steady seriousness of his voice. Like mismatched puzzle pieces. “So you’re not attracted to Navy men?” he asks. 

Your head jerks back to regain the distance he lessened. “Not exclusively.”

“Damn,” he replies, full playful tone back in place. “I wanted to at least get that part right.”

There’s another bright smile from him. A wink. You look to your right to find Mags' watchful gaze; motherly and hopeful.

After another swallow of pancake, you say, “Alright, you’re done for the day.”

“Oh, come on,” he whines. 

When you shake your head, he picks up his fork and begins to poke at the eggs on his plate, and you bask in the silence of his disappointment. Peace and quiet, with the exception of the diners surrounding you. No questions. No attempted agonizing small talk. You have a moment to breathe. 

It’s not until you’re halfway through your food and the coffee is nearly drained that Jake lifts his head. 

“I’m going to figure you out,” he says with an unwelcome note of determination. 

Your eyes snap up. 

The feeling behind his statement is hard to nail down. You would’ve said delving into your history was something fun for him to do. Something to pass the time with the new person in his home. But now it comes off more like a need. A little prick in his side that he can’t shake. 

You so badly want to be wrong in your interpretation. You want him to give up; to surrender to your stubbornness. Ideally, sooner rather than later. 

“You really don’t have to,” you say.

Jake doesn’t miss a beat. Nothing about him—not his breath, not his stare—stutters at your response. Instead, he returns with, “But I want to.”

---

A/N: Sorry it's a little short. Next chapter will be labeled 3.5 and will be from Jake's POV.

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