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nanaslutt · 1 year ago

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Throat training with Gojo Satoru

Contains: fem reader, established relationship, finger sucking, lots of cum/spit talk, cum eating, throat fucking, oral (m!r), leg humping, so much dirty talk, Gojo talks you through it, multiple orgasms

MDNI

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

"Alright, pretty girl." Gojo's voice echoed into your ears, his hand caressing the side of your cheek. "You gotta tap my thigh twice if it's too much, kay?" He instructed, resulting in a nod from you, your head nuzzling into his warm hand. "Good girl, such a good girl doin' this all for me." Satoru praised, his other hand coming down to cradle your head as he pet your face like a cat, making you feel so attended to.

Gojo sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward to pamper you. Your knees were resting on the floor underneath him, sitting between his spread thighs, your hands absentmindedly reaching into his sweats and boxers to try and pull out his cock. "Anything for you Toru, wanna make you feel good." You said, your eyes keeping contact with his intimidating ones, his smile growing at your words.

"You always make me feel good pretty, dont need you to hurt your throat to get me off y'know." He giggled as he kept his hands on your face while leaning back a bit, raising his hips off the couch so you could pull his sweats and boxers down, his heavy cock springing out of the confines of the fabric and slapping his abdomen.

"I know, but I wanna be able to take you without gagging." You said, pouting at him embarrassed. Gojo released your face from his hands, opting to interlace his fingers with yours as it rested on his thigh, your other hand other grabbing ahold of the base of his cock and stroking it slowly. "It's gonna take some getting used to." He giggled, "You might not get it at first because I'm just soooooo big, but don't let that turn you off~" the cocky white-haired man teased, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

"It's not gonna be your dick that turns me off…" you whispered under your breath, scoffing at his confident tone. You couldn't say much else though, he was right, his cock was huge and you were never able to take it without gagging and having to pause every couple of seconds. This time though, you were determined, you would take things slow and let Gojo work open your throat for him, you would become his perfect cocksleeve.

Gojo leaned forward again, and with two fingers he pinched your chin, his eyes zeroing in on your plush lips. "Hmm?" Gojo mused, scrunching his eyebrows at you like he didn't hear what your retort. His thumb ran over the bottom of your lip, the feeling instantly making any smart remarks you had in your brain fall out the side of your ear, your brain melting with the small touch of his thumb.

Gojo's jaw dropped in a small o as he watched yours do the same, making way for his thumb. "Atta girl.." Gojo mumbled, smiling when your lips wrapped around his thumb instinctually and began sucking, the warm appendage rolling around his digit.

His cock twitched in your hand, which weakly and in no particular rhythm kept stroking his cock, slowly smearing the wetness from his pre-cum over the length of his cock. Gojo tipped his head back, his jaw opening more as he pressed his thumb as far as it could go into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue when he hit the back of your throat.

He felt you moan around his fingers, your face briefly scrunching in uncomfortability when his finger started to make you feel like you were going to gag if he moved it. "Look at me, pretty girl." He instructed, immediately your eyes were on his, your breathing slowly picking up as he thrust his thumb back and forth, getting you used to feeling something in your mouth.

"Breath through your nose, keep your throat open for me." He instructed, nodding at his own words. You nodded around him, taking deep breaths in through your nose when his thumb trusted towards the back of your throat, making his thumb so deep in your mouth feel more manageable. "It's easier already right?" Gojo giggled, his cock throbbing as he watched you gain more confidence, your head bobbing forward to meet his thrusts.

You kept your eyes on him, moaning around his finger when you saw the proud look in his eyes. He smiled before slowing his thrusts, waiting for you to finish your sucking before he stuck his tongue out slightly, silently telling you to do the same. You did as you saw,you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out, releasing his thumb.

Gojo admired the sheen of your saliva covering his finger before he pressed his middle and ring fingers together and slapped them teasingly against your tongue as he did with his cock, creating lewd 'plp' noises to emanate into the room. You whined while he played with your tongue, his fingers pressing down on it and rubbing near the tip of your tongue before he broke the silence.

"Think you wanna try something a little longer?" He asked, referring to the two digits he currently had pressed agaisnt your tongue. You nodded, feeling the saliva pool in your mouth as you waited for him to sink them deeper into your mouth--giving you the go-ahead to start sucking on them how you wanted to.

Now that you weren't so preoccupied with something in your mouth, you took the opportunity to use that spare brainpower to stroke Gojo's cock more coherently, speeding up your thrusts and jerking him off more steadily. "Fuck.." He groaned, pressing his fingers into your throat, his eyes fluttering at the stimulation your hand brought him.

"You'll get that soon, promise sweet thing. Start with my fingers first.. don't forget to breathe." He said with a smile. Your nails dug into his thigh when he slid his fingers to the back of your throat, your lips wrapping around them as you welcome the feeling of him poking and prodding inside your mouth, further readying you for his cock.

Gojo shook his head in disbelief at how eager you were as he picked up the thrusting of his fingers, keeping his movements shallow at first, not wanting to push you too far too fast. He took a sharp inhale through his teeth, his eyes darting down to watch you stroke his cock, a thick bead of precum pearling out from his tip and sliding down the length of his cock, immediately getting swiped up by your fingers.

"Oooh fuck you're doing so good baby~ Almost feels like you're sucking my cock for real." Satoru giggled, watching you work on him with a slacked jaw, feeling his face heat up at all of the attention you were giving him. He could tell you were focusing hard, you really wanted to impress him and so far you were doing an amazing job.

You moaned around his fingers, wrapping your tongue around them the same way you did to his dick as you bobbed your head to meet him, trying to get him to give you the rest of his fingers, as he was still holding back, keeping a couple of inches out of your mouth.

"You want more, huh? You wanna feel me in your throat 's that it? 's that why you're being so needy?" Gojo asked, tilting his head at you. You pressed your thighs together at his words, feeling the knot in your belly tie itself tighter from his teasing. You nodded, trying to speak out a 'yes, please' around his fingers, which he heard loud and clear.

"Then who am I to deny my baby?" Gojo said with a smile, pressing his fingers to the hilt inside your mouth. The digits pressed down on your tongue, trying to stay away from your uvula. He knew this would be unavoidable when he finally fed you his cock, but it was the least he could do to keep you comfortable right now.

He kept his fingers still in your throat, watching your eyes scrunch shut at the feeling of him, trying to breathe deeply through your nose to keep your gag reflex at bay--which proved to be working. "Good girl, keep breathing for me," Gojo instructed, his other hand wrapping around yours on his cock, aiding you in stroking him.

It really did feel like his dick was in your throat, the feeling sending shivers down his spine. He finally pulled back his fingers from your throat before he set a faster pace, fucking the entirety of his digits into your mouth, still trying to be mindful to not batter the back of your throat too much. "Takin' them so well, so fucking well." He praised, making you whine around them.

Tears had started to form in your eyes, threatening to spill the more his fingers hit the back of your throat, "Keep lickin' around them f'me, feels so good when you do that." He moaned, feeling his orgasm already start to approach from the show you were putting on combined with the way he was jerking himself off using your hand.

He picked up on how you were squirming underneath him, your thighs rubbing against one another as you sat on your heel, trying to relieve yourself in some way. "Oh fuck baby, you feelin' neglected down there? Hmm?" He asked, watching you rock back and forth on your heel. You nodded, continuing to roll your tongue over his fingers like he told you to.

"Shit, sorry pretty girl, didn't know this would turn you on so much." Gojo cooed. "Spread your legs f', me, let me help out my pretty girlfriend." You did as you were told, getting off of your heel you sat fully back on your knees, spreading them apart as you closed your eyes and bobbed on his fingers, trying to keep up the pace of your hand on his cock as he jerked himself off.

Gojo slid one of his legs between yours, his clothed foot placing itself between your legs, his shin pressing against your clit and giving you the relief you needed. You moaned loudly when you felt his touch, your hand abandoning the hold on his knee to wrap around his leg, pulling him firmly against you as you humped against his leg for relief like some dog.

"Oh fuck, you like that? 's that feel good?" Gojo cooed, biting his lip as he watched you get off on his shin. You nodded, his fingers being jolted around in your mouth when you did so, making you gag slightly as they hit the top of your mouth. The tears that had welled up in your eyes finally spilled over your red cheeks, dripping off the side of your face. "Careful baby, don't h-hurt yourself." Gojo cooed, feeling his cock throb at the sight of you crying on his dick.

"Shit.. this is so fucking hot." He said out loud to himself, matching the pace of his hand on himself with his fingers in your throat. His movements over his dick began getting sloppy as he approached his orgasm, his abs clenching in tandem. He quickly released your hand that was helping him jerk himself off, "Move your hand for me baby, I- I'm gonna cum soon." He instructed.

You jerked your hand back quickly, joining it with your other as you wrapped it around his shin, humping his leg faster now that you had better leverage. A wet patch was starting to form on his grey sweats from how much you were leaking through your panties, but you couldn't find it in yourself to be embarrassed when it felt as good as it did.

Gojo jerked himself off with vigor, his jaw slack and his pretty cerulean eyes rolling back in his head as he got closer and closer, his fingers in your mouth becoming sloppy as he slowly lost control of his body.

He pulled his fingers out of your mouth suddenly, using the same hand he grabbed your jaw, tipping your head up at him. "Oh fuck, you're so fucking pretty baby, so pretty." Gojo groaned, admiring your pretty face as he worked himself up to his high. You giggled as you looked up at him with a smile on your face, your tongue sticking out for him as you waited for him to cum--you already knew what he wnated. Cumming on your face was Gojo's favorite thing in the world.

Gojo made sure his feet were firmly on the ground before he stood on shaky legs, jerking his cock off right over your mouth. His shin pressed harder against your clit from the new angle, making your eyes roll back in your head. "Keep using my leg pretty girl, get yourself off on me." He moaned, rubbing the tip of his leaky cock against your tongue while he jerked the rest of his length off.

"It's coming baby- fuck it's coming- gonna give you my cock after this kay? So make sure you s-swallow everything." He moaned--little did you know you wouldn't really have a choice. Gojo's head tipped back as his hand stilled over himself, his jaw going slack as his orgasm crashed over him.

You felt the first rope of his hot cum shoot into the back of your mouth, the spurts of his thick cum releasing one after another into your mouth. He moaned shamelessly as his body shook and jerked with his high, his legs shaking with the intensity of his orgasm. You moaned with him, Gojo was so sexy when he came, it made the fire in your stomach grow hotter, your clit throbbing at the sight.

Before you could even close your lips to swallow what he gave you, his cock was pressing into your mouth, making your eyes shoot open in alarm. You knew he said he was going to give you his cock after he came, but so soon? He wasn't even finished cumming and he was already feeding his cock into your mouth.

Gojo's refractory period for how quickly he could bounce back after he came was impressive, it must have something to do with his reverse cursed technique. He could cum over and over again without having to take a break, it was actually scary. He usually only stopped when he was shooting blanks, never from his own exhaustion.

"Fuck- take it, baby, take my cock.." He grits through his teeth, forcing the cum he just released inside your mouth, down your throat with his massive girth. Your fingers dug into his calf, the tears streaming down your face more frequently as he thrust his hips to the hilt inside your mouth. "You wanted this, so fucking breathe, breathe baby." He groaned, his chin dropping down to watch you struggle around his cock.

Both of his hands came down to cradle the side of your head as he looked at you fondly. The sides of your lips were leaking his seed, your eyes were swollen and red from your crying, your mouth was squished and stretched agaisnt his pelvis, your hair was all messed up, and he thought you were the prettiest little thing he'd ever seen.

"You feel me in there?" He asked, his still hard cock snugly in your throat. You whined around him, trying to breathe slowly and steadily through the adrenaline coursing through your veins from the unexpected action. "You feel me in your throat?" Gojo teased, pressing his hips against your face harder, making his cock go deeper if that was even possible.

"You're not even gagging baby, look how good you're taking it." He added, encouraging you. You felt a wave of pleasure rush over you from his words, combined with how proud he looked. Nothing got you off more than when Gojo was proud of you. You whimpered against him, the sound sending vibrations through his cock, making him inhale sharply through his teeth.

"You ready to get facefucked, huh? You gonna take my cock like a perfect little cocksleve? Gonna Swallow my fucking load again?" Gojo groaned, his arousal being extremely evident in his words. You did your best to nod around him, his cock cutting off your airflow when you nodded. He smiled, his thumbs wiping away your tears before he covered the entire sides of your head and pulled his hips back, thrusting them against your face.

"Fuck- oh fuck this feels so much better than when you sucked on my fingers." He groaned, pulling your head toward him to meet his thrusts halfway, your nose being smooshed against the trimmed white hairs on his pelvis each time he bullied his dick into your mouth.

Your eyes were scrunched tightly together, new tears slipped out of the cracks to slide down your cheeks as he used your mouth to get him off. You were somehow still able to grind your cunt on his shin, your thighs starting to burn from the angle at which you were getting yourself off.

Gojo's cock was so deep inside your throat that you didnt even know it was possible to take him like this, you had no idea how you weren't a choking and coughing mess. All that prep and Gojo's advice was really paying off. Of course, you gagged and choked every so often, but it was nowhere near how often you used to do so before.

You winces and whined when he fucked his hips a little too hard against you, his pelvis hitting your nose a little too hard, making your teeth scrape against his cock lightly when you pulled back a little. Nothing that hurt him, just something he noticed. "Fuck-" Gojo giggled through a groan, "Sorry baby, went too hard just then." He apologized, caressing your wet cheek as an apology, his hips not letting up in the slightest.

He saw your lips curl up around him as you tried to smile, your efforts not going far with his cock in your mouth. "I love you so much baby, you're doing so good for me, so so good." He praised, making your face heat up more. Your eyes rolled back when you found a particularly good angle to get yourself off on against his shin, his muscle pushing right where you needed him most.

He felt your moaning pick up around him, the vibrations coming more frequently as you got closer and closer to cumming. "You about to cum pretty girl?" Gojo asked, already knowing. You nodded around him, your eyes fluttering as you did your best to look at him. Drool spilled out sloppily around your lips, dripping down between the two of you, creating quite a mess.

The squelching from your mouth only aided in the arousal you felt, your orgasm creeping faster and faster up on you. "Yeahhh, cum on my leg baby, cum all over my fucking leg," Gojo begged, stilling his cock inside your throat so you could focus on getting off. The lack of oxygen from him being so deep in you was making you dizzy. You couldn't differentiate whether the little black dots that clouded your vision were from your orgasm or the asphyxiation.

You rode your orgasm out on his thigh, your moans going straight to Gojo's balls. Your body jerked and spasmed on his thigh, barely registering his words talking you through it as your orgasm clouded your senses. "Atta girl, fuck, I can feel it, can feel ur cunt twitching.. that's so hot," Satoru whined, watching you come undone from just a little humping.

When your eyes fell back into their rightful place in their sockets, Gojo picked up his hips again, taking advantage of your post-orgasm haze to be a little rougher with you. your hands came to hold his wrists that held your face, your fingers digging into his pale skin as he fucked your face with reckless abandon.

You felt your throat start to ache, you knew it was going to be sore as hell for days after this, but god was every second of this worth it. "I'm sorry, s-sorry I'm so close, keep breathing, just a little more I promise… Fuck-" Gojo groaned. You could feel his cock twitch inside your throat, his thrusting becoming rougher and less rhythmic, a telltale sign he was going to cum.

"Yesss-yes baby ohmygod, Cuming- I'm cumming-" His words were cut off by a drawn-out groan. His hips thrust against your face with each rope of cum he spilled into your mouth. You felt his groans reverberate through your body with how loud they were. Gojo's body jerked and shook with the intensity of his high, his body curling into itself and over your head as he came.

He felt your head against his pelvis tightly, keeping you flush against him as he made sure you swallowed every last drop of his cum. You felt his body jerk every time you drank up his cum, your mouth milking him of everything he was worth.

"Fuuuuuck…" Gojo groaned one last time before he pulled his spent cock out of your mouth, the softening appendage hanging between the two of you as he still held your face, strings of saliva connecting from his cock to your lips, your entire chin coated in cum and spit. You coughed into your arm, getting the spit out of your throat before he spoke, "Show me." You stuck out your tongue for Satoru and showed him how you swallowed all of his seed.

"You're so fucking greedy, god, my good little girl." Gojo smiled. You smiled at him dumbly, a cockdrunk look plastered on your face as your body sat tiredly on the floor looking up at him. Gojo tucked his wet cock into his pants and pulled up his boxers before he leaned down and scooped you up from underneath your arms.

You wrapped your legs around his body, sitting on top of him as he placed the two of you down on the couch, sitting back against the cushion. "God…" He mumbled into your hair, his cock still throbbing in his pants as his body tried to recover. "You said it." You replied, your voice sounding almost unrecognizable from how hoarse it was.

Gojo pulled back, looking into your eyes with raised eyebrows. "Fuck, your voice." He said, his hand coming to rub at your throat. "It's okay." You whispered, smiling at him. "Shit, I feel bad but that's also kinda hot…" Gojo said, sucking in air through his teeth. You softly smacked his shoulder, shaking your head as you tried to suppress a smile.

"Sorry sorry… I'll do anything you want to make it up to you." He said, laughing as he wrapped his arms around your body, dipping his head down to kiss your battered throat. "Tea." You whispered without a second thought. "I'll handpick the leaves myself." He replied, making you giggle as he assaulted your neck with kisses.

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cozycottagetarot · 2 months ago

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The Little Things That Drive Them Wild

Notes: I've been working on this all week, I'm depressed and on top of that burnt out and exhausted soooo sorry if I missed any mistakes!

💄 Reading Contents:

How Do You Unintentionally Captivate Them?

The Personality Traits They Find Magnetic

Your Everyday Charm

💋 Patreon Extended:

Moments When They Feel Weak for You

Their Favorite “Caught in the Act” Moments

How They Fantasize About Responding

This reading is for entertainment purposes only! Take only what resonates be it all, some or none! ✨

PILE 1

How Do You Unintentionally Captivate Them?

Cards: Page of Cups, Two of Wands, Sun,

For some reason, the first thing that comes to mind is someone caught mid-thought, their eyes kind of distant but soft, lost in a dream or musing about something exciting. There’s something so captivating about when you slip into those moments. It’s like you radiate this quiet, hopeful energy that makes your person wonder what’s going on in that mind of yours. To them, it's irresistible.

You also have this undeniable joy exuding from you. The kind that can infects others without them even noticing. When you’re fully in the moment, letting this joy pour out of you, it’s like the world around you disappears for your person. They’re completely pulled in without you even trying.

I also keep getting this image of you smiling—a genuine, effortless kind of smile—and your person being absolutely smitten. You seem to have this way of lighting up when you’re excited or happy, and it’s almost like they can’t help but feel it, too.

The Personality Traits They Find Magnetic

Cards: Knight of Swords, Death, Seven of Wands

The first thing that stands out is your ambition and drive—you don’t hesitate to charge forward when you’ve set your sights on something, and your person finds that magnetic. And it’s not just that you’re ambitious; it’s the way you act on it. You seek out transformation and change with a sense of confidence and purpose. There’s something so inspiring to your person about the way you embrace growth, even when it means taking risks or stepping into the unknown.

I also get that your fierceness is a big part of what draws them in. I feel like you don’t back down when it comes to defending what you believe in. Even in moments where you might not be 100% correct, the passion you bring when it comes to standing your ground is something your person finds strangely endearing. Part of what draws your person to you is that spitfire energy and the way you throw your whole heart into what you care about.

But you also have a softer energy that balances everything out. You’re someone who's generous and compassionate, maybe even without a second thought. You're the type of person who would stop everything to help an injured animal or lend a hand to someone in need without a second thought. It’s that blend of intensity and gentleness that makes keeps the hooked. Your person loves how multi-dimensional you are—someone who can fight for their beliefs one moment and show deep compassion the next.

Your Everyday Charm

Cards: Five of Cups, Five of Wands, Wheel of Fortune, Ace of Cups

There’s something about you that comes across as a bit mysterious... I feel like in quieter moments when you’re lost in thought or just keeping to yourself, your person may feel like they take the time to really see you. What I mean by this is the little details about you such as the way your features soften when you’re deep in your own world.

I don’t know if you’re someone who fidgets or has a habit of touching things, but it feels like they notice those small quirks. Maybe it’s the way you twirl your hair, tap your fingers, or run your hand over a textured surface— but whatever it is, it’s something they can’t help but find endearing. I'm also getting that in moments where you’re being challenged by others, you may observe before reacting. If they're with you, it’s like they can see the gears turning in your head. They love watching you process things, almost like they’re trying to understand your inner workings of your mind.

There’s also this magical quality about you, like you have this ability to make life feel filled with magic in the simplest of ways. You might not even realize it, but somehow you make them feel like they’re living in a dream. There’s a sweetness to the way you show care, whether it’s through small, everyday gestures or moments where you’re pouring into your person or your relationship. Even mundane things—like making them a cup of coffee, fixing their hair, or just sitting next to them—feel enchanted for your person.

💋 Discover what makes them weak for you, their favorite “Caught in the Act” moments, and how they fantasize about responding (not a spicy reading). Plus, unlock exclusive extended readings for all my other PACs when you join The Cozy Corner for just $1.50 USD (and up). Check it out here.✨

PILE 2

How Do You Unintentionally Captivate Them?

Cards: Five of Wands, Three of Cups, Death

The first thing that comes to mind is your ability to adapt effortlessly to different environments and social circles. It’s like you could seamlessly blend into one group today and an entirely opposite group tomorrow, without missing a beat. This could stem from a survival mechanism you developed throughout your life, but it’s become second nature—a part of who you are. Your ability to navigate these social dynamics with ease is likely something your person finds captivating.

There’s also a strong sense of resilience about you. The way you handle conflict or challenging situations seems graceful, almost effortless, even when the odds are stacked against you. Your person might be struck by how you manage to remain composed under pressure and spin difficult moments into opportunities for growth. They might admire the way you emerge from the other side of hardship renewed, stronger, and ready to embrace what’s next.

Beyond that, there’s a warm, supportive energy radiating from you. Whether you’re celebrating with others or offering comfort, you seem to have a knack for making people feel at ease. I also get a sense of enchantment from these cards, almost as if there’s a spark of magic in how you carry yourself. For some reason, Tinker Bell comes to mind—maybe it’s a reminder of your playful, whimsical side or your ability to light up a room in unexpected ways. Maybe it's a confirmation for something you've been pondering on for a bit.

The Personality Traits They Find Magnetic Cards: Seven of Cups (Reversed), Page of Pentacles, The Emperor

You give off an energy of someone who is grounded, decisive, and incredibly self-assured. You have an ability to cut through the noise (of life really). While others might get lost in daydreams or overwhelmed by choices, you’re someone who sees clearly and knows exactly what you want. Your person could likely find this decisiveness magnetic, as it exudes a quiet confidence that feels stable and dependable.

I think you also bring a unique blend of practicality and creativity to the table. You’re someone who can take even the smallest spark of an idea and nurture it into something tangible. You have the focus and drive to bring dreams to life, and that’s an inspiring quality. It’s like you’re the one people look to when they need a plan or want to see something through. You come across as someone who knows how to take charge and create stability, whether in your own life or for those around you. Your person might admire how dependable you are, someone they (and others) can rely on for solid advice or a calm presence in chaotic times. I also feel like you're someone who puts the time and effort in and that's something that just does it for your person.

Your Everyday Charm Cards: Wheel of Fortune, The World, Five of Pentacles

There’s something charming about how you carry yourself through life’s ups and downs and not just the significant moments but the little ones too. Like missing a bus, running late for work, running out of something when you need it (I hope you get the gist lol). I also feel like your person sees beauty not just in your appearance (although that's emphasized as well) but in the way you quietly navigate the dull moments and short term disappointments we experience. You have a way of picking yourself up and boosting your spirit that is endearing. On a daily level, it might be the little things you do to create beauty in your life, no matter the circumstances. Think how you decorate your spaces, plate your food, cultivate a cozy moment.

Your person really admire how you’re able to turn the simplest things into something special, creating a life that feels fulfilling and intentional even when resources are limited. You don’t need the latest trends or expensive items—you can take something as humble as a few old books or scraps and turn them into something that feels genuinely valuable.

Your person notices the way you focus on making things better, no matter the circumstances, and finds it charming and hard to ignore.

Pile 3

How You Unintentionally Captivate Them

Cards: Death, Judgement. The Emperor, The Hierophant

It’s not just one thing—it’s everything about you that pulls them in without you even realizing it. There’s this grounded, unshakeable energy you carry, but it’s wrapped in a quiet elegance that feels so effortless. It’s not about trying to stand out; you just do. The way you move through life—intentional, steady, and composed—creates a presence that people can’t help but notice. Even in chaos, you somehow stay calm, like you’re the eye of the storm.

What really gets them is how deeply you focus on what’s in front of you. It’s like the world blurs around you, and you’re completely in your element. Whether it’s the way your hands move when you’re busy, the calm in your voice when you’re speaking, or the determination in your eyes when you’re locked into something—it’s magnetic. They can’t look away.

It’s in the small, subtle things, too. The way you pay attention to details, how you seem to elevate even the simplest moments, or that quiet confidence you have without even trying. Maybe it’s the way you smile, how kind you are in little ways, or the natural grace you bring into every interaction. It feels like you make life more beautiful just by being in it.

There’s this perfect balance between your strength and your calmness that they can’t get enough of. You’re firm but approachable, confident but kind, and it’s just captivating. They admire how you move through life and how you make them feel just by being yourself.

The Personality Traits They Find Magnetic

Cards: Four of Cups, Eight of Wands, Queen of Wands, Strength

Your person is attracted to how intentional you are about what you let into your world. You don’t say “yes” just to go along with things or settle for something that doesn’t feel right. Your discerning nature makes you stand out and pulls them in.

There’s also the way you move through life with an air of purpose, momentum, and confidence. You don’t linger too long in “what ifs” or overthinking; you simply trust yourself to make the right call and go for it. It makes watching you in action thrilling for your person as you bring this bright, unstoppable energy wherever you go. You’re bold, and you own it, but it never feels forced. It’s just you, shining naturally.

I do think that what makes you really magnetic to your person is how you balance your boldness with gentleness. Beneath all you passion and creativity, there’s a softness that makes people feel safe and seen. It’s in the way you treat others with kindness and show care without making a big deal about it. Even when you’re chasing your passions, you always seem to carry this warmth and thoughtfulness.

Your Everyday Charm

Cards: Wheel of Fortune, Justice, Nine of Pentacles

Somehow, you manage to make the simplest moments feel special, like everything you touch has a hint of magic to it. Even the way you go about your routine feels intentional, like you’re crafting a life that’s all your own.

I know I keep saying it, but the balance you keep on a daily basis charms your person. You’ve got this knack for keeping things in harmony, be it work, downtime, or fun, and on top of that you make it look so natural. It’s not about chasing perfection either, you just do what works for you. I think your person admires this so much.

I think you also manage to genuinely enjoy your everyday life and your person loves that about you. You don’t wait for big moments to feel happy—you find joy in the small stuff. Whether it’s sipping your favorite tea, throwing on an outfit that makes you feel amazing, or stopping to notice something beautiful, you have this way of savoring life that’s so refreshing.

#pick a card #pick a pile #pick a card reading #pac reading #pick a pile reading #pick a picture #pac #tarot reading #cozycottagetarot #pick an image #cozycottagetarot readings #your person #future spouse #love tarot #free tarot reading #free reading tarot

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tongue-like-a-razor · 11 months ago

Text

Hotter Than Texas | Part II

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

A/N: I'm so excited that y'all loved the first part! Thanks for your enthusiasm, you rock <3

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw is tasked with transporting a not-so-delicate package in the form of Jake Seresin's baby sister, who turns out to be Bradley's dream girl worst nightmare.

Aka it's a road trip, strap in.

CW: swearing, age gap (10 years)

WC: 2000+

Part I | Masterlist

“I’m getting hungry.”

Bradley glances at the restaurant sign as he passes it on the interstate, suppressing a sigh. He usually skips lunch on long trips so he can arrive at his destination before nightfall. “I’ll get off at the next exit,” he says.

“Will you?” you exclaim excitedly, as though he’s offered to catch and cook your next meal himself.

Bradley chuckles mildly. “Well, I’m not going to let you starve.”

“You’re so sweet,” you reply, and Bradley eyes you with a grin because he’s about eighty percent certain you’re being facetious.

“What’re are you in the mood for?” he asks as he gets on the off-ramp.

“Something greasy and very bad for my heart.”

Bradley lets out a small laugh. What’s bad for his heart is you sitting next to him being all cute for the next twenty hours straight.

He pulls into the lot of a little diner just off the highway and parks his car while you flip down your sun visor to glance at your reflection in the mirror. “How do I look?” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Bradley tries not to examine you directly and instead just glances in your vicinity. “Better than the truckers, I bet,” he comments, noticing the row of semis at the back of the lot.

You give him an unimpressed look and then push open your door. “I sure hope they have French toast.”

“I thought you wanted something greasy,” Bradley says, walking around the front of the Bronco to join you.

“I want options,” you state, marching forth toward the front doors.

Bradley strides ahead and pulls the door open for you. He can’t say he isn’t looking forward to having a sit-down meal with you, like it’s a date or something. And, as much as he hates to admit it, he’s almost thrilled at the prospect of the other patrons assuming the two of you are a couple.

You walk through the open door and Bradley stalls for a moment, trying to clear his head. He shouldn’t even be thinking about that sort of nonsense. He and Hangman have enough issues without adding Bradley’s crush on his baby sister to the mix. They’ve just begun to mend their bumpy – to say the least – relationship, and Jake would sure as shit not appreciate his colleague developing feelings for his younger sibling.

“You comin’, sugar?” you call from inside.

Bradley, who’s clearly taken too long of a beat, glances at you in a bit of a daze. He’s sure you just called him ‘sugar’ and that has utterly thrown him. He enters after you and gives the hostess a look that he hopes might resemble a polite smile. But his face feels hot and numb at the same time, so he can’t be sure.

…

“I think I’ll get the pancakes,” you muse, flipping through the menu leisurely.

Bradley smiles at you when you’re not looking. “Want to share some things?”

You glance up at him happily. “Can we?”

Bradley chuckles. “Why not? I could go for a pancake. What else should we get?”

Your eyes light up and you instantly refer back to the menu. “Fried pickles.”

Bradley cringes but he’s still amused. “Those’ll go great with the pancakes.”

“I agree,” you respond without a hint of sarcasm. “Chili?” you continue. “Or tacos?”

“Why not both?” Bradley shrugs.

You give him a serious look. “That’s just crazy talk.”

Bradley laughs. “You’re right, what was I thinking?”

“I sort of want some pie, though.”

Bradley closes his menu and leans forward into the table. “I’ve already thought of that,” he mutters under his breath, as though he’s about to divulge a secret. You lean in too, your bright eyes blinking up at him eagerly. “We’ll get one for the road,” he whispers.

You gasp. “You’re a genius!”

Bradley chuckles, leaning back in his seat proudly. “I won’t deny that.”

…

When the server arrives to take your orders, you let Bradley do the talking, but chime in with little requests now and again; onions on the home fries, maple syrup for the bacon, sour cream in the chili. And Bradley can’t help but delight in the fact that, every time you think of something, you tap his hand that's resting on the table, ‘oohing’ with excitement.

Bradley eyes you with a smile once the server departs. “Maple syrup for the bacon?”

You wave a hand at him. “You’ll see.”

Bradley shakes his head with a smirk. “Not on my bacon.”

“Yeah, my brother warned me that you’re a bit of a square.”

Bradley raises his eyebrows and scoffs. “Your brother said what?”

You grin at him mischievously. “Don’t worry, I can make up my own mind.”

“Your brother warned me that you’re a bully,” Bradley replies, his smile only getting wider. “And, coming from Hangman, that’s saying something.”

You let out a peal of laughter so exuberant that several faces turn to look in your direction.

“Don’t worry,” he adds when your laughter partially subsides. “I can make up my own mind.”

“And?” you ask with soaring eyebrows. “Have you?”

Bradley hesitates for a moment and then decides to respond in a cheeky manner to avoid any awkwardness. “Not just yet,” he says with a chuckle.

You reach out and lightly smack his forearm. “Stop!”

“I’m joking,” Bradley concedes, grabbing your hand before you can strike him again. “It’s not like you’ve ever hit me to get your way,” he says pointedly.

You shake your head with a smirk and withdraw your hand.

…

“Everything was delicious,” you gush to the waitress as she clears the table. “We had such a wonderful time!”

“Glad to hear that, dear,” the waitress gives you a smile and then winks at Bradley, as though she’s in on some scheme with him.

Bradley furrows his eyebrows in amusement as she walks away and then digs into his pocket for his wallet. “My treat,” he says when you reach for your purse.

“No way!” you exclaim. “You’re already giving me a ride. The least I could do is feed you.”

“You don’t have to do anything. I’m happy to be your ride.”

“I insist,” you declare.

“I insist harder,” Bradley presses, laying down several bills onto the receipt tray.

You gaze at him pensively and finally slide your wallet back into your purse. “So, you’re stubborn,” you note.

“So, you’re observant,” he remarks.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Thanks for lunch, Rooster.”

…

Back on the road, you offer Bradley a turn with the radio, muttering something about not wanting to be a bully by hogging the music. He can tell you’ve said it in jest, but he still wants to make sure he hasn’t offended you.

“You know I don’t think you’re a bully, right?” he says, glancing between your face and the road several times.

You eye him playfully. “Well, give it a minute.”

Bradley chuckles. “It’s getting dark,” he notes after a little while. He was hoping to get farther on the first day, but the prospect of maybe spending an extra day with you on the road doesn’t seem nearly as daunting as it might have in the morning. “Want to stop for the night?”

“I can drive if you want,” you offer.

Naturally, Bradley overthinks your response. He wonders if maybe you’ve had enough of him and would prefer to get to Texas as soon as possible. “No, no,” he responds. “I can drive. I just thought you might be tired.”

“From sitting?” you quip.

Bradley gives you a flat look. “It’s been a long day.”

You shrug. “It flew by.”

That sets his mind at ease somewhat. A day doesn’t fly by unless you’re having a good time. “I think we should stop,” he says.

“Alright,” you respond, “let’s stop.”

…

“You two lovebirds want the mountain or city view?” the hotel’s front desk clerk enquires with a beam.

Bradley is about to explain that the two of you will, in fact, require separate rooms because you are the absolute opposite of lovebirds, when you respond with, “Mountain, please.”

The clerk hands you a key and Bradley follows you down the hall mutely, with both of your suitcases in tow. He’s not about to dispute your decision to share a room, despite knowing that it’s exactly what he swore he’d avoid doing the moment he laid eyes on you.

You open the door and enter, holding it open for Bradley so that he can bring in the luggage. He sets it down gingerly by the door and straightens his back to look around. The are two double beds against the wall and a large window with a spectacular view of the Santa Catalina range.

You flop down on one of the beds with a contented sigh. “You know what, darlin’? I am tired.”

Bradley watches you climb further up the bed and rest your head on one of the pillows. He’s used to you calling him all sorts of terms of endearment at this point, but it still warms his heart each and every time you do. “No dinner tonight, sweetheart?” he responds, adopting your speaking style on a trial basis.

You lift your head from the pillow. “Let’s just order in?”

You seem unfazed by the fact that Bradley just called you sweetheart. Meanwhile, he’s nearly thrown up from the anxiety it’s caused him. He resolves not to call you that – or any other overly-friendly name – ever again. “Yeah, we can do that,” he responds casually. “Pizza?”

You nod. “With barbeque chicken.”

“You got it.”

…

“Did you always want to be an aviator?” you ask, taking a bit of pizza while dusting crumbs off the bedspread.

The two of you are sitting cross-legged atop one of the beds with the open pizza box between you. Bradley grabs another slice. “Pretty much.” He doesn’t really want to get into specifics, because that means being vulnerable, a state which Bradley does not much enjoy.

“Interesting.”

“What about you?” he asks. “What are you studying?”

“Math.”

Bradley nearly chokes. For some reason, he expected something less cerebral. “Are you going to be an accountant, or something?” he asks with a smirk.

You frown slightly. “I sure hope not.”

“Well, what do you want to be?”

“A good person,” you respond thoughtfully.

Bradley lowers his pizza and stares at you. “You are a good person,” he says hoarsely.

You shrug. “I have my days.”

“I mean, I don’t know you very well,” Bradley reasons. “But you seem great. Much better than your brother.”

You laugh and lower your gaze. “Aren’t you a sweetheart?” you say warmly.

Bradley can feel his heart pounding like a double bass drum. The only sweetheart in this room is you and he can hardly keep that to himself. To think that you might be doubting your own integrity is affecting Bradley on a near-physical level. “You’re a good person. Anybody who tells you otherwise is an idiot,” he states.

You smile, still looking downward. “Thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

You place your half-eaten slice of pizza back into the box and fall back into the pillows, sighing dramatically. “I’m stuffed!”

Bradley, who’s just taken his final bite, mutters around the crust in his mouth. “Me too.” He closes the pizza box and picks it up to set it onto the floor by the bed. Then, he moves to the other bed and lies down on his back with a weary exhale.

“Hey, Rooster,” you call from your bed.

“Hmm?”

“Are you a good pilot?”

Bradley turns onto his side to face you. “I think so.”

“My brother said you were just alright,” you say.

Bradley snorts and throws a pillow at you. You laugh and then stuff the pillow in between your knees. “Joke’s on you, I’m keeping this.”

Bradley adjusts his second pillow under his head and mutters, “You’re welcome.”

“Tomorrow you can choose what you want to listen to,” you say.

Bradley chuckles. What he wants to listen to more than anything is probably you.

“Hey, Rooster,” you say quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Is there any pie left?”

Read Part 3

Tag List

I’ll be tagging the rest in the comments shortly!

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midnightcrw · 1 year ago

Text

Provocative

Pairing: Alastor x fem!reader

Summary: Lucifer visits the Hazbin Hotel because his daughter called him, but there he sees a good friend he hasn't seen in a long time.

Warnings: Swearing, mention of discrimination (this is fluff, by the way)

a/n: This is my first time writing for Alastor and anything related to the Hazbin Hotel, so I hope you all will like it. Please tell me if there's anything in this one shot that might offend anyone, and I'll do my best to change it or clarify my thought process.

Charlie was walking around in circles because of the fact that her dad was going to come over to the hazbin hotel for the first time.

And while everyone seemed quite unbothered, she couldn't calm down while Vaggie was currently helping Sir Pentious put up the decorations.

"You have been walking around in circles for the last fifteen minutes, darling," your voice was heard as you put a hand on Charlie's shoulder.

She stopped abruptly as she felt the weight on her shoulder and turned her head slightly to look into your eyes, "It's just been a while since I've seen him and I really want this to go well."

Her usual optimistic tone was much less energetic and confident as she started to look around, clearly avoiding your eyes.

You let out a sigh, a small smile finding its way to your lips as you cupped her chin between your thumb and forefinger, "There's nothing to panic about. I'm sure everything will go perfectly."

Your words seemed to calm the blonde down a bit as she gave you a slight nod, "I hope you're right," she muttered as you let go of her chin.

With that, Charlie made her way over to Vaggie to look at the decorations she had put up with Sir Pentious.

You just smiled at the sight when you suddenly heard a low static behind you, "She's been all over the place since the call," Alastor mused, his sharp grin never leaving his face.

Rolling your eyes at him, you opened your mouth to speak, "Let her be, she's trying her best."

"Oh, I know, my dear. I want the best for Charlie too," Alastor's words made you shake your head, knowing there was more to it, but even with you, he wasn't eager to share that information.

If you had known that you would be bound to him even in hell, you would have run as fast as you could in your mortal life.

But your 'lovely' husband had a way with words even then. Even if the two of you didn't marry for love, there was definitely something there.

Back in New Orleans, Alastor had a hard time because he was half Creole. He was always at a disadvantage because he did not fit into the standard, even though he tried his best to somehow blend in.

But radio was really the perfect solution and a passion of his. It even helped him because no one saw his face and only had to listen to his voice, which even he had forced to sound different, his usual deep tone becoming much higher to fit into the society.

And once he became famous, he even started to change his appearance. His usually dark brown wavy hair was straightened by him, while he also started to dress like the rest of the crowd.

But even then it never seemed to be enough. His tan complexion was still striking to some, as people began to gossip about him from time to time.

The prejudices against him never stopped, as people even started to question him because he wasn't married, making him out to be a cruel man who couldn't even find love, and that's where you came in, to get rid of at least one of the many talked about topics about him. At least then the people of New Orleans would know that Alastor really was a lovable man.

You really couldn't have cared less about the standards and the gossip that had made its way when Alastor started to pursue you back then. Even though he did not even reveal his intentions at first, you could still tell that there was more to it than just love in itself.

And even after he revealed his true intention behind a marriage, you accepted it. You didn't really have anything to lose anyway, and his charming words seemed to sway you somehow.

However, getting married and playing the role of a happily married couple had been a struggle. Both of you being at each other's throats, but never really being able to truly hate each other, was definitely odd.

But leaving that aside for now, there were more important matters at hand as you let go of your thoughts of the past.

"Just don't ruin this for her," your stern tone was obvious and with that you went over to help Niffty with cleaning up.

A few minutes passed and everything seemed to be perfect now, but not for Charlie.

"What if he hates the way the hotel looks?" She asked herself, her hands pulling tightly on her hair.

"He won't. You don't have to worry. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you at all," Vaggie said in a reassuring voice as she put an arm around her girlfriend's shoulder and gave her a small kiss on the forehead.

That little gesture made Charlie blush as she leaned against Vaggie, trying to calm herself, and when she felt ready, she made her way to the door.

"Okay everyone, it's showtime!" She said with a smile on her face, looking at everyone as the door was suddenly flung open by Lucifer, who said his daughters name and hugged her tightly.

Standing near the door, Alastor looked at the two of them with a crazy glint in his eyes and his never-ending smile showing his teeth.

And that's when you knew that this wasn't going to end well.

As Lucifer looked around the hotel, Alastor didn't seem happy at all, angry at the fact that he was being ignored.

"It's got a lot of character... What in the unholy hell is that?" Lucifer asked in a disbelieving tone, as a frown made its way onto his face.

Already knowing that Alastor wasn't going to hold back now, you let out a heavy sigh as you rubbed your temple.

"Just some of the renovations we had done. Adds a bit of color, don't you think?" Your husband's voice was heard as Lucifer then proceeded to ask who he even was.

And with the blink of an eye, Alastor is now at Lucifer's side. "I'm Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you, sir. Quite a pleasure," he replied as he wiped his hand on his coat.

You were about to slam your head against the wall when you felt someone tugging at your dress. "He's a bad boy," Niffty said in an excited tone, staring at the King of Hell while you just felt a shiver run down your spine in disgust at your friend being lusted upon.

"You might have heard of me from my radio broadcast," Alastor said with a sinister grin on his face as he held his microphone. Knowing him, he loves to be acknowledged and it didn't look like Lucifer was going to give him any of that.

"Nope, I guess that's why Charlie called it the Hazbin Hotel," Lucifer said, emphasizing the 'haz'.

"Hahaha! It was actually my idea!"

"Hahaha! Well, it's not very clever!"

"Haha! Fuck you!"

Hearing that, you immediately made your way to Alastor as you and Charlie interrupted them, earning a look of shock from Lucifer.

"Is it really you?" Lucifer asked, his eyes wide as he looked at you. And before you could even answer, he threw himself at you, nearly crushing you to a second death and leaving you breathless.

"It's been years!" The King of Hell shouted as he let go of you to examine your face. You let out a chuckle, "It has indeed been a long time."

The interaction between the two of you naturally caught everyone's attention, as they all had a confused look on their faces, except for Alastor, who seemed to be losing his patience by the second.

Not even letting you two continue reminiscing, Alastor put an arm around your waist, causing you to gasp in surprise, as he wasn't usually the one to show off your relationship, especially to Overlords and anyone above that position.

"From where do you know him, my love?" Alastor's static-like voice was heard loud and clear as he pulled you even closer.

Before you could answer, Lucifer interrupted. "My love?!" He asked in disbelief and disgust.

"Oh, yes. 'My love,' the beautiful woman I'm so smitten by," Alastor was really putting on a show as he even planted a small kiss on your temple.

Your arm made its way around your husband's back as you pinched his waist in annoyance, eliciting a small static screech from Alastor.

"You really have some nerve, don't you?" you whispered in a caustic tone as your face came closer to his, wanting only him to hear it.

But even with that, the man dressed in red didn't shy away to take it completely somewhere else, "Just a few minutes, my darling. Then we'll have some time alone. Oh, and how she loves it, almost shameless, isn't she?" Alastor went on talking while you cursed him in your head.

You knew he was only doing it to rile Lucifer up, but of course the rest of them didn't know that.

"So Freaky Face does fuck," Angel Dust mused with a grin on his face as Husk slapped him on the back of the head.

"You sleep with that?" Lucifer asked in a disgusted tone as he ran towards you, pulling you out of Alastor's tight grip as he took a few steps away from your husband.

"Are you sure this is what you want for your future? Are you even sure it is worth of dating?" The short man asked you, almost even praying for you.

You apparently forgot to mention that you and Alastor have been married for decades, but you definitely wouldn't tell him that right now.

"It's a he," you simply replied.

"Well, I couldn't care less about it."

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x y/n #alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor imagine #alastor fanfiction #alastor fluff #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel oneshots #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel fluff

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endless-ineffabilities · 2 months ago

Text

It's not like I'm falling in love, I just want ya to do me no good (and you look like you could) (18+)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

Ewan Mitchell isn't one for parties, but for you? He'd make an exception. Surrounded by stars at the GQ party, his revered muse on the big screen becomes a twisted angel in his arms—leaving him seeing stars again as he finds bliss within your warmth.

word count: 6.7k

main masterlist ▪︎ teaser

Ewan thought he could keep up the celebrity facade, just for the night at least, but the ceaseless barrage of mingling is starting to get to him.

The boo hurled at him right outside the establishment still echoes in his ears. Maybe it wasn't even about him, but his annoyance had been triggered. He decides that it all has gotten to him. What a load of bull.

He had been on the fence about being tapped as an honouree of a lifestyle magazine. Like it means anything. What does this have to do with being an actor? How is this supposed to help his craft? He might as well have been tapped to do one of those videos where he shows everyone what's in his bag.

"It's exposure," his team had chirped in unison, practically reading from a PR handbook.

This wasn't the industry he'd envisioned when he first fell in love with the craft. But none of this is about craft. It's all publicity fodder, all noise.

What he really wants—what his entire being craves—is a BAFTA, a Golden Globe, a SAG award. Hell, he would trade every glitzy dinner party invite for the faintest whiff of Oscar buzz. That was the dream.

Instead, here he is, tethered to a seat at one of four long tables, littered with stars of every calibre—from industry titans to the disposable nobodies who would be forgotten by this time next month.

He had been encouraged to make connections. Socialize. He translated this as a polite way of being told to suck up to people. Maybe a casting director would remember him. Maybe some producer would pass his name along. Easy.

Flattery will get you everywhere in this business.

But at any given time, he would much rather suck on a bloody spliff.

Leaning over to Davey, he says, "I might sneak out for a smoke or something. That's fine, right?"

Davey snickers, sensing Ewan's agitation. "Oh, if you're asking me, I say do whatever you want, mate."

But then someone from his team, straight-laced, precious Lindsay, lets him know otherwise. "Ewan, I'd advise you to sit still for now. What if they call you up some time during dinner?"

Ewan doubles down, his leg anxiously shaking under the table. "Are they going to call on me?"

Lindsay balks. She hasn't heard Ewan sound this pressed before. "Well, we weren't told but—"

"Then I can go. They wouldn't care."

"Ewan, just—"

"Sorry, Lind, but I gotta take a breather. This is all just—"

Lindsay waves him off, resigned. Ewan has always been an easy client to manage, so she can't bring herself to begrudge him this. "Fine, whatever. Just make sure to hide the cigarette if the photographer shows up."

"Sure," he mutters, not meaning it in the slightest. Nobody would care if he is spotted smoking. They should be grateful he is not among the deviants doing lines in the bathroom.

He abruptly gets up from his seat, and backs right into... you.

Of all people. Ewan feels the blood drain from his face, his breath hitching as disbelief engulfs him. His hand instinctively rises, brushing against the silken warmth of flawless skin exposed by your backless dress. The contact sends a jolt through him, and for a moment, he's certain he might pass out. You—right here, in the flesh.

You flash him a dazzling, effortless smile and murmur, "Oops, excuse me," your voice a melodic tease that leaves him utterly undone.

"Oh, no... no problem." He stammers, fully aware that he should be the one begging pardon.

You hold his gaze, ensnaring him so effortlessly. He realises how stupid he must look, with his mouth parted and his eyes wide. He should say his name. He should introduce himself, goddamnit.

But the moment shatters when someone calls your name. You step away without hesitation, and Ewan feels the loss acutely, like an unhooked fish left gasping on dry land.

Then it comes. That fucking sound.

The high-pitched squeal you let out is sharp, almost grating, but somehow it still strikes him as endearing. He'd probably hate it if it didn't come from you.

"Hi! Oh my god, how are you? I haven't seen you since our ski trip in Courmayeur!" Your voice carries, your excitement encroaching his space like an air of warmth.

Ewan follows your trajectory, his eyes trailing as you glide over to Eve Hewson. The two of you embrace like old friends, giggling like co-conspirators, your champagne glasses clinking softly.

He nearly rolls his eyes but catches himself. He knows he's being ridiculous, standing there like a sulking idiot, but the irritation bites anyway. He wants to blame the squeal, or the scene you're making, or the way you seem so goddamn comfortable in this world of chatter and pomp.

But that's not quite it.

He knows the truth, and it gnaws at him like a persistent itch he can't scratch. He's annoyed because he wanted you—your dazzling smile, your undivided attention—to be aimed at him.

He forces his feet to move, making his way down the side hall, where the din of the party fades into muffled chaos. He needs a breather, a moment to reset, but even here, your presence clings to him like static.

It's maddening.

Ewan has spent years watching you. On screens, in interviews, on magazine covers. You're like an open book he's memorised, every detail imprinted on his mind.

That birthmark beneath your right shoulder blade, briefly exposed in that love scene with Glen Powell. He remembers it, even though the camera barely lingered. The way your laugh bursts out unguarded, lighting up every corner of a room.

In one interview, you mentioned Meisner as your go-to technique, and it stuck with him. Of course you'd say Meisner, he thought at the time, like you were someone close to him, because you're all about connection, about living truthfully in the moment.

And here you are, in the same place as him, vibrant and ever so magnetic. Princess of every party, muse of the silver screen.

But you don't know him.

You didn't think you would be attending the British GQ party, but one of your Londoner friends happened to be throwing their birthday bash the night before, so you thought—why the hell not?

You were, of course, invited. Originally, the invite had been for the American GQ Men of the Year party the week prior, but filming schedules had other ideas. For the past two months, you'd been stranded in the icy landscapes of Winnipeg, immersed in the demanding shoot of David Lowery's latest thriller.

Grueling days and endless takes had left you with little energy for glamour. But now, with a few weeks off and the American crew taking a well-earned Thanksgiving break, you finally have some breathing room.

The London event seems like a perfect way to ease back into the whirlwind. And it doesn't disappoint.

The Roof Gardens is buzzing, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and free-flowing champagne. You glide through it like you belong—because you do. Years of this kind of schmoozing have taught you how to navigate these waters. A charming smile here, a fleeting hug there, a bit of banter with a photographer who asks for the best angle.

You find yourself talking to your old castmate Eve Hewson near the bar, the two of you imbibing something bubbly and dry. She looks luminous as always, her dark hair framing her sharp, mischievous grin.

"Winnipeg, though?" Eve says, her tone incredulous as she leans in. "What the hell is Lowery making you do out there? Freeze to death for art?"

"Pretty much," you laugh, savouring the chill of your drink. "But it's worth it, trust me. The script is absolutely incredible. I just wish the weather wasn't trying to kill me."

"Classic Lowery. He probably thinks the suffering adds authenticity or some shit."

"Probably," you agree, rolling your eyes. For some reason, you find yourself circling back to an earlier incident.

"By the way," you say, leaning a little closer to Eve, "do you know who that guy was? The one I bumped into earlier?"

"Which guy?"

"Clip-on earring. Tall, kind of broody-looking in an overcoat? Wasn't talking much, just sort of... cruising awkwardly."

Eve shrugs, clearly drawing a blank. "I have no idea. Was he hot?"

It only takes you a second to consider this. "I mean, sure. In a tortured artist kind of way. Poor schmuck looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here."

"Oh!" Eve says, snapping her fingers. "Wait, he might be one of the honourees."

You arch a brow. "Not a goddamn influencer, right?"

Eve shakes her head. "No, don't worry. I think he's in that Game of Thrones spinoff. What's it called? House of Dragons?"

"Never saw it." You didn't have the time, truth be told. Also, the last seasons of its predecessor had been enough to edge it off your watchlist.

She taps her chin, thinking. "Wait... oh! Wasn't he that nerd in the movie with Jacob and Barry? Saltburn!"

"Oh my god. That's him? He did great in that role."

"Right? I could not have pointed him out. Kind of a chameleon, I guess."

"Guess so," you agree, the curiosity lingering.

The night unfolds exactly as expected. You exchange quips with Harris Dickinson, who flirts with you just enough to keep things interesting. You catch up with Nicole Kidman, who had been somewhat of a mentor to you when you acted alongside her in your third film at just 16. Jude Law joins your circle at one point, his charm as effortless as ever, and for a while, it feels like just another night on the circuit.

By the time you step outside into the crisp evening air, you're craving a bit of quiet. The gardens around the pavilion are softly lit, the gentle glow of fairy light casting long shadows over the manicured hedges. You pull your vape from your Loewe clutch, taking a long drag as you lean against a cold marble railing.

That's when you notice him again.

He's standing a few feet away, partially obscured by a stone pillar, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The faint smell of tobacco taints the pristine air, and you catch the same restless energy he had earlier.

You wander closer, the soft click of your heels against the stone catching his attention. He glances up, startled, as if he hadn't expected anyone else to venture out here.

"Hey," you say casually, holding your vape up as you stop beside him. "Can you hold this for a sec?"

Before he can respond, you hand him your purse, crouching slightly to tighten the strap on your heel.

He freezes, staring at the outstretched object. "Uh... sure," he relents, albeit hesitantly.

You straighten after a minute, taking the purse back with a quick "Thanks," and give him a once-over. Up close, he's sharper, more distinct. There's something remarkably intense about him that wasn't obvious before.

"I'm Ewan... Mitchell," he blurts, his words a little rushed.

You smile, tilting your head. "Nice to meet you, Ewan."

He fumbles for a response, his cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers. "I, uh, think we bumped into each other earlier. Inside."

"Yeah," you say lightly, your lips curving into a faint smirk. "I like your outfit, by the way. Very vampiric. Dior, right?"

He blinks, then chuckles softly, almost self-deprecatingly. "Yeah. Thanks. I like you too... I mean, I like... I like your dress, too."

You laugh at the accidental remark. There's something undeniably charming about him, despite his nervousness. "Why, thank you, Ewan."

The blush that creeps on his cheeks shows through the powder. He must have felt it, because he immediately trained his gaze down to his polished shoes.

Cute. So you make it your mission to break through his shell. These events tend to get repetitive after a while, but maybe tonight will be a lovely exception.

And so the game begins.

The two of you peacefully take hits of your respective choices of poison, your bubblegum-flavoured vapour melding in the air with his Marlboro red.

"You're quiet," you point out the obvious eventually, a teasing grin playing at your lips.

He almost laughs at the understatement but only shrugs. "Not much to say, I suppose."

"Oh, I doubt that." You lean against the balustrade, studying him. Ewan feels his pulse quicken under the weight of it.

You're so at ease. It's infuriatingly attractive. Your disarming allure, your grace in this world of make-believe, only deepens his self-consciousness. He knows what he must look like: an odd man out, fumbling at the edges of fame while you shine at the centre of it all.

He exhales shakily and finally replies, "Don't let me bore you."

"You're not boring me," you reassure him, before playfully adding, "Not yet at least."

There's a flicker of something unclear behind your eyes when you move closer and ask, "So what are you thinking?"

What he's thinking is that he's out of his depth, that he hasn't felt this kind of raw attraction in years—if ever. He's thinking you're the kind of woman who doesn't even have to command attention, and he's already hopelessly drawn in. But what he says is, "Just... wondering how I got here."

Your laugh is soft, rich with amusement. "To this party?"

"Or this moment."

His words surprise him, his ears burning as they register. You don't say anything, causing Ewan's nerves to spike. Did he sound too eager? Too pathetic?

But then, you smile. That damned megawatt smile that looks even better in person than on screen. "Well, it's a good place to be, isn't it?"

You lean a fraction closer, and could swear his heart is about to burst out of his chest.

"Do you always look so serious?" you ask, your gaze flicking to his lips, admiring the way they seem to be in a state of being perpetually curled. "Or is it just the brooding artist thing?"

"I'll take it if it works," he manages, his voice uneven.

"Oh, it's working," you say softly.

Ewan shifts his weight, tapping the cigarette against the edge of the balustrade. "Sorry, I just... I don't get it. These things. Everyone pretending they know everyone, like it's all some bloody performance."

You exhale a stream of vapour, watching it swirl into the night. He's finally opening up, and there is no way you're letting this slide. "It is a performance," you reply. "That's the point."

He shakes his head, gazing at you with a genuine softness you haven't been at the receiving end of in far too long. "But why? Why not just let the work speak for itself?"

There's something innocent in the way he says it, and it's endearing and definitely rare among your crowd. Ewan Mitchell isn't like the men you usually find at these industry events. He's no preening peacock, no walking cologne ad praying to be noticed.

There's something boyish in the way he fidgets, and yet also something undeniably grown in the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you're not looking.

You reply, "It's so people know who you are. Why would anyone want to go see your movie if they don't give a shit about you?"

"You see, darling, that's where talent comes into play."

"Hmm, okay. But do you not know how many thousands upon thousands of aspiring actors come to LA every year just to witness the death of their dreams, because nobody gave a shit about who they are? And I'm certain that a lot of them can outact us under the table."

Ewan takes a slow drag from his cigarette, buying himself time. The way you said "us" sends a thrill through him he's desperately trying to smother. "Well," he begins, "if you're talented enough, you'll eventually catch a break. People notice, don't they?"

"Talent isn't everything," you point out. "You need to have drive."

"That I have," he counters quickly, his voice laced with quiet conviction. He wouldn't have been able to climb out of a life of near-guaranteed anonymity in Derbyshire if he didn't possess drive. There's a confidence in him now, a spark you seem to notice, judging by the faint curve of your lips.

"And charisma," you add, your smile widening, "which, clearly, you also have."

"Thank you," he says on instinct. There's a pause, just long enough for him to wonder if he's again blushing under your watchful gaze.

"And," you continue, dragging the word out with deliberate weight, "in this day and age, you need to get people talking."

Ewan exhales, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "How do I do that, superstar?"

"A big, fat scandal usually does the trick." Your voice is casual, but your eyes gleam with mischief.

"Oh, brilliant," he deadpans. His sarcasm earns him another laugh, and he feels it in his chest like a warm shockwave.

"Or... you could date someone famous. Get on the PR train."

Ewan shakes his head, his brow furrowing. "Not for me, I think."

You drift closer, eyes narrowing slightly as if you're sizing him up. "Oh really? You wouldn't get with me if you had the chance?"

The question lands like a lit match in the conversation. He swallows nervously, "Of... of course I would. But I don't want it to be manufactured."

"How would it go then?" There's no mocking in your question, no cruelty in your smile—just curiosity, maybe a touch of challenge.

He falters, betraying the battle waging between his nerves and his growing comfort in your company. "How would what go?"

"How would you, Ewan Mitchell, get me?"

His throat goes dry. He considers dodging it, turning the conversation back to you with one of the rehearsed quips he uses for interviews. But that feels cheap in the face of your boldness, so unabashed and expectant. "Well, I'd ask you on a date."

"And I'd say yes... go on."

"And we'll go to... the cinema," he says simply, and for the first time tonight, he doesn't feel like treading water.

You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, you're such a purist."

"What's wrong with that?" he asks, a touch defensive but also playful, emboldened by your attention.

"Nothing, you tortured artist, you," you tease, your tone lilting. "And then what?"

"Then... we could grab dinner or—"

"Would you kiss me?" you interrupt, your voice low and threaded with something heavier. Most would hesitate, worrying they'd gone too far, but you're not like most people. You never have been.

"If you... if you wanted me to," he replies, his own voice rough with honesty.

"But would you want to?"

His gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest of moments before snapping back to your eyes. The words spill out of him. "I'd be a fucking idiot not to want to kiss you, darling."

Back in the pavilion, music from the DJ booth intensifies, signalling the post-dinner stage of the festivities. But the booming bass that reverberates is nothing compared to the beating of your hearts.

"On this hypothetical date... do we take it a step further?"

Ewan's thoughts run wild, and they are betrayed by the way his pupils dilate. "What do you mean?"

"I am talking about hooking up." Your words are relaxed, but the way you say them is anything but. They drip with intention, with heat, as if you're privy to the fact that he has pictured that scenario a hundred times over.

"What do you take me for?"

"A warm-blooded man who's clearly attracted to me... and who I'm also attracted to."

"You like me?" he whispers hoarsely.

Instead of answering, you close the distance, your lips brushing featherlight against his. The tentative touch sets him ablaze. When you press harder, surer, he melts into you. His hands tremble as they come up to your waist, anchoring himself in the reality of you.

"Fuck me," he breathes when you pull back, leaving him dazed. "I can't—"

"Do this?" you ask, your lips hovering over his, pulling at the fringes of his restraint.

"No... I mean, I can't believe I'm kissing you." He stumbles over his words, clearly in awe. "I love you."

It's your turn to be taken aback. "Woah, what?"

"I mean, I've loved your work," he stammers. "You inspire me as an actor, you know. I've watched you since your early days. You're fucking amazing."

"Mmm." When he allows his hand to drift along your spine, you ask, "Have you ever... fantasized about... sleeping with me?"

"I... I don't—"

"I'm used to it. Being looked at. Thought of, in that way." There's a tinge of raw sensitivity in your admission, letting him see the real you.

Ewan wants more of it. After just a taste of who you are underneath the surface, he is left craving the rest. "Then I think you know my answer," he says.

You let out a low hum. "I know."

"You're such a goddamn liability," he murmurs, managing to sound equal parts affectionate and exasperated.

"I know that too. Come with me," you say, your tone suddenly commanding. You grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and tug him towards the pavilion. He follows without a shred of hesitation, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of his chest.

The two of you weave through the edges of the party, slipping past clusters of inebriated guests until you find yourself in the dimly lit, unattended coatroom. The small space is as luxurious as the rest of the venue, the perfect backdrop for the tension threatening to explode.

The moment the lock on the door clicks shut, Ewan's restraint snaps like a taut wire. His hands cradle your face as he initiates the kiss this time, his hunger for you bleeding through every press of his lips.

The rest of the party fades away, and there is only you. He didn't care about any of it anyway.

"You are so fucking hot," he groans into the kiss. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Believe it, handsome," you purr, sliding your hands down the material of his coat.

"Are you sure about this?" His question comes out as a whisper, his forehead resting against yours, his cigarette-scented breath fanning your face.

"Ewan," you say, "get on with it before they all notice we've been gone too long."

He huffs out a nervous laugh. "The way you talk makes me think you wouldn't give a shit."

"No, I wouldn't," you confirm, your grin wicked. "They should fucking wait for us."

"You have an attitude, princess," he mutters, his fingers digging into your exposed back.

"Been told I have a big head," you joke.

He hums, before dropping a line that floors you. "Bet you have a sweet pussy, too."

Your eyes flash with amusement, drawing closer until your lips graze his Dior earring. "Wanna find out?"

"Fuckin' hell," his breath shudders out of him, "yes... yes... yes." He knew it might make him come across as desperate, as a damn simp, but he could not bring himself to give a single flying fuck. Not when you perch atop the gleaming marble edge of the table, and spread each leg out to the side, tantalisingly slow. A precious flower to be plucked, right there for the taking.

For him. He feels unworthy. He has half a mind to check the room for cameras—maybe this is all a prank. But what a lascivious, cruel prank that would be.

Is this some twisted initiation ritual into the Hollywood elite?

You trail a smooth, manicured finger along his jawline, igniting a shiver that ripples down his spine. His nerves come alive under your touch, each one crackling with electric anticipation, flipping a switch deep within him directly connected to his cock.

As he has revered you as a goddess on the silver screen all these years, he now reveres you in reality, sinking to his knees.

"Don't keep me waiting," you whisper silkily.

Ewan takes a steadying breath, before diving in. His hands lift the smooth material of your dress, revealing the sacred area between your legs, barely covered in a white sliver of a thong. You might as well have come with no underwear.

The coat suddenly feels too constricting, so he unbuttons it with a sharp motion, letting the heavy garment slide to the floor. But almost immediately, a flicker of concern crosses his face. The Dior number is a rental, and if it gets damaged, it won't be his head on the block—it'll be Davey's. With a hint of sheepishness, he retrieves it, carefully draping it over the back of an upholstered chair.

You notice the gesture, subtle but telling. He doesn’t quite belong to your world—or perhaps he does, but he moves through it without succumbing to its superficial trappings. Your friend Timothée wouldn’t have spared the coat a second glance, long since desensitized to the weight of designer labels.

But Ewan? He handles it all with a kind of quiet reverence, as if even in a borrowed piece of luxury, he remains grounded in something real.

And it only intensifies your desire for him.

There's a wanton intrigue in your eyes as you take in the bareness of his torso. His muscles are defined, but not in the off-putting gym rat kind of way. Instead, there's a natural leanness to his form—a testament to a body honed not for vanity, but for purpose.

Kneeling before you, eyes bright with awe, he gets right down to work. He pushes the fabric of your dress higher, out of his way, and you help him along, your fist bunching the skirt to one side.

"God, you're... perfect," he whispers. His palms rest on your thighs, and when his lips press to the sensitive skin just above your knee, you let out an involuntary sound that draws a low groan from his throat.

"Ewan," you breathe impatiently, unable to conceal your need for him. But he doesn't rush, dragging his mouth higher, trailing kisses along your inner thigh, his eyes fluttering closed as he savours the sensation.

He pauses just before pulling down the waistband of your thong, glancing up at you with wide, darkened eyes. "Tell me if I'm... if I'm doing too much," he says, almost shyly.

"You're not doing enough," you reply. "Keep going."

So he does. He slides the white lace down your ankles, then presses his mouth to your core, his tongue pushing between your folds with a fervour that makes your head fall back. His guttural moan is muffled as he goes down on you, the vibration of it causing heat to pool in your lower belly. You press the flat stem of your heel to the back of his head, drawing him closer.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp aloud, your hips rolling instinctively against his mouth as he works you over. He licks you, sloppy and desperate, his inexperience showing but somehow making it even better. He's so determined to give you pleasure, so eager to make you come undone, that he doesn't care about anything else.

He doesn't care about acting like a starved animal as he sucks on your pussy. All Ewan wishes for, in that very moment, is that you cum all over him—the sweet substance flooding his tongue, dripping down his chin, far more sumptuous than everything they have on offer in the party's banquet.

He's seen you fake an orgasm for a scene before, but this is real.

His tongue flicks over your bud, and when you cry out, he doubles his efforts. He wraps his lips around the aching nub to suck gently, then slides a finger into you, curling it just right. Adding another, he increases the pace, his fingertips pulsing into that damned spot within your walls each time.

The defined bridge of his nose is flush against your clit as he moves, augmenting your pleasure. The whole thing is messy, unrefined, and so damn good that it has you teetering on the edge in no time.

Your thighs quiver around his head, and when your orgasm crashes over you, you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. Ewan keeps going, his tongue and fingers refusing to let up, coaxing every last shudder from you until you're trembling and gasping for air.

"Holy. Shit." You lean back on your elbows to recuperate as white spots flood your vision.

"Did I... was that... was that good?" he asks with his lips shiny and swollen, practically yearning for your approval.

"Yeah," you manage, but it escapes your lips as a small, incoherent sigh.

"Hmm? What? What was that... baby?"

Baby, he says. But with the way, he's being so sweet, so dumbstruck, he's certainly the baby in this dynamic.

"More," you give him a better answer, "C'mere." You pull him up to your level, tasting yourself on his lips. Leveraging your legs around his waist, you keep him caged in. The outline of his hardened cock presses against your pelvis, and when you grind into him, his teeth clamp down on your bottom lip.

"Aghhh, hey!"

"Shit, I'm sorry—"

"It's okay," you whisper, not letting him pull away. "I liked it. And I want more."

"Anything, baby," he promises, and the raw honesty in his tone makes your chest tighten. "Anything you want. I'll—fuck—I'll give it to you. I'm all yours."

You nod once, before he claims your lips again in a bruising kiss. One of the thin straps of your dress falls from your shoulder, and he visibly shivers in excitement at the sight of your exposed breast.

"Fuck," he sighs, his hand coming up almost hesitantly to cup you. His thumb brushes over your nipple, as he takes you in with lust-clouded eyes. He leans down and captures the flesh with his mouth, his tongue swirling around your tender peak until you're left squirming.

You reach for him, fumbling with his belt and his zipper, and he helps you, his movements even more hurried and uncoordinated than yours.

When he frees himself, you can't help but stare—his cock is long and hard, already slick with precum. The sight makes your mouth water, and when you drag your gaze back up to his face, you find him watching you, his expression somewhere between bashful and utterly wrecked.

Ewan's hair, once gelled to immaculate perfection, now lies in disarray. He'll need to borrow your comb before he dares rejoin the party. The lower half of his face bears the unmistakable traces of cum and smudged rouge, a vivid testament to the chaotic indulgences of the evening. And somewhere in the frenzy of fumbling and fondling, his clip-on Dior earring has gone astray. He feels the absence keenly, like a phantom limb, yet he resigns himself to the loss—for now, it's a dilemma best left for another moment.

"You're staring," he says, an uneasy laugh escaping him, but there's heat in his gaze, a newfound confidence grounding his nerves.

"Because I like what I see," you reply.

"Tell me if this is too much," he says, his anxiety resurfacing through the haze of lust. It's endearing—so much so that you can't help but smile.

"Ewan," you say firmly. "I want everything."

He groans faintly as he lines himself up. Carefully, he pushes into you, and the stretch is exquisite, sending a shiver rippling up your spine. You both moan, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. He buries himself to the hilt, pausing to catch his breath, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, oh fuck," he murmurs, looking down at where your bodies meet. "Your pussy feels so good."

The compliment makes you feel something you can't pinpoint, but there’s no time to dwell on it. He starts to move, his thrusts tentative at first, testing the waters. But the whorish mewls spilling from your lips spur him on, and soon, he finds a rhythm—deep, steady, and just rough enough to leave you begging for more.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp, your nails scraping lightly against his back. "Yeah... just like that."

Your words are the only encouragement he needs. His pace quickens, and his grip on you tightens as if he's about to confess that he wants to own you. He's already yours, so it's only fair, isn't it?

He's spent years fantasizing about how your pussy would feel, squeezing his cock like a goddamn vice, and he's happy to find out that his imagination is nothing compared to the real thing.

"So sexy, baby," he mutters, his voice muffled as he nips at your neck. "Better than I ever—" He cuts himself off with a groan, his teeth grazing your skin.

You raise your legs higher up his torso to draw him deeper. The angle sends a bolt of pleasure through you, and your moans grow louder despite your attempts to keep quiet.

Then, suddenly, the doorknob rattles.

Both of you freeze, Ewan still buried deep inside your fleshy walls, his eyes wide with panic. The sound of a familiar voice seeps through the door, followed by a frustrated sigh.

"Where the hell did I leave my phone?" It's your friend, Florence Pugh. Her voice is unmistakable, and the realisation makes your stomach drop.

Ewan’s lips form a silent oh my God. You bite back a laugh, pressing a hand over your mouth as Florence jiggles the doorknob again.

"Seriously?" she mutters. "Locked? For fuck's sake."

You hear her footsteps retreat, her voice fading as she calls out to someone else. "Have you seen my phone? I swear I left it out here."

The moment the coast is clear, you both exhale in unison, the tension breaking into a mix of laughter and relief. Ewan drops his forehead to your shoulder, shaking his head. "This is insane," he whispers, though he doesn't feel a single ounce of regret.

"You're the one who couldn't keep it in his pants," you tease, rolling your hips slightly to remind him of your still-connected bodies.

His response is a low growl, and he resumes his thrusts, harder this time, filled with unfiltered desire. The near-miss only seems to have fueled him, the snap of his hips more frantic, more intense. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room—mumbled curses, breathless moans, sticky slapping of flesh meeting flesh.

"God, you're incredible," he says, his voice strained. "I can't get enough of you."

You feel the coil in your belly tightening again, the pressure building with each thrust. Your delicate fingers dig into his shoulders, and he groans at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you. His rhythm falters for only a second before he recovers.

"Ewan," you gasp, your voice breaking. "I'm so close—don't stop."

"Come for me, baby," he says, his hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. It sends you spiraling, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cry out, your body tensing and shuddering beneath him as he continues to move, chasing his own release.

He reaches up and twists your nipple, the sharp sensation making you gasp just before he comes. The sight of you—head thrown back, breast bouncing free from your designer gown, your smudged red lips parted in bliss—drives him to the brink. With a strangled growl, he slams into you one final time. His body shakes as he spills inside you, the warmth of his release flooding you completely. You both tremble in the aftermath, caught in the intensity of the moment, gasping for air, drenched in sweat and tangled in raw desire.

You blink lazily at him, a beautiful mess of tousled hair and make-up in dire need of a retouch. "Still think I'm a liability?" you ask.

"Oh, absolutely. But one worth keeping anyway."

Ewan sits in his dimly lit London apartment, the glow of his phone the only other source of light in the room. A half-empty bottle of Guinness sits forgotten on his coffee table. The screen displays your Instagram profile—your impossibly gorgeous face beaming at him from your latest post, which happens to be a professional photograph of you at the GQ party.

His finger hovers above the Follow button like it's the trigger of a detonator.

His newly-created account is laughably barren—no posts, no followers, no following. Just a desperate, last-ditch attempt to tether himself back to you, even if only digitally.

Ewan had always sworn off social media, claiming it wasn't his style, that he preferred the privacy and the mystique. Yet, here he is, spiraling, drunk on the memory of you and of that night.

The coatroom had been a blur. The attendant had returned far too soon, a flurry of apologies as Florence appeared behind her, claiming her phone from her coat pocket with a triumphant smirk.

Ewan remembers how Florence had tugged you aside, your laughter ringing out as she swiped her thumb across your lips, erasing the evidence of that kiss—or maybe just rearranging it. You had been whisked away to the ladies' room, leaving him standing there, disheveled, speechless, and utterly entranced. He hadn't even managed to get your number.

It's been days since, but he still feels the ghost of your touch, the echo of your moans, the scent of you on his skin. He's tried to focus, tried to pick up his scripts, but his mind keeps replaying the way you looked as you came.

He has even rewatched a film of yours, with special attention paid to a particular love scene. Watching it over and over, repeatedly going back to the timestamp where you're seen riding your male costar.

He felt aroused watching you. Also, incredibly fucking jealous.

"Pathetic," he mutters to himself, his finger still hovering. His thumb twitches, brushing the screen, but before he can commit to his descent into full-blown thirst, his phone buzzes violently, the vibration startling him into dropping it onto the couch.

"Shit." He snatches it back up, squinting at the screen. It's a call from his agent.

"Ewan," comes the voice on the other end, crisp and faintly incredulous. "What the hell did you do at that party?"

His heart stops for a beat. "Uh... what?"

"The party. The GQ one. The one where you disappeared for, what, an hour? Maybe more?"

Ewan's brain scrambles. "I don't—I mean, I just mingled. Like you suggested,” he stammers, his voice cracking slightly. "Why?"

"Because," the agent says, drawing out the word like it's a prize reveal, "you've been shortlisted for a chemistry test next week."

"A chemistry test?" Ewan echoes, blinking. "For what?"

"For her film," his agent says, emphasizing the pronoun like it's blasphemous not to know who you are. "It's one of those secret big-budget Hollywood projects only top actors are getting called for. We didn't submit you because—well, not to be rude, but you're not exactly on their radar for that level yet."

Ewan's heart starts pounding. He sits up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. "Wait, wait. What film? Who's—who's her?"

But he already knows the answer.

His agent drops your name, exasperated now. "Apparently she petitioned for you, Ewan. Said you'd be perfect. So what did you do?”

Ewan is stunned into silence. He leans back against the couch, a slow grin spreading across his face as the pieces click into place. You. You'd done this. You’d reached out and used your pull to bring him into your orbit again.

"What did I do?" he repeats. "Oh, nothing much. Just... made an impression."

"Well, whatever it was, it worked. Chemistry tests are next week in L.A. They'll send over the details. And Ewan," the agent pauses, lowering their voice slightly, "don't screw this up. This is huge."

"I won't," Ewan says, his tone confident now. "I promise."

When the call ends, he stares at his phone for a long moment, the grin still lingering. He glances back at your Instagram profile, his thumb poised over the Follow button again. Then he snorts, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him.

"What's the point?” he mutters to himself, his grin turning into a full-on self-satisfied smirk. "I'll see you soon enough."

He reaches for the bottle of Guinness instead, lifting it in a silent toast to fate—or whatever it is that's tied you two together.

Something came out of all that mingling after all.

taglist: @bitchception @insideyourimagination @angels-wouldnt-help-youu @seamaiden @silverdragonfly @powpowjinxlife @starfishjellyfish5 @shellysa14 @delespresso @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @ninihrtss @believeinthefireflies95 @peachysunrize @darktrashsoulbear

#do me no good #ewan mitchell imagine #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell smut #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd

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afterglowsainz · 6 months ago

Text

peace | daniel ricciardo

pairing: daniel ricciardo x singer!reader

summary: you have always been more famous than daniel and he was fine with that, until his career started going downhill

fc: taylor swift

warning: angst, mclaren daniel, mentions of crashing, some mean comments towards daniel

a/n: i changed a few lyrics from one of taylor’s songs (invisible string) just to make it make sense in the context (i'm not a songwriter so is not the best) also no hate to mclaren daniel! with the summary i do not mean at all that his career is ruined, is just for the dramatics

—

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yourusername old habits die hard 🎻🍂

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username mother back in the studiooo

username if this is not a new album y/n istg (liked by yourusername)

username SCREAMING CRYING FALLING TO MY KNEES AT WALMART

username serving face while recording

username i don’t know what vibes this is giving but it’s givingggg

username ofc i’m not getting my hopes up over a possible new album! ofc not!

username more happy songs about her and danny 😁

username WE CHEER

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motorsportcom 🚩RED FLAG DEPLOYED🚩FP2 session has been paused after Ricciardo hits the wall during corner 7. It’s still unclear if practice will resume.

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username this 😁 again 😁

username someone send him back to red bull 🙄

username well well are we surprised

username no way i stayed up late to watch this only for it to be suspended

username washed

username ugh perfect! just what he needed

username someone is doing witchcraft on this guy because there’s no way he’s this unlucky

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danielricciardo these past four years by your side have been the best of my life and i can’t wait for many more to come. happy anniversary love of my life, forever my y/n❤️‍🩹

tagged yourusername

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username STOP IT they’re too cute 😭

username that last pic might be the best photo i’ve ever seen

username no because they’re so perfect togetheeer

yourusername i love you❤️

danielricciardo ❤️

username she’s everything!

username and he’s there!

username who needs a job when your girlfriend looks like THAT 😮‍💨

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ynupdates y/n y/l/n won the ‘video of the year’ award at the vmas. on her speech she thanked the fans, her friends, her boyfriend daniel and she hinted some new music coming soon!

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username literally speechless at her look

username what did she say on her speech about daniel i’ve been looking for it but i can’t find it

username not verbatim cause i don’t remember exactly but it was something along the lines of “thank you for being the first one to listen to all my ideas and encourage me to dream about things bigger than myself and for being my muse in every sense of the word”

username she’s just killing it lately i’m obsessed! 💕

username congrats y/n! very well deserved award

username prettiest woman ever like look at that face

username she served too much cunt i’m afraid

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yourusername surprise you! my new single ‘invisible string’ is coming out tonight (and we filmed a video for it) 🪩

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username my favourite animal is me when y/n releases music

username INVISIBLE STRING THEORY???

username oh she ate with this one

bffusername on loop forever and ever

yourusername 💗

username this sound is so different … i love it!

username if this invisible string is not about her relationship with danny i-😩

danielricciardo going feral at that mv actually

yourusername 🤭

username DANIEL RICCIARDO CAN YOU FIGHT

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motorsportcom a red flag has been deployed after daniel ricciardo crashed in qualifying🚩session has been cancelled and the drivers will start the grid on sunday with the lap times the were able to achieve during the first three minutes of Q3

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username thank you ricciardo we all say in unison 🙄

username bro’s collecting red flags like pokemons

username someone bathe this man in palo santo or smth 😭

username you just gotta laugh at this point

username mate is sooo not getting a seat next year

username is a bit funny to see him struggle this much and then you look at his girlfriend and she’s in the most successful point of her career

username he sacrificed his own luck for his gf’s how romantic

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danielricciardo not my brightest weekend but there’s always opportunity to be better. excited for the next 🔜

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username “not my brightest weekend” my guy it hasn’t been your brightest SEASON

username “there’s always opportunity to be better” you’ve had like 30 ???

username he’s being delulu but honestly i respect it

username okay but how can you hate a face like that

username mate isn’t smiling anymore something is wrong 😭

username something has been wrong for a while…

username i actually think is time to think about retirement

username get that bag king!

username guys, and y/n??.

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entertainmenttonight y/n y/l/n and daniel ricciardo break up after four years of dating

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username NOOOOOO

username if i don’t see it is not real

username refusing to believe this

username WHAT.

username this sent me (a victorian child) into a comma

username now why would you post this😭

username i actually don’t believe in love anymore

username 💔💔💔

username WDYM they JUST celebrated their anniversary ???

username this is my villain origin story

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yourusername so … good news! i’ll be releasing my brand new album “folklore” tonight at midnight 🪩 this is an album i’ve been working on for the past year and that i poured my whole soul into. it was supposed to release a bit earlier, but we thought it wasn’t truly finished until now. i love you guys too much 🤍

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username OMG

username our prayers have been heard

username so i’m thinking she was going to release this before the breakup but when it happened she maybe wrote breakup songs and that’s why she pushed the release date

username GIRL

alexandrasaintmleux can’t wait! 💗 (liked by yourusername)

username album of the year already

oliviarodrigo and we all cheer in unison 🥳 (liked by yourusername)

sabrinacarpenter already bought the wine and the tissues (liked by yourusername)

gracieabrams no you don’t get it this is so special to me (liked by yourusername)

username all of y/n’s daughters in the comments 😭

username sabrina girl what do you know? 🤨

username lowkey miss daniel’s comments hyping her up :(

username no bc i’m so ready to know what happened between them

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danielricciardo tbt to the first race weekend with mclaren 🧡

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username okay sir i see you

username the only weekend where we were happy

username bro trying to distract us from the breakup by posting his smile

username my guy i just listen “peace” are you okay ???

username you’re stronger than me for listening till peace i wanted to k word myself after “the 1” and i’m not daniel

username the 1 was criminaaal

username exile …

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ynupdates y/n y/l/n last night on saturday night live singing her new song “peace” from her brand new album “folklore”. she algo sang her hit single “invisible string”

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username i cried with that performance

username she was singing that song with such sadness

username you’re telling me she was ready to marry daniel (and give him a child) and now they’re just not together anymore ???

username i gasped when i heard that line

username daniel will pay for his crimes istg

username he’s paying already 😭

username “would it be enough if i could never give you peace?” it was, in fact, not enough

username STOP YOURE DEPRESSING ME

username sorry i’m mourning this relationship too 😔

liked by landonorris, carlossainz55 and others

danielricciardo if one thing had been different, would everything be different today?

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formosusiniquis · 1 year ago

Text

This one goes out to that old guy I saw at walmart yesterday loading up his pioneer woman cookware onto his motorcycle while enter sandman played

steddie | G | WC: 1154

---

“Hey baby, can you?”

“No.”

Steve's sweet tone sours immediately returning to the much more familiar gently bitchy tone Eddie knows and loves. “You don't even know what I was gonna ask.”

“Twenty-five years of marriage, lawful and not, Sunshine. I know when you're about to ask me for some shit we don't need.”

“Why would I be calling you if we didn't need it?”

“Because if you needed it you would have told me about it when I said, ‘Stevie, sweetie, light of my life, sun to my dawn,’” he looks around trying to figure out where the hell they moved the oranges and why the produce section is never in the same configuration anytime he comes here. He makes eye contact with a kid wearing an artificially faded printing of his own tour merch looking at him with a starry eyed look of recognition not of the celebrity but of family.

“Did you forget where you were going with that old man?”

He decides he might as well put on a show, both halves of this conversation already know he's going to do what he's told. “‘Stevie, my one truth north, my muse, my reason to continue living, my dearest husband, I'm going to Walmart,’ I told you not but thirty minutes ago and asked if you needed me to get you anything and you said no.”

“Oh, you aren't going to monologue for your adoring public all the sweet names I called you?” Steve is amused, he can tell, he's always been able to tell. He's accepting this as his penance for not giving Eddie an actual grocery list when he left.

“Well dear heart I am in public, but if you think we can find another grocery store to go to after getting banned from this one. I guess there is the Kroger on the other side of town.” The kid laughs, tries to hide it behind their hand, but if Eddie has had anything in this life it's experience with teens eavesdropping on conversations they shouldn't be.

“Oh you're really hamming it up, huh, Teddy. Can I tell you what you're getting me yet or do you still have a couple minutes in your set?”

He's given up on oranges, moves on to the onion he actually came here for, the lone ingredient for dinner that he'd forgotten from his clicklist. If they want to actually have the roast tonight it needs to start soon. “What is it that you remembered we needed, oh song of my heart.”

“I already sent you the link so you get exactly what I want.”

It's just ominous enough of a non-answer that he pulls his phone out of his pocket, juggling it and the five things he'd already grabbed that weren't on his one item list. He doesn't have the time to regret not grabbing the cart he was sure he hadn't needed when he sees what he's been sent.

“I'm on my bike! Where am I going to put that?”

“I'm sorry, am I hearing you correctly? Was I right when I said, ‘Teddy bear, my stars, my bard-’”

“You aren't on speaker.”

“My beloved damsel in distress, maybe the motorcycle isn't the most efficient of midlife crisis vehicles. Aren't you going to want something with more trunk space, why don't you get a Caddy or a Bimmer for old times sake. And what did you say?”

“I don't recall.”

“Probably for the best wouldn't want you banned from Walmart, what would the tabloids say?”

“Nothing that would match your wit, Sweetheart. Does it have to be this one?”

“Yes, the plaid matches the kitchen remodel, so be a good boy and strap it to your bike. And remember we've still got one kid to put through school if she decides to go, don't bring home any strays with you. Do you need to do your encore now, baby?”

“I accept your quest, my dashing prince. I shall return home with my bounty posthaste.” Encore complete, audience still enraptured, Eddie dips into the sincere. It's been nearly thirty years together and he's not once ended a call without saying, “I love you.”

“Love you too, my knight in denim battle vest. I'll see you when you get home.”

The call ends with the usual dull toned beep beep, the playlist the call interrupted starts to filter back into his earbud. He realizes he's going to have to walk right past the kid to get to the side of the store with Steve's Instant Pot.

“Hear they're about to have a reunion tour,” he says gesturing down at the reprint of their Came Back Wrong Tour shirt. The faux-fading has left a crack through his own face at the bottom making him unrecognizable, not that he looks the same now as he did at 25. “Those old bands just don't know how to retire.”

“I think it's smart that they're playing up the recent tik tok fame.” The kid says, “No one's even seen their lead singer since the 90s and after their first national tour he'd started wearing that mask.”

It hurts a little bit the way the kid says 90s like it's some bygone era lost to time. Tries to appreciate instead how good the mask idea had been, he'd really been an innovator. “That was a pretty sweet gimmick, you think he'll bring it back? It's kind of Orville Peck's thing now isn't it.”

The kid slumps, managing the impressive feat of looking desolate while standing over the tomatoes. “Probably, not that I'll see it. I couldn't manage to get a ticket.”

That is something he can fix, “Here,” he manages to grab ahold of his wallet, “as luck would have it, I've got a couple spares.”

The kid looks torn between fear and elation, it's likely at least the second strangest thing to ever happen to them in a Walmart. “Oh I can't-”

“No strings, I got it through work for my sister-in-law to go with my husband. She asked why none of the good bands ever have reunion tours so… not going obviously. And my husband insists he's too old to be that close to the stage. You'd be doing me a favor really.”

“If you're sure,” they say, the hesitance more a mannered necessity than real.

“Sure as shooting. Seriously, here give me your name so my husband knows who to make the thank you note out to.”

“Aspen, thank you really!”

Twenty minutes later when he’s got a kitchen appliance bungied to the back of his bike he’ll appreciate that something good came out of this. Three weeks later when he’s standing at the front of a sold out arena he’ll mostly appreciate another chance to be dramatic, “This next one is for Aspen who didn’t laugh when an old man tried to flirt with his husband in the produce aisle. Gareth, count me in.”

#steddie #steddie fic #old man steddie #rockstar eddie munson

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mcflymemes · 11 months ago

Text

PROMPTS FOR FAKE DATING & GOING UNDERCOVER * assorted dialogue for muses going undercover as a couple and having to maintain the illusion that they're dating, and all the chaos, feelings, and whatnot that come with it, suggested by dollhidden, adjust as necessary, send "reverse" for the reversal of action prompts

DIALOGUE PROMPTS

come on. at least pretend that you like me.

if we hold hands, that'll sell the illusion even more.

what petnames do you think we'd use if we were actually dating?

please don't make this too difficult on me.

stop letting go of my hand.

you're going to pay for this later.

that was way too close of a call.

[petname]? that's what we're going with?

could you at least look like you like me for an hour? is that so hard?

admit it. i'm not half bad.

didn't think i would enjoy this as much as i am.

did you take acting classes growing up?

excuse me! i'm just trying to sell the illusion!

do you think they bought it?

you don't look like you love me. you look like you're constipated.

way to lay it on thick. i think you might have done too good of a job.

pretend to laugh at one of my jokes.

i guess i didn't expect you to dress up for this. i'm impressed.

you know, if you treated me like that on the regular, i might actually start falling in love with you.

they have to believe we're together. how hard can it be?

quick, pretend like you're about to kiss me.

you clearly care more about the tiny appetizers than you do me.

i'm just here for the free champagne.

you clean up nice.

that honestly wasn't as bad as i thought it would be.

they're looking over here. quick, say something funny.

that... was surprisingly smooth of you.

you don't date much, do you?

we should pretend to date more often.

hey! my eyes are up here!

shit, they're coming. kiss me.

ACTION PROMPTS all of these are written as if both parties are fake dating and going undercover at some specified event, but feel free to add your own scenarios if you'd like!

[ hand ] sender quickly takes receiver's hand in public to avoid getting caught

[ waist ] sender quickly slides an arm around receiver's waist in public to avoid getting caught

[ propose ] sender stages a dramatic fake proposal to further sell their relationship to the crowd, catching receiver completely off guard

[ fake fight ] sender and receiver stage a coordinated fake fight/messy breakup in front of the crowd

[ kiss ] realizing they need to sell their relationship to an important person/people, sender and receiver kiss for the first time

[ coat ] noticing receiver is cold, sender gives them their coat

[ entrance ] sender and receiver approach the entrance of the secret event and discuss their plans for selling their fake relationship to the crowd

[ slip away ] sender slips away from receiver in order to take a break from pretending, and receiver goes to find them

[ off limits ] sender and receiver are exploring an off limit portion of the event space, get caught, and are forced to try to explain how they got lost

[ the big kiss ] to conceal the fact that they're exploring an off limit portion of the event space, sender kisses receiver dramatically once they're caught

[ introduce ] sender introduces receiver as their lover/date/partner to a very important (and potentially dangerous) person at this event

[ family ] sender introduces receiver as their lover/date/partner to their family, who just so happens to also be at the event

[ lost ] sender loses receiver in the crowd and rushes to relocate them before their cover is blown

[ flirt ] when someone else shows interest in receiver, sender steps in and makes it clear they're "taken"

[ exit ] sender and receiver have successfully accomplished their goal, and now must sneak out of the event as covertly as possible

[ spill ] sender accidentally spills their drink on receiver and rushes them to the restroom to clean them up

[ private ] in a brief moment of privacy between the two fake daters, sender admits to receiver that they don't think receiver is as bad as they thought

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poisonf0rest · 6 days ago

Note

First ask, kinda nervous - but let's go (I found your blog yesterday, and I already became a fan✨️)

I saw you like love and deepspace, do you have a headcanon about one of the characters?

I swear, before the new update (that they put a period calendar), one of my biggest headcanons was that Zayne has a period app in his cellphone because of the MC. So he knows when she is moody because of the period, then he gives her a lot of sweets and hugs and cuddles ❤️

rafayel headcanons

♱⋅── Don't be nervous, love~ That's such a sweet headcanon for Zayne, I definitely can see it happening as well! If you've been following my blog then you already know I'm obsessed with a certain fishie, so here are some (a lot) of headcanons I have for him~

general headcanons:

If this were a normal!AU I definitely headcanon Rafayel being younger than the MC (she'd be 27, a full-time bodyguard and he'd be 24 but a famous art protegee since 15), but Rafayel insists he's the older one to everyone you meet. It drives you insane.

He canonically has a Mercedes Benz AMG Gran Turismo and Ferrari 250GT, but I think he has at least three sports cars.

It's not a symbol of wealth to him because, honestly, Rafayel simply doesn't check the price tags on anything-- if it's a beautifully designed car, suit, jewelry, or painting, he buys it without another thought.

And vice versa. If an expensive label offers to sponsor him but he hates the designer he'll refuse no matter what the pay is.

Also suuuch a niche thought but I can so see normal!AU Raf and you first hooking up in a club or bar. You disappear the morning after mind-blowing sex, and Rafayel can't get you out of his head-- but he doesn't even know your name.

He makes paintings of hidden freckles on your body, of your blurry figure dancing in the dress you wore that night, of colors and swirls that remind him of your touch. The media goes crazy over this mystery woman who's taken over the famous artist's heart.

He has no reservations about calling you his muse and within hours the press is abuzz with speculation on this mystery person who has captured the artist's heart.

"Love? Yes, I'm in love with her."

You, on the other hand, are mortified. You try to forget about him and move on but cue a series of further coincidences and shenanigans that tie you and Rafayel closer and closer together.

Also, he would fuck you in the passenger seat of his sportscar while the paparazzi are swarming outside.

And since it's a cold January, of course Rafayel would use any excuse to whisk you away somewhere warmer:

Rafayel would love taking you on vacation to different islands.

Beautiful secluded villas on the ocean with no one around to disturb the two of you as you spend your days lounging around the open-air rooms, Rafayel’s paintings strewn about the entire villa, splashing it with more color anytime you're not walking along the beach, cooking something together, swimming in the ocean at sunset, or fucking on every possible surface.

On days the two of you would want to go into civilization, he'd take you to lively local bars and restaurants, and as soon as reggae music starts playing you best believe he's tugging you up to dance. Especially if he has a drink or three in his system.

Laughing, one arm laces around your waist as the other spins you around. Rafayel chases away any sort of anxiety or awkwardness you might initially feel just by how happy and natural this seems for him. You're the only person he cares about, so what does it matter if no one else is dancing? Or if a dozen other couples are doing the same? As long as you're in his arms, happy, Rafayel couldn't care less.

He's a damn fine dancer too. Being a swimmer and all he has to have good control of his body, and we all saw him be a natural center during that lnds dance show lmao.

You best believe you're also fucking nasty in the sand.

Disguised as a cute dinner date, he blindfolds you and leads you to a hidden cover decorated with string lights, a candle-lit dinner on a picnic blanket waiting for you, which he spent all day preparing while feigning fighting art block.

It’s romantic and sweet, the way Rafayel expects praise for all his hard work and the way you’re more than happy to shower him with it. You feed each other as the sun sets behind the ocean’s horizon, yet you can’t even get to dessert before kissing him senseless.

"Wow, someone's excited."

"Shut up and kiss me."

Rafayel's smug grin is swallowed up by your lips, and he barely has the sense to shove aside plates of food before pulling you down atop him on the blanket.

You're grinding on each other like lovesick teens, moaning and giggling between yourselves before you pepper kisses down Rafayel's neck as you thank him for everything— for planning this wonderful vacation, for setting up this romantic diner, for being yours.

And being called yours? Being lovingly, irreversibly claimed?

That does things to Rafayel.

"Ya, I'm all yours cutie, my muse, my sweet darling." Rafayel smiles up at you, covered in the deep red of your lipstick from his cheeks to the jut of his collarbone peaking out under his ruffled shirt. "Yours."

He flips the both of you around, swallowing your yelp with a kiss and cushioning your head with his hand as it hits the sand. Hooking your leg onto his shoulder, Rafayel kisses the delicate bone of your ankle, lips tracing up the curve of your calf, up to the tender bend of your knee, all watching your expression twist with desire as his other hand teases your inner thigh.

I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours. It's a promise, a prayer whispered into your skin between love bites, between suckles on your skin that taste like seasalt and desire.

When Rafayel does finally kiss your cunt, it's light, teasing, and he admires the pretty lace, bunching up your dress just enough to still hold eye contact over the folds as he sucks your swollen clit through the fabric.

One of your hands tugs against his hair, Rafayel moaning at the sudden pressure as you bring the other up to stifle your cries.

"No, no, please don't do that," he whines, nuzzling into your thigh, looking up at you with puppy eyes before roughly fucking two fingers into your weeping cunt. "Wanna hear you, my little siren. My heart."

Greedy. Rafayel is greedy for everything you give him, taking your hand from your mouth and gently kissing your knuckles as every precise curl and thrust of his hand makes you moan and writhe against the sand. Each sound you make a melody, each cry of his name intoxicating.

It's not long before Rafayel goes back to eating you out, unable to keep his mouth off you for long. He forces you to hold eye contact as he makes out with your cunt, eyes rolling back at the wet, sloppy sounds in between his pussydrunk moans and the distant roar of the ocean.

Only when you cum for the third time, desperately tugging his hair between pleas for mercy, does Rafayel relent with a whine.

Placing one last kiss on your swollen clit, his dazed smile meets yours, the dark pink blush covering his face matching the hearts in his eyes. Your lipstick stains are still visible, branding your kisses into his high cheekbones, neck, and sweat-slick chest. Shit, even his undoubtedly expensive shirt is stained around the collar.

But the marks around his lips and down his jaw are all smudged by your release, marring Rafayel's pale skin with a dark red, dripping down his throat as he swallows the taste of you once more. And when you meet his eyes again, you realize he's far from done.

"Say I'm yours. Say I'm yours again."

#ask 𝖕𝖔𝖎𝖘𝖔𝖓 #I had so much fun with this! I might take requests more often #lads rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #lnds #love and deepspace x reader #poison's raf obsession #lnds smut #lnds rafayel #love and deepspace #rafayel headcanons

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michirukaioureincarnate · 1 month ago

Text

The Blade's Shelter

A Mizu Oneshot

Fandom: Blue Eye Samurai Pairing: Mizu x Reader Genre(s): Fluff 𖹭𖹭𖹭 | Smut 𖹭𖹭𖹭𖹭𖹭 | Angst 𖹭 Theme(s): First time | Friends w/ benefits Warning(s): Sexual themes (consensual) | Slightly edited/proofread Summary: After Mizu stumbles into your hiding spot like an injured stray, you two form a silent arrangement of give and take until she gives you more than you can handle. Reading Stats: 6980 words | 27 min read Disclaimer: All characters are consenting adults | Aged 21+

─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────────── A/n: bruh I started writing this AGES ago, like, I'm talking MONTHS and MONTHS ago. Idk what's up with me and writing cuz it's been hard to find joy in the process over the past few years despite being excited about my ideas. Glad that I got this over with, finally. Anyhooo, hope y'all enjoy it <3 ─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────────────

⋅ ⚔ ⋅

The bitterness in your mouth made you think your gums were bleeding all the time. It started when you married into a family of well-renowned sumurais, with no protest from Mizu when you broke the news to her.

She hadn't reacted at all, perhaps because becoming a spinster wouldn't bode well for someone of your standing. You were hoping she'd save you from your pre-written fate, just as she had escaped hers. After all, women were simply pawns for negotiating where the wealth went and stayed.

Despite your musings of fleeing the upcoming nuptials, you stayed. Not because you were weak, but because you realized you couldn't do much for Mizu if you didn't go through with it.

⋅ ⚔ ⋅

She often took refuge in the empty barn on your father's estate, and you'd bribed the farmer for his silence in order to tend to her whenever she returned. The barn was your safe space to get away from the frivolities of daily life, until Mizu rolled in quietly through the top floor window one night—and nearly gave you a heart attack—when escaping from some city guards. They bled all over the floor despite seeming cool and collected.

Then they passed out.

You couldn't make sense of how someone could've scaled the barn so quietly and swung themselves in so easily from the roof. It was even more shocking when you found out that someone was a woman.

A very handsome one.

That's how it started. You tending to her wounds, and her waking up in the middle of being bandaged and flipping you onto your back with a dagger to your throat. The strangest part was her patting around for her amber-stained spectacles to put them on before opening her eyes. Warm brown eyes through the honeyed glass. She made sense of the situation just as quickly and got off you, wincing as she clutched her wound. It took some insistence to get her to stay so you could bring her some food, and she complied, eventually falling asleep in the hay. She was gone the next morning, much to your dismay, but came back because she wanted to repay you for your hospitality.

And for not ratting her out to the authorities as well.

It was a blood-stained hair comb of gold with a beautiful lotus of rose quartz petals. That thoroughly intimidated you, and the woman seemed to take some kind of sick pleasure in it before wiping away the still-wet crimson splatters.

"It belonged to a woman who fought for her destiny and sacrificed herself very happily for it," she said as she wagged the comb at you. "Hopefully this reminds you to make better choices in your own pursuit."

Shock was an understatement. "How did you–"

"You're quite loud when you're angry," she smirked. "Also, maybe don't accidentally spill hot tea on suitors that could kill you."

You scoffed and left to get her some dinner. "Stay here. I haven't eaten tonight. You might as well join me."

You gave her your name, and she gave you hers. Mizu. just Mizu. The strange woman who'd drop in every now and then with something to bargain in exchange for food and a warm place to sleep. You understood her intention quite quickly, so you went along with the silent contract, especially since she was quite mindful of the things she brought. Somehow, she always knew what you wanted that week, and you began wondering if you really were all that loud when you talked.

And so began conversations about life and dreams in whispers, but only from your end. She'd listen absently, usually on the verge of sleep until she'd start snoring. That was only until fall started rolling in slowly through the summer months, and she'd be eating slower. You'd start yapping as soon as you were done stuffing your face, and she'd listen with distracted nods. Then you noticed that she'd be done eating sooner and would sat hunched over crossed legs, arms outstretched to rest her wrists on her knees with eyes downcast, probably tuning you out as she gathered her bearings for the evening.

And then she started looking at you. Small glances at first until she had enough courage to look right at you as you talked. Frankly, you weren't ready for her direct and steady gaze. It was so intense behind those yellow-tinted glasses gleaming in the light of the oil lamp. Her eyes were warm like the bark of the sakura bonsai in your room.

It startled you. "W-what is it?"

She raised her brows dubiously. "Nothing? You were saying?"

You narrowed your eyes at her and continued your spiel about a poetry book you were gifted by a suitor. He was attempting to come off as open-minded about women being literate, but ended up offending you with the works of a man who clearly viewed women as beneathe even animals.

Mizu's head slowly tilted to the side, an elbow balanced on her knee to lift her fist, resting her cheek upon its knuckles as she continued to listen. You felt hot in the ears and looked away.

"I-I should let you sleep, I suppose," you stammered. "Long day tomorrow."

"More suitors to chase away?" she asked, a chortle behind her throat. "I'll do you a favor in exchange for missing today's payment."

Your head snapped over to her. "Mizu, I never saw them as payments. I...assumed they were gifts."

"Nothing's ever free. Neither should be your hospitality. Or your silence. Or the farmer's."

You sighed. "You don't have to pay for tonight."

"Then I'm incurring debt."

"No!" you groaned exasperatedly and shot up to your feet, swiping the tray of empty dishes from before her and rushing to the steps. "Just sleep, Mizu. We'll discuss this later."

The next morning, you found a pair of weighted gauntlets by the stack of hay Mizu had claimed as her resting spot. Metal, and quiet heavy. You'd noticed them on her wrists and ankles before.

"Goodness..." you gasped as you picked them up. "Heavy!"

How she could move with those on was beyond your comprehension, except that she must be exceptionally strong. Well, you knew that from the first time you and her met, and how she flipped you over. It was unusual for a woman to have that kind of strength, but it was inspiring to you.

A note on the ground caught your attention.

Collateral, it read. You rolled your eyes and safely put the gauntlets away where no one would see. That evening, Mizu came with her "payment". A book with a beautiful deep blue ribbon embroidered in gold.

Mizu looked quite despondent when she held it out. You took it cautiously—almost fearful, really—and noticed that it was slightly charred in some places. You leafed through it. Poetry.

"She would've wanted it to go to someone who'd appreciate it..." Mizu muttered as she walked past you to settled down onto the hay.

You turned to her inquisitively. "Won't you eat?"

"Don't have an appetite," she grumbled and slightly curled into herself, pulling the corner of the folded blanket over her body. You were confused and looked through the book a little more, finding some pages with smudged ink, as if the writer had cried over them. There were tiny splatters of something dark—blood. As you turned the pages, you noticed the writing becoming more erratic, and sentences becoming nonsensical.

You exaled sharply as something akin to grief came over you. "Mizu, is this...what happened?"

She only sighed. Whatever the truth was, you couldn't imagine how tragic it must've been for someone like Mizu to be affected by it. Even more so, how tragic life must've been for the one who wrote the poetry. Holding the notebook to your chest, you pulled the gauntlets out from their hiding place on the beam above and slowly walked over to her, lowering onto your knees.

"Mizu," you said softly, "whatever it was, don't punish yourself. Please eat."

She sighed again, more deeply than before. "I'm...too tired."

"Then let me help," she said. "I...don't have change for your payment, so let me account for it."

You couldn't believe that it pulled a chuckle from Mizu as she weakly turned onto her back. That's when you noticed the ash on her cheekbone and jaw. Her clothes smelled of smoke...and something else. Burned flesh, but only a hint of it.

You didn't want to think about what she'd been through that day.

Arranging the hay behind her, she leaned back against it to sit up as you pulled the tray over. You softened the bread in the thick soup, hoping it wouldn't have Mizu chewing too much. As you raised the deep spoon to her lips, you caught her watching you intently from behind her amber frames. Warmth rose to your cheeks, and you set your lips in a thin line to avoid making a strange face of embarrassment. You looked at her mouth, watching her lips glisten with a thin sheen of soup.

Much to your surprise, you were overcome with the urge to wipe them. With your own lips.

Mizu quickly licked them clean and snapped you out of your intrusive thoughts, and heat flared around your neck. You turned away quickly to fill up the spoon with more soup and bread, trying to compose yourself in those few seconds. When you faced her again, she had a smirk on her face.

You wanted to smack it away.

"What?" you demanded, your voice much higher than you expected it to be.

Mizu only shook her head lightly and reajusted her glasses. "It's amusing to see someone of your social standing be so..."

"Subservient?" you offered sourly.

She shook her head. "Nurturing."

It came out so soft and tender that your lips parted in surprise. It didn't help with the flush creeping down your shoulders. "We're taught to be, though. We have to care for our husbands this way eventually."

"Ahh," she nodded teasingly, "so I'm your practice husband."

"Mizu!"

She only gave you a lopsided grin before taking the spoon in your hand to feed herself. "Eat your dinner. The change is accounted for, I believe."

You rolled your eyes and did as told, happy to have an excuse to not burn up under her gaze despite the autumn chill. Eating faster than normal, you were hyperaware of Mizu watching you. Constantly.

"What is it?" you hissed at her from behind your bowl of soup. "Is there something on my face?"

She shrugged. "You're just...pretty."

"Huh? Why—you—" you scoffed. "What are you playing at?"

She shrugged again. "I don't blame your family for rushing to marry you off. You're pretty, and men see that. You make yourself even more desirable by making yourself unattainable. Must be a headache for your father."

"What on earth do you mean?"

She raised a brow at you over her own bowl of soup that she sipped from. Tipping her head back to finish it up, she set the bowl down and wiped her mouth. "Word's on the street that you're a challenge to conquer. It's got some Daimyōs talking. Even heard rumors about how you're setting up booby traps for suitors to get through."

"Oh, those aren't rumors," you said immediately before slapping a hand on your mouth. That came out too easily. "Please don't tell anyone I'm doing it on purpose. My parents don't know. They think people are being ridiculous."

Mizu grinned that same lopsided grin again. "Quite the woman you are. Who are you waiting for exactly?"

You.

The thought came to you without hesitation, and you felt embarrassed. It made no sense. Mizu was a woman. How could you, as a woman, feel for another woman? But it just felt so natural for some reason.

You'd never liked anyone so much. Ever.

"I'm waiting for no one," you grunted. "You know that."

"You're waiting for something, that's for sure."

With a huff, you gathered the empty dishes and piled them onto the tray. You didn't want to be interrogated only to be laughed at, especially when she knew everything about you.

And you knew nothing but her name.

"What about you, then?" you demanded. "What's your deal? You come and go as you please, but I don't even know if you're a criminal."

"A secret for a secret, eh?" she said thoughtfully as she fell deeper into the hay, hands clasped over her stomach. "Tough bargain. I have too many, and neither will satisfy any of your curiosities."

"How can someone have too many secrets?" you said on the verge of annoyance. "Does no one know anything about you?"

She raised her brow at you with a pointed look as she reached for her straw Kasa hat, placing it over her face as she relaxed back completely. Before you knew it, she was breathing deeply, but not snoring.

You had one question, though.

Setting the tray down, you shuffled over to her and got down on your knees. With a hooked finger under the brim of her Kasa, you pulled it up to reveal her face. Her eyes scrunched behind her glasses as the light of the oil lamp sneaked in.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Your glasses," you stated. "Tell me why you wear them."

"And get myself killed?"

"You're so dramatic, Mizu," you grumbled.

She popped open an eye. "If you're so curious, take them off yourself."

Simple enough, you thought, and moved to do so. Your lack of attentiveness came as no surprise to Mizu as she grabbed your outstretched hand by the wrist and moved like lightning. And then you were on your back with hands pinned over your head, straddled by Mizu.

Your face was on fire.

Past the bitter scent of combat and injury, she smelled of sweet wood, incense, a hint of sweat, and some of the staleness of hay.

"Did you forget what you're dealing with?" she laughed deeply from her chest, and you cleared your throat as you tried to find the words to say. She was pretty up close as she swept an endearing gaze your way, as if she thought of you as nothing more than a defenseless fawn who couldn't walk yet.

"I-I don't know what you are," you stammered. "Also, how do you move that fast?!"

It was then that her glasses slid a little lower down her nose. Only a little, but just enough for you to get a glimpse of something where it shouldn't be.

Blue.

Her eyes were blue.

You gasped, and Mizu's hands were off you in a flash as she pushed her glasses back up. She curled away from you, almost scandalized as she shoved herself up to stand with a displeased grunt.

"M-Mizu, I didn't–"

"It wasn't your fault," she cut in so coldly that you felt the chill deep in your bones. "I was careless. Too careless. I let my guard down, and that was a mistake."

"It's really not that serious."

"Not to you," she seethed over her shoulder, glaring through her golden spectacles rendering her beautiful blue irises a molten brown of fury. She was angry, though not at you. "I should go."

Before you could say anything, she'd gathered her things in a flash and slipped out of the window.

And she didn't come back.

⋅ ⚔ ⋅

You never stopped going to the barn. It was your safe space, after all. Autumn came, but Mizu never showed herself.

Sometimes you felt like you were being watched, or that a foreign shadow flitted past, but you'd ignore it. Other times, you caught a whiff of her scent, but you knew you were just imagining it.

You missed her, but you never said it out loud. All you'd do is leave food out for her every evening, and come back to it untouched, stale, and cold.

Until the first morning of winter.

The bowl was empty, and there was a beautiful Kanzashi with ornaments of purple iris flowers hanging off a braided thread.

You'd just broken your favorite Kanzashi last night.

"Mizu?" you gasped, looking around desperately. A soft thud from behind alerted you, and you turned quickly to a silhouette darkened by the cold sunlight pouring in from the window behind them.

But it was oh-so-familiar. When the Kasa came off, Mizu's face looked right at you.

She took her glasses off.

Your mouth went dry at the vibrant shade of blue peering at you, making your heart soar. And you couldn't help it. Your feet moved on their own, running in small steps due to the tight wrap of your damned kimono as you threw your arms around her waist. The warmth of her body was a comforting solace to the reality of her presence, and it enveloped you like a lover's embrace.

"You're okay," you breathed shakily against her heartbeat. It sped up under your ear, though you weren't sure why. "Where did you go?"

She wasn't breathing, and she was quite skinny in your embrace despite her obvious strength. You felt her uncertain hand on your back as her chest finally deflated.

"I had to go to Kyushu."

You pulled away and looked up at her. "K-Kyushu? That's so far away! Whatever for?"

She only shook her head. You finally let go of her, clearing your throat as you put some distance between yourselves, cold air rushing into the space between your bodies in a way that agoonized you. Straightening out your clothes, you tried to think of something to say.

"I'll get you some lunch."

"But–"

"I've been worried sick about you and the last thing I want is an argument about payment or debt," you snapped. "As punishment for your absence, you'll do as I say for as long as you were gone!"

Mizu blinked down at you in surprise, pursing her lips slightly as a hint of amusement spread over her features. She was clearly trying hard to restrain it.

"As you say, Oujo-sama."

Your hand instinctively flew for her face. It was intended to be a light and playful smack of warning, but Mizu caught it inches away from her cheekbone. She gripped your hand in hers securely, the warmth of her blood seeping onto your skin as she tugged you into her shadow.

You gasped softly, stumbling close to her chest with only the backs of your hands between each other's faces. Mizu stared at you with furrowed eyebrows, trying to convey something through her stern gaze as she—to your utter surprise—pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

Your knees almost gave away. Her lips were soft on your skin, and her breath fanned over your fingers as she pulled away, the sound of her parting lips fizzling into the air intimately. Your eyes zeroed in on her mouth, feeling faint tingles of...of yearning spread over your tongue for a taste of her.

"I missed you."

You'd both said it, breathlessly and shamelessly. Except that neither of you really knew what the other meant by that confession. For all you knew, it was all sisterly affection on her part. [A/n: useless fckn sapphics istfg both of you]

"Oh, um..." you flushed with heat as you tore your gaze off hers. "Well, I'm glad you were thinkng about me."

Mizu said nothing, only gripping your hand tighter. "Won't you sit with me?"

"Let me at least bring you some food," you insisted. "I'm hungry, and you must be too."

She raised a brow at you. "Your family's quite lenient, letting you eat alone during the day."

"Oh, no, they think I'm trying to lose weight for–"

You paused. Mizu probably didn't know, and this wasn't how you wanted to break it to her.

"I'll be back," you said quickly and slipped out of her grasp, missing her touch and closeness instantly as you scurried away.

When you returned, Mizu had made herself comfortable in the same spot of hay as she used to. You set down the food, and the conversation flowed as naturally as it did before. Well, it was just you rambling on again, but you told her about the ash-dusted poetry book, how much you loved it, but no details about its writer.

You were sure she was long dead.

Mizu listened more attentively than ever before, or maybe she was gone for so long that you forgot what it was like to be heard at all. Either way, you two talked into the sunset, and you had the farmer bring in dinner for the two of you. You didn't want to let Mizu out of your sight for even a second, fearful that she might disappear forever again.

In the cloak of the dark night with its sequin of stars, you and Mizu shared a blanket on the roof of the barn. Mizu had coolly swung herself up from the window, but you were smarter and simply used the ladder inside. And there you were, pointing out constellations to her and telling her of the stories that inspired them.

Then there was silence, and it wasn't very comfortable. Not for you, anyway. You knew you had to tell her the situation before you left the barn for your room.

"I'm...getting married," you said, "as soon as spring comes."

You were hoping for a reaction that would convince you to go against the fate your parents had decided.

"To who?" she asked coolly, completely unaffected. Your heart sank.

"A daimyō of the Akamatsu clan," you replied, subdued. "Weird guy. Doesn't talk much."

She hummed. "Does it bother you?"

"I guess..." you sighed. "I talk because I want an opinion on things. I could just talk to myself or a statue if I didn't want a response at all."

Mizu seemed to grow sheepish. "Sorry," she muttered, but you only shook your head. You understand she hadn't grown up around the things you had.

"I like that you asked me things," you said. "That's more than what most of these suitors do to impress me."

Mizu smiled. "Something's better than nothing, I guess. Will you be okay, though? Getting married and all?"

You shrugged. "Not like I have a choice, do I?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "Someone like you wouldn't survive being destitute when your father passes. Given your reputation, you'd be...taken advantage of a lot."

"Ah, you heard..." you muttered. Her father's health wasn't public knowledge yet, but you weren't surprised that Mizu still managed to get wind of it.

"Well," she sighed in a bittersweet way, "when you're married, that means no more warm dinners for me. Better find another naive Oujo-sama to take care of me."

You punched her arm, and she laughed huskily up at the stars.

"I take it that you're back here for a while," you said, and Mizu nodded. "Then I'll arrange for something at my husband's residence. We don't have to stop meeting."

"Too risky."

"How else will I be able to help?" you grumbled. "It's not like I can run away to live a life on the road with you, can I?"

Mizu was silent for a moment, as if contemplating it. She eventually shook her head. "No. You'd...hold me back."

She didn't have to say that out loud, you frumbled internally.

"What do you do anyway?" you prodded. "Or is that still a secret?"

"Sort of..." she mumbled. "It's...something I've prepared for since I was a child. A plan of revenge."

You were sure she meant to sound a little more serious, but she just seemed tired.

"I'm getting there," she continued. "I'm getting closer, I think. Something's in the air, and I don't think it'll be long before I have to travel somewhere far again."

Your heart clenched in your chest. "Is it so important? Why can't you just...stay here and live a comfortable life? You'll die if you keep getting injured."

"A rare occurrence."

"Still!"

"Like I said, I've prepared for it all my life."

You knew there was no talking her out of it. "Fine, do as you wish. I'm heading back down. It's cold."

Mizu nodded, and she helped you down the ladder in the darkness, following after you with the blanket in one arm. You watched her walk past you to the haystack lit up by the moonlight, preparing for the night. You didn't want to go just yet, but the oil lamp had run out of flame.

"I'm scared," you blurted out suddenly. Mizu paused and turned sideways to look at you. "I'm scared of getting married."

They looked sympathetic. "Why?"

"I...I don't know," she sighed. "My mother, she gave me some strange pictures and..."

Mizu laughed softly and plopped down into the hay beckoning you over. "It's not all that scary when you're both ready for it."

You shuffled over to sit on your knees by her side, feeling constricted in the kimono as always. "How do you know?"

"I was married once."

"To a man?" you said disappointedly.

She raised a teasing brow, smirking mischievously. "I wasn't aware that marrying women was an op–"

"Ignore what I said," you grumbled, earning the small lopsided grin you'd missed so much. "I'm just worried I'll disappoint my husband and, in turn, my family as well."

Mizu stared at you incredulously. "Wait, you've...have you never had a lover before?"

You scoffed. "Why would I? I simply had no interest."

"Good grief..." she stared at you in a daze. "Wow, you're really just...going into this head first."

Nodding sadly, you looked away as your heart lurched in your chest, followed by a flare of heat up your neck. "I just...wish I knew what it would be like. It's too late for that, though. The whole town will know about my engagement tomorrow. I mean, I doubt my husband-to-be cares if I have a secret lover either way, but..."

Your hands, stacked on your lap, twitched with something. An urge, a yearning, especially for closeness to Mizu. You bravely looked up at her as your heart lurched in your chest.

"Could you tell me what it'll be like?"

She looked back at you uncertainly. "It's not something that can be explained, really."

"Oh..." you sighed, looking off to the side nervously to avoid her gaze. You were hoping she would've taken the hint, but there really was no point to trying. Mizu was married to a man once, and she seemed to remember it quite fondly.

So imagine the surprise when you felt the back of her fingers gently caress your cheek. Your mouth went dry when Mizu cupped your jaw, turning your face to hers.

"I...could show you," she whispered almost breathlessly, red in the ears with a heavy gaze that searched your face in the soft moonlight pouring through the window. "I guess I'd know how to prepare you as a woman myself."

You weren't entirely sure what she meant just yet, so you simply went along with it. "That makes sense, yes."

In the darkness of the night, you heard her shuffle and felt the flutter of her fabric on your wrist. The hand on your jaw moved to brush away the stray locks from your face, fingers brushing your temple and tucking your hair behid your ear. You lost your breath as her nose brushed yours, feeling her breath on your lips. The air between your bodies grew warmer despite the immense cold of the night, enveloping you completely. Heat rolled off her body onto yours like a gentle hearth, except that you were compelled to throw your hands into the embers regardless of the burn.

But you remained patient.

She was close. So close, enough to feel the warmth of her lips on yours. Your eyes fluttered shut, and Mizu's trailing fingers up the side of your neck left sparks of pleasure in their wake. You stayed right where you were, frozen, expectant, your heart pounding harder by the moment until her fingers delicately grabbed your chin.

She pulled you in, and you exhaled sharply as her slightly chapped mouth momentarily brushed yours. Your heart soared, and your soul practically left your body as an electric blossom sparked from your chest and throughout your whole body. She pecked you cautiously, the sweet sound of parting lips dissipating faintly into the air as every cell of your skin buzzed with the awarness of her presence.

You opened your eyes a peek to see Mizu looking at you with concern and curiosity.

"Th-that wasn't so bad," you whispered. Mizu nodded, and your hands found the panels of her haori, clutching onto them as she leaned down to kiss you again. This time, she was firmer. Her hand closed on your throat, a thumb admiring its slender side before sliding to the back of your neck. You mewled softly as her fingers clutched your hair at the nape with restrained desperation that you didn't realize she had. The seemingly unfeeling and reclusive vagabond had a crack in her mask, through which escaped her soft and ardent sigh. You pulled her in closer, wishing to feel her skin on yours, fingertips tracing her clavicle to trail over the bone of her shoulder. Her other hand reached for your waist with purpose, hooking her fingers under your obi to pull you in with a simple yet strong tug.

You huffed upon feeling her body flush against yourself. Your other hand splayed above her breast, not on purpose, but she didn't seem to mind, too engrossed in cushioning your lips with the warmth of her own. Her arm around your back kept your knees from giving away, leaning into you as you tried to stay upright, her kiss tender yet coupled with something akin to need. It was making you dizzy, and you could barely keep your eyes open. You moaned softly, feeling small and secure in her embrace.

Mizu huffed as she paused, pulling you into her lap so she could kiss you better. Her hand clasped your jaw gently with practiced restraint, guiding your mouth open to press her warm tongue against yours.

Oh... you thought helplessly with a faint whine. That's lovely.

The sound you made seemed to have encouraged Mizu as she kissed you deeper, and you found yourself getting drunk on the way she felt; like cool and pure water swirling on your tongue. You'd surrendered to her, falling limp in her very strong embrace as she quenched herself upon your lips. Your hands clamored for her neck, fingers slipping into her hair to keep her where she was so you could continue to remain intoxicated, kissing her back fervently through the small mewls from your throat that you couldn't hold back.

Much to your disappointment, Mizu pulled away, breathing heavily through slightly swollen lips tinged with red. Her breasts pressed against yours with each inhale, and you loved the way it felt.

"Well..." she muttered shakily, "that's how it starts."

You peered up at her through your eye lashes, not really thinking straight. "And where does it go?"

"A-are you sure?"

You giggled, feeling victory in finally getting her to lose composure. "Unless you believe this is a sufficient enough lesson, then—"

Her kiss effectively silenced you, one that was even deeper than the last. She grabbed around your shoulders to pull you closer as she hoisted your higher on her lap. You let out a sound of surprise at her strength, and also of shame as her thigh pressed into a sensitive spot between yours, eliciting a throb of warmth that you were quite unfamiliar with.

She kissed you truly now, like she'd really missed you, softly nipping at your bottom lip after sucking on it when pulling back momentarily, then diving in to explore your mouth once more. You tried to express your desire for her in return by kissing her back, but she was too strong. She'd completely dominated you.

Her fingers dug into your obi, trying to find your curves while grunting into your mouth with displeasure. You pushed her back the best you could, finding a sliver of space between your bodies to undo your layers. You wanted to kiss her without hindrance, and your clothes didn't help. Before you knew it, your lapels fell away, and her hand slipped past the fabric to caress your bare shoulder as you shuddered from the chill of the air.

She leaned down and kissed right at the swell of your breast that peeked over your loosened neckline, following up to your shoulder. The softness of her lips trailing your cleavage elicited quiet mewls of ecstasy that turned to shuddering exhales as her tongue licked up the side of your neck, sucking lightly with breathy groans vibrating against your skin. She paused to breathe, looking up at you for your certainty. The wait was unbearable, especially since you'd been longing for this moment for ages without ever realizing it. Taking her hand, you nervously slid it down your cleavage, breathing heavily as her fervent palm slid onto your breast.

Mizu's eyes grew heavier, her callused fingers squeezing gently to fondle you. A soft, embarrassed gasp left you as her thumb ran over your nipple.

"Is...this how it goes?" you asked timidly, and Mizu gulped, licking her lips as her breath labored. She pulled you in closer, hoisting you higher on her hips until her breath fanned across your sternum, her fingers having pulled away the fabric to now reveal your bare torso to her under the moonlight for her blue eyes to gaze on.

"I..." she exhaled with a stagger, "I must warn you that your husband might not...take his time with you as I will."

You furrowed your brows. "What do you mean?"

Her eyes locked with yours as her face loomed closer to your left bosom, her eager and supple tongue glinting with spit as she pressed it against your soft peak to swipe over it. The rush of pleasure had you gasping, and her lips closed around your aerola with a gentle, wet suckle that pooled electrifying, aching throbs between your thighs. Mizu's hands immediately rose from your hips to your waist, holding you still as her eyes fluttered shut, and you felt her tongue run slow circles over the sensitive bud of your breast languidly.

"M-Mizu..." you gasped sharply, unable to escape her arms wrapping around you as your pelvis pressed against her firm abdomen. Your hips rolled against her on their own accord, your pulsing canal growing damp as it searched desperately for something. Somewhere in the soft folds between your legs was a bud that ached to be touched, and a shot of pleasure permeated from it througout your pelvis as Mizu pressed her body against you, a hand gripping the back of your thigh as her hips rolled up between your legs.

Mizu's chest rose and fell against your ribs heavily as she pulled away from your chest, leaving your damp breast vulnerable to the cool night air. "Y/n, tell me if you want me to stop."

"I don't," you whispered needily, and it was all it took for her to flip you against the haystack and be on top of you. You gasped, heart pounding as she loomed over you, keeping you in her shadow as the rest of your clothes came undone under her watchful gaze. Though you'd been naked before your female servants during baths and whilst being dressed, this was neither of those occassions.

Mizu looked like she was going to devour you.

The shyness overtook you like a wave, arms crossing over your chest as your bare legs remained parted around Mizu's waist. You felt so much more exposed than ever before, yet there was a sense of safety that came from the tenderness in her cobalt irises. Your eyes locked with hers, searching each other as her fingertips trailed down your arms, feathery touches tickling over your waist and navel as they approached the most private spot where the inside of your thighs began.

"Again..." Mizu said gently yet firmly, with a slight tremble in her voice, "you can tell me to stop."

You shook your head, more curious than nervous about what was to come. Instinctively, you knew where her hand would go. You wanted her to touch you there. You just weren't sure what she would do when—

"OH!"

The unexpectedly overwhelming pleasure of her soft touch brushing over your nub sent your back arching, eliciting a wantonly moan that was much louder than you would've allowed, and Mizu's mouth fell upon yours immediately to silence you. But it was difficult to keep your voice down when her fingers felt so heavenly swiping over the sensitive button hidden in the damp folds. You writhed under her, your knees held apart by her hips as her free arm wrapped around your arched waist to keep you steady. As she drank your surprised mewls, her fingertip petted your moist lips lovingly at your damp entrance, circling over them with a gentle pressure as her knuckles pressd onto your nub.

"Mizu," you cried between breaths against her lips, body tensing up as the ecstasy grew intense, "I—how—"

"Shh," she whispered. "Breathe. Let your body ease into it."

"I—I can't!" you gasped, feeling your walls pulsing quicker, harder as the slick dampness trickled out of you, your walls begging for something to squeeze down on. "I need more of you." It was the only way it made sense to say it. "Please..."

Mizu's mouth pressed harder against yours almost reluctantly, as if she enjoyed hearing you plead. Her fingertips pressed tentatively at the edges of your entrance, exhaling sharply as she collected your nectar to glide up your slit and carress your bud with care, only making you squeal into her mouth.

"This is how you should get," she muttered breathlessly against your tongue, "or it'll hurt when it goes in."

"W—hat goes in?" you stammered. [A/n: was gonna make the "Inserts himself? Inserts himself where?" reference from Bridgerton s3 over here lol]

She didn't give you time to think as a slender digit slipped into you easily, causing your jaw to drop and all air to be lost from your lungs with the way your walls closed around her fingers with unquenchable thirst. "Fuck!"

Your words were lost to her lips once more as another finger slipped in, stretching you out comfortably, but it was the way your canal contracted around them that sent intense waves of pleasure throughout your entire core, jolsting your hips against her palm that cupped your vulva. If her fingers inside you weren't already driving you crazy, the pressure of her palm's heel on your clit was definitely doing it. And before you could even process how the overwhelming fervor consumed your body, she began to pump her fingers inside you.

Slowly.

You were forcing yourself to breathe at this point as the pleasure seized every muscle in your body, trying to comprehend Mizu's digits sliding out teasingly with your walls begging for them to not leave, before she rammed them back into you deep enough to knock her knuckles against your lower lips, sending shockwaves through your entire body. The sound of it, her skin and bone against your thick coating of wetness, only added to the arousal, and Mizu finally stopped kissing you to let you breathe, looking down at you with a daze like wonder as her hand moved once more, thrusting into your core deeply, rigorously, her fingertips finding a particularly sensitive spot in the depths of your crevice that pulled strangled mewls and cries from your lips.

"Everyone's going to hear you," Mizu chuckled deeply. "You have to try being quite. Breathe."

She held you close, her warmth pressing through her clothes and onto your bare body as her lips savored your neck with a gentleness that opposed the way she pumped into you with vigor. The sweetness of her kiss riddled your head with euphoria, making you lightheaded. You could barely keep your eyes open anymore against the budding pleasure in your core, rendering you senseless.

Your hands flailed over her body for grounding as you begged her to keep going, your fingernails digging into her shoulders, breasts bouncing against her chest from the force of her thrusts, and your form instinctively curling against her. You could feel yourself getting sore, but you didn't want her to stop as a sensation in your core pulled like a band, growing tighter and tighter until, suddenly, it released with a sharp snap.

"MIZU!" you cried out, your spine arching like a snapped twig as your hips jumped, pulling your pelvis off her fingers as a violent shudder of bliss ebbed throughout to gush from you like an endless river. Mizu's hand slapped onto your mouth to contain your moans, and you tried to catch your breath, each inhale softening the intensity of whatever addictive buzz had overtaken you. The trembling came from your bones, rendering your twitching body limp in Mizu's arms as she fell away onto her back and pulled you close, reaching out for your undone robes to drape over you before wrapping you in her arms securely.

"That..." you huff as you hid your face into her shoulder, "that was really...um..."

"Yeah," she said softly. "Except it won't be his fingers inside you."

"Shut up," you groaned. "I don't want to talk about him right now."

She chuckled. "If you wanted to bed me, you could've just asked instead of using your wedding night nerves as an excuse."

You smacked her chest with your fist, but it didn't silence her. You were still twitching, but the high of the pleasure had died down quite a bit, leaving you exhausted like never before. It was hard to keep your eyes open, but the fear of waking up to Mizu gone kept your fingers clutched on her haori.

"Please don't leave me like this..." you muttered. "Don't...don't go away."

She patted your back almost affectionately. Well, it felt like it at least. "I'm here for a little while. Don't worry."

Though you didn't quite believe her, you decided to accept it before finally allowing yourself to be lulled to sleep.

⋅ ⚔ ⋅

─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────────── A/n: NGL my insecurity about my writing skills have come back. Been working on it in therapy but maybe this is something that will stay. I just need to make the concious decision to persist regardless of how negatively I feel about my craft. ─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────────────

#mizu #bes #blue eye samurai #mizu x reader #mizu x you #mizu x y/n #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #wlw content #lesbian pride #yuri #lesbian writers

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edward-munson · 7 days ago

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kissing the cold away | E.M.

Summary: Eddie always visits you at the coffee place during his breaks, ordering the same drink every day.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!reader

Word count: 1.6k

No warnings

❆☕︎

Eddie walked in the coffee place, trying to warm his hands that were almost hard as rock from the cold. It was snowing outside, and he was on his break.

The Hideout was in the same street as your work. He would always come to get coffee whenever he was free in the afternoon. It was always almost by 4 pm. The bell above the door rang and you looked at it, facing him. He was wearing a black beanie, leather jacket on top of a sweater and ripped jeans. God. He can never let go of his style, even when it's freezing cold.

He sits on the stool close to the espresso machine. He loved the smell of it. He loved the smell of it mixed with your perfume, actually. And it's probably something he could never admit out loud. You turn around and shoot him a warm smile. One that makes your eyes crinkle. He smiles back at you and crosses his arm on top of the counter.

"What can I get you today, nerd?"

He grabs the menu from the counter and lifts it up to his face. You roll your eyes. He pretends he's reading the list of coffee options. You know he just likes to drink cold brew with almond milk. You don't know how or why. Even if it's not that, he just chooses a Frappuccino instead. You think it's because it's warm inside, because how else would he drink that outside? Might as well just pick up the snow from the floor and make a snow cone.

"Uhhhh" He stalls, purposely. "I'm going to want a cold brew with almond milk. And please add extra ice"

You gasp. You're not sure if he's joking or not. He starts chuckling, throwing his head back.

"Wouldn't you like me to pick some ice from outside? Maybe there's some with pee on them" You retorted, playfully mocking him.

"Now that's–" He points his finger at you in objection "Really low of you, honey"

You melt with the nickname. Your ears start to burn immediately every time he calls you that. You're not sure it's because you're shy, or because it sounds too sweet coming from him.

You shrug and start his order as you catch up with the news of the day. He says he's going to play a small gig next weekend. You tell him you're going to have a week off next month.

He drinks his coffee and makes a scene whenever he takes a sip. He closes his eyes, knitting his brows, and his lips leaves a sigh in delight.

"You're such a dork"

He muses towards you, placing the mug on the counter, and tilts his head.

"A dork yes, but you love him"

You eye him up and down and grimace mockingly. "Yeah, you wish"

You turn your back to him, only to serve a new customer. He watches as you smile at them, giving them suggestions about the drinks. He swallows his coffee slowly, gulping when you glance at him for a split second before using the machine.

He suddenly became incapable of speaking. You're just in your usual barista uniform, your hair tied in two small braids on the front. Your eyeliner is very discreet. Eyelashes with mascara fluttering as well. Your makeup is so light, and yet it lasts an entire day.

His coffee is sitting on the counter for almost five minutes, because that's how long it took for you to finally be free to talk to him again. You look at it first, and then to his face.

"Your coffee ain't getting colder, you know" You speak up, nudging your head towards the mug.

He creases his brows in confusion, looking down at it. Eddie didn't think he was being too slow to drink his coffee today and you seemed to have noticed it though.

"What do you mean? I'm a slow drinker" He tries to be bold about it, but you scoff at him.

"You almost always inhale your drinks. Unless it's a Negroni, which is like the worst drink ever"

Eddie opens his mouth in offense. "Don't you dare speak of the best recipe invented!"

You're staring at him, defiantly. You're leaning against the counter, holding the edge of it with both hands. He downs the entire cold brew, placing the mug back on the counter. He licks his lips and glances up at you, wiggling his brows.

"Now you're just going to get a brain freeze, dork" You giggle at him.

Eddie is the king of acting. So when you least expect from him, he shows his skills. "Ow, fuck. Ow, ow"

He's squirming in his seat, one hand spread over his forehead like he's having a headache. You immediately take a step further and hold his head with both hands, looking concerned. He removes his hand from his face and smirks at you.

"You're the most insufferable person I know, Munson" He watches as you slap his hands away, laughing at your reaction. "You finished your beverage. Now get out of here"

He is still giggling at you. Your face might show how annoyed you are, but deep down you match his energy. His sense of humor is one of the things you like the most about him. You love the way there's never a bad time for him, even if he's short on money.

"Hey, you can't kick your clients out! It's snowing outside, it's a crime to let people freeze"

When you look at him, he knows you're about to be serious. "I'm gonna commit a crime myself if you don't stop annoying me"

Your forehead is wrinkly because of your eyebrows that are knitted. He tries not to laugh at you, but he finds it difficult when he's having fun pushing you.

"Sorry, honey. Just trying to lighten up your day a little more" He raises his hands up in surrender, his bangs moving as he shakes his head.

He stays there until he has to get back to work. He tells you the most stupid jokes, he tries to flirt with your friend Betty and when you try to whack him with your dish cloth, he shields himself with the menu. Eddie makes your day better, no matter how it's going. He knows when you're in a bad mood, too, which makes him dial down his clownish demeanor.

He always offers to pick you up from work and drive you home. Even if you live only a few blocks after him. He doesn't care if he has to go back. You try to bring your own food every day so you eat better, but sometimes he makes up the idea of having different food whenever he thinks of it. And today you were going to eat pizza.

You're sitting on your couch as Thundercats is on TV. You talk through eating and watching the TV, laughing every now and then when you start gossiping.

Eddie finds the most random things to talk about and, strangely enough, you like to hear about them. He geeks out about Lord of the Rings and D&D, which you don't understand but you nod anyway.

You're talking about your plans to go to college, rambling over your insights, and how you're planning on getting a place to share with Robin. You're distracted by your own subject, when Eddie impulsively reaches out his hand to rub off the pizza sauce from the corner of your mouth. He slightly ran his rough thumb over your skin, removing the stain off of it.

He gave you a kind smile as soon as he dropped his hand back to his plate. You sheepishly smiled, like you just lost confidence by standing next to him.

Sometimes he doesn't want to leave your place, he wishes you would ask him to stay, but he doesn't want to overstep his limits. As he dries the dishes, Eddie stays in his daydream, thinking of how he could ever ask you out. Because he would love to. He just wouldn't know if you'd love to.

As you stand on your doorstep, you say goodbye to each other while he makes another joke or two. It's always like that, he wants to make sure you're still having a good day when you lie in bed.

It didn't cross your mind before, but now it feels like you could actually have him around sometimes. Do some sleepover, or something. You take a step towards him, lifting your feet up to stand on his height. You press your lips against his cheek, inhaling his fragrance that slightly lingers on his skin. One of your hands reaches for his shoulder for support.

Eddie stays frozen for a moment, until he holds your waist against his arm. Suddenly he doesn't feel cold anymore. He turned his head only a few inches, pecking your lips gently. They're plushy and soft. You don't know why you haven't done that before, and you're great he did for you.

He stands still, holding your face with his hand, rubbing his thumb over your chin. Both your noses are cold.

You're both a little shy. He can't express the feelings that are bubbling inside of him. But he doesn't want to cross a line yet. And he thinks you would agree with him.

"Till tomorrow, honey" He says as he takes a step back, walking to his car. "Don't forget to lock the door!"

You chuckle at his words. He's always been too protective over you.

Once he's inside his car, he buckles the seat belt and grins at himself. He's feeling like he's on cloud nine and it was only a kiss. Eddie stays in the car for a couple of minutes, digesting what happened. He tries to remember your taste, pinching his lower lip.

You're still standing by your door, your back leaning against it. Your heart is hammering against your chest, and you can't describe how good it was.

He can't wait to see you again tomorrow, and he wonders if he's still going to kiss you again. You can't wait to see him, wondering if he still wants to kiss you again.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x y/n #joseph quinn fanfic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction

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imagine-darksiders · 7 months ago

Text

Transformers Prime: Optimus + Reader. Chapter 1.

So, I read @lovinglonerhybrid 's post here. And it absolutely had me in a chokehold, so this is based off that premise. I'm in the UK so please excuse my ignorance of American states lmao.

So, there is a part 2 to this, but I'm going away for 4 days and wanted to get some of it posted before then.

You've broken down fifteen miles short of Jasper's city limits in the dead of night. Deciding to hike in to town, you feel the earth rumble beneath you, and over the horizon, something enormous approaches...

Chapter 1: 9352 words.

-------

It’s a rare and covetous thing, to find even a single moment of peace in the midst of an intergalactic war.

The gap from one of those precious moments to the next seems to grow wider and wider every time, until their frequency is so negligible, it becomes hard to recognise them for what they are anymore.

For everything Earth could have offered Optimus Prime, he hadn’t been expecting it to relinquish the gift of peace so willingly. But he’s glad – more than glad – to accept them when they come, even if he’s only stealing glimpses of tranquillity on the sand-swept road leading out of Jasper.

Low-beam headlights lazily trace over the faded tarmac ahead of Optimus’s tyres as he trundles along Highway 49, one of only two roads that surround the small, sleepy city of Jasper. It’s a very routine patrol, one he obligingly excused Bumblebee from taking after his poor scout all but begged Optimus to give it to someone else, beeping out promises that he’ll take double shift tomorrow night, if need be.

All this on the back of Miko announcing another of her ‘slumber parties’ at the base, much to Ratchet’s noisy chagrin and Optimus’s private amusement. And, of course, when Bumblebee found out that Rafael would be staying the night too… Well…

‘You’re too indulging,’ their old medic had admonished from his workstation, the broad expanse of his back turned to the Prime, ‘He ought to learn he can’t always have his way.’

But it was a harmless indulgence, and Prime was more than happy to take over the patrol in this instance.

Besides, he had an arguably selfish reason for doing so.

If he’d admitted as much out loud, Ratchet would have scoffed and sent a pulse of chiding dismissal crashing into Optimus’s EM field. ‘You don’t have a selfish component in your body,’ he might say.

But this… Optimus muses, gazing skyward as he trundles down the highway in vehicle mode, letting the crisp, night air slide through his grill and cool his powerful engine… This is the appeal of a solo patrol.

Every now and then, there are times when the Decepticon activity goes quiet, Fowler has nothing to report, and Optimus can almost pretend that he’s just another Cybertronian enjoying a long, quiet drive through the Mojave wilderness. And while he remains ever vigilant, keeping every sensor poised outwardly in a constant surveillance of his surroundings, the old bot still permits at least one sense to wander.

Somehow, it’s always his sight.

Oftentimes he catches himself doing it. Other times, on nights that are quiet and still and clear like this one, there’s a wire-deep longing that overrides his logic gates, and the Prime won’t notice that he isn’t keeping his processor and his optics on the dusty road ahead of him. He’s too busy stealing long, pensive looks at the stars above him, scattered like a-hundred-billion souls sprawling across a curtain of crushed velvet.

It’s out there… somewhere… riding a lonely orbit on the furthest reaches of the galaxy’s Centaurus arm.

Cybertron.

Home.

Their first home, he amends gently, depressing his accelerator to speed up when he realises he’s starting to crawl. Earth is as much their home now as Cybertron ever was.

Sagging on his suspension with a low hiss, Optimus drags his hidden optics back to the road ahead, and all at once, he nearly lurches to a halt, his exhaust pipes sputtering out a hollow sound to betray his surprise.

There, parked several feet from the road a few hundred yards ahead of him, is a vehicle.

Prime’s senses sharpen to a startling focus.

Pumping his brakes, he slows down again, and the roar of his engine fades to a fluctuating hum.

A Decepticon…?

He doesn’t feel anything trying to breach his EM field, nor does he pick up on any resistance when his scanners hone in on the vehicle – ‘Ford. F250. A Pickup truck.’ Year….? Optimus’s focus narrows to a pinprick… ‘Eighty-seven.’

It’s red - a faded, dusky red like some of the sun-baked sandstone at Red Rock Canyon. As Prime’s massive form rumbles on through the night, looming closer and closer to the mysterious truck, his lights reflect off something situated above its rear bumper, the presence of which quells his flaring codes and eases his rigid frame.

A number plate.

Thick, black numbers and letters stand out against the white rectangle, though it isn’t the sequence that alleviates Optimus’s suspicion, it’s their mere presence.

No Decepticon he knows would ever suffer the ‘indignity’ of having a human number plate stapled to their bumpers.

Primus, even the Autobots have foregone the accessory after Fowler gave up trying to keep Bumblebee from losing his, Ratchet from ‘misplacing’ his, and Bulkhead from bending his irreparably whenever he transformed. Optimus had given it a go, for a time… mainly because he was growing worried that their overworked liaison would quite simply combust if he had to intercept one more phone call from ‘concerned civilians’ who were reporting a semi-truck driving through Jasper without its registration.

The Prime’s number plate came to its own crumpled end when he sat down on his berth one evening without removing it first.

One genuine, slightly sheepish apology to a very fed-up liaison later, and Optimus was informed that he and his team no longer needed to wear the plates.

So, the presence of one on this truck is a good sign. It’s less likely to transform and cause an incident.

That does, however, open up an entirely new avenue for concern to creep in.

A crash, perhaps?

Several dark skid marks indicate that it must have veered off the road after a hard, panicked brake.

He can’t pick up any biological signatures either. Even when he casts a wider net, all his sensors catch are the heat signatures of a few tiny, Earthen mammals scurrying about over the sand before they dart into various rock formations when he rolls by. But just because he isn’t picking up the presence of a living human, it doesn’t negate the possibility of a human being inside…

Frame suddenly taut, Optimus trundles to a cautious halt on the road alongside the truck, his engine idling like some great, murmuring beast in the quiet of the desert.

A throaty hum seems to escape his smokestacks as he peers down at the smaller truck, contemplative… considering… Then finally, relieved. There doesn’t appear to be anyone inside, judging by what his headlights illuminate through the cab windows.

What is it doing out here?

It definitely wasn’t here yesterday when he made the drive into Jasper. It isn’t a vehicle he recognises either, and he’s been doubly vigilant of late regarding all the civilian cars, bikes, trucks, vans, and even agricultural vehicles in and around the town.

Privately, he’s been compiling a catalogue of them all, for his own reference.

If there’s a threat to his human charges lurking about in their hometown, Optimus needs to know about it. A Decepticon disguised as a civilian vehicle would be an effective method of infiltration.

Casting one more, cursory ping out into the night to check that he’s definitely alone, he at last begins to unfurl himself into his bipedal mode. Metal plating slides away from his grill, pulling back and rolling along the body of the semi as he rises onto newly revealed pedes. The mechanical whines, whirrs and buzzes are terribly loud and alien amongst the desert’s natural ambiance, but soon enough, the air falls still once again, and a monolithic Cybertronian stands in the place where a Peterbilt used to be.

Soft, cerulean light spills over the abandoned truck as Optimus settles his optics upon it, easing his enormous frame down into a crouch and draping one arm across his knee with a ‘clunk.’

At first glance, he hadn’t noticed anything especially odd about the truck save for its unexpected presence. Leaning sideways, he casts an optic over the front bumper and finds nothing out of place, no damage to indicate a crash, no broken headlights or crushed bonnet.

It’s the same story with the truck’s bed. Only when Optimus hauls himself upright and treads carefully around it to inspect the other side does he notices the glaring problem.

The whole vehicle is canting onto its offside front tyre, a tyre that sports a rather sizeable puncture, considering how flat it is. And from the looks of it, this one was only ever meant to be used as a temporary spare. A quick glance into the truck’s bed reveals what he assumes must be the original tyre, flat as well, with the silver head of a nail jutting from the centre tread block.

Optimus clicks his glossa softly for the owner’s run of bad luck.

Right away, he sends a ping to his team, advising them to be wary of stray nails along this stretch…

He receives several pings in return. Immediately comes Bumblebee’s frustration, buzzed over the airwaves like a sulking sparkling who’s been told his toy was broken. Given the Scout’s inclination to race at top speed all over these roads, Optimus doesn’t doubt he’s just vexed at the shuddersome notion of having to slow down.

Arcee and Bulkhead respond in kind as their leader absently moves his attention to something strange obscuring part of driver’s window, letting their concern wash over his field.

‘Popped a tyre, Boss?’ Bulkhead’s message hits his comm, informal and probing, but with the warmth of care behind it.

Optimus is quick to send a pulse of reassurance back through their shared channel. He’s fine. If one little nail was all it took to take a Prime out of commission, they’d all be in serious, serious trouble.

The channels go quiet after Arcee and Ratchet send their short, concise responses, and once again, Optimus is alone on the road, peering down at a small sheet of paper that’s been taped to the inside of the truck’s front window.

Gradually, he furrows his optical ridges until they almost click together into one, solid line, the apertures inside each optic whirring and shrinking as he reads the words scribbled on the paper.

He recalls the first time he encountered the languages of Earth as they were written. The looping letters, graceful and elegant, chasing one another across the front of the letter Agent Fowler gave him as part of an unofficial welcome to the United States.

Optimus had held the paper so delicately between two of his digits, blinking down at the dark ink soaked into repurposed cellulose fibre. It was beautiful.

When he remarked as such, Fowler made a noncommittal comment that you could tell a lot about humans from their handwriting.

Optimus would sometimes find himself glancing over the children’s homework when they left their books out unattended on the table in their recreational area.

Jack’s neat and sensible cursive. Miko’s chaotic, glittery script that rose and fell and ventured outside the lines because she was usually paying more attention to her music than the words she wrote in her textbook. And Rafael, of course, with his quick, almost frantic stokes of the pen as he tried to scribble his thoughts down as fast as his brain could make them, only to end up losing his confidence halfway through a sentence, doubled back, drew a single line through the words, and started again on a fresh page.

This handwriting though… written in blue, splotchy ink and stuck with a piece of scotch tape to the truck’s window, makes Fowler’s words ring true in Optimus’s processor.

He can tell a lot about the human who wrote it.

‘Please don’t steal/break into my truck,’ it reads. The word ‘please’ has been underlined several times. ‘Not worth much, it’s all I’ve got. Tyre is flat, spare tyre too, so can’t get far anyway. Walking to town to find help bcos phone died and I don’t have a charger. Be back soon. Thanks.’

The ink has run in several places and rendered some of the letters illegible, as if water has been dropped on them from above.

Optimus isn’t naïve. He’s seen the children cry, more times than he can bear.

Then underneath all that, in much smaller writing stuffed underneath the first message like an afterthought they forgot to leave enough space for…

‘P.s, if the truck is still here in 3 days, assume I’m dead.’

With a sudden groan of his metal frame, Optimus braces a servo on his knee and hurriedly pushes himself to his pedes once again, helm swivelling sideways to stare down the length of the road.

The truck’s nose is pointed in the direction of Jasper, but the town itself is still about a fifteen-mile drive…

Surely they wouldn’t make the journey on foot…

But if the note is any indication, then…

His processor flashes again to the children; Miko in particular, and the alarming disregard she has for her own safety. The boys are guilty of that as well, though to a lesser degree.

Suddenly, there’s a very high likelihood that there might be a human wondering through the vast Mojave, alone. Worse still, Bumblebee had reported just last week that there’s been an increase in Decepticon patrols in the area around Jasper. No doubt Megatron has been ramping up his efforts to locate the Autobot base. Their growing presence in the vicinity of town makes these roads particularly treacherous…

Optimus ex-vents roughly, more troubled than frustrated.

Blue optics narrow at the road ahead, and once again, the peace of the desert night is filled by the sounds of living metal collapsing back in on itself.

A powerful engine roars to life. Somewhere nearby, a startled jackrabbit darts beneath the safety of a sagebrush, hiding herself amongst its silvery leaves.

Unblinking, her wild eyes stare after the great, thrumming beast as it moves on down the road.

—————-

You’ve had a lot of ideas in your life.

Some good. Some bad. Some that have paid off, but most that have gone nowhere at all.

Perhaps you were growing tired of going nowhere…

What else would have possessed you to up and move all the way to the middle of Nevada state on the back of a job offer that came from a man your uncle purported to know?

‘Oh yeah, Terry? Did a job with him a few years back for some cattle baron out in the sticks. ‘Course, Terry always wanted his own dairy… Want me to tell him you’re lookin’ for work?’

Turns out, Terry did end up getting that dairy he always wanted. And as it happened, he was looking for a farm hand.

Does it count as nepotism if you’re fairly sure your uncle had only met your future employer once?

Beyond a certain point, you simply couldn’t care less.

A job is a job, even if it is out here in the desert near a town you’d never heard of a month ago.

Dust-caked trainers trudge to a weary halt in front of a large, green road sign.

The moon, thankfully, hangs fat and luminous in the cloudless sky. So at least you don’t need a torch to see, not now that your eyes have had time to adjust the darkness cloaked over the desert.

With your run of bad luck, you half assumed the heavens would have opened by now and given the Mojave a nice, little dose of rain.

“Well,” you mutter aloud to yourself, peering up at the green sign with a grimace, “Could be worse…”

‘Jasper – 10 miles,’ reads like a slap to the face.

Still… It’s better than the fifteen miles.

You must have walked at least five already, dragging your legs behind you like extra baggage that doesn’t want to cooperate.

It has to be beyond midnight now. Well beyond, you suppose.

You’ve been walking for the better part of two hours, slow and sluggish and exhausted. The journey getting to Nevada had been tiring enough, then as soon as you crossed state lines, your tyre caught a puncture going over a particularly nasty pothole that had snuck up on you.

After an hour spent in the blazing sun jacking up the truck and changing to the spare, you set off again for another several hours of travel. Then, twenty miles out of Jasper, just as you dared to celebrate being home-free, the unthinkable had happened.

Who hits a pothole and drives over a nail in the same, damn day? Apparently, the same person who forgot to buy a charger adaptor for the truck.

No charger? No phone.

No phone…? No calling for help…

Your chest expands and deflates with a bone-tired sigh, turning your gaze back onto the long, dark road ahead of you. Tears sting at the inside of your eyelids, and for a moment, you consider letting them fall, if only to ease some of the pressure building up behind your temples. But crying hysterically about the unfairness of the world hadn’t un-punctured your spare tyre, so why would it help the situation now.

“Come on,” you coax yourself, hauling one leg out in front of the other. Rinse. Repeat. “Not far now.”

Just a few more hours…

The going is slow, tough, draining. Even the dark shapes of rocks start to look enticing as you pass them, letting your eyes slide over to them as you wonder just how safe it would be to fall asleep in the desert by the side of a road.

Ever since you broke down a few hours ago, you haven’t seen one, single vehicle out here.

‘Which,’ you hum, pursing your lips and tipping your head back to peer up at the bleary sky far above you, ‘Isn’t so bad…’

The stars are numerous, and startlingly clear out in the wilderness. The moon as well seems brighter here, unobscured by clouds. She makes for a quiet companion on your journey towards Jasper, her starry brethren endlessly stretching out to each corner of the horizon.

Suddenly, you feel very small. A hopeless traveller trying to find port in a sea of sand and rock.

Swallowing roughly, you hike your tattered rucksack high onto your shoulder and tear your gaze from the stars.

It’s quiet out here, save for the rustle of sage bushes disturbed by the warm breeze, and the skittering of rocks as night-time animals go about their hunts.

Perhaps that natural silence is why the sudden introduction of an entirely new sound unnerves you so much.

You jerk to a halt, ears straining to hear something approaching from the distance. Underneath the thin, worn soles of your shoes, you start to feel it; the road thrumming with gentle vibrations, growing stronger every second.

Lighting quick, you whirl around to face the way you’d come, hands flying up to grip anxiously at the straps of your rucksack.

You’d have thought you’d be excited to see those headlights rise up above the horizon line. At last! A stroke of luck! A potential ride! Potential help.

Instead, it’s as though the sudden appearance of two, dazzling lights blooming into view as they crest over the hill finally jar some sense back into your dizzy head.

The haze of fatigue lifts slightly, pushed away by little bursts of adrenaline as your brain fights to wake you up to an unconscious threat.

You’re alone out here. Defenceless, phoneless. You don’t know the area. Nobody knows you’ve broken down… You try so hard to think the best of people, but now that you’ve had one doubt, a hundred others start to scurry around in your brain, demanding attention.

You can see the vehicle, or their lights at least, but you doubt they can see you yet, this far down the road. You wonder what it is. Car? Truck?

… Alien spacecraft? Despite yourself, you let out a snort at that. Isn’t that infamous military base supposed to be in Nevada? The one hiding alien activity?

Right. Sure.

Despite your scepticism however, a thrill of fear rushes down the length of your spine as if to say, ‘Oh? But are you sure sure?’

Gulping audibly, you take a few steps sideways off the road, stealing a glance at a cluster of large rocks that sit conveniently just several yards to your rear.

You have a decision to make.

Maybe you’ve been alone on the road for too long, and isolation has bred a paranoia in you that’s so deeply rooted, you can’t shift it at a moment’s notice. If the sun was out, perhaps you’d be less apprehensive, but the night, no matter where you are, makes everything seem so much more… treacherous. It hides things. People, motivations, monsters.

And though it pains you to do so, you swiftly decide to err on the side of personal safety.

The vehicle is closer now, and your blood trembles as the roar of a loud, formidable engine thunders over the tarmac. Yet you’re still certain it isn’t close enough to have caught you in its high-beams.

On sluggish legs, you haul yourself about and make a clumsy dash for the rocks, clenching a fist around one strap of the rucksack and using your other hand to grab the closest rock and swing yourself behind it. Dropping to your backside, you flatten your spine against the cool, solid surface, eyes wide, heart beating hard against the cage of ribs keeping it from leaping up into your throat.

‘Coward,’ a voice in the back of your head scoffs, sounding suspiciously like your father. You shake it loose. Now is not the time to be bothered by old ghosts.

The thundering engine draws nearer, rumbling in your chest as it seems to creep towards your hiding spot at a pace even a glacier would be impressed by.

Around the corner of the rock, you can finally see the glow of its headlights smoothing over the tarmac, illuminating the sand and brush all around you. Hurriedly, you tuck your toes right into the shadow cast by your rock, keeping a breath held hostage behind clenched teeth.

“Come on… Come on,” you urge it frustratedly, aware that every second you spend not moving is another second towards sunrise. If you’re not on the dairy ready for work by then…

The vehicle rolls to a stop.

It stops.

The temptation to let out a frustrated scream is only held in check by your tongue getting stuck to the roof of bone-dry mouth.

They saw you. They must have seen you. There’s no way they could have known you were here otherwise.

Idiot!

Wasting time on the decision has only taken it right out of your hands in the end.

A bead of sweat escapes your hairline and rolls down the side of your face, following the curve of your cheek. Should you run? Keep hiding? Did they stop by coincidence? If they meant no harm, they’d have seen you hide and kept on driving, wouldn’t they? Stopping is suspicious. It conveys a desire to engage.

And then something really strange happens.

“Excuse me?”

And… Well, you’re… not entirely proud of the choked gasp that jumps out of you, nor the way you flinch as if you’d been struck.

When did they – He? It’s a low voice, deeper than anything you’ve heard in a long while, full of bass but soft like distant brontide.

When did he get out of the vehicle? You didn’t hear a door open, nor close.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he speaks again.

“I’ve frightened you…” Despite how gentle the timbre is, his voice is loud, like he’s speaking all around you, not just behind you. “I apologise,” the stranger continues, “That is the last thing I meant to do.”

What the Hell is he talking about?

There’s a long, unpleasant stretch of time until he speaks again.

“Was that your… Ford?” he asks, like he’s testing the word on his tongue, “Up the road?”

Shit. You’re starting to regret leaving that note. He must have read it and knew someone would be walking into town, alone and vulnerable.

The vehicle's powerful engine is still idling, strong and steady, buzzing along the ground and up through the soles of your feet.

It goes against your nature to ignore someone when they’re talking to you, but there’s still a part of you clinging to the hope that he’ll just give up and move on if you don’t respond or show yourself. Perhaps he’ll think you were just a figment of an overtired imagination…

Of course, instead, he persists. “Please.”

Jesus, he almost squeezes the word out, oozing dejection.

“You have nothing to fear from me… I’m a friend.”

A friend indeed. You huff quietly to yourself. You don’t even know him. He doesn’t know you. He’s trying to coax you out of hiding after watching you flee from his vehicle. Hardly the foundation for a good friendship. Still, you have to wonder why he doesn’t just come around the rock to stand over you if he’s so keen.

After another few seconds of stubborn silence on your part, the voice speaks again.

“Will you at least step back from the rock?”

What?

“There are scorpions on it, and I fear you’ll get-“

You don’t think you’ve moved so fast in quite some time. One moment you’re pressing yourself to the rock, and the next, you’re scrabbling to your feet with gusto, lurching away from your prior hiding space and spinning around, skin already crawling.

Sure enough, a pair of giant scorpions are scuttling around on the flat top, their tails held aloft, proud and large in the moonlight.

“-Hurt,” the stranger finishes.

Snatching your head up, you find yourself staring right into the vehicle’s headlights, and you instantly grunt with discomfort, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the light.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, the vehicle’s engine skips, and the lights suddenly dim, plunging you into almost darkness save for the dim glow of residual light. “Forgive me. Is that better?”

“Much. Thanks,” you respond automatically, only to turn rigid once you realise you’ve spoken aloud.

Well. He’s already seen you. No point pretending you can’t talk either…

Again, the stranger’s vehicle makes an odd noise, it’s engine hums gently, and as you lower your arm to seek out the man you’ve just opened a line of conversation with, you finally see what you’d been hiding from.

A monstrous Peterbilt sits squarely across the width of the road, entirely alien in the barren, rocky landscape. Smokestacks on either side of its cab reach towards the sky, glinting silver in the moonlight. It looks red under the meagre glow, with lighter panelling on the main body and dark, blue accents on the wheel trims and storage compartment. The grill is, in a word, massive, standing taller than you are, sporting a logo you don’t recognise on the front.

All in all, it’s a hell of a truck. Powerful, you imagine. Expensive too.

You try not to let your mouth hang ajar.

“Where-” Your voice cracks, still dry. “Ahem…! Where are you?”

Glancing around, your hackles start to rise. You can’t see the speaker anywhere. Which is why you let out an embarrassingly shrill yelp when his voice rumbles directly from the semi.

“I’m right here,” he assures you, polite enough not to show his amusement whilst you flap your mouth open and closed.

No, you shake your head. No, that is too weird. “What, are there like… speakers on the outside of your truck or something?”

There’s the tiniest of pauses, followed by a simple, concise, “There are.”

Oh. Well, then. That answers that burning question.

“Okay? So, um… Can I… help you?” you ask awkwardly, screwing one side of your face up.

The man seems to hesitate, allowing a pregnant pause to hang in the air between you before he replies, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Somehow, your expression twists even further south, and you begin casting your eyes over the semi, squinting through its dark windshield to try and catch a glimpse of what’s on the other side.

“I saw your truck on the side of the road,” the unseen man continues, “I feared you might have been hurt in a crash, so, I stopped to check that you weren’t still inside the vehicle. Then I found your note.”

He falls silent, and the air is dominated once again by the purring of his semi’s engine.

“Okay?” you prompt, still unsure of his motivations.

“It said you need help.”

He trails off, waiting. You’re promptly struck by the idea that he’s trying to guide you to some conclusion he hasn’t yet revealed. Finally, just as you start to grow restless, he forges ahead, “These roads can be hazardous for a lone hu-“

Suddenly, the truck’s engine revs, drowning out his voice for a second and sending you leaping backwards, startled.

“- A lone traveller…” he clears his throat just after the roar of its exhaust cuts out. Then, “Ah, If I may be so bold...”

All of a sudden, the passenger side door unlatches and swings open, and you’re presented with a clear invitation into the darkened cab. “May I offer you a ride into town?”

You wonder if he can see you turn stiff at his suggestion. Your body all but pleads on hands and knees for you to accept. What’s the worst that could happen, after all?

Well. You’ve watched several documentaries and movies that give you a pretty good indication of what ‘the Worst’ entails, thank you very much. You don’t like that he’s inviting you into his truck without showing his face to you yet. You’d like to gauge the person you’re speaking to. Get a bead on him. Is he big? Strong? Tall? Could you overpower him if it came down to it? Does he look like he’s hiding a weapon on him?

All these questions only serve to dry the moisture in your throat.

“I… That’s… very kind of you,” you admit, wringing your hands together as you take a small step away from the semi, “But I’m sure it’ll be okay, it isn’t that far.”

“At an average speed of three miles per hour, you will reach the outskirts of town in just under three and a half hours.”

You blink, caught off guard. ‘And they said we’d never need to use equations after we graduated.’

“Maths guy, huh?” you cock a hip, laying a hand across it and shooting the truck’s windshield a tentative smile, “Maybe I walk at four miles an hour.”

“Two and a half then,” he quips back just as smoothly, the door to his semi still hanging open. When he continues, you can’t help but notice that the cadence of his baritone voice rumbling through the speakers has turned to something a little more sombre, quieter, like he’s trying to impress upon you the gravity of a situation you don’t yet know about. “But time and distance aside, I do not wish to leave you to walk into Jasper by yourself, particularly at this time of night.”

He speaks like he’s been to elocution lessons. Every word seems to be carefully selected, every vowel and consonant articulate and refined.

It’s disarming. He’s disarming. But you’re still not convinced.

“Listen… Thank you, again. But…” It feels rude, like you’re committing some kind of faux pas in turning your back on the semi, yet you can’t shake the nagging voice at the back of your head, telling you that there’s something not quite right about the man in the truck. Not bad, just… off.

“It’s a kind offer,” you tell him again lamely, turning on your heel. And so, you recommence your weary march for Jasper, tossing one last sentiment over your shoulder, “But I’m sure I can make it on my own. Take care, okay?”

You almost expect him to argue, but all you can hear is the now familiar drone of the semi’s almighty engine. For several paces, you can feel a pair of eyes watching you, scrutinising and pensive, if a little baffled by your short yet polite dismissal.

When you make it another ten feet, heaving your tired legs after you over the tarmac, your ears perk up to the sound of an engine revving.

Smokestacks chugging, the massive truck pulls out of its standstill, unseen behind you.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you keep your gaze fixed to the ground ahead and raise a hand, flapping it about in an apologetic farewell as you meander further off the road and onto the sand, giving him plenty of space to get past.

You start to frown when you make it twenty paces without being overtaken by the truck.

That frown only grows deeper when the engine keeps churring away behind you, rubber tyres crunching tiny particles of sand under their treads as it crawls along in your wake.

Is he…?

Tearing your eyes off the toes of your shoes, you send a fleeting glance over your shoulder, surprised – but not much – to find the nose of the Peterbilt creeping slowly along in your peripheral vision, keeping pace with you.

Your frown eases back, and you quirk a brow at him instead, calmly asking, “What are you doing?”

And just as easily, the voice returns, “If you will not allow me to drive you, I will happily escort you to your destination.”

You can’t help yourself.

“Ha! ‘Escort.’” The snicker jumps out of you faster than you can raise your hands to press your fingertips against an unbidden grin. “Sorry,” you immediately try to amend, “You just sounded so serious.”

“… I… am serious?”

Letting your hand flop back to your side, you give your head a shake, still grinning. You really do meet all sorts on the road.

“Regardless, I’m sure you have far better things to be doing with your time.”

How the truck matches your walking speed without his engine faltering or sputtering, you’ll never know.

A strange noise gurgles from its exhaust, almost perfectly reminiscent of a troubled hum.

“On the contrary,” the driver responds, pulling forwards a little until only the grill overtakes you, and for a moment, you worry he’s about to drive across your path, “There is nothing at the moment that concerns me more than getting you safely where you need to go.”

Huh. Of all the genuine, stubborn…

“Look.” Your shoes scuff up a cloud of sand as you draw to an abrupt and decisive halt, turning bodily towards the truck. Hands splayed on your hips, you glare at the windscreen, aiming approximately for the driver. A second later, he must have hit the brakes because the semi lurches to a stop as well, hissing noisily.

Still, he doesn’t step out.

“You seem like a nice guy,” you start, trying to keep your chin raised and your tone stern. You fail, of course. Your voice cracks nervously, but at least you try. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you finally elect to stop beating around the bush and just address the elephant in the room – or desert, as it were.

“But I don’t make it a habit to get into random trucks with strangers.” You make it a point not to directly accuse him of having ulterior motives, but you hope you’ve at least driven home your main concern. At best, he’ll grow offended that you’d think him capable of such a thing and – hopefully – move on. At worst… Well. You brace yourself for that, teeth grit so tightly, your jaw starts to ache as you flick your eyes over towards the truck’s driver-side door, waiting.

The truck in question does something odd then. It… sinks? At least you think it does, lowering on its axles by a few inches like the wheels have just deflated. It’s difficult to tell in the dim moonlight though, and it’s over so quickly, you can’t be sure you saw anything at all that wasn’t just a trick of the desert.

How long have you been awake?

You’re busy calculating the hours you were driving when the stranger’s voice is kicked out over the speakers again.

“You assume I mean you harm…” he utters.

And just like that, the stern, rigid scowl is instantly wiped off your face.

He sounds…

…sad.

Not offended. Not angered by your thinly-veiled implication.

Just sad. Dispirited, even. As if it’s only just occurred to him that you might have perceived him as a threat.

It’s almost painful when the pair of you dissolve into an uncomfortable silence that lasts for several beats of your rapid-fire heart.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, your brows drift apart whilst you try to think of something to say. Trouble is, you’re afraid that speaking again will only make things worse.

You have no idea what’s going through his head. What if his dejected tone is followed by something worse?

“I’m sorry,” you backtrack, pressing your lips together and chiding yourself for faltering, “It’s nothing personal, just… I-I should probably get going before I fall asleep standing up.” You give a stilted laugh, but it soon turns into an awkward sound made at the back of your throat, lips pulled over your teeth in a grimace.

Dipping your head, you swallow thickly and grip the straps of your rucksack again. But just as you make to turn away, the semi’s wheels abruptly twist towards you. It’s ever so slight, just enough that the truck rolls a few paces in your direction before it stops again, its grill pointed straight at you.

With an audible gulp, you go to take another step back, staring at the metal in anticipation. Your retreat is soon halted by the mellow rumble of his voice.

“I understand your hesitation. And I know that the word of a stranger may not hold much weight,” he begins slowly. The Peterbilt inches forwards again. “But I can assure you, you have nothing to fear from me…”

Shifting on your feet, you let go of your bag and clutch instead at your elbows, brows tipped up indecisively. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that. He also speaks with a candour you’ve never encountered outside of a film or a storybook. Frank and forthright in a way you’ve never been privy to. Is that why you’re hesitating? Is that why he seems ‘off?’ Because his level of sincerity doesn’t have a place in your world?

Perhaps you’ve been spending so much time by yourself, it’s turned you distrustful. Maybe you’re just getting cynical. Looking back on your journey here, you realise that only other person who you’ve spoken to was a disinterested server who took your order at a drive-thru… That was four days ago. How long before that did you listen to someone who wasn’t the people on your truck’s radio?

Why is it so suspicious that this trucker wants to help? Hell, you’d be concerned as well if you saw some poor bastard hiking alone through the desert at night without a friend in the world.

Christ, you need some perspective.

The driver must see the conflict painted like a brand across your expression.

“Would it reassure you to know that this vehicle is operated entirely remotely?” he pipes up.

You blink once. Then again to wake yourself up a little more, pulled from your inner turmoil. “What?”

“This vehicle,” he tells you, “It is an unmanned vehicle.”

Curiosity overtakes suspicion faster than you can uncross your arms and stare at the grill dumbly, face opening up in surprise. “Wait. You mean it’s one of those self-driving things?”

“In a sense.” The semi’s engine rumbles softly, and the not-driver adds, “I am what you might call… the safety driver.”

Now that is curious.

You don’t even realise you’ve taken a step closer. “Really? But I thought that sort of tech was still in testing?”

“It is,” he replies, “We are, however, attempting to advance to field-tests, to see if these vehicles can autonomously haul freight in areas with sparser populations, to minimise the risk of collision.”

“Hence why you’re driving it out here in the middle of the night,” you realise aloud, raising an inquisitive brow at the windscreen, “So you’re really not in there? You’re driving it from somewhere else?”

“Would you care to see for yourself?” he asks kindly.

Your wide eyes flit to the passenger door when it eases open once again, though this time, it seems far less foreboding than before.

Tugging a loose piece of skin between your teeth, you give the silver steps leading to the door a scrutinising glance.

That does reassure you…

Slowly, still at least a little wary, you coax your legs to move, and they begrudgingly carry you onto the road. You approach the semi-truck with all the caution of a doe crossing an open meadow.

As you venture closer, its engine kicks up a notch, emitting a steady, gentle purr as if the vehicle itself is pleased with your acquiescence.

Suddenly, as you move along to the open door, you’re dazzled by a light flickering on inside the cab, bathing what you can see from this angle in a calm, golden hue.

From down here, it looks… just like an ordinary interior.

And lo and behold, as you stand on your tiptoes to see in, you find the driver’s seat is eerily devoid of its occupant.

You let out a breath that emerges shakier than you would have liked it to.

“Wow,” you laugh, impressed.

Maybe just a quick peek…

A vast chunk of apprehension breaks away from your chest and vanishes into the ether as you shuffle towards the steps, raising an arm and stretching your fingers across the space to the grab handle that sits invitingly just beside the open door.

This side of the truck is bathed in silver moonlight, and it’s only now that you’re this close that you happen to notice something you hadn’t before.

You almost wince when you spot them.

Although shiny and speckled with only the lightest dusting of desert sand, the metal panelling on the semi is covered in signs of wear and tear.

Enough to give you pause, at least.

For a moment, you’re taken aback, turning bodily away from the open door and cocking your head at the myriad of scratches that criss-cross their way up towards the semi’s roof.

All the paint in the world couldn’t hide some of those shallow nicks and lines that have been scraped out of the metal. In any case, something big must have scuffed it. Perhaps another driver in their own Peterbilt? Or perhaps it’s all damage sustained in testing the vehicle’s automated capabilities.

Clicking your tongue, you absently raise a hand to stroke your fingertips gingerly along the length of a particularly prominent scratch by the door.

“Oh dear,” you tut softly at the side of the truck, “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Without warning, the engine that had been buzzing so gently suddenly ramps up and starts to vibrate firmly beneath your fingers, so strong you can even feel it judder the ground through the soles of your feet.

Recoiling like you’ve been zapped, you whip your head around to peer through the open door, half expecting the driver to admonish you for touching his vehicle.

As swiftly as it started however, the thrumming engine dies down, and the truck returns to its soft, benign idling. “My apologies,” comes that gentle voice again through the speakers, “Just an overactive combustion chamber.”

“Is it... safe to ride in?” you retort, giving the back of the truck a sidelong glance.

“You will find very few vehicles safer than this one,” he tells you patiently, “I will not allow any harm to befall you, as I would not allow it to befall any of my passengers.”

Your shoulders jump with a silent laugh. “Befall,” you parrot, fighting a smile, “I love the way you talk.”

“… You do?” His speakers buzz with a pleasant hum.

Fingers flexing anxiously, you reach out once again and slide them around the grab handle beside the door, finding that it’s unexpectedly warm under your palm.

“So, I just… get in?” you ask, only to cringe immediately, realising you probably sound like a fool who’s forgotten how to get into a truck.

Before you can rebuke yourself harshly though, the absent stranger offers his response. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, no,” you rush out, placing one foot on the first, silver step and hoisting yourself up off the ground, bringing yourself level with the cab’s seats.

Your eyes grow wide with wonder as you take in the interior.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, suddenly hesitant to pull yourself up those last few feet.

“Is there something wrong?”

“It’s just… It’s so clean!”

Laid out before you is a perfectly ordinary truck cabin. Soft, grey leather covers the seats, with the same dark colouration on the roof, doors and most of the glovebox, interspersed by a rich, black steering wheel. The soft light, you discover, is emitted by multiple strips of blue neon LEDs that the driver must have fitted underneath the radio dials and dashboard, casting the truck’s interior in a cool, soothing glow.

But most astonishingly, for as much as you search, you can’t spot a single thing out of place. It’s absolutely immaculate. There isn’t one receipt stuffed in the door pockets, no traces of sand or gravel dirtying the footwells, no loose change tossed into the centre console…

Dumbfounded, you glance into the back, but all you find it a dark, grey panel and a shelf set back into the semi’s rear wall, meant for use as a bed, you surmise. It’s empty, unsurprisingly. Not a blanket or a pillow in sight.

Finally, your suspicions are put to rest. This truck doesn’t look lived in at all. He really is operating it remotely.

“God, it looks brand new in here,” you marvel aloud, suddenly hyper-conscious of the abysmal state of your old pickup. The scratches on this semi’s exterior play briefly on your mind but you brush your musings aside, too fatigued to consider the contradictions of a worn exterior but an immaculate interior.

Instead, you feel a frown crease the skin between your brows.

It really is immaculate in here…

Glancing down, you scowl disdainfully at your filthy shoes, the tank-top that’s stained irreparably by dropped food and greasy finger-smears, and trousers that are tattered and worn at their hems.

“Is everything all right?” the ‘driver’ asks again. His voice must emerge from the speakers on each door, low and warm, filling up the cabin.

“My shoes are dirty,” you admit out loud, your grip on the handle turning slack until you sink a few inches back to the first step, “I’m dirty. I-I don’t want to get sand and crap all over your truck.”

“I don’t mind.”

Spoken with more consideration than you’ve heard in a long, long time.

You pause at once, brows tipping up in the centre of your forehead.

A deep inhale through your nose brings with it the unobtrusive scent of leather, with the faintest undertone of adhesive sealers, giving the interior that ‘new truck smell’ that so many drivers try to replicate artificially.

Comparatively, it’s been several days since you passed a rest stop that had showering facilities. Those that did asked for a hefty charge. You’d glanced down at the handful of coppers in your centre console and decided you could go without. Now, you’re starting to regret that decision. Every now and then, whenever you raised your arms to stretch or flip the visor down in your pickup, you’d catch an unpleasant whiff of yourself wafting out from under your light, cotton shirt.

Embarrassed as you are to confess that you’ve been severely neglecting your personal hygiene, you swallow past a lump in your throat and croak, “I… haven’t exactly washed for a couple of days… I wouldn’t want to make your truck smell…”

And in a tone so kind it threatens to brings a tear to your eye, the stranger answers consolingly, “I think your scent is perfectly fine.”

It’s so damnably genuine, you can’t even find it in yourself to point out that he isn’t here to smell you, so his point is moot.

“I…” One more cop-out strikes you. “I don’t have any money,” you murmur truthfully, ashamed, “I can’t pay you for the fuel, or-“

“-I ask for nothing in return but your company,” is all he says, cutting you off as gently as his profound voice will allow.

And just like that, you’re out of viable excuses. Or perhaps your body has noticed the comfortable seats right in front of it and you don’t have enough fight left in you to deny it a sit down. Besides, any reasons you come up with to dip are likely to be met with a counterpoint.

Even so, you can’t help but hesitate for one more question, hand clasping and unclasping around the grab handle. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’m not going to get you in trouble or anything am I?”

The next sound that hums through his speakers is so soft and rich, you think it’s the truck’s engine playing up again, at least until the stranger cuts the noise off by saying, “You do not look like trouble to me.”

If he only knew.

The sound prior, you realise, was a chuckle, the first one you’ve heard out of him yet. Something in the measure of it settles the last of your nerves, only slightly, just long enough to have you throwing caution to the wind. With a final heave, you pull yourself the rest of the way inside, sliding gingerly into the comfortable passenger seat. You never notice how the metal below your foot shifts microscopically, lifting you closer to the cab.

It takes a lot of restraint not to let your eyes drift closed, nor to slump backwards into the wondrously giving material on your spine.

Instead, you sit stiffly with your rucksack keeping you upright, legs pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. If you make any kind of mess in here, you’ll be mortified.

After a moment, you remember to close the door, but just as you turn and peel a hand off your thigh, you jolt, staring agog at the door as it swings slowly shut with a dull ‘click.’ All of its own accord.

“Full remote access,” the voice pipes up as the engine below you roars to life, and then you’re moving, and all you can do is stare through the window at the desert drifting by whilst trying to ignore the uninvited ache in your chest.

“Seatbelt.”

His gentle prompt spurs you to reach over and grab the fabric near your shoulder, tugging it across your body and fumbling a little to slot it into place. Suddenly, you feel an invisible pull on the belt, and the metal buckle finds its way into the socket on your next pass.

‘Must be magnetic,’ you muse distractedly.

“Are you comfortable?”

Blinking back the moisture in your eyes, you turn to glance at the empty driver’s seat. It’s bizarre, and more than a little unsettling to see the steering wheel turn itself around as the truck pulls back onto the road, driven by unseen hands.

When you don’t immediately respond to his query, the man continues just as patiently as before. “If it is too cold, I can turn up the heater. Or… perhaps you are too warm…” He hums to himself, thoughtful. “You have been exerting yourself.”

You instantly become aware of the light sheen of sweat that hasn’t quite dried on your forehead. Puckering your face up into a solemn smile, you shake your head and at last respond. “Not to worry. It’s very comfortable in here.”

What follows is a poignant moment of hesitation before the voice speaks again. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but… You do not seem comfortable…”

The open-ended statement fades into silence, and you’re left casting nervous glances around the cabin again. “How do you-?” you start, tugging your shirt further down your arms, “Can you see me? Like… in here?”

Again, there’s a pause, barely longer than a second, yet long enough for you to notice it.

“Cameras,” comes his measured response, “Both external and internal. They’re how I spotted you on the road.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even considered that… Of course.”

Suddenly self-conscious, you reach up and begin to paw uselessly at your dishevelled hair, humming though a thin-lipped smile. “I must look a sight,” you half joke.

“You look tired…” he replies diplomatically, and there’s nothing in it for you to be offended by.

Rubbing a thumb over the wrinkle slowly carving a home between your brows, you heave a dreary sigh. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I can only imagine… And… Where does it culminate, if I may?”

“Terry’s Dairy?” you offer, “Uh, it’s this little farm just on the outskirts of Jasper.”

The truck beneath you gives a reverberating thrum. “I know the pastures, but I’m afraid you will find they lay beyond the ‘outskirts’ of the city.”

Letting out a groan, you knock your head back against the seat behind you, staring bleakly up at the ceiling. “Of course… How far?”

“Only a few miles, to the East of Jasper. We’re coming in from the Northwest highway. I can get you there in twenty-five minutes.”

“Twenty- Oh, no, no. You really don’t have to do that,” you protest, shifting in the seat to frown at the empty driver’s seat in lieu of anywhere else to look, “Just drop me off in town and I’ll walk the rest. You’re already going out of your way for a stranger.”

“I am dropping you off at your destination and not a mile before,” he tells you steadily.

His uncompromising tone brooks no argument.

You stare at the spot a person should be for several, long moments, debating how much you could push an argument. He’s already coaxed you into his truck, his powers of persuasion are rather good. What chance do you have, sleep-deprived as you are?

Conceding sullenly, yet appreciatively, you let your back touch the seat, settling into it a little less hesitantly. “You won’t be taking no for an answer, I assume?”

He only lapses into a stubborn silence, an answer in and of itself.

That quiet is broken, however, when you suddenly let out all the air from your lungs, a smile growing across the width of your face as the breath escapes your nostrils in a sigh. “Thank you for this… Really. You’re saving me a lot of grief.”

The blue neons on his dashboard seem to flare a bit brighter for all of a second before they dim again. “I am glad to be of service,” he replies warmly.

“Oh my god,” you blurt without warning, leaning forwards in the seat and staring through the windscreen with wide eyes, “I’m so sorry, you’re being so nice and I’m so rude – I never asked your name.”

“Nor did I yours,” he points out, “You may call me Op-“

Suddenly, a burst of static buzzes through the radio. You shoot it a funny look.

“Optimus,” the stranger admits over the static with a hesitance you pick up on right away, drawing your gaze from the dash, “My name is Optimus.”

“Optimus?” you repeat incredulously, a small smile quirking at the edges of your mouth, “Wow… You must have had creative parents.”

“I appreciate that it might seem… an unusual name…”

“It is,” you agree pleasantly, “I like it. Makes you sound cool. Unique. My parents just stuck me with Y/n.”

At once, Optimus echoes your name, and you’re jarred by the sound of it coming from someone else’s lips, reverberating around the truck. It’s been a while since anyone used it.

“Y/n,” he says again in his velvety timbre, “It’s a fine name. I like yours too.”

#Optimus Prime #TFP #optimus x reader #Reader #Fluff #protective optimus #Nevada

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ylangelegy · 17 days ago

Text

like a python 🧊 jihoon x reader.

jihoon doesn’t know how many years of pining he has left in him.

★ rockstar!jihoon x reader. ★ word count: 2.5k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: non-idol. jihoon-centric, childhood friends, yearning... so much yearning, young k makes a cameo, jihoon is a bit lame (affectionately), cussing/swearing. mentions of alcohol, food. ★ footnotes: got7 dropped winter heptagon and it's all i can think about. wrote this in one sitting as a show of gratitude to @chugging-antiseptic-dye for introducing me to these boys. haven't done a song fic in a hot minute, but for lee jihoon and got7? anything. shoutout to igot7_MarKP on twitter for the english translation of the lyrics.

🎧 now playing: python by got7 — i know i'm an icon, watch me with the lights on; but she got a hold on me like a python.

▸ MUSIC IS HOW I'VE BEEN VENTING NOW... OVERSEAS, I'M SELLING OUT.

It’s pretty surreal to Jihoon, being in a room with some of the biggest names in rock.

In the past hour alone, he’s met Alex Turner, Dave Grohl, and— holy shit, is that Hayley Williams? Jihoon is getting dizzy, and it’s not only because of all the secondhand smoke he’s inhaled since he got to the Rolling Stones afterparty.

The best of the best. That’s what the invitation had boasted. It was the scene’s most coveted event, and Jihoon somehow made it to the guest list.

Unbidden, your voice nags from somewhere in the back of his mind. You’re the best, Jihoon-ah.

He shakes his head, like he’s physically trying to get away from the thought of you. This had been happening a lot more as of late. Fleeting moments wherein he’d imagine how you would react, what you’d say.

But Jihoon always catches himself. He snaps himself out of it and goes back to recording, goes back to performing.

God, he needs to get it together. He’s starting to regret saying ‘no’ to the cigarette Ely Buendia was offering him earlier.

(In Jihoon’s defense, he didn’t smoke often. He didn’t want to fuck up his vocal chords. He had a one-cigarette-a-year rule, and he wasn’t about to use it now. It was only January; who knew what else the year would throw him?)

Jihoon is contemplating some other vice— maybe he can go grab another beer— when he feels a tap on his shoulder. At the sight of who came up to him, Jihoon immediately folds into a bow.

“There’s no need for that,” Younghyun says, equal parts amused and embarrassed. “We’re all the same here, yeah?”

Jihoon pulls himself to his full height. “Not… really,” he says lamely, and then he immediately launches into mumbled apologies when he realizes how he might have sounded.

It wasn’t that Jihoon thought he was better than his peers. Hell, he knew that he was the least important person in the room. That’s what he meant; they were not all the same, because Jihoon still had a long ways to go.

Especially when compared to rock icon Young K, who is— gracefully— taking Jihoon’s awkwardness in stride.

“You’re holding up a lot better than me,” Younghyun muses. “At my first afterparty, I threw up on Rupam Islam.”

“No.”

“Yes, unfortunately. He was very nice about it, though.”

Jihoon lets out a stutter of a laugh. He’s never been a fan of small talk, but he clings to it now like a lifeline. “Does it get easier?” he asks.

Younghyun’s eyebrows raise. “Throwing up on rockstars?”

“No, no–”

“I was kidding,” Younghyun says in between chuckles. His expression is a little more pensive when he goes on, “I can’t say for sure that it gets easier, but you learn to deal with it.”

You learn to deal with it. Jihoon can almost laugh at just how accurate that is. It seems applicable to every aspect of his life— including missing you.

Jihoon winces. Younghyun notices.

The older man doesn’t comment on it, probably thinks it’s something else entirely. Younghyun doesn’t flinch away, either, when Jihoon nervously says, “Can I ask you another question?”

“Ask away,” says Younghyun. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

What is Jihoon doing? He doesn’t know either, but it’s either this or fight off the urge to run through a pack of Marlboros. “How do you cope,” he starts slowly, “with… feelings?”

A beat. Crap. Jihoon realizes he definitely could have phrased that better, because Younghyun is now looking at him with an expression of mild confusion.

Jihoon backtracks. “You— we— go through a lot in this field of work. Like, a lot. And you— fuck, fine, I’m— grateful for it, really, I swear. But there’s just… so much other things, too, aside from the gratitude. How do you cope with those?”

Jihoon knows he probably looks and sounds like a trainwreck in his bid to be deliberately vague. By some miracle, Younghyun at least seems to understand what Jihoon is trying to say.

Younghyun’s lip quirks to one side as he thinks of his response. The silence stretches uncomfortably long, but then he gives an answer that’s the last thing Jihoon could have expected.

“I write,” Younghyun says.

Jihoon blinks once. Then twice.

“You write,” he repeats, and the former nods.

“It’s all in my discography. The anger, the heartbreak, the love.” Younghyun raises his shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve written nearly 200 songs, and all of them are just— that. Questions. Answers to questions. Feelings and stories.”

It’s so simple, so obvious. It’s like a glaring traffic sign, like something that every musician should know and do.

Put it in a song. Perform it for thousands and leave the muse none the wiser. Profit. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Jihoon had done it a fair amount of times, but never had he considered putting you to pen and paper. The prospect of it makes something in his chest thrum.

“I—” He clears his throat. “I think I have to go, sunbaenim. It was nice seeing you.”

A hint of humor glints in Younghyun’s eye, like he’s somewhat aware of the fact he’s witnessing something unravel. “‘Younghyun’ is fine,” he chirps. “And it was nice seeing you, too, Jihoon. Take care of yourself.”

The words— take care of yourself— are supposed to be a platitude. To Jihoon, it feels like a tall ask.

▸ I'M TOURING THE WORLD BUT I'M MISSING THE ONE WHO HELD IT DOWN.

Jihoon is exhausted.

As much as he wants to say that he’s never been this tired in his life, it’d probably be a lie. He’d make the claim, hit the road, then end up crashing out saying the same damn thing. He’s seen this film before; he knows how it ends.

He falls back on his hotel bed after his shower. A low groan escapes him, and he sends up a silent prayer to all the higher powers there are. Thank you for sheets with a 300-500 thread count. Thank you for air-conditioning. Thank you for warm showers and Listerine.

Despite his fatigue, Jihoon can’t just go to sleep. Post-show adrenaline always took a couple of hours to wear off.

He briefly contemplates his options. Write a lyric or two? Watch a shitty Netflix movie? Stare out the hotel window until his eyes can’t stay open anymore?

None of the above, it seems, as he reaches for his phone.

Jihoon has never been active on SNS; he just couldn’t bring himself to care about things like TikTok trends or Twitter ‘beef’. It’s a constant thorn in his PR team’s side. There is one thing that he bothers to check, though, and God forbid he deny himself the simple pleasure of some good ol’ fashioned pining.

He’s been on your Instagram page enough times that it’s the first thing that shows when he goes to the search bar. It’s the only thing that shows, really, which gives some pretty good sense of where his head is at.

Your profile loads. There’s no new post, no recent story. Jihoon is both disappointed and relieved.

No news is good news, he thinks to himself as he leisurely scrolls through the photos he’s already seen a dozen times before. You, feeding sidewalk cats. You, sipping tea at a cafe. You, in all the places that were once Jihoon’s, too. The beaches, the hiking trails, the restaurant in your shared neighborhood.

Jihoon opens that particular post. Even though he’s watched your life in squares for the better half of the past three years, this is the one photo that always has him feeling a pang of… something.

Because Jihoon can imagine it— being at that restaurant with you. The two of you had discovered it together, had pooled your measly school allowances to afford the bokguk and ganjang gejang.

He imagines being there with this older version of you, being the one snapping the picture that’d find a spot on your feed. He can see it so clearly in his mind’s eye that if he really, really tries, it begins to look more like a memory than a daydream.

But he’s not in Busan, not even in Korea. He’s in the United States instead, where he has ten stops before heading to Canada and Europe.

Sold-out stadiums. Thousands upon thousands of adoring fans.

All the food that he could possibly want, and yet it’s pufferfish soup and soy sauce crabs that he’s looking for.

Every person that he could possibly have, and yet. And yet.

Jihoon huffs out a frustrated exhale. He’s tired, which he swears makes him delusional.

He casts his phone aside, blissfully ignorant to the way his finger double taps his screen as he does.

Halfway across the world, your phone pings.

woozi_universefactory ✓ liked your post.

▸ I'VE BEEN RUNNING BACKWARDS, RUNNING BACKWARDS LIKE A MARATHON.

The push notification glaring up at Jihoon looks a lot like a bomb that’s about to explode.

Jihoon feels like it’s a bomb, because he refuses to believe that after over a year of absolutely nothing, you’ve messaged first. You’ve messaged first.

He double, triple checks his calendar. It’s neither of your birthdays. It’s not a holiday, either. Is it Chuseok? No— that doesn’t make sense.

“For fuck’s sake,” he chides himself under his breath. It’s a text. Nothing more, nothing less.

Jihoon opens the notification.

And then his heart just.

Stops.

You’d sent two messages— the first, being the post that had him spiraling last night. It’s the proceeding message that has Jihoon hoping the ground will swallow him whole.

Stalking me, Jihoon-ah?

Holy shit.

Jihoon types out at least three different messages, from Are you a fly on my wall to Is there a new Instagram feature I don’t know about to What happened to “hello, how are you”?

In the end, he only sends back a single question mark. When he opens the offending post, he immediately sees his transgression.

Jihoon hadn’t liked the photo before last night. He didn’t like much posts to begin with. How— When—

His phone pings. He’s never been so thankful that he mostly opts to get room service for breakfast, because the squeak that he lets out is definitely not very rockstar-like. Jihoon fumbles, and he ends up opening your DM before he can psych himself up for it.

LOL. Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, you say.

Damn you and your ability to render him speechless. Jihoon wonders if he can get away with not responding, with getting back to you a couple of days later and blaming his work.

Except.

Jihoon’s fingers slowly move across his screen.

It was a good post, he says.

It was a post from a year ago, you answer.

So? He throws in an emoji of a man shrugging for good measure. Jihoon never uses emojis, but he can make some exceptions.

Your respond, So, stalking. You were stalking me.

Jihoon knows he’s digging a hole for himself, knows he’s going to stay up several nights thinking of just how stupid he is. If he were a stronger man, he’d pull the plug on this conversation and that’d be it. You wouldn’t bug him. He would maybe write a song about this moment. The world would go on.

But he can hear you.

In the messages, in the words on his screen. He can hear your voice, the way you’d smile or laugh or tease. How you’d say his name in that sing-song tone he once pretended to hate.

He hears you in your messages, and he’ll live with the secondhand shame if it means that he gets to keep on listening.

Not stalking, he shoots back. Just checking in.

Ah, you say. Because you missed me?~

Despite himself, he scoffs. You’ve always been so shameless. It didn’t matter to you that he was WOOZI the rockstar; to you, he would always be Jihoon who lived three houses down.

As if, he says to your teasing.

You don’t respond anymore. You don’t even read the message, because Jihoon doesn’t see the little ‘Seen’ under his last message.

He waits for it for a minute. Then five minutes. Then seven minutes. He stops checking at the thirteen-minute mark, because he likes to believe he’s no longer a high schooler with a raging crush on the girl next door.

He’s a grown man. He’s WOOZI, for Christ’s sake.

He can’t keep coming back to you.

▸ I GAVE YOU MY TIME WHEN I DIDN'T HAVE MUCH; ALL OF MY FEELINGS, SWEPT UNDER THE RUG.

Except he does.

WOOZI may not want to. WOOZI may be the bassist writing songs about the past in hopes of leaving things in the past, but Jihoon is a different story.

Jihoon texts you the moment he lands in Gimhae International Airport. Jihoon stands outside your front door— definitely jetlagged, probably in need of a shower— with his luggage in one hand and his phone in the other.

Jihoon acts like it’s the world’s biggest inconvenience when he tells you, “Come on, then.”

The two of you get the crabs and soup. He refuses to talk about his time away; he contents himself with listening, like he always does, and you fill the silence with babble. Your desk job, your parents’ nagging, your hobbies and side hustles.

“Probably not as interesting as your life,” you joke after a particularly long-winded anecdote about a delivery rider who got your address wrong.

Jihoon neither confirms nor denies the statement. He only raises one eyebrow and gives you a wordless gesture with his hand. Go on anyway, he’s saying, and you take the cue.

The meal ends. Jihoon invites you for coffee. Then ice cream. Then a walk.

“This is very suspicious.”

Jihoon can’t help it; a snort of laughter escapes him at your words. “Can’t a guy take a friend out to lunch?” he asks humorlessly.

“And dinner,” you note.

“And dinner, yes.”

“And dessert.”

The two of you are taking the long way home. There’s something to be said about how Jihoon drags his feet, about how you walk like you’re not on borrowed time. Even your conversation moves like you’re beating around the bush.

There is an elephant in the room and Jihoon is done pretending that it’s not there. That it hasn’t been there since the day you two met in primary school, since the first time he held your hand as a teenager, since he became a musician and every song he performed became about you.

Jihoon doesn’t know how many years of pining he has left in him.

“Are you dying?”

Your blasé question draws a bark of laughter from him. “Jesus, no,” he says. “Do I have to be dying to want to see you?”

You don’t answer right away. Jihoon once again has that feeling that he’s said something wrong, something loaded, but you save him from overthinking when you respond with, “You wanted to see me?”

There it is. That teasing tone, that hint of a smile.

You bump your shoulder against his. “You missed me, Jihoon-ah. Admit it.”

And Jihoon is done, Jihoon is tired, Jihoon is still yours after all this time.

“I did,” he finally, finally says. “I missed you.”

#jihoon x reader #woozi x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #jihoon fic #woozi fic #svt fic #seventeen fic #jihoon imagines #woozi imagines #(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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