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joemama-2 · 4 months ago

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velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 10k tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation a/n: merry early christmas guys to those who celebrate 🥹 series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

Christmas is coming up soon. In about two-ish weeks, give or take. In this case, you’re giving. It’s December 14th, and the days are passing by too fast for your liking. You wish you had more time—to do a lot of things, actually. Luckily, with your rent being paid along with next month’s, that’s given you at least some sort of freedom.

You can thank your ex for that.

So, you’ve been saving for Koji, spending less on yourself. Not like you did much of that in the first place, but still. Again, guilt riddles your insides, insecurities plaguing your mind. Koji has never been a spoiled kid, having grown up quite frugally because of his equally frugal mother. Your tree, something you bargained for at the nearby spot in town that sells trees for the holiday season, is bottom of the barrel. Of course it is, you bargained for it. Sparse areas, branches way too thin and tiny, the height of the entire thing is just about as tall as you are. You keep your box of Christmas decorations so you never have to buy new ones each year. The lights you use are a warm yellow, with a few little bulbs dark because they burnt out. It wraps around your tree in a very messy way—Koji’s doing. A floppy white star placed at the very top of your tree, just barely holding on.

Little pieces of decorations hang from the frail branches: some snowflakes, red and blue balls (Koji said they looked like Spider-Man), and your most favorite one of them all that sits at the top: a picture of you and Koji from a photo booth two years ago. He was only three and you could still carry him then. Chubby cheekbones on display, a wide smile to match. You two are wearing Santa hats, head tilting into his with an equally ecstatic smile. You can’t look too long at it before you start getting emotional.

So mom of you.

Anywho, your point is that while the setup may look dull and even unattractive to most, you still find warmth in it. So does your little boy too. Although he doesn’t exactly know better, considering all you’ve ever had was skinny trees and years-old decorations, he doesn’t complain.

Of course, he does ask you sometimes about why the trees in the movies look different or why his friends have entirely decorated houses and you two don’t. You bottle it up to a simple, “Well, we’re not like other people, baby.”

He understands—most of the time.

Even so, he doesn’t show disrespect. As long as he spends time with you, getting even just three gifts, it’s all enough for him. So you feel guilty for not giving him the full Christmas experience a child should get, you feel insecure that other people are having the holiday season so much better than you are, and if you could, you’d do anything to ensure Koji has a real Christmas one time. At least once. It’s the least you can do as his mother, and it’s the least he deserves.

Because the holidays are meant for happiness, cheeriness, and family time. All things that feel very forced for you right now.

“It’s good to see you again, Y/N.”

Your lips purse, hoping it resembles a smile. But Shoko always reads you easily, dissecting your emotions. “You too, how have you been?”

“As good as I can. Late nights, exhausted, seeing someone’s leg split in half. You know, the usual.”

A small chuckle falls from you, nodding in silence. “I’m glad you were able to do what you want. ER work, right?”

“Yep,” Shoko hums, leaning back against the bench, coffee in hand. “Though I did have a friend who helped me get through it all so quickly.”

“Really? Who?”

“Cheating.” She smirks behind the rim of her cup.

Your eyes roll, sighing as you mimic her posture. It feels odd seeing her again for the first time after so many years. You gathered the courage to text her number, feeling distraught and overwhelmed last night. Right after you sent the text asking her to meet up the next morning, you slightly regretted it. Does she think I’m weird? What if she says no? God, what is wrong with me?

Your doubts were proved wrong when she replied with a simple “See you”. Simplicity was always Shoko’s thing. Something that you almost envied from the woman. You wish you had composure like her. Of course, her life isn’t exactly simple considering she’s dealing with people with broken anything and blood all the time, but you can tell she thoroughly enjoys it. She finds pleasure in her job.

Again, this is something you’re also slightly envious of.

“So….” She finally says after a beat of silence, turning her head over at you. “I want to ask the obvious, but I think I’ll wait. I want to see how you’re doing first.”

You worry your lip between your teeth, peering down at your fiddling fingers. The words are a little hard to get out, and a little embarrassing too. You don’t really want to vent to her after years of no contact, but it’s hard not to. At this point, you’re like a broken dam. Spilling and spilling by the minute until you completely break down. “Things could be better. I just have a lot on my mind and what I’m dealing with.”

She nods in understanding. “Like the articles and stuff?”

You sigh heavily in exhaustion, raising two fingers to rub the space between your brows. “Yeah, that’s one of them. You seen ‘em?”

“Many people have.”

Of course. “I just don’t get it. Why is it such a big deal he has a son no one knew about? Are these kinds of ‘issues’ really that important to rich people like him? Like, c’mon. It’s not like he killed a man. He has a son but everyone’s treating and acting like this is horrendous and astounding news that we should be fearful of.”

Shoko tilts her head, her gaze steady but not intrusive. “Rich people thrive on spectacle, you know that. Every little thing becomes a headline, especially when someone like Gojo, Japan’s sexiest man alive of 2024, is involved. He’s a household name, Y/N.”

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. You forgot the fact that he’s been given that title. The article popped up on your Google just yesterday, giving in and tapping on it. The first picture that greets you is a very intimate, black-and-white picture of Satoru shirtless, with unbelted pants. He wasn’t looking at the camera in that one, but the way his arms were raised, accentuating his biceps made you feel a tiny throb. The first of many from that photoshoot the article included. “But why does it have to be this? Why is it such a scandal that he has a kid? Like, what are they even expecting from us? An apology? A press conference where we swear to never let it happen again?”

Shoko’s smirk is faint but wry. “You think logic applies here? The higher the pedestal, the harsher the fall. Gojo’s not just rich—he’s Gojo. Untouchable, perfect, untamed. Add a secret kid to the mix, and it’s like handing tabloids their golden ticket.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “It’s so stupid. They’re acting like we’re some corrupt dynasty with skeletons bursting out of the closet. It’s not even a big deal!”

Shoko takes a sip of her drink, watching you with a calmness that somehow makes you feel seen. “It’s not a big deal to us, no. But to them? It’s betrayal, gossip, leverage—anything but what it really is. Just life.”

Her words settle in your chest, a grounding sort of clarity that you hadn’t realized you needed. You couldn’t—probably ever—understand the thought process of the elites of Japan. You’re a bit glad that you won’t. But in this situation, you just wish they would think like normal fucking people for one second. That’s hard to do when you grow up with a silver spoon in your mouth and everything at your fingertips. You peer over at her, your lips pressing together as you process everything. “I just…I don’t want Koji dragged into this. He doesn’t deserve it. That’s one of the main reasons why I kept everything a secret in the first place. But now look at us, everything has just changed so…so fast. I’m not ready for it, neither is my son.”

She lets the quiet air linger for a moment, your venting finding placement. “No, he doesn’t deserve it,” Shoko agrees. Her tone is firm, an anchor in the storm of your thoughts. “And neither do you. But the way I see it, you’ve got two choices: let them dictate how this plays out, or take control of the narrative yourself.” Her words linger, the weight of them grounding and unsettling all at once. Taking control of the narrative sounds easy in theory, but the reality feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, the wind threatening to knock you over.

“Easier said than done,” you mutter.

Shoko shrugs, but there’s an edge of reassurance in her expression. “True, but you’ve already been through worse. You’ve got more strength in you than you give yourself credit for. And if anyone can handle this mess, it’s you.”

Her confidence in you feels foreign but comforting. You nod slowly, gripping onto her words like a lifeline. “Thanks, Shoko.”

“Anytime.” She raises her cup slightly in a mock toast, her smile small but sincere. A beat flows through, a comfortable silence. The two of you watch the snow cover the ground with its beauty, the sun barely peeking through the cloudy, muted sky. You can’t help but draw the parallel. The sun, peeking, but hidden behind the heavy clouds, yet still present—trying, despite the odds. That’s you, isn’t it? Not gone, not entirely defeated, but dulled. Struggling to shine through the weight of everything pressing down on you.

Shoko breaks the silence with a soft chuckle. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? Quiet, too. Almost makes you forget the world’s still a mess.”

You nod, your gaze following the gentle swirl of snowflakes. “Yeah… It’s like everything’s paused for a moment. Peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” she echoes, leaning back in her seat. “Funny how something so fleeting can feel so permanent in the moment.” Her expression stirs something inside you—a quiet ache you’ve been trying to suppress. You glance at her, lips parting, but the words get stuck in your throat. She doesn’t push, doesn’t probe. Shoko’s always been good at giving space without making it feel like a void. Instead, she takes a long sip of her drink and says, “You know, snow’s a great equalizer. Covers up the mess, and makes everything look the same. Like the world gets a second chance. It’s the start of something new.”

Those words make you immediately remember Satoru’s. Snow’s the start of something new. That should be a good thing, right? You should be glad. However, how many more changes have to happen until something good comes your way? There’s only so much one can go through in such a short amount of time. But as Shoko said, you have more strength than you think. You’ve been through worse. And while that may be true, at this fleeting moment, that couldn’t be any further from the truth. It’s easy for her to say since she’s not actually living your life.

You haven’t exactly talked talked to Satoru yet about all this, about what he’ll say, what his parents will do. But they probably have good lawyers, right? Maybe they’ll put out a statement that any further harassment will be met with legal action. Or he’ll take pride in his son and show no regrets. You really don’t know. Your optimistic side wishes that Satoru will deal with this smoothly and how you want him to. But your pessimistic side says this will continue on until who knows how long. People randomly coming up to you, making remarks on social media, finding your job, finding your own social media accounts that you’ve had to take down.

Seriously, why the fuck do they care so much? Even after Shoko’s explanation, it’s still not enough for you. At the end of the day, we’re all human, we all do human things. Jesus Christ, you could never last a day in Satoru’s position. On constant public display and scrutiny, it’s exhausting and infuriating.

Satoru’s taken Koji off your hands for the while. It’s around four in the evening now. Although you were hesitant at first, he assured you he would do his absolute best to make sure nothing wrong happens and that he stays safe. And besides, it’s nice to have the place to yourself for a few hours. It’s confusing, because while at times you feel so defeatedly lonely, other times you welcome it with open arms.

But every parent probably feels like that, right? Praising the day they get even two hours to themselves, not worrying about making sure your child isn’t choking.

Anywho, you’ve taken the liberty to take a nice and warm refreshing bath. The heat does wonders to your skin, sighing wistfully and eyes closing in relaxation. The warmth envelops you like a comforting embrace, melting away the tension you didn’t realize had settled in your shoulders. It’s rare, these moments of solitude—where the only sound is the faint ripple of water as you shift slightly in the tub. You sink deeper, letting the heat seep into your muscles, as if the bath could wash away not just the stress of parenting but the heaviness of everything else weighing on you.

You tilt your head back against the rim of the tub, exhaling a deep sigh. It’s strange how quiet the apartment feels without Koji’s laughter or even Satoru’s voice filling the space. Strange, but not unwelcome. For once, there’s no background noise, no constant buzz of responsibility. Just you and the stillness. You almost wish you can share this stillness with someone else, but throw that thought out your mind fast.

Your fingers trail through the water absentmindedly, thoughts wandering. You wonder what Satoru and Koji are up to—probably indulging in some sugary snack you’d never approve of at this hour of the day because Koji’s sugar rushes just last so long. The image makes you smile faintly. Despite everything, Satoru’s been trying. And even if you don’t say it aloud, you notice. He’s been so good with him, the two are incredibly close and it’s like the past five years of absence never existed. You always knew Satoru was that type of man. He got along with kids well, children almost seemed to magically gravitate towards him. It’s…very attractive.

Once the bathwater starts to cool, you decide to reluctantly push yourself upright. Wrapping a towel around yourself. You pad into the bedroom, the cold air nipping at your damp skin. With Koji gone until probably around eight or nine, the silence settles over you once again. You glance at the clock on the nightstand—still hours to go before they return. You grab a soft blanket and curl up on the couch, flipping through channels aimlessly. Nothing really holds your attention, but it feels nice just to sit, undisturbed. As you take a sip of tea, you can’t help but think: Maybe you should let yourself enjoy these moments more.

It’s hard, but you should probably make more of an effort to take care of yourself. If you’re out of it, you’ll be unfit to care for Koji. And that’s your biggest nightmare ever. You blankly watch whatever show is playing after turning the TV on, but your mind seems much more louder than the voices from the characters on screen. You wish you could just shut off the constant worry, stressing, and overthinking about pretty much everything in your life.

Before you know it, your feet are guiding you back up, leading you down the hallway and to your room. The closet is to your left, a single door with a small lightbulb overhead that weakly shines its light and illuminates the inside. Your clothes hung up, shoes on the floor. Some of Koji’s old toys lay next to your shoes, having meant to donate them but never getting around to it. You go down to your knees, moving further inside the small closet. Having to push a few jackets to the side for better visibility, moving your shoes out the way. Stuffed in the very corner of your closet lies a worn black box. When you pull it out from its hiding spot, the lightbulb makes visible faint letters that are threatening to peel away.

Cheap markers.

There’s little dribbles of flowers and smiley faces along the sides, a stick figure image of a boy and girl. The boy’s eyes are drawn with the brightest blue marker you both found out the time. It’s a little shitty representation, but the boy’s line for an arm is connected to the girl’s arm; holding hands.

OUR WORLD

Something you both agreed was cheesy, though you thought of it. He wrote it. You had the ideas, he made them come to life.

Your breath catches as you brush your fingers over the worn box. The faded decorations are a time capsule—a reflection of a simpler, yet complicated past. A mix of laughter, innocence, and heartbreak lingers on its surface, as if the box itself holds memories you’ve long since buried. You hesitate for a moment, thumb tracing over the stick figures. The blue-eyed boy. The girl with a faint red-lipped smile. The images were so carelessly drawn back then, yet they now carry an almost painful clarity. A reminder of what once was—and what could never quite be again. Sliding the top off the box, you’re immediately greeted by the faint scent of old paper and something else merely nostalgic. Photographs, letters, and random trinkets fill the space. A keychain, an old movie ticket stub, and at the very top, a small folded note with handwriting you recognize instantly.

"To my favorite person,

No matter where life takes us, remember this moment, okay? This one is ours."

His handwriting feels more impactful than you thought it would. Your chest tightens as you unfold the note fully, memories flooding back with each word. Satoru had written this. Back when things were different—when the two of you weren’t carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. When promises felt unbreakable and the future seemed...possible.

You carefully place the note back into the box, your hands trembling slightly. There’s so much in this little box that you’ve avoided for years. So much of what you were, who you were, with him. And now, it feels like the box is staring back at you, asking the question you’ve avoided for so long.

What are you going to do with all of this?

Why have you kept this? After all the time? You remember telling yourself the day of your break up that you’d throw everything out—burn it all. But everytime you even touched it, you came to a brutal realization. You can’t. For some reason, you couldn’t get rid of it, couldn’t bring harm to this reminder of the lives you’ve lived and left behind.

You found comfort in the idea that one day in the future, you would be able to. But you also found comfort in the box itself. Oh how wrong you were. And that fact twists at your heart, your blood wringing out in the process. Leaving you with a dull and soulless shell. Staring down at the remnants, going through them—everytime. Maybe you haven’t ever had the strength to get rid of it, you wonder if you ever will.

Pictures of your younger self, of Satoru’s younger self smile up at you like they’re taunting you. As if the past can sense the future’s despair. They’re simple pictures, cute but simple. Just how you two wanted it. The quality isn’t that great, considering most of them were taken on shitty disposable cameras.

“Because it’s sustainable!” You argued when Satoru questioned the device when you first pulled it out. He simply scoffed and rolled his eyes, lips upturning into a smile the second you readied the device for a photo.

A picture is worth a thousand words.

Whoever came up with that phrase is a genius, but you also despise how much truth is held to that single sentence. Pain. Nostalgia. Longing. Happiness. Regret?

Flipping through the small pictures is like going through your very own time capsule. Each snapshot carries a story, a moment frozen in time that feels both distant and heartbreakingly close. The childish doodles lining the box seem to echo your younger self’s voice, innocent and untouched by the weight of reality. A photo catches your eye—a little blurry but unmistakably Satoru, grinning with his arms slung lazily over your shoulders. Your cheeks in the picture are flushed, and you can almost hear the laughter that must’ve been spilling from your lips when it was taken.

Then there’s another, of the two of you sitting under a sprawling tree, sunlight filtering through the leaves. His hand rests on yours, casual but intimate in a way that makes your chest ache now. You remember the warmth of that day, the way he’d joked about how your hair glowed in the light.

There’s a card, too, nestled beneath the pictures. The corners are slightly bent, but the words inside are still intact. His handwriting is unmistakable, bold and messy:

“To the girl who makes my world brighter every day. Don’t ever stop smiling—it’s my favorite thing about you. Love, Satoru.”

“Hah, I didn’t know you were such a poet.” You teased.

“Ugh, shut up.”

Your fingers trace over the ink, your breath halting. Time may have passed, and life may have twisted and turned, but this box feels like a portal to a version of you that still believed in endless possibilities. And yet, the ache in your chest doesn’t falter. Instead, it lingers, a reminder of how much has changed—and how much you wish hadn’t.

The final picture is one that almost tears at you. A silly one that you would’ve never imagined would push at your heart like a heavy door stuck in the way of your own contentment. You’re kissing him, the side profile of your two faces as you indulge in each other's lips. Satoru’s free arm slightly out of frame since he’s the one holding the camera high. You both are holding your left hands up, showing off your Ring Pops on each of your ring fingers. His red, yours blue.

“Let’s pose like a couple who just got married!”

You sighed. “Satoru….”

Written on the white border frame of the photo are the words:

She said yes!!

A melancholic laugh escapes you, tears hitting the picture. It’s colors are already slightly altered from previous wetness. Your chest feels tight, eyes closing with a sinking stomach. Why do you always do this to yourself when you’re already feeling upset? Why are you still so affected by it? Will it get better with time? But how much more time?

You gasp and flinch when the front door is rung, eyes widening as you swiftly and messily put the contents back in, sliding the top back on and stuffing the box in its hiding spot once more. After closing the door, you walk down the hall and to the peephole. Your brows furrow. “Satoru?” You ask as you open the door. Confusion hits you, seeing your sleeping son in his father’s arms. Koji’s backpack slid on top of Satoru’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“Um…dropping Koji off?” He replies back like it’s the obvious, his own pale eyebrows knitting as he regards you. “…Are you okay? Why are you crying?”

Shit. “I’m not,” your hands raise to your cheeks, wiping any trace of your previous emotional breakdown, swiftly denying his words. “I thought you were coming back later.”

“It is later, Y/N.” He frowns and steps in, allowing you a better view of the dark night sky.

What the hell? Since when did it get dark? Slowly, you close and lock the door, blinking rapidly as you try to gather your bearings. Just how long were you on the couch for? How long were you reminiscing? Turning around, you see Satoru come out from Koji’s room.

“Put him down, showered and dressed him already. Little man played a lot today.”

“Oh,” you murmur, unsure of what else to say. You lean against the door for a moment, trying to regain your composure. Satoru’s words feel oddly domestic, almost like you’re living a life you’ve long since moved on from dreaming about—or tried to.

He sets Koji’s backpack down by the couch, brushing invisible dust off his sleeves as he glances your way. “You sure you’re okay?” His voice softens now, genuine. Concerned.

You force a small smile, crossing your arms. “I’m fine. Just…lost track of time, I guess.”

Satoru studies you, his crystalline eyes searching your face like he doesn’t quite believe you. He shrugs lightly, though, not wanting to push. “Alright. Koji was great today. Took him to that park he keeps talking about. Got some ice cream. He wore me out.” His lips quirk into a small grin, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thanks for doing that,” you say softly, glancing toward Koji’s room. “He loves spending time with you. He always talks to me about your guys’ missions.”

“Hah, yeah, well…” Satoru scratches the back of his neck, leaning his tall frame casually against the wall. “I love spending time with him, too. And you know, it’s not just for him.” His words are light, but there’s a weight behind them, one you’re not sure you’re ready to unpack tonight. You don’t know what he really means by that, but it’s probably best that you don’t. You’d look into it too much. And like he said, you’re already complicating things even more by almost kissing him the other day.

You nod, your throat tightening as you look anywhere but at him. “I should probably check on him. Make sure he’s really asleep.”

“Y/N.” His voice stops you in your tracks.

You turn slowly, meeting his gaze. “What?” you ask, your voice smaller than you intended.

He hesitates for a moment, his brows furrowing as though he’s deciding whether or not to say what’s on his mind. Finally, he sighs and steps closer. “If something’s bothering you…you can talk to me. You know that, right? You look like you’re crying and I—”

Your heart clenches, the sincerity in his voice almost too much to bear. “I know,” you manage to cut him off, your voice sharper than you had wanted it to be.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the air between you heavy with unspoken words. Then, Satoru clears his throat and steps back. “Alright. Guess I’ll head out, then. Call me if you need anything.” You hum, watching as he heads for the door. Just before he leaves, he pauses, glancing back at you one last time. His eyes linger for a second longer than they should, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

And you’re left alone again, the weight of the evening settling back over you like a familiar, unwelcome blanket. You want to scold yourself for losing track of time so easily, letting yourself get lost for such a long time. He probably thinks something’s wrong, and while you appreciate him being mature and overall cordial enough to offer his ear, you don’t want to give him that. It’s embarrassing and almost too vulnerable for you right now to vent to your ex.

You know that saying that the last thing or person you think about before you fall asleep is what you’ll dream of? He stares at the door, trying to will himself into stopping his train of thought, but the vision of you won’t leave. Not tonight. Maybe it’s the nagging scent of your clothes he can still smell, or maybe it’s the way you looked so raw, so unguarded. Maybe it’s the promise he made to himself years ago to never let you go, to never let you fall apart without him. Now look where he is.

Satoru’s mind is a whirlwind as he steps back into the cold, dark air of his penthouse, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality he wasn’t quite ready for. He should’ve left things simple, right? Drop off Koji, make sure everything’s okay, and then go. But of course, he couldn’t help himself. He had to ask, had to reach for that sliver of connection that still seemed to remain between the two of you, even after all this time. Or maybe he’s not reaching, he’s just being a good person. Or maybe there is no sliver of connection at all.

He rubs his face with one hand as he walks down the hall, his thoughts staying on your expression, the tightness in your smile, the way you tried so hard to hide whatever was eating at you. Your red eyes that seemed glossy enough to tell him what you had been doing before he arrived. He should’ve pushed, should’ve stayed longer, but something told him it wasn’t the right time. Also, not to mention the fact that he’s not entitled to know anymore, and he shouldn’t want to. He wishes he could forget—wishes it wasn’t so easy for him to still care about you after everything you’ve put him through.

Still, his mind can’t stop replaying the way you looked tonight, like you were holding back—like you were on the edge of something he couldn’t reach. And now, that’s the last image he sees before closing his eyes: you, standing there, fragile but strong, trying to put on a brave face when he knew you were anything but okay.

He slides into his bed, sinking into the comforting mattress. Stop thinking about it, he tells himself. Just go to sleep.

But it's useless. The thought of you doesn't leave him. It never does in times like this. But that's the thing, isn't it? He always cared. Always would. Any good man would

As the awaited sleep stretches on, his mind drifts back to those moments—the way you wiped your face quickly when he mentioned the tears. How you didn’t let him in. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this.

Before he knows it, he feels the weight of his own exhaustion, the pull of sleep starting to take over. He lets his eyes stay shut. Stretching out on the bed, his thoughts blurring into a fizzle. The room is quiet, too quiet. But just like that, he’s falling and falling into a realm where the weight of everything else disappears.

The first thing he sees startles him. It’s just you, standing in front of him again, your eyes locked with his.

You’re both staring at one another before it’s like someone slowly raising the light switches. Sun peeking through the blinds of the kitchen you two stand in as you place a hand down to your stomach. When his eyes follow it, he then notices the rounded swell that’s visible from beneath the dress you wear.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

You giggle, voice smooth and inviting, stepping closer to him until you can reach his hand, intertwining your fingers.

Yep, definitely a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.

“I made you breakfast, your favorite.” You guide his hand to your bump, chuckling softly. “But baby here was getting hungry, so we may have gotten a little taste test before.”

Satoru’s heart skips a beat, his fingers instinctively brushing over your rounded stomach as you guide them there. The warmth of your skin under his touch feels real, too real, and his mind stumbles, trying to make sense of the situation. The room around you starts to feel like a glimpse into an alternative universe. Soft, golden light spilling in through the blinds, the smell of something warm and inviting persisting in the air. It’s almost too perfect, too serene to be real. And yet, he’s standing here, his breath caught in his throat as his fingers rest against the gentle curve of your belly. The weight of it, the life growing inside you, sends a quiet thrill through him.

You giggle, the sound of it so familiar it makes his chest ache. It’s like nothing has changed. Like you’re the same as you’ve always been, only…this time, things are different. There’s a quiet tenderness in the air that wasn’t there before. He swallows, trying to fight the growing confusion in his chest. “I—I don’t understand,” he murmurs, his thumb lightly brushing over the small, soft swell of your stomach. He knows it’s not real, but it doesn’t stop his brain from wandering into beliefs of if it were. “How… how are we here?”

Your smile widens, that knowing glimmer in your eyes that makes his chest tighten with something he can’t name. “We’re here because this is where we belong,” you say simply, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. You nudge his hand a little lower, guiding him to feel the tiny movement beneath his palm, the small shift of life inside you.

It’s then that the weight of the moment hits him all at once, his heart thumping in his chest. The quiet reality of what you’ve built together, the life you’ve shared, and everything that could’ve been. He’s overwhelmed, caught between longing and disbelief. His voice cracks when he finally speaks again. “Is this what you wanted? What we wanted?”

You laugh softly, resting your forehead against his chest, your fingers still entwined with his. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. What we have always wanted. Stop acting weird.” Your words are a balm, soothing yet laced with something deeper, something that speaks to both of your hearts, even if this is fake.

In this moment, everything feels right. It feels like you’re back to where you both belong.

Satoru stays still for a moment, the warmth of your forehead pressed against him, your fingers gently intertwining with his. The softness of the moment seems to wrap around him, the image of you—here, with him—so perfect that it almost hurts. The softness of your touch, the way your body feels against his as you stand close, it’s like he’s been starved of this connection for so long. A quiet ache settles deep within him, but it’s not the hurt he’s used to. No, this is something else—something far more complicated.

He shifts slightly, his gaze never leaving yours as you lift your head. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to feel this again,” he admits, his voice low and tentative. The vulnerability in his tone catches him off guard, but it feels natural, like you’ve always been the one person he could let his guard down with. “You and…us. Everything that’s happened.”

You hum softly, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. The smile on your lips is small but full of quiet understanding. “I know, Satoru,” you say, your voice steady, like you’ve been carrying this weight for far longer than he ever realized. “But this…” You glance down at your stomach before meeting his eyes again, “This is what we fought for. This is what we still have.”

He feels the truth of your words settle into him, but it’s a bittersweet sensation, one that pulls at something deep inside of him. It’s almost too good to be true, this version of reality, and he can’t help but wonder why his mind has conjured up this visualization—this perfect picture of you and him, together in a way he never thought possible.

“But what if we don’t get it right?” he asks quietly, his brow furrowing in uncertainty. “What if we’re too broken to fix it? We’ve made so many mistakes…”

You place a gentle finger against his lips, silencing him before he can spiral further. “We’ve always been broken, Satoru,” you say softly, “But we’ve always found our way back to each other. And that’s enough. Right?”

The way you say it, so sure of yourself, sends a warmth through his chest. It’s a peace he didn’t think he would ever have again. His heart beats a little faster, a little steadier, as he finally lets go of the lingering doubts, the fear of what’s beyond this moment. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the weight in his chest. “I don’t know what’s next, but for now… I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes soften, and for a moment, he sees it—the connection between you two, unbroken, unshakable. Even in the midst of everything that’s happened, the messy past and the uncertainty of the future, he realizes that some things are worth fighting for. “This is enough for me,” you whisper, closing the distance between you, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It’s gentle, but it carries everything—everything he’s been wanting to say, everything he’s been longing to hear.

And god, the way your pretty lips feel against his is heavenly. It’s strong and long-lasting. Hand to your cheek as his head tilts to deepen it, feeling your warm breath enter his mouth like a soft pull. He’s tempted to dance his tongue along your own.

As you pull away, he feels a quiet peace settle over him. The dream, though fleeting, has given him something he didn’t know he needed. A glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, they can find their way back to each other for good.

But the atmosphere darkens, like putting a blanket over a lamp. Your own eyes dulling into something he saw before he left you tonight, something he’s been seeing everytime he visits you. Your smile dropping into a placid emotion. Satoru’s heart stutters in his chest, the warmth of the moment slipping away like sand between his fingers. The light around you seems to fade, the world losing its softness and vibrancy. A chill washes over him, creeping through his veins like ice water. Your smile, once so gentle and inviting, disappears into something far more distant, as if a part of you has shut down completely. The joy that had filled the air vanishes, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence that wraps itself around both of you. His eyes widen in confusion, and he takes a step back, searching your face for any hint of explanation. He feels the air shift into a freezing temperature.

"What—?" He stops himself, his words catching in his throat, trying to make sense of the drastic shift in the atmosphere. The way your hand falls to your side feels like a finality, as though the reality he had just witnessed—of you, of the hope in your eyes—was nothing more than a simple illusion.

The weight of the silence presses down on him, smothering. His gaze moves down, and that's when he realizes the baby bump has vanished. There’s nothing there. The roundness, the warmth, the promise of new life—gone. In its place, there's only the smooth curve of your stomach, flat and unchanged.

"Y/N?" His voice cracks on your name, disoriented and desperate for some kind of explanation. "What happened? What…what’s going on?"

But you don’t answer right away. Instead, you look at him like you’ve seen a stranger, a shift in your eyes that only deepens the growing pit in his stomach. Your gaze is cold, distant, almost as if you've already resigned yourself to something. Satoru swallows hard, his hand instinctively reaching for you, but when his fingers brush against your arm, it feels like the connection is completely severed. "What’s wrong? Talk to me," he pleads, his voice raw and filled with confusion.

You take a slow, deliberate step back, the air between you two growing heavier. "Satoru," you say, but your voice sounds far too calm, far too final. "This is the reality, isn't it? This is what it always was—always will be. A dream. A fantasy."

His mind races, his heart pounding in his chest. "No, this isn’t a fantasy! We—we had a chance. You and me, and Koji…and the other…We were—" His throat tightens, unable to finish his sentence.

But you cut him off, the finality in your words sinking deep. "You left, Satoru. You just wanted us to end, didn’t you? It’s why you didn’t fight for me the day we broke up—fight for us. You made me make that promise. You left, and that’s what this is now. A memory. The past. Something we’ll never, ever get back.”

The words land like a blow to his chest, sharp and cutting. His chest tightens as he searches your face, willing for you to show him that this is just another moment in the dream—that the warmth would come back, that the hope would return. But your eyes are cold. The distance between you feels insurmountable.

He opens his mouth to speak, to argue, to fix whatever it is that's wrong—but nothing comes out. The truth is, he doesn’t know how to fix this. Not anymore. Not when everything between you feels so broken, like fragments of a life he no longer knows how to put together.

And just like that, the warmth of the dream fades completely, leaving him in the cold, dark reality of what’s been lost.

“I wish I kept Koji from you. I wish you weren’t his father.”

Satoru startles awake, jolting upright in his bed. He feels like he’s just been splashed with ice cold water, in a way, he has. Raising his hands to his temples, face scrunching in discomfort. He’s breathing fast and hard, heart feeling like it’ll just pop right out. His hands trembling.

The sounds of birds tweeting a song is what he hears next. The morning light filters softly through the curtains, but it feels blinding to him, harsh against the remnants of the nightmare. His chest rises and falls rapidly, each breath shallow and frantic, his heart still racing as he fights to steady himself. The words you spoke echo in his mind, sharp and cutting. I wish I kept Koji from you. I wish you weren’t his father. The pain in those words, the hurt, is still so vivid in his memory.

Satoru places his hands on the sides of his face, trying to ground himself. His fingers dig into his skin, as if the physical pressure could somehow push away the remnants of the dream, make it vanish. But it lingers. It hangs heavy in the air, suffocating him. Why did you say that? Why did you feel that way? Do you actually feel that way in real life? Are you planning to take Koji and run away with him again? Did you seriously regret having a child with him?

He inhales deeply, his breath shaky, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart. The sound of birds chirping in the distance serves as a reminder that the world continues to move outside of his turmoil, but it only makes him feel more disconnected. He pushes the blankets off of him and swings his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a thud. His mind races, trying to make sense of what he’s feeling. That dream—it wasn’t just a nightmare. It felt like a warning, a reminder of how fragile everything has been, how much he’s lost. How much he’s failed.

The promise.

The weight of what’s happened between you two settles heavily on his shoulders. And it makes him feel cautious—scared that you’ll do what you said you wouldn’t, all over again.

Satoru stands, his body still trembling slightly, and walks toward the window. He peers outside, letting the light touch his face, even if it’s almost too bright for him right now. It’s peaceful outside, the world as it always is in the morning: calm, serene, untouched. But his own mind is a storm, and no amount of sunlight seems to clear the clouds. He closes his eyes and exhales deeply, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream, the guilt gnawing at him. The idea of you saying that you wished you’d kept Koji from him—the thought cuts deeper than he’s willing to admit. What does that mean for the future?

What does it mean for him?

Satoru feels his heart aching with the need to fix things, to understand if you actually feel that way. But he's left in the quiet chaos of his own mind, unsure of where to begin. And that's the worst part: not knowing where to start.

Whatever, it was just a dream. Dreams aren’t real. Don’t think too much into it.

A text message pings, causing him to look over. The sight of your name forms a twisting feeling to reside in his core, frowning. It’s like when you dream about your significant other cheating on you, so the next morning you’re a little mad at them for no reason. But this time, he’s not sure if it’s for no reason.

Maybe you actually feel like this, feeling regret for not keeping Koji from him any longer. You’ve obviously shown to be good at keeping secrets, so who’s to say you’re not still doing that. He grabs his phone, clicking on your message and pushing down the resentment that continues to bloom once more.

Y/N:

Hey, have u had any luck with the leaker?

Satoru sighs heavily, eyes closing momentarily before opening them back up and typing you back. He can’t help the shortness in his response.

Satoru:

Y/N:

Pls let me know of any changes

He doesn’t bother replying, tossing his phone on his bed and getting up and ready for the day. Of course the thought of the identity of who leaked the photo has been running rampant in his mind day in and day out. But he just woke up from a particularly scary nightmare—or a message?—and he doesn’t need his mind overwhelmed anymore than it is right now.

As he goes through his morning routine, Satoru can’t shake the consistent unease. The nightmare, your text, and the weight of everything that’s been happening swirl in his mind like a storm he can’t escape. He brushes his teeth with more force than necessary, gripping the sink as the toothpaste foam spills over his lips. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, his pale blue eyes duller than usual, rimmed with exhaustion.

He can’t stop wondering—what if there’s truth to his nightmare? What if you do regret letting him into Koji’s life? The thought gnaws at him, a relentless ache in his chest.

The leak complicates things even further. Someone out there—someone close enough to know—exposed him and Koji to the world. The conversation with his mother plays again internally. Someone close or possibly a business partner. But what if she’s wrong? What if it’s someone who’s not close, but still smart enough? And while it’s caused a media frenzy, he knows the real damage is more personal. It’s the wedge it’s driving between him and you. The accusations, the whispers, the uncertainty—it’s all feeding into the growing gap he’s been struggling to bridge.

He pulls on a shirt, his movements jerky as his frustration builds. He hasn’t been able to sleep properly for days either, his mind consumed by the mystery of the leak and the uneasy tension between you two. It’s not like you’re outright hostile, but there’s something there—something distant, guarded. And now, after the dream, he can’t stop replaying the worst-case scenarios in his head.

The atmosphere in the room is cold, tense—calculating. Out of the four people situated inside, none speak. Just looking at one another in silent scrutiny. Yamato and Akane are sitting side by side, seated across from them are another married couple.

Kenji and Emi Nakamura.

Kenji and Emi Nakamura exude the quiet confidence of people used to wielding power. Kenji’s sharp suit is impeccably tailored, his posture straight and commanding, while Emi, poised in a sleek dress, sits with her legs crossed, her hands folded neatly on her lap. Despite their calm appearances, their sharp gazes and the slight twitch of Kenji’s jaw betray their impatience.

Yamato leans back in his chair, his arms crossed, his eyes cold and unwavering as they meet Kenji’s. Akane, seated next to him, is the picture of composed elegance, but the slight tap of her heel against the floor reveals her tension. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until finally, Kenji speaks, his voice smooth but laced with thinly veiled irritation.

“So,” he begins, his piercing eyes flickering between Yamato and Akane. “Are we going to dance around the issue all day, or will one of you have the decency to explain how this... mess...got out and why the man who’s dating our daughter suddenly has a secret son?”

Yamato doesn’t flinch. He lets the accusation hang in the air for a moment before responding, his tone measured. “We don’t deal in leaks, Kenji. And we certainly wouldn’t jeopardize our own family’s reputation for... what? A scandal? That’s more your style.”

Kenji’s expression hardens, and Emi places a delicate hand on his arm, a subtle but firm reminder to keep his temper in check. She smiles politely, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s not turn this into a blame game. We’re all here because this leak affects all of us—your family, ours, Satoru’s and Himari’s.”

Akane’s lips twitch into a faint, humorless smile. “Don’t patronize us, Emi. You and I both know you’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this. You’ve always wanted to see Satoru fall from grace.”

Emi raises an eyebrow, her smile unfaltering. “I want what’s best for our families, Akane. A public scandal doesn’t benefit anyone, least of all Gojo or the Nakamura name. Besides, our daughter quite loves your son.”

Kenji leans forward, his hands clasped together on the table. “Let’s cut the theatrics. Who is responsible?”

Akane’s heel stops tapping, and she fixes Kenji with a sharp look. “We’re working on it. Our investigators are thorough, and they’ll uncover the source soon enough.”

Kenji’s eyes narrow. “They’d better. Because the last thing the Nakamura name needs is a public scandal about a conniving young man and our innocent daughter. She’s already receiving enough scrutiny as it is.”

The tension in the room ratchets up another notch, but Yamato remains unmoved. His voice, low and steady, cuts through the silence. “And if we discover the leak came from your side, Kenji? Are you prepared to deal with the consequences?” The two men lock eyes, a silent battle of wills, while their wives sit in their respective corners, poised like chess queens ready to strike. The room may be quiet, but the unspoken threats linger in the air like a storm waiting to break.

“We’d never do something like this, especially if it affects our daughter.” Emi replies firmly. She tilts her chin up slightly, an air of indignation radiating from her as her perfectly manicured hand rests on her husband’s arm. “You should know better than to accuse us of such underhanded behavior, Yamato.”

Yamato’s wife leans forward slightly, her tone equally sharp. “And you should know better than to express such hostility towards us. Tenka Couture benefits more from Gojo Group than vice versa.”

Emi’s smile tightens, her composure threatening to crack. “Why, of course. We’re just saying, Himari has nothing to gain from this mess. If anything, she’s a victim of it. The constant media scrutiny, the endless whispers. How do you think that’s been affecting her?”

Kenji slams his hand on the table, the sound reverberating through the room. “Enough. This isn’t about Himari. This is about finding the truth. If your investigators are as thorough as you claim, then we’d better find answers—and soon.”

Yamato meets Kenji’s glare with a calm intensity. “Rest assured, we will. But until then, I suggest you keep your own people in check. If we find out this was an attempt to sabotage Satoru—or worse, hurt him—there will be consequences. You know that better than anyone.”

Kenji leans back, his jaw tight, as Emi places another calming hand on his shoulder. “We don’t want this to escalate any further,” she says, her voice softer now but no less firm. “For everyone’s sake, let’s handle this with discretion.”

Akane glances at Yamato, smoothing down the front of her skirt. “We agree. But let’s make one thing clear—if the Nakamuras are involved in any way, there will be no forgiveness. Not from us, and not from Satoru.”

Kenji sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Of course, we understand. But again, we are in no way involved with this leak. With the revelation of this…boy, it messes up everything. Himari and Satoru are a couple. They’re supposed to represent unity between our families and companies, a partnership that benefits both sides. This child complicates that narrative. It puts everything we’ve worked for at risk.”

Yamato’s eyes narrow, his sharp gaze cutting through Kenji’s words. “We understand, yes. But at the end of the day, Satoru is our son, this boy is…well he’s a part of our family now. Your concern seems to be more about appearances than the actual implications for Satoru’s life or the boy’s well-being, but I understand that. My wife and I too are concerned with the way this sudden news could somehow stain our reputation.”

Kenji leans forward, his hands clasped tightly on the table, his expression taut. “Appearances are everything in this world, Yamato. You know that. If this story continues to spread, the consequences won’t just affect Satoru or Himari—they’ll ripple through both of our families. Investors, business partners, the media—they all thrive on scandal, and we can’t afford to give them fuel. They’ll begin to wonder what else we’re keeping a secret.”

“Himari and Satoru’s relationship isn’t as stable as you think it is,” Akane counters, her tone measured but resolute. “This revelation didn’t create the cracks; it only exposed them. Maybe it’s time you and your daughter accept that.”

Emi bristles at Akane’s insinuation, her voice cold but precise. “You underestimate my daughter’s strength. Himari has always handled challenges with grace. She and Satoru will navigate this together—if you and your family stop meddling.”

Yamato cuts in, his expression calm. “Let’s not pretend this is solely about Satoru and Himari. The Nakamuras have as much to lose as we do. But let me remind you, Kenji, that this child—Koji—isn’t just a complication. He’s Satoru’s son, and that makes him family. As the adults in this situation, we also hold a certain level of accountability as for keeping this child away from public eye.”

Kenji’s jaw tightens, his composure threatening to crack. “Family or not, this boy’s existence jeopardizes everything. Himari has been nothing but supportive of Satoru, and she doesn’t deserve to be overshadowed by a damned secret from his past.”

Akane’s voice slices through the tension like a blade. “Supportive, or opportunistic? Don’t confuse loyalty with convenience. If Himari truly cared for Satoru, she’d understand that his son isn’t just a ‘secret’—he’s part of who he is now.”

The room falls silent, the weight of Akane’s words lingering. Kenji finally stands, his movements deliberate. “We’ll see how this plays out. But if you think we’ll let the Nakamura name be tarnished by this… situation, you’re mistaken.”

Yamato rises as well, his eyes locking with Kenji’s in an unspoken challenge. “And if you think we’ll allow anyone—anyone—to undermine Satoru or the Gojo legacy, you’re equally mistaken. The truth will come out, Kenji. Be prepared for it.”

With that, the couple turns and leave, their exit leaving the Gojos in a cloud of tension and unease. Akane finally speaks, her voice low but firm. “Remind me again why we are pushing through with this arrangement. The Gojo Group hardly needs Tenka Couture. We’re more than capable of standing on our own.”

Yamato exhales, running a hand through his silver hair. “It’s not about needing them, Akane. It’s about the influence. The Nakamuras have deep connections in sectors we’ve been trying to expand into—fashion, entertainment, international markets. Aligning with them strengthens our position globally. We settled this years ago, okay?”

Akane crosses her arms, her expression skeptical. “At what cost? Their arrogance alone is enough to make me question this. And let’s not even get started on Himari. She might be poised on the outside, but she lacks the fortitude to handle Satoru’s world. She clings to the spotlight, but she’s not ready for the shadows.”

Yamato’s jaw tightens. “You’re not wrong, but this arrangement was never meant to hinge on her ability to ‘handle’ Satoru. It’s a strategic move, not a personal one. I thought you understood that.”

“Strategic?” Akane’s voice rises slightly, her composed exterior slipping. “Do you even hear yourself? This isn’t just a business deal anymore. There’s a child involved now—your grandson. And yet, we’re expected to sideline him for the sake of appearances?”

Yamato’s gaze hardens, a rare flicker of emotion breaking through his typically stoic demeanor. “The boy is not being sidelined. But if this situation spirals out of control, it won’t just be Satoru’s name dragged through the mud—it’ll be Koji’s, too. I’m trying to protect all of them. As much as I dislike this situation and as much as I do not care for getting to know this boy, at the end of the day he’s connected to us.”

Akane steps closer, her voice softening but losing none of its edge. “And how do you expect to protect Koji by tying Satoru to someone who doesn’t have the heart to care for him? Because that’s what you’re doing, Yamato. You’re forcing a partnership that benefits no one but the Nakamuras. I’ve told you this from the start that it won’t do us good. There are plenty of other people we can contact that won’t involve forcing our son into an arranged marriage.”

For a moment, Yamato doesn’t respond. His broad shoulders sag just slightly, the weight of the conversation settling over him. “This isn’t about what’s ideal, Akane. It’s about what’s necessary. And until we find another way to stabilize this situation, the arrangement stands.”

Akane shakes her head, turning away. “Necessary, huh? Tell me, Yamato—when did we start sacrificing our son for necessity?”

Her words hover in the air as she walks out of the room, leaving Yamato standing alone, the tension thick and suffocating. He glances out the window, the city lights reflecting in his cold blue eyes. “Sometimes,” he murmurs to himself, “family is the sacrifice.”

Kenji and Emi sit in the back of the blacked out Escalade. One visibly more angry than the other. The assistant up front hands Kenji an IPad. “Here, sir.”

Kenji takes it without a word, scrolling. On the screen, a plethora of all the personal information regarding the woman who caused all this.

You.

Kenji’s grip tightens on the iPad as his sharp eyes scan the screen, each line of information making his jaw clench harder. Birthdate, address, financial records, employment history—it’s all there. How pathetic. Every detail meticulously laid out like a blueprint of your life. Beside him, Emi glances over, her expression less angered and more calculating.

“So,” she finally says, her tone icy and deliberate. “This is her.”

Kenji doesn’t reply immediately, his focus locked on the screen. An ID picture accompanied the words. The photo of you, Satoru, and Koji catches his attention, and his lips press into a thin line. The leaked photo. “The audacity,” he mutters. “She hides this little punk tyke for years, and now she’s a problem we’re forced to deal with. They both are.”

Emi tilts her head, her perfectly manicured nails tapping lightly against her armrest. “She doesn’t look like much. Hardly someone who should be causing this much of a stir. But appearances can be deceiving.” Her lips curl into a faint sneer. “Especially for women like her.”

“She’s more than just a stir. She’s a maddening, infuriating liability with baggage from hell,” Kenji snaps, handing the iPad back to his assistant with a flick of his wrist. “The kind that could ruin everything if we’re not careful because they themselves have nothing to lose.”

The assistant clears his throat nervously from the front seat. “Sir, should I proceed with the next steps?”

Kenji leans back in his seat, his eyes dark and unrelenting. “Not yet. I want to understand her first. How she operates. What she values. Everyone has a weakness. Once we find hers, we’ll decide the next course of action. Though, I assume it’s the ragged infant.”

Emi raises an eyebrow, her tone almost teasing. “You sound like you’re preparing for war.”

Kenji’s gaze flickers to his wife, his expression unreadable. “Aren’t we?”

The tension in the car is palpable, the low hum of the engine the only sound as they drive through the city. Emi’s lips curve into a faint smile, though her eyes remain cold. “She won’t win, Kenji. Not against us. Not against our sweet baby girl.”

“She won’t even get the chance,” Kenji replies, his voice hard and certain. “We’ll make sure of it.”

a/n: this is my present to u all!!!! happy holidays! ❤️❤️

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zarnzarn · 6 months ago

Text

TW: jumping on the manwhore au but aftermath, discussion of S/A, read carefully.

Three weeks pass.

Odysseus is carried through them with ecstasy and joy, reuniting and grieving and laughing and rearranging.

But then everything settles down, and-

It was him who'd ordered it. Ordered owls to be carved into every free inch of Ithaka, coveted shipments of the secretive birds for his personal menagerie, sold trinkets in the market. Made no secret of who favoured them, when he had half the houses painted blue.

But now every step he takes in his own home haunts him.

He cannot so much as look to the side before feeling the urge to flinch away, shame growing inside of him until it chokes him up. Cannot look at any owls. Cannot look at any of his men.

("Well, if our captain can't think his way out of it, at least now we know talking filthy works just as well!" One of the men chortles, unaware of how Odysseus' blood had run cold, standing with his hand raised to knock.)

("This day, you've lost it all, consider this as my goodbye-")

("Come on, she's a beautiful, powerful lady! How bad could it really have been, Captain?")

("Captain?" Eurylochus whispers, as Odysseus wipes the blood off his mouth and reaches for his cloak. The ships are silent, even though the roar of the waves has left. Eyes stare at him from all directions, wide and-

Pitying? Horrified? Odysseus can't really tell.

"Full speed ahead," He says, voice ruined, and keeps his chin high as he hobbles back to his room.)

(When the sirens come, all he sees is Penelope. It is nice, at least, to know that he can discard the intrusive thoughts creeping in about natural reactions and forced pleasures.)

("Please- please don't do this, don't make me choose, I'll do anything-")

("Leave me the fuck alone, both of you. If Penelope does not take me back after all of this, it's her choice. But I have to get all of us off this island and it's better me than you.")

"Ody- Your Majesty!" Odysseus reaches into his robes, pulls out the whittling tool and the wood, busies himself as he walks. It's one of the younger men, the ones who'd barely been boys when they left. "Listen, we were wondering if- if you'd come join us at the festival! The- all of the men, really, we've been- heh- missing you since we now have to share you with the rest of the kingdom. We could- we could sing together? Like we used to?"

Athena's prayers.

"You go ahead," Odysseus murmurs, eyes on the carving. "Next time."

"But you didn't come for the last one either!"

"I have-" He hears his own sharp tone, stops and swallows to soften it. He was terrible to all of them, he knows, those last few days aboard the ship, rude and sharp and brutal like all the other royals, where he never was before. "I have work to do. Have a good day. I've heard the new hound stock is coming in today, you should see if you want a pet."

He ignores whatever is said in response, walking on. He wonders, darkly, what they think of him. Do they still think he enjoyed it? That it was a privilege to be had by gods?

("He won't speak to us!" One of them hiss that night, when the lad comes back sniffling and downcast, like all the others. They'd grown up with Odysseus, almost like younger brothers, and all of the younger ones were taking the sudden frigid silence hard. They all were. Somewhere they had lost their friend, left him behind without noticing, until only their king returned. "He cannot possibly think we think less of him for sacrificing so much, for- the gods are impossible to hold up against, he can't think we blame him for-"

"We don't know what he thinks," Polites says, pulling his head out of his hands and wrapping his arms around himself. "He doesn't even look at us."

The men around the fire are all silent.

"He has to know, right?" Someone whispers. "He has to.")

"What did happen on the trip back?" Penelope says, voice quiet, sitting next to him. He jolts. When did he reach their bedroom? "Something did. You have barely touched me since that first day."

Odysseus opens his mouth, but for the first time, he has nothing to say. What can he? She had known, the first second he had turned his eyes from her in shame, and yanked him back in anyway with eyes blazing like a lion, growling that she didn't care what he had to do to come back, as long as he had.

Odysseus doesn't feel like he has.

Penelope carefully takes the whittling knife away from him, as well as the spear he'd carved. "And you have not prayed, after your return."

(He had tried. Had walked right upto the temple steps when everyone was asleep, and then turned around and thrown up in a bush.)

"Have you heard the story of the high priestess Medusa?" He murmurs, staring at the wall. Watches the shadows dancing across. "Athena used to tell me about her. One of her favourite devotees. I never understood why she cursed her, when it was not her fault."

Penelope puts a hand on his shoulder. Both of them are shaking. She has seen the scars, the ones that glow beautiful and bright, left behind by each god who touched him.

"A gorgon, snake-woman, capable of turning anyone she looked upon to stone, gods and humans alike. No eyes upon her, ever again."

The breeze blows in.

"At the time, I thought it to be a curse." He whispers. Remembers the story of the way she had screamed in the temple bower for Athena's help, insane, at the feeling he knows now is violation of self and celibacy both; Athena's chosen, ripped away from one of their ways of worship by force. "Now I know it was a blessing."

"But-" Penelope swallows. "Perseus-"

"Was a mercy." He looks at the ground. "She was pregnant. She did not wish to be. Athena granted her so."

"The shield is to honor her," Penelope murmurs. "Not a trophy."

He hums.

"I-" Penelope starts, voice thick. "I remember when you asked. When we first got married. If I was fine with not being joined with you in bed often, as long as I was satisfied. Was it-?"

"Only her priestesses can have true celibacy, her devotees less, me lesser. I had a crown to continue, so Athena accepted a more lenient vow, when I became her student." He stares out at the sea, the sky. "But I had vowed. I had sworn." A half-sob escapes him, some delayed noise of grief. It feels far away now, and the scars have all healed, but he cannot move past the violation, the stares, the whispers. The shame of betrayal. "I had an oath, Penelope."

"It was not your fault," Penelope whispers, taking his hand like he will shatter like glass. "Poseidon seems to target all of Athena's people. If anything-"

"We fought," He says, turning his head to press his face to her shoulder, shuddering as he confesses it. Abandoned by his own god. "She left. Maybe this is her punishment, all the eyes, all the time. Paranoid that another Olympian will jump out of the shadows, do it again."

"Or," Penelope says after a long pause. "She does not know. Only one way to truly find out."

Odysseus considers.

"Could you," He swallows, throat clicking. "Could you get me- the things from my shrine?"

He does not expect her to actually arrive.

He shakes in front of her, for the first time, feeling small and foolish and broken. Wishes he could go back to being twelve, do it all over correctly. "Lady Athena," He says, as formally as he can. "I beg your forgiveness. Please- please, is there anything I can do to-"

"About time," She interrupts, bored. "Finally willing to concede that I was right?"

Odysseus feels bile rise in his throat. "Yes, goddess. I was- stupid, to ever consider otherwise."

Penelope's hand is clenched tight in his robes, kneeling with him.

"Good," Athena says, pleased. "A war well won, all things considered. Our glory will go down in the history books." A pause. "Why are you on the floor?"

"What?" He chokes out.

"You've never kneeled to me once, even when I've taken you out at the ankles, you impudent brat," She snorts. Odysseus feels his pounding heart freeze in his chest at the- fondness in her voice. Fondness. She is not furious with him, not unforgiving. "What, do you want something else-"

She knocks him on the head, flicking him on the forehead playfully- then freezes as he looks up at her. Goes completely still, and he knows she can see what they did to him.

Penelope's hand reaches out to steady him.

"Only your forgiveness, goddess," His voice breaks. "Only that."

After, Penelope holds him, crying silently herself as she wipes at his cheeks. Athena sits with her head in her hands, helmet removed, anger finally under control but completely silent. Just sits there at the edge of their bed, bent over, face buried in her own palms.

Finally, she straightens, inhaling. Turns to look at him. "You may not be alive to see it," She tells him, quiet and furious. "But this is their last transgression, I swear to you. I will find a way to get revenge. They will die."

"I do not-"

"They will die. And no vows have been broken." She hesitates, hand hovering over his ankle. Odysseus crumbles, nodding desperately, and nearly passes out at the relief of the familiar touch, sharp and cleansing, godly and unlike the chaos of all the others. "You need not apologise to me about that."

He sniffs, turning his face into Penelope's shoulder. It feels freeing, some latent relief that Athena finally sees him, understands, forgives. She is not the terrifying goddess so far removed, cold and cruel, that he was starting to think she truly might be; bowed over in grief and horror for him, like a friend- he just wishes this was not the reason why.

Her eyes are gold at the edges. Crying. Nauseated almost, at the fact that- her uncle. Her father.

"Would you-" Odysseus wheezes. His heart hurts still, for their fight, for what happened after, for how hard he knows she will take it. "Can you-"

"Anything, champion," She says softly, strained. Gives him a half-smile. "My friend."

"The wings-" He whispers, feeling stupid, but-

"Slow," Penelope murmurs, reaching out to steady Athena as she climbs in close. Her voice is wrecked. She does not say anything more.

Owl wings fold around him, not white or blue or pink, patterned and brown like the mud; home. Home.

"No one will see you," Athena murmurs, and her voice is wretched, but caring. "No one can see you. Peace."

"Peace," Odysseus repeats, and leans into them both, letting the darkness shroud around them like an embrace. Peace.

Home.

#odysseus #athena #penelope of ithaca #epic the musical #manwhore au #tw sex assault #medusa #my fic #idk how to explain it but. athenas champion. i feel like he Would in some versions be celibate in worship as well yknow

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lotties-ashwagandha · 10 days ago

Text

OFFERINGS

poly!adult!yellowjackets x fem!reader

NSFW! you try to blackmail them for money, but end up with them on your doorstep, and they’re ready to kill you until they realize who you are. the anons were going to smite me down if i didn’t write this, so enjoy :) toxic weirdo shit in this fic so consider this your formal warning. AU where lottie still has her wellness center bc miss cult leader deserves to be happy. also misty is mentioned in this fic but she doesn’t get busy bc in my head she’s ace and possibly aro and I have to follow that.

“You should go,” Lottie says, pulling on a robe. “You’ll be late for work.”

In theory, you could stay for another hour or so, if this wasn’t all so transactional — but you know she doesn’t like the idea of anyone seeing you sneaking away out of her cabin in the mornings, so she sends you away at dawn. If she had more self control, she would have you out before that — but the nights you come over to the wellness center are the only nights Lottie allows herself to really be free, and the two of you usually end up drinking or smoking something so potent that you don’t remember making it into bed together in the first place.

And most of the time, Natalie is no help — she hasn’t been ever since she and Lottie started dating, and you started coming over to be shared between them.

You don’t know how Lottie still manages to function at such an early hour afterwards, and every time, while Natalie sleeps in. If it were up to you, you’d take a full day of recovery. Instead you are on the road driving at sunrise back to your apartment, so that you can change and look somewhat presentable at work in a few hours.

You don’t feel bad about the letter you slipped into their mailbox this time. You should, but you don’t — and you don’t regret sending variations of the same to the rest of the Yellowjackets, because all of them are wealthier than you, and even if you were to receive double the amount of money you were blackmailing them for, it wouldn’t put financial strain on them at all. And now, above all, you need extra money — the current financial landscape makes it nearly impossible to get a job that pays well enough for you to live comfortably.

While you’re driving, your phone starts to ring. The caller ID surprises you with Shauna Sadecki.

“I need you to stop by the house,” she says as soon as you pick up. “It’s important.”

You haven’t spoken to Shauna in a long time. You’re older than her daughter by a long shot, but your families are familiar since your younger sister has been best friends with Callie since she started high school and you were already in college. “Is everything okay?”

“I know you sell Callie weed,” Shauna states.

That’s new. It’s not true, either — not really. “I don’t sell your daughter weed.”

“You give it to someone who gives it to someone who gives it to her,” Shauna sighs. You can’t deny that. “I don’t mind. But she’s run out, and I… I’m going through some shit, and I need you to stop by with your magic shit.”

Shauna lights the first joint in front of you. She savors the smoke, closing her eyes for a moment as new calmness sweeps over her features.

“Is everything alright?” You ask. Out of the corner of your eye you see the envelope you sent.

She opens her eyes and unpromptedly glances down at the envelope before turning to look out the kitchen window. “Everything’s fine.”

You nod, clearing your throat awkwardly and pocketing the money she hands you.

“What about you?” Shauna asks. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. Your sister still comes over at least three times a week, though.”

“I’ve been working,” you say carefully, but with the necessary authority in your voice to make your tasks sound big and important.

“On this enterprise you’ve got?” Shauna looks down at everything she bought from you.

“And other things,” you shake your head.

“So mysterious,” she mocks you. “Well, good luck with all of your… other things.”

“Hey,” Taissa sits down on the couch next to Van. She hands her the letter. “This was in the mailbox today.”

“What is it?” Van looks up from the box of tapes she had been sorting through.

“Open it.”

Van opens the envelope and reads what lies inside. When she’s done she closes the envelope and rips it in half.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s bullshit,” Van shrugs. “No one’s going to expose anything we did. No one knows anything.”

Taissa shakes her head. “Should we really take that chance, though?”

Van hesitates. “What would we do, anyway? I’m not giving anyone money.”

“Maybe we don’t have to. We could—”

“We’re not killing anyone, either,” Van interrupts, and even though her concern dissipates a bit when Taissa grabs her hand, she is stern.

“I’m going to call Misty,” Taissa decides. “If anyone knows what to do with a blackmailer, it’s that crazy bitch.”

Your next stop was a test of luck.

You had a growing suspicion that Melissa, a woman that was meant to be long dead, was living the suburban dream instead of rotting in a grave. You had done some deep diving on what really happened to the Yellowjackets, and some conspiracies you found online matched with some other research — and a few things Lottie and Nat said when you were unreasonably high with them one night — led you to locate Melissa alive and well in a new house with a new name and a wife that just so happened to be the daughter of a researcher killed in the wilderness.

You’ve driven by the house a few times now to make sure no one’s home. The only car left about half an hour ago, and from what you could gather it was the whole family that had left.

The final envelope rests in your hands. It will be simple to walk it up to the mailbox, you’re parked a ways down the street so that no one suspects you, but you’re still wrought with apprehension.

The mailbox, instead of being placed at the end of the street, is a drop box attached to the house next to the front door. It’s closer than you want to be to the house even with no one inside, but you gather your courage and try to act natural for anyone watching as you go up the front steps to occupy the porch.

You reach for the mailbox, but before you can slip the envelope inside, the front door swings open.

Shauna Sadecki meets your eyes. “You need to go.”

You pause, clutching the envelope. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Shauna tightens her grip on a knife in her left hand. Then, she sees the envelope you hold, and recognition sweeps over her face. “What’s that?”

You don’t have time to answer. She rips it out of your hands and opens it, scanning over the letter within.

Shauna looks back up at you. “You fucking bitch.”

Another voice sounds from inside. “Who is it?”

Melissa joins Shauna in the doorway. There’s no doubt that it’s her, with the same quiet sureness that you remember from pictures of her taken forever ago. And if a resemblance to her past self wasn’t enough, she still wears that backwards fucking hat.

Melissa steals the letter from Shauna. “What is this?”

Shauna looks hesitant to say, guilty even. She speaks quietly, but you hear the fury in her voice. “She’s trying to blackmail us.”

Melissa crumples up the paper and faces Shauna. “So it wasn’t me.”

Shauna doesn’t meet her eyes.

“You thought it was Melissa?” You look between them and your gaze settles on Shauna’s knife. “Did you come here to…”

“And now it’s you,” Shauna pulls you inside and shuts the door. She points her knife at you, guiding you to go stand over by the fireplace. “You’re going to stay there until we decide what to do with you.”

You’re fucked — and the horrible thing is that you don’t really mind. You stand with Shauna Sadecki pointing a knife straight at your heart and while you are afraid, you embrace it. You have lived such an existence of monotony that part of you wants to take a step forward to find out what the point of the blade feels like against your chest, to see if she will drive it in the rest of the way. You want the intensity of her gaze pointed at you just as sharply, you want to bear her scorn.

“The rest are on their way,” Shauna says, coming closer. “Lottie, Natalie… What do you think they will do when they find out it’s been you behind this all along?”

You’re not sure how she knows. You’ve been discreet with your visits to the wellness center.

Shauna toys with the knife in her hands, glancing down at the paper Melissa holds. “Hand-delivering a blackmail threat. I didn’t think you were that stupid.”

You didn’t think any of it through. Your desperation had gotten the better of you and maybe, in the back of your mind, you had wanted to get caught. You wanted to feel powerful and in some way prove your defiance of the usual system of money honestly earned and a world where only the rich have the privilege of disobedience. You wanted to be caught and somehow praised for it.

You find no praise here. Death watches you.

“We could have you arrested,” Melissa stalks over. You realize she carries a knife now, too. “You could be fined, you could be put in prison… you wouldn’t survive it.”

You wouldn’t. You don’t know if you’ll survive this.

You hear a car pulling into the driveway. You stay still, even when Shauna lowers the knife and lets in the rest of the Yellowjackets.

They come inside one by one and suddenly you recall every horrible tale you’ve ever heard about their time in the wilderness. You remember the stories that they ate their own teammates, that they used to make sacrifices to an unnamed spirit and hope for salvation that was never truly received.

Lottie comes in first, and she is the first to notice you. She looks between you, Shauna, and Melissa, confusion etched into her features. “What’s going on?”

Shauna waits until the rest of them are inside before pointing the knife at you again. “It wasn’t Melissa. It was her.”

Lottie exchanges a look with Natalie, who stands at her side with the same look of surprise. Then Lottie approaches Shauna and grabs for the blade in her hand.

Shauna doesn’t let go. She looks up at her defiantly and a silent communication passes between the two of them that causes the rest of the room to fall silent.

Shauna lets go of the knife.

You take a step back instinctively when Lottie approaches with the knife. You can’t meet her eyes, not even when she steps so close to you that you can feel her breath on your neck when she leans slightly and speaks in a volume only you are meant to hear. “You spent so many nights with Nat and I, we thought you were ours, and you did this…”

“I needed money,” you say quietly.

“I would have given you money, love. All you had to do was ask,” Lottie moves back half a step and trails the knife down to the hollow of your throat. Greater authority comes into her voice. “There are three ways out of this for you. The first is you leave, you leave and for your own good we never see or hear from you again. The second way is that you give us something in return, a repentance. You give us an appeasement and we all carry on like we used to. And the third way…” Lottie lifts your chin with the flat side of the knife. You meet her eyes, and you understand her implication, that in the third way your blood is spilled for It and everything you read about the Yellowjackets becomes true. “What will it be?”

Your breath catches in your throat and for a moment you can barely breathe as you acclimate to the feeling of the knife, but you’ve already made up your mind. You don’t want to die, and you don’t want to leave. You want them. You want to beg for their forgiveness. “The second way.”

“The second way,” Lottie repeats, removing the knife and stepping behind you, circling you. “What will you give us?”

“Anything you want.”

She stops in front of you. “That’s not how offerings work. You don’t ask, you give.”

You hesitate. You know what you want to give, you know what she wants you to give, but you’re not sure if anyone else shares the same idea.

“You can pick a different answer if you’d like,” Lottie says casually, like she’s not offering isolation or death, “but you have to decide now.”

You have known what you’ve wanted since you started all of this, even if you never fully admitted to it. So there is no fear or regret or horror living in you when you step up to her and kiss her. Her arms slide around you, one hand pulling at your hair and driving you closer to her. You hear the metallic clink of the knife dropping to the floor.

Someone else is behind you now, pressing up against your back. You can tell instantly that it’s Nat — you have been down this road before. She reaches for your shirt, greedily pulling it over your head before latching onto your neck and sucking angry marks onto your skin. Her nails dig into your sides, and you moan when she pulls you closer back against her.

Lottie is pulled away from you by Melissa, who isn’t so apt to share you. You run your hands along the defined muscles of her shoulders as she kisses you, and you gasp when she tugs you forward and leads you into the bedroom. She gets impatient before you can reach the bed, instead shoving you back up against the wall.

She’s about to get on her knees in front of you when Shauna pushes her away.

You meet Shauna’s eyes for a moment. You both know that this will not leave you after, that the way your families have been innocently entwined will be poisoned. But she shoves her fingers into your mouth and you suck on them anyway. And you let her, and again Natalie who has returned, leads you over to the bed.

It’s Taissa and Van, though, who pin you down onto it. Taissa doesn’t let you watch the rest of them caught up in each other kissing and sucking and moaning, and Van takes over and straddles you once the two of them have rid you of the rest of your clothes. She leans down, shifting to suck at your collarbones, moaning against your skin.

“So beautiful, isn’t she?” Taissa agrees, hand trailing against your jaw as she looks just as far gone at the sight of you beneath her girlfriend. She speaks about you like you can’t hear. “She’ll look so gorgeous when she cums for us.”

Lottie joins you on the bed. She looks down at Van with something akin to annoyance. “Let me have her.”

“You’ve already had your turn.”

“No,” Lottie argues, but her protests are silenced when Nat comes over and pulls her against her, and for the moment she’s satisfied. And you’re happy with the solution too, every inch of you burning with need for them with Van settling between your legs as you watch Natalie pull Lottie’s dress down and slide a hand down to rub at her clit. You moan at the sight, and the two of them notice, Lottie’s gaze a heavy pressure on you until Nat slides two fingers inside of her and Lottie throws her head back against the other woman’s shoulder.

At the same time, Van licks through your folds, tongue sliding lazily over your clit. You gasp and Taissa leans down to kiss you, and somewhere close you hear Shauna’s whispered praise to you and Melissa moaning as god-knows-who is touching her.

It’s building quickly, the heat between your thighs that’s growing into something so fervent and agonizingly intense that the moans that escape you are embarrassing, and the speed at which they’ve taken you to the edge of release even more.

“Watch her, she’s so close,” you hear Natalie whisper to Lottie. “Watch her cum from seeing us.”

Van sucks your clit into her mouth, working her fingers inside of you, your wetness coating her chin and hand. And then Taissa straddles your face, lowering herself down onto your mouth, and your hands are shaking as you pull her closer and start to lick through her wetness.

Someone pulls Van away from you — Shauna.

“Don’t let her cum yet,” she orders. “Not until the rest of us have.”

im on my period btw and everyone needs to know because i am very angry about it. wrote this on my typewriter bluetooth keyboard like a true gangster of irredeemable sin, a glutton of tickled toes and one jolly fellow of olden days. comment/reblog if you enjoyed :)

masterlist | ko-fi/“buy me a $2 coffee” | taglist form

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #lottie matthews x reader #shauna sadecki x reader #van palmer x reader #taissa turner x reader #misty quigley x reader #natalie scatorccio x reader #melissa yellowjackets x reader

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ninihousebears3000 · 9 months ago

Text

HR Department! reader X Alucard

A goodnight kiss.

Pulling an all-nighter causes you to hear strange things.

CW: No warnings!

It's quite late.

You had to agree with the voice in your head. Pulling overtime was necessary considering how your workload suddenly increased. Now you're bookkeeper another responsibility on your plate. Computerizing this ancient system that the organization was barely running on was your mission. But efficiency is your reputation and you wouldn't be able to sleep knowing that things were left in limbo.

Rest, work will be here tomorrow but you won't be here much longer if you keep going on like this.

Morbid but true. Maybe some coffee will give you clarity? After all your computer screen began looking less and less clear. You were certain it was working just fine a moment ago. Standing up you grab your favorite mug off your desk heading to your in-office coffee machine. Walter had refused to use k-cups opting to brew a fresh pot for you every day. But he would cut you off after two cups so for your third and fourth cups you used your K-cups from home.

You placed your mug on the machine instinctively reaching for the box of k-cups. Only to be met with empty space. "What the hell?" You had a full box where did it go? Checking in the cabinets, your bag, and drawers, not a single K-cup could be found. Even your coat pocket didn't have an emergency K-cup. "Perhaps there's some upstairs?" Thinking aloud was your tendency nowadays since this was your own private office. Although, a few more employees and an assistant would be very helpful. Being the head of the human resources department doesn't mean much if you're the only employee.

You thought to yourself as you left your office walking through the basement.

"An office near civilization would be nice."

You retorted walking past the many cells in the dungeon. You know Seras' room is near here. "I wonder what she's up to?" You appreciate her company she seems chipper than most considering her situation. At times you can tell she just wants another person to talk to. It does pain you that she pops in at the busiest of times. It's only been a few weeks since the Police Girl ‘joined’. You did try advocating for her to have a change of uniform and to be at least called by her real name. Those were still ongoing battles.

Then there was Alucard. You're still trying to get a one-on-one meeting about his workplace misconduct. It's difficult to arrange anything with him he has no email! An audible groaning sigh escaped you.

Your thoughts kept you entertained as you finally made it to the kitchen. Normally, there would be servants and other staff members but the only remaining people here were the residents and the perimeter guards. Of course, the ones in the surveillance room which felt weird to think about them watching you right now.

Of course, there was no leftover coffee left so you were having to pull off your lazy slacks and brew some yourself.

Coffee at this hour? Your sleep will surely be ruined. The sun rises in only a few hours. How about lemon ginger tea?

You took your mug and started rinsing out the old coffee stains. Possibly something else for a change?

When you were filling up your mug with cold water to get the last of the stains out. You jolted the mug towards your face splashing your face with cold water. The sensation still shocked you but woke you up for certain.

"My voice is deep but why is my thought voice that deep?" Was delirium setting in? Or was someone truly talking to you? You can see why Sir Penwood said this place can be maddening. Instead of coffee or tea, you opted for ice-cold orange juice and a leftover banana nut muffin. The sugar should help until you find a stopping point. Plus the leftover wetness on your shirt can help keep you awake. Seems like you would be spending the night Walter gave you a ride since your car was practically living in the shop at this point.

Almost three in the morning the voice in your head was right about it being very late. By the time you returned, you finished the muffin and chugged the juice as soon as you sat down. Just one more paragraph to type and you can call it a night.

You've had worse nights from your undergrad years!

Cracking your knuckles your nimble fingers went back to work.

Sugar can't stop sleep deprivation.

There it was again! You can ignore it! Fight on you're the head of the human resources department!

What's the harm?

Just close your eyes for a few minutes.

You never noticed how soothing the baritone voice was until now. An eye break couldn't hurt, right?

That's right little human. Just close those pretty eyes.

The computer screen was looking warped in ways you've never seen a screen do before. Your lids were heavier and you were leaning on your arms at this point.

"But I am not finished yet." Trying to fight this heavy exhaustion was increasingly difficult. Before you knew it your head was using your arms as a pillow and the desk was a bed.

Everything will be fine little human.

"I am six feet." Your eyes closed for the final time. The heat from the cardigan now placed on your shoulders reminded you of the blanket on your soft bed.

Shh, sleep little human.

Wait, your cardigan was on the back of your chair!

Now be a good little human and stay asleep.

Hot breath grazed your exposed neck along with a hissing noise. You reached for the pistol underneath your desk and fired a shot at the source of this strange body heat. To your surprise you found Hellsing's trump card sitting on the ground in the corner of your office. Thankfully, Walter gave you a pistol strangely you asked for a silencer.

"ALUCARD! DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY WORKPLACE MISCONDUCT VIOLATIONS YOU STACKED UP!" Panting and filled with rage you kept your gun aimed at him.

"You know those blessed bullets do hurt." He was bleeding out of his left shoulder. Despite that, his face held an awful grin.

"YOU WERE TRYING TO DRINK MY BLOOD! AND YOU HAVE BEEN IN MY HEAD!" You never thought your first meeting with Alucard was going to be him nearly drinking your blood.

"Shh, you're louder than Police Girl." His nonchalant attitude was getting on your nerves. "Consider it a goodnight kiss little human." Alucard stood to his full height seeing how he still regarded you as little.

"We need to address some misconduct violations." Was this going to be your only chance to talk to him?

"I don't think your department applies to me." He began to walk past you. "Now if you'll excuse me the sun will be rising soon." But your reflexes were being kind to you. Opening your drawer you pulled out a thick binder and flipped to the middle of it pointing at a document.

"You and Seras Victoria fall into this category of employee." He leaned down to read it. His crimson eyes bounced up to yours and then to the book again. "Did you just call me a police dog?" A hint of irritation was in his tone.

"Therefore you must follow the same guidelines as every employee here." You were the head of the human resources department you weren't going to let this misconduct run rampant anymore!

"Please have a seat Alucard." Alucard narrowed his eyes at you and then smirked. "Alright then HR." He smirked while sitting down crossing his legs in the seat in front of your desk. While you grabbed your chair that was pushed across the room after his initial introduction.

You weren’t expecting him to give in judging from what Seras and Walter had told you. But you can’t rest knowing you had the chance.

"Now shall we begin with boundaries."

#this was supposed to be short but I couldn't help it #hr department! reader x hellsing #yea it's 2 am and I decided to finish this and not sleep #i've been thinking about this for a while #hellsing ultimate #alucard hellsing #hellsing oc #hellsing alucard x reader #hr department! reader x Alucard hellsing #hellsing #yeah I did use that last scene in hell ain't as inspo

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mingtinys · 1 year ago

Text

" have you eaten today ? "

pairing : boo seungkwan x gn!reader

"13 ways to say "i love you" with seventeen"

warnings : mentions of food , language (seungkwan calls the reader "dumbass" lovingly)

word count : 0.6 k

a/n : words cannot describe the love i have for boo seungkwan , if my future partner isn't boo seungkwan himself i don't WANT them .

You'd like to think after two years, you've grown used to Seungkwan's disapproving glare. But jeez, if he isn't laying it on thick tonight. You're pretty sure he's actually burned two dime-sized holes through your laptop with the way he glowering from his spot across from you.

"Boo..." You draw out his name in a warning, not bothering to look up or cease typing. "You're gonna strain your corneas if you don't quit it."

"Your fingers are gonna fall off if you don't quit it." He mocks.

You spare a full three seconds to look up from your computer just to shoot him a look that says really? Now you're just being immature.

"I told you when you insisted on coming over I wouldn't be able to entertain you. This project is due in two days and I need to focus." You huff out.

It's true, you literally told him three times over on the phone he was welcome at your place, but that he'd have to be quiet and let you work. Which, in hindsight, you really should have known better considering it's Seungkwan, but you felt bad having already blown off your boyfriend three times this week due to this project. And judging from his tone when he called, he was two seconds from marching over and kicking down your door anyway.

Seungkwan clicks his tongue. "This isn't about being entertained—" you highly doubt that "—it's about you being a dumbass and overworking yourself."

You roll your eyes, but that only seems to fuel his persistence. "It's been hours since I got here and you've yet to take a break."

"I will in a bit, just let me finish this."

Seungkwan doesn't get the chance to retort. The doorbell rings with what you assume is the take-out he called in for himself a little over thirty minutes ago. You'd originally told him you didn't want anything, shooing him to quiet down when he tried to ask. But now, you're starting to regret that. Especially when the smell of his food wafts into the room moments after the door shuts.

He sits back down across from you, opening the containers and making quick work of digging in. The scent of it hits your nose tenfold, and at that, your stomach growls. Loud enough for Seungkwan's head to pop up and his eyes to narrow. Traitor, you curse at your stomach.

Seungkwan tilts his head and you're too scared to meet his gaze for fear of being scolded.

"Have you eaten today?" He asks, with a soft tone and unexpected seriousness. You just shrug, not wanting to let go of your pride.

"I'm fine."

He scoffs and immediately starts using the container's lid to dish out a heaping portion. All the while muttering to himself about you being difficult and how you're going to give him at least twelve new grey hairs.

"Here, take half." He shoves the lid, which definitely has more than half piled onto it, towards you.

When you just blankly stare at it, he sighs and picks up a piece with his chopsticks. He extends his arm as far as it can go until the item, drenched in a sweet-smelling sauce, is centimeters from your lips. "Eat." He instructs. So you do, admitting defeat by finally pushing your computer to the side and exchanging it for the plate Seungkwan fixed you.

"I swear, what would you do without me." He teases, beaming with pride.

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hellishjoel · 2 months ago

Text

titanic

10.6k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

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summary: frankie sees his father for the first time in years over a tense birthday dinner. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), marijuana, smoking, swearing, dual POV, descriptions of food and drink, reader is described to have hair (not descriptive of what color/length/etc.) and wears a swimsuit, explicit smut, pet names (baby, angel, carino, princesa, etc.), angst, allusions to bad parenting/parental abuse, descriptions of a parent abusing drugs and alcohol, and an additional warning that I'm considering a spoiler (please heed these warnings and do not read if you are concerned these may be triggers - if you're a fan of the series but fear the unspoiled trigger may affect you, pleaes message me and we'll talk!) A/N: *spongebob voice* four months later... special thank you to @devineconjuring for being my beta for this chapter. annie is more than a masterbeta, she's also my cheerleader and co-conspirator. thank you lover <3

Irina’s European Bakery has the best bread and pastries in town, if not the world.

Irina is an older Russian woman whose gray hair is always tied back in a braided bun. Her face shows her age, but she wears her smile lines with pride, as she should. Her parents immigrated to America with nothing but $500 in their pocket. After finding work, they saved up as much money as possible and opened a small bakery named after their daughter.

An old Russian proverb says that girls should be able to sift flour before they can walk and knead bread before they can talk. Irina’s mother took that pretty seriously, considering Irina was in the kitchen beside her mother, learning all her delicious family recipes by the time she was a toddler. She was too short for the table, so she’d stack up old baking cookbooks to learn.

Now, all these years later, Irina runs the bakery with her three daughters, who yell at each other in Russian. Let’s just say that, with all the time you’ve spent with Irina smoking out back in plastic lawn chairs, you’ve picked up a couple of phrases.

After a loud metal bowl clangs on the floor and shouts echo from inside, you turn your head over your shoulder with narrowed eyes before returning your attention to Irina.

“Did Vera just say she would stab Nadia with a steel dough cutter?”

“Your Russian is improving,” Irina let out a stale laugh and a tired grin. “You want something. Spit it’tout.”

You roll your eyes at her crassness and offer her the rest of your cigarette. “It’s my boyfriend’s birthday tomorrow. I’ll give you free breakfast for a week if you make him your Vatrushka. With the strawberry jam on top?”

“Boyfriend? You get boyfriend and don’t tell your Russian mother? Since when d’you have boyfriend, eh?” She shifts her jaw around before lifting the lit cigarette to her mouth between two stiff fingers, taking a long drag with narrowed eyes. All of a sudden, she begins to grin obnoxiously. “Must be that pretty boy you complain about all the time. What was his name? Francisco?”

With wide eyes, your jaw drops at her words. “He’s still just as insufferable and annoying. But now he wears a different title.”

Irina says something cocky in Russian along the lines of I told you so, but you convince her to make the Vatrushka–sweet dough buns filled with cheese. Frankie likes the ones with a fruity jam on top; strawberry or raspberry are his preferences.

When you first started waitressing at Tommy’s, you’d bring different pastries from Irina’s to schmooze the line cooks. Usually, in case you rang in an incorrect order, which, at the time, was every day.

Frankie would always eat the ones with the strawberry topping and moan after taking each bite. Then he’d say some half-ass thank you with his mouth full and lips cast in a sparkly sugar coating.

Irina snuffs out the last of the cigarette and smiles, lines forming by the outer corners of her eyes and under her thick cheekbones. “We have a deal. You come back tomorrow morning for it, yeah?”

“Thank you,” you eagerly coo, biting into the soft, chewy cookie she gave you for visiting.

The drive back to Frankie’s apartment is set against a yellow and orange sunset. It’s nice to reflect as the radio crackles out a Fleetwood Mac song, the wind whistling through the window that’s rolled down a crack. Things are so different from a year ago.

Work used to be work–rolling silverware, counting change, and praying for decent tips. Just trying to get through the day scrubbing tabletops and making pots of coffee.

There was a tall goofball in the back kitchen who was a little older, always flirting with you whenever he got the chance. He wore a red bandana that you’re not sure he ever washed. He donned a crooked smirk and mischievous eyes that never failed to rake slowly up and over your body whenever given the chance.

He used to call you Princess and still does sometimes, but now he calls you by your name more often than not.

You once despised him for his sleazy comments about how short your skirt was or how he could smell your pretty perfume. Now, he puts butterflies in your stomach and talks a little sweeter to you. He puts whatever wants and needs you have above his own–eats where you want to eat for dinner dates, lets you pick the movie, cooks dinner at your request, and drives you places when your busted beater car goes down.

And you realize he’s loved you for a really, really long time.

You’re only just starting to get it, to pay it back. But Frankie doesn’t see it that way. There is no sort of give and take. He’s never asked you to pay him back or said you owed him when he needed a favor.

Frankie just might be the most devoted, loyal, kind, loving, imperfect human you’ve ever come across. And he’s your fucking boyfriend.

You once thought you were unloveable because it was so easy for people to leave and extra easy to push them away when they got too close. But not Frankie. Frankie was patient. He waited for you, never gave you an ultimatum, and always validated that you were allowed to take your time.

You’re getting it now. You’re really getting it. Francisco Morales is your person.

This is a love story.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Frankie, happy birthday to you,” your voice singsongs in the late morning hours. You hold a mini strawberry and cream cheese vatrushka with a single lit candle shoved into it in one hand and a lit blunt in the other.

“God, you’re perfect.” Frankie lays slumped against his headboard, his orange tabby Leo curled in his lap as you shuffle up the bed on your knees before displaying his sweet before him. A sleepy smile eventually breaks across his face, and he shakes his head as he glances between you and the flame.

“Isn’t this a fire hazard?”

Frankie pulls you closer by the arm, causing you to fall softly into his front. Leo doesn’t seem to mind as he stretches his legs out and wanders to the edge of the bed. You glance down at the vatrushka as your fingertips make imprints in the sweet and soft dough. Frankie’s head tilts as he considers his birthday wish. It’s curious, the look behind his eyes. He waits a moment before taking in a large inhale and blowing out the flame in one go.

He chuckles at your sleepy cheer, shaking his head as he plucks the blunt out of your hand, takes a hit, then bites into the flaky birthday treat.

“You’re my favorite person,” he speaks through muffled bites, holding up the vatrushka for you to bite into, to which you easily comply.

“And you’re mine. Happy birthday, Frankie.”

He smiles against your kiss, and you think this is what lips are made for: gentle morning kisses where you can feel the other person grinning into your mouth.

In honor of Frankie’s birthday, on top of it being a Saturday, you insist that he spend it however he wants. Fishing, hiking, visiting the zoo, going to the movie theater, whatever he wants.

“I wanna see you in something hot,” he remarks with an all too obvious smirk.

An hour later, you’re out and away from your small town and at the beach under the hot Texas sun, wearing your favorite swimsuit. You always feel gorgeous in it, and Frankie’s adoration of your body only adds to it.

Trudging through the sand, you manage to find an empty spot that is a little more private, farther from the parking lot and all the other beachgoers. Frankie pulls the cooler stocked full of beer and food behind him, his eyes focused on your backside.

You can’t help but taunt him as you glance over your shoulder. He’s watching your ass move with each step you take in the grainy sand. “My eyes are up here.”

“Mine ain’t,” Frankie mutters, shifting his jaw from side to side as his exposed upper half basks in the sun’s heat. It makes your own focus shift. You should be throwing down the beach blankets, and Frankie should be setting up the large umbrella with a red-and-white striped pattern around the outer canopy. Instead, you’re both a little lost in the sight of one another.

Frankie’s dark chest hair swirls along his pecks, and you can’t help but observe the line of hair that goes down the midline of his abdomen before growing thicker again at the very top of his cherry-red swim trunks.

Your lashes flutter, and something deep inside your stomach tugs with yearning. At this moment, with a shirtless Frankie galavanting across the sandy beach and other eyes lingering on his tanned and toned body, you’re reminded that outside of Tommy’s Diner, Frankie’s hot.

It was hard to see before, behind the guise of his sloppy work clothes and sweaty bandana. But free of it all, half naked on the beach with thick chest hair splotched along his torso, he was turning heads. And by no means were you jealous; you were staring along with them.

“Hey,” he playfully barks, your head snapping up as he smirks goadingly down at you, closing the distance between your bodies as his lips linger next to your ear. “My eyes… are up here, Princess.”

Fuck. You are so caught.

That nagging feeling burning in your core would have to wait.

Frankie, ever the chef, prepared a gorgeous picnic basket with munchies to hold you both over in the sun. There’s fresh fruit and sandwiches, his favorite salty chips, and you stuffed two ice cream sandwiches in the drinks cooler so they would stay as frozen as possible.

You enjoyed the distance away from the eager families with screaming children and frat boys throwing footballs and frisbees. This is your perfect slice of heaven. You always liked each other’s company more than anyone else’s.

Frankie makes a point to thoroughly spread the cold sunscreen across your body, not afraid to cop a ‘birthday feel.’ Lounging under the umbrella on a beach towel, you lay between Frankie’s legs and continue where you left off in a book you had read on and off throughout the year. The smooth pages feel warm from the sunlight, and a soft breeze makes the heat comfortable, like you could fall asleep under the sun. Your face lies against his glistening chest as he rests his chin on the top of your head, reading your book with you.

Once the sun’s beating rays finally get the best of both of you, Frankie runs with you through the coarse sand until your feet touch cold water.

“Slow down!” You belt. “It’s cold, you asshole.”

Frankie’s got his arms snaked around your waist, tightly holding onto you as he only drags you further into the water, the cold blue lake reaching the tops of your legs and rising. A breath catches in your throat as it reaches your stomach, but once you’re in, your body quickly adjusts.

“Sometimes you gotta dive right in,” Frankie remarks with a smirk, pulling you under before you can protest. You hold your breath, and the sounds of the world turn hollow.

Your vision is cast in a deep blue, and the resistance of the water slows all of your motions. The sun’s beams glimmer through the surface but fade as they sink deeper. The giggling children and chittering adults you could clearly hear on the surface now sound distant and muffled.

Turning your head, your hair floats and swishes slowly as Frankie enters your view. He’s such a goofball that he holds his deep breath in his puffed-up cheeks. You bring your hand up to poke his cheek, and air bubbles float out of his mouth to the surface. He doesn’t last more than a few seconds before rushing up and out of the water.

“What was that?” you ask upon your own break to the surface, the water rippling around both your bodies as you kick to stay afloat. Your panting breaths fill the space between you, Frankie weakly laughing.

“I was trying to hold my breath!”

“In your cheeks? You look like a chipmunk with a month’s worth of nuts lodged in there.” You can’t help but tease him–you’d never seen him do that before!

“What? Like it’s so weird to hold your breath like that?”

“I can’t name one person-”

“Not one?!” He exaggerates.

“-Not one person who holds their breath like you do.”

“So you’re sayin’ I’m pretty special,” Frankie smirks, always finding some way to inflate his ego. “Thank you, princess.”

Cooling down in the lake was both energizing and tiring. Frankie led you back to your towels and umbrella, drying you off before he wiped down his soaked self. It’s impossible to ignore the way water droplets glide down the slopes of his broad shoulders and trickle down the definition of his stomach, running all the way to his swim trunks.

“Did your parents ever not let you swim after you ate?” Frankie asks with a mouthful of his ham and Colby Jack cheese sandwich on sourdough bread. “Like that saying, you should wait at least thirty minutes after eating before going into the water again?”

The picnic basket he packed was filled with sandwiches, cut-up fruits, and a store-bought birthday cake–arguably the best kind.

You hum a response around a piece of fruit before you swallow. “Yeah. I was always terrified that I was gonna die if I did because they never fully explained the reason why. Like my family never said to avoid swimming after eating because…” You fill in the blanks with random hand gestures.

Frankie narrows his eyes. “Why do they say that? Is it just a lie like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?”

You match his confused face. “What do you mean, like Santa Claus?”

You both buy into the bit momentarily before laughing and googling the exact reason behind the saying. Turns out it’s most likely just a myth that if you don’t let your body have time to digest your food, it could cause you to have stomach cramps while swimming. But again, myth, so you both moved on.

“I don’t know how you feel about lying to our kids, but telling them about a fictional fat man that slides down chimneys to deliver presents feels sort of asshole-ey. I mean, ten years, that’s a long time to keep up a ruse.” Frankie says offhandedly, making your eyebrows shoot up for a moment.

Kids, huh? It was an untalked-about subject.

As soon as he said it, he seemed to have picked up on the weight of his words.

“Uh,” Frankie faltered and anxiously ran his fingers through his wet curls, which were still dripping dry. “Please don’t think too much about that. Stop. Stop your brain.” He teased as his hands came up to grab the side of your head, jostling it lightly.

A laugh of relief bubbles past your lips, and you cup his cheeks softly as you bring him in for a soft kiss. “It’s okay. I think it’s sweet you think about our future. And… you saying that didn’t exactly scare me.”

Shocking, right? Are you getting over some stuff? Is this the growing people have been talking about? You pat yourself on the back after gliding through that conversation with ease.

Frankie’s face splatters with rosy heat, embarrassed by the words that slipped through the gate of his brain. You reach over and squeeze his knee, offering him a red strawberry that matches the apples of his cheeks. “It does seem sort of asshole-ey to lie to them–and for that long, too. But you might change your mind seeing their faces all excited. Y’know, Christmas magic and all. Besides, somebody’s gotta eat the cookies and drink the milk. That should be us.”

You both revel in that moment, one where talking about your lives intertwined in the future doesn’t scare you so much anymore. Kids, yeah, that was a big conversation, but you’d let future you and Frankie figure that out.

Frankie’s eyes soften, and a light and gentle smile appears on his lips. It was a look of pride. One that you didn’t know you craved.

He kisses you again and again, exchanging giggles and hiccups past your lips as the sun moves closer to the horizon.

You’re not more than a foot back into Frankie’s apartment when he asks, “You wanna smoke?”

A flicker of surprise crosses your face, but he merely shrugs. Clad in nothing but swim trunks and a short-sleeve button-up left undone, his sun-kissed chest is fully exposed, drawing your gaze. You resist the urge to scold him for smoking right before dinner with his father–it’s a source of stress for him, and you’d promised to support him in any way you could.

Grabbing a pre-rolled cone, you pack it with focus, evident in how your knitted brows almost kiss. Once the ground-up green fills the cone to the brim, you twist the end of the rolling paper, gently bringing the joint to his lips and offering him the lighter.

He stares down into your eyes, something intimate passing between you.

“Light it for me,” he mutters around the joint.

You hold your breath as the flickering orange flame meets the end of the joint, Frankie’s eyes slowly growing hazy as he inhales.

Frankie’s shoulders draw back to his spine with how much he takes, and you know that he’ll be buzzing after this large of a hit.

He takes the joint between his index and middle finger, removing it from his pink lips. You expect a large, grey puff of smoke on his exhale, but he surprises you.

Frankie closes the distance between you, one large palm sinking warmth into your hip, the other gently tilting your chin to brush your lips with his.

With a tilt of his head, he exhales, and the cloud forms a narrow bridge between you as you inhale his smoke. The warmth of his breath mixes with the bite of weed, and you’re entranced.

Before the last bits of fog fade, his mouth attaches to yours. It’s not hasty, but deep, like he’s inhaling you. He wants every particle, every taste, and every piece of you in his lungs. He’s intoxicating like the lingering smoke, all heady and bold.

You part to catch a breath, eyes softening as your lips gently brush against the coarse hair of his stubble. He presses a kiss to your cheek and doesn’t let go of your hip, both of you wrapped in each other.

Your high is less intense than the one Frankie is surely feeling, but it’s nice, like you’re floating with him.

A slow smile curls on your lips as you gently pat his chest. “I have to shower.” Your eyes betray you as they linger over his features.

He sighs defeatedly and moves to the bed, watching you move about the room while he takes another long drag. “Wait,” Frankie directs you with two crooked fingers in your direction, his voice raspy from the smoke. “C’mere.”

You narrow your eyes at the man but ultimately abide by his wishes. Once you’re close enough for him to reach, he drags you into the bed with him, guiding your legs to straddle his lap.

His eyes rake over your body, taking all of you in. His dark lashes flick up, and he licks his cherry lips. “Kiss me first.” His voice, rich and commanding, only heightens the sensation in the pit of your stomach. There’s a raw magnetism to him, an undeniable allure in the way he casually leans against the headboard, jaw twitching with desire.

His fingers glide dangerously over the strings of your swimsuit, and you know he’s eager to get you bare. He closes the gap, starting slow as your mouths kiss in a dance that has your hips working slow ovals over his lap.

Your arms snake around the tops of his shoulders, fingers knotting into his dark windswept waves.

He kisses you with lazy movements of his tongue against yours, no urgency in how he removes your swimsuit with care and delicacy. He touches your skin like you’re something sacred, praying to a goddess he doesn’t feel he deserves.

His kisses are impactful, each one making your heart skip a beat.

The joint goes out in the ashtray on his bedside table as you get lost in exploring one another’s bodies.

“Be with me,” he whispers against your lips, a touch of yearning exposed. “With everything going on, just… be here with me, baby.”

You nod breathlessly, a hand on his jawline guiding his lips back home.

Frankie’s large hands untie the strings, letting your top fall loose to expose your breasts. A shiver travels up your spine as his fingers dance down your back, all while he places slow kisses along the column of your throat.

Every touch feels heightened, more intense, like you can feel the energy and space between you as if it’s tangible. It’s the high, you remind yourself. Frankie’s hot mouth suckles on your nipple, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud until it grows perky in his mouth. It sends a shockwave down to your core, a loose whimper leaving your throat as you work yourself against Frankie. His swim trunks tighten, his cock hardening with the friction.

“Fuck, angel,” he whispers breathlessly, moving to your other nipple as your chin tips to the ceiling in pleasure. “You’ve made this the best year of my life, cariño.”

Warmth travels to the back of your neck, that floating feeling coming back tenfold as he pleasures your most sensitive body parts and gifts you compliments.

Frankie moves you to your back, and he notches his knee at the inside of your thigh, spreading your legs further apart as his body slots perfectly between your soft thighs.

He presses slow, open-mouthed kisses in the valley between your breasts, all while he curls his greedy fingers around the band of your swimsuit to pull off anything that remains in his way.

“Take off your clothes,” you accidentally beg, gliding the heels of your hands along Frankie’s hips to nudge down his cherry-red trunks.

Naked together, you fit like two puzzle pieces. This never used to feel like a possibility, but now, it was your everyday. The very thing you were afraid to be–someone who could be vulnerable and fall deeply in love–was what you had become.

You know you’re high, and you’re feeling more in touch with your feelings than you normally would, but simply put… you’ve never felt better than this.

Frankie’s hard against your center, rocking his hips against yours. He fists his shaft and pumps a few times. He plants one palm beside your head, his strong bicep bulging as he runs his tip up and down your dripping center. The muscles in your thighs jump anxiously at his teasing caresses. You hold your breath, biting back a needy whimper when his tip catches at your entrance, and he pushes into you.

Frankie’s dark eyes find yours, a smirk dancing across his lips as he leans down to the shell of your ear and whispers, “Tell me what turns you on.”

Your blown-out pupils go wide, your lips parting. “What?”

Frankie licks a warm stripe along the shell of your ear before nibbling your lobe. “I asked what turns you on. Spit it out, princesa.” The sensation of goosebumps flies across your skin, and you gasp as his cock plunges deeper and deeper.

Your jaw aches as your mouth falls open wider, but no words come out.

He’s so fucking arrogant. The man you used to know so fondly in the kitchen of Tommy’s Diner is now between your legs with the same old smirk and a mischievous glint in his eyes.

It’s hard to think when all of your senses scream Frankie. The heady scent of sweat on his skin after spending a day in the sun. His body crowding yours as his thick body carves a spot made just for him between your legs. Not to mention the stretch of him making you want to scream.

The answer to his question is there, almost reachable, but every time you get close, your senses become overwhelmed again.

“Fuck, I like,” your eyes roll into the back of your head as his firm hand comes up and squeezes the plush of your breast, sending a shockwave of arousal down to your core. “I-I like it when I can feel your weight on top of me, feels good to be held down,” you admit.

Once the first truth is out, Frankie rewards you by bottoming out inside you.

Your body tenses underneath him, a gasp bouncing off the walls.

Just as you get used to being full, he reels his hips away, and you’re left missing him. You need more, more, more.

A dark chuckle escapes Frankie as his stubble scratches perfectly along your cheekbone. “What else?”

It’s a desperate thing to want someone to fill you up so badly, clear your mind, and hold you in this space with them. So you babble.

“Goddammit,” you whimper, your breath catching as he slowly sinks into your warmth once more. “I like that you take control when you talk to me like I’m-I’m—”

“Like what?” Frankie grunts.

A string of curse words from both parties mingle between you, his lips and teeth on the curve of your jaw as he fills you up completely, starting a steady rhythm.

You swallow the lump in your throat, hands searching desperately for something to hold on to, so you settle for one in his windswept waves and the other on his bicep. “Like–fuck–like I’m your sex toy, when you use me. I feel good when you feel good.”

None of this has ever been said aloud, only in actions. When Frankie fucks you, it’s like you’re the center of his universe. You’re his goddess, and his bed is the temple in which he worships. The thought of this used to scare you, to have someone know and appreciate you so profoundly. Now, it’s like you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Frankie is the center of your universe.

Frankie nuzzles his nose against yours, a lopsided smirk on his lips as he stares into your big, blown-out eyes. You’re both so out of it, floating in something deeper than love.

“You want me to use you?” His husky voice ripples in your ears.

All you can do is wobble your head up and down as he gives you his first powerful thrust. “Yes,” you squeak. The headboard bangs against the wall, and your body falls deeper into the plush mattress.

He keeps a pace–one that’s not rushed and eager, but he never lets up fully. Every slow drag of his hips leaves you breathless, and when he plunges back inside, it feels like you’re whole again.

Frankie rips your claws from his flesh and pins your wrists above your head, using his upper body strength and the hand planted on the bed to keep him hovered. All the muscles in his body are taut and on display, his biceps bulging and the veins in his arms highlighted.

He looked like a fucking god.

“I like using you,” he grunts, “Never thought I’d get the chance to use you. Now,” he pants as he locks his fingers with yours. “Now, I use you whenever I damn well please.” His husky voice growls in your ear, causing a shudder to slip up your spine.

Frankie grinds his hips against yours, the coarse hair that grows along his base stimulating your clit. Your thighs pulse, the nerves thumping excitedly as the crescendo of your orgasm builds.

One gasp, two, turns to three, and your back arches off the mattress as he forces your legs wider, pushing them toward the direction of your head so you’re splayed open for him at the perfect angle.

Your hazy brain is in pleasure overdrive, Frankie’s hips slapping menacingly against yours, ignoring the stretch of this position, just drilling himself into your pussy and taking what he needs.

It’s easy to forget how strong Frankie is. At the diner, he throws fifty-pound bags of flour and sugar over his shoulder and hauls hefty cases of meat to the freezer weekly. He’s built. And watching him fold you in half with only one arm supporting his weight while the other spoils your clit is exactly how you’re reminded of this.

You cry out his name in a wrecked, overstimulated sob. He only smirks.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “that’s a good girl.” His thumb adds pressure to your pearl as he works tiny ministrations around her. “This pussy is so goddamn perfect. Goddammit, I wanna finish deep inside her.”

It’s heart hammering, this orgasm more sneaky than all the rest as it twirls recklessly inside of you. Your hips sting and your lungs are pinched of air, but seeing this hot lumberjack of a man on top of you has your orgasm racing to the finish line. And he’s doing exactly as you asked–crushing you with his weight as he sinks lower and lower over your body while he uses you however he likes.

It’s perfect.

In a chorus of curses and breathy pants, you finish in unison. You can feel his cock pulsing inside you, a dirty rhythm that works in sync with your pulsing cunt.

Frankie rests his forehead against your temple, neither of you letting go of one another. You whine as he pulls out, leaving a mess between your centers. You don’t even realize you’re kissing. Everything just feels so natural and calm.

All of it comes crashing down when you lazily look at the display on his alarm clock.

“Shit,” you gasp as you push Frankie off, grabbing his hand and yanking him out of bed. “We’re gonna be late!” Frankie groans exhaustedly, tripping over his feet as he follows you from his bedroom to the bathroom, all while watching your ass with each step you take.

“Fuck! The water is too cold!” His muffled voice echoes after you yank the shower handle, apparently not far enough to warm.

“It’ll warm up. We’re gonna be so fuckin’ late!”

Dinner with Frankie’s father was quickly off to a bad start. Getting Frankie in the truck was hard enough, but getting him to decide on the right thing to wear had been nearly impossible. Not perfect, but right. It feels important to emphasize that Frankie’s not looking for approval from his shit dad, but there is a certain weight pressing over tonight. It wasn’t exactly one he was looking forward to.

He’s run his hand through his perfect waves about fifteen times, and it’s made his roots oily and his pretty curls a bit frizzy. He resigns himself to the fact that he’ll have to wear his hat, but he worries the restaurant will be too fancy for a hat with a large bass on the front.

“We can cancel.”

“No,” he mutters, staring in the mirror as he adds some sink water to his hair. He’s being short with you, but he doesn’t mean it. He’s an anxious ball of energy, and this was your time to step up. His eyes dart to your softer pair in the mirror. His large hands grip the pearly sink’s edge as he releases a sigh that sounds like it holds the weight of his world.

You slowly wrap your arms around his middle, pressing the side of your face against his oak-brown jacket. Slowly, your hands move up his body, and you feel his heart racing against his ribs. He braces even tighter against the sink, closing his eyes as his body relaxes in your hold.

“Please, let me help,” you ask as you push up on your tip toes and notch your chin over his shoulder. His panicked face ultimately releases tension and he nods.

After you sit him on the toilet seat and tie a towel around the tops of his broad shoulders, you spritz him with water from a spray bottle.

“You know, I used to have bangs-”

“Bangs?” Frankie interjects as his anxious hands settle on the back of your thighs, his own widening to allow you further into his space.

“Yup, bangs. They were really cute,” you pause to run a thin comb through his hair, “but the thing that sucks about bangs is if your skin gets oily on your forehead, your bangs get oily. But I didn’t always want to jump in the shower or wash my whole head again, so I’d do a sink bath. I would soak just my bangs with water, shampoo them, rinse, and then style.”

“Is that what we’re doing to me?”

You hum something affirmative, giving Frankie a small dollop of shampoo that smells like coconut and turmeric. The best thing you ever did for this man was to get him away from the 3-in-1. Nothing needs to be that ratio. Ever.

As your fingers gently massage into his scalp, allowing the shampoo to grow white and foamy, he closes his eyes in a moment of peace. Your movements are slower, synchronizing with his tender breaths.

He breathes your name, a little desperate for your kind heart.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

Shaking your head, you wipe your sudsy hands on the towel wrapped around him before gently clutching his cheeks. “Stop,” you insist, angling his chin to look up at you. You’d never seen his eyes so round and hurt, like he was preparing for the pain that was about to come. “We don’t have to go. He left his number on the letter. I can call and cancel.”

The decision weighs heavily on him. His tongue prods against the inside of his cheek before he ultimately shakes his head. “This will be the last time I see him. Even if he comes back with apologies or claims that he’s changed, I know this is where it stops. I refuse to let him hold any power over me—not even in my mind. He took my childhood. I won’t let him take any more of my life.”

He takes solace in your touch, his arms tightening around your body. He looks up at you like you hold the moon and the stars in the sky. You never knew you could be this important to someone.

Witnessing Frankie with his father was similar to experiencing the seven stages of grief–one emotion after the next, all barreling toward the inevitable fallout.

Frankie appeared prepared when he walked into the buzzing restaurant. He carried himself with the quiet tenacity of a soldier stepping onto a battlefield, fully aware of the scars it bore; however, this battlefield consisted of wine glasses clinking and white tablecloths with polished and proper stainless steel cutlery.

The strained and tumultuous terrain of his relationship with his father was familiar ground. Yet, he moved with a sense of purpose, as if bracing for the inevitable clash while refusing to back down.

The sundress you wore to the classy restaurant hugged your curves–the ones Frankie held onto like a life preserver. A tall waiter with strawberry-blonde hair guided you to a table along the wall of windows.

You held your breath at the sight of the older man who sat alone at the four-chaired table. His resemblance to Frankie was striking: the same dark brown eyes, sharp jawlines, and aquiline noses. His hair was curlier than Frankie’s, streaked with far more silver. The faint wrinkles at the start of their eyebrows were identical, though deeper with age on his father’s face.

A distinguishable difference was their eyes. People say the eyes are the windows to one's soul. Frankie’s eyes are filled with warmth and kindness, whereas his father’s appears tired and worn after years of hardship. His father’s frame was smaller and thin, his cheekbones slightly hollow–a stark contrast to the tall and broad man at your side.

The older man stood from his spot at the table as you neared, removing the cloth napkin from his lap.

“Francisco,” he greeted, his voice jagged and grainy like gravel. “Nice to see ya, son. You look good.”

Frankie’s tight-lipped grin and firm nod were all he offered before turning to you for a proper introduction. “This is my father, Anthony.” With the silence between them, his father’s gaze awkwardly averted from his distant son to the woman standing protectively by his side. Anthony reached his hand across the table, a lopsided smile on display as you shook his cold hand politely.

“Nice to meet you, sweetheart. You must be Francisco’s…” His words trailed off on purpose, allowing you to fill in the blank.

“Girlfriend,” you said definitively, “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Morales.” Knowing their past, you withheld judgment in your face and smiled softly. For the first time tonight, Frankie cracked a small smile.

Was it the first time you announced and accepted the title?

Everyone held their breath until Anthony ultimately stuttered on his footing and slowly moved to grip his chair. “Please, please, sit down,” he urged, disguising his misstep as honest hospitality.

Your eyes curiously shifted to Frankie’s, but he simply pulled your chair out for you and sat down stiffly on his own.

One could slice the tension at the table with a knife.

Anthony cleared his throat and smiled, sliding what appeared to be a birthday card across the table. It was in an eggshell envelope, but the vibrant color of balloons glared through under the lighting. “Happy birthday, Francisco.”

Frankie stared at the envelope. In slanted letters, his father’s handwriting was displayed in jagged pen strokes. It wasn’t just a birthday card, not really. Opening that card opened the door to a relationship, and Frankie wasn’t ready for that. But the gesture was kind enough.

You’ve always been tough—a girl who’s seen her share of heartbreak and disappointments. That’s why you kept your heart so carefully guarded when things first started with Frankie. It felt safer that way.

In a strange twist of fate, you now find yourself wishing Frankie could learn to do the same, that he could build the kind of walls and boundaries you had mastered to protect himself from his father. It wasn’t something anyone else could do for him; he had to find the strength not to get his hopes up and keep his heart safe.

Taking a deep breath, Frankie tapped the card with the pads of his fingers and nodded gently. “Thanks, pops. Let’s eat.”

Frankie's POV

The first half of dinner was spent catching up over expensive steaks and creamy garlic mashed potatoes, talking about how the two of you met. The tension knotted in his shoulders begins to unravel, and the headache lurking behind his temples eases its grip. Your thumb traces gentle, unhurried circles on Frankie’s knee, each touch radiating a soothing warmth that melts away the weight of this moment.

Frankie thought he knew what he was going to say to his father. He would be cold and cut him off, tell him this would be the last time he saw his son’s face, and pay for his own birthday meal because he didn’t need his father anymore. Despite the challenges he faced, he had come out the other side.

Still, he couldn’t deny there was a sad, pathetic piece of him that wanted to hear certain things from his father’s voice. He wanted to hear him say he was sorry and regretful for being a piece of shit. That he felt horrible about missing out on Frankie and his little sisters’ childhood and that they had to grow up without him. And that he hated himself for leaving their family when mom needed the help of a grown-up, not a young boy who didn’t know how the world worked.

Before it all went sour, there was some good. Frankie, the firstborn, was his father's pride and joy—his miniature reflection with the same sharp eyes and wild dark curls. And if Frankie was to be his father’s son, there was much for him to learn.

His father took him to his first rodeo. Frankie wore his shiny new brown boots and a cowboy hat to match, cheering loudly as he sat on his father’s shoulders to get a good look at the cowboys roping the cattle.

Frankie wasn’t allowed to touch the barbeque. Still, he remembers being perched on his father’s hip as he prepared traditional asado and empanadas. As the smell of sizzling meat filled the air, his father told him stories of how his father had taught him the art of cooking these quintessential meals.

They sang his mother’s favorite folk songs to her, played soccer, and went fishing. Frankie began to remember that, for a time, his father had been a pretty good dad.

He doesn’t remember a whole lot after that. It’s like a few years of his childhood were blocked out and repressed, probably for the better. The last strong memory he truly recalled was the physical fight he had with him when he was ten years old. Maybe he was eleven? Twelve? His memory never felt concrete, but the images his mind displayed were vivid and unhappy.

So why did he find comfort in how they shared the same smile? The way that their cheeks rounded and their eyes glittered when they talked about things they cared about.

Frankie's resentment toward his father was beginning to crumble—not completely, but the barriers he had constructed were gradually being dismantled by the only person he'd entrusted with the tools to do so. The same hands that had built those walls now seemed to know exactly how to take them apart. A charming smile here, a hearty laugh there, and Frankie found himself yearning for the impossible: to feel like he had his dad back again.

It was stupid. He knew it was. Putting hope out there into the hands of someone who had broken it time and time again. Maybe he was too trusting or sanguine. He couldn’t explain it. He tried to stay neutral and reserved, but the laugh echoing from his throat surprised even him.

“I didn’t break ma’s lamp. You did.”

His father’s raspy voice wheezed, shaking his head with a wide smile. “Francisco, you threw your football in the living room, and she told you to take it outside so many times—”

“Noo,” Frankie strung out the syllables, setting his fork down on his plate and jabbing his pointer finger toward his father. “I did take it outside. You broke it when you stumbled in one night and-and I remember I woke up to the glass shattering.” Frankie’s mouth hung open for a few moments, both of them pausing their amused faces as realization set in.

Anthony’s eyes glanced down to his food he’s barely picked at before ultimately nodding. “No, you’re right, that was… yeah, that was me.” He cleared his throat, and the moment settled, the waiter swinging by to clear our plates and offer dessert and boxes for leftovers.

“No box,” his dad said, to which Frankie’s eyebrows furrowed. It was an expensive meal, and he had nothing more than a few spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and bits of his steak. “But it’s my son’s birthday. Do you have a slice of cake we can get him?”

Frankie’s eyes slowly softened, squeezing your hand under the table as he looked at you with a boyish look in his eyes. Your expression made him falter, confused for a moment before he felt another reassuring squeeze to his hand.

He leans over and whispers in your ear, “You okay?”

Were you okay? It felt like you were watching the first hour and thirty-eight minutes of the movie Titanic, right before it hit the iceberg.

You tried to discount yourself. Maybe you were just being paranoid or protective, but something seemed off with Anthony. This was your first time meeting Frankie’s father, and you knew nothing about him other than Frankie describing him as a piece of shit. Frankie’s guard lowered so quickly, and now he was easily unraveling before his father, who seemed to be drinking it up.

In no way are you saying that you hoped that Frankie would have punished his father more. You’re just a bystander who responded to a few basic “get to know you better” questions from Anthony, but Frankie pushed all his concerns to the wayside as early as when the appetizers were brought out.

You take in a shaky breath and smile softly at your birthday boy.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”

He nods and smiles warmly, hoping to ease your concerns. But his ease of doing so only made something sour settle in the base of your stomach.

After the waiter disappeared for dessert, Frankie turned back to his father. “No box? Dad, you barely ate.”

Anthony hesitates before quickly rebuffing the offer. “It’s fine, m’not all that hungry. Had a late lunch.” He scratches at the inside of his wrist and then along his neck before sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms.

But Frankie was insistent. “That’s what the box is for, have it for tomorrow. The steak was really good.”

“M’fine.”

“You just ordered an expensive ass meal. Take it home and eat it, dad.”

“I don’t like steak that much.”

“Then why did you order it? Just take it-”

“Dammit, Francisco,” His father scoffed angrily, slamming his fist down on the table that caused the salt and pepper shakers to jump and your silverware to clatter. “I said no.”

Something burns in both of their eyes, uneasiness settling over the table as Frankie slowly sits back in his chair and crosses his arms–a mirror of his father–as silence follows.

Of course, the waiter returns at that moment with a slice of chocolate cake and a candle sticking out the top. He lights the wick as a gaggle of waiters and waitresses join in to sing Frankie happy birthday. By the end, they grow quiet and soft, and all Frankie and his father do is stare at each other.

“Happy Birthday…” the waiter says with a tight-lipped smile as you slowly nod your head to get him away from the iceberg.

After a moment of silence, you glance over to Frankie, whose hardened exterior has resurfaced after his father’s outburst.

Frankie visibly gathers his strength before letting out a half laugh, half scoff. “What d’you got? Or are you in withdrawal again?”

You look between them, Frankie’s hold on your hand tightening instinctively. Resting your other hand on his forearm, you offer him an out. “Let’s just go.”

He either doesn’t hear you in his growing rage or chooses to ignore you. Because he’s looking for a fight. You can see it in how his lip snarls, his jaw is wound tight, and his eyes pierce his father's with unwavering hatred.

Anthony sighs uncomfortably and shakes his head with a frown. “M’sorry I snapped at you.”

“Anything else you’re sorry for? Do you want me to roll out the red carpet for your apologies? It’s a long list, and I don’t have all night. So how about you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you? I’ve never seen you this skinny and there’s no fuckin’ white in your eyes; it’s just yellow. The hell is wrong with you, Anthony?”

The shift from dad to Anthony visibly makes his father’s eyes grow sorrowful. Frankie’s outburst causes the nearby tables to gawk again. You feel guilty. He brought you here for support and you’re just about as stunned as the rest of the restaurant.

“Frankie,” you offer warmly, looking between his father’s wary eyes and Frankie’s stern look. “We don’t have to do this. We can go home.”

“No, no. Tell me why you mailed that letter. I haven’t heard from you in ten years, and now you wanna see me on my birthday? You need something. You’d never reach out to me with just the love in your heart. So, spit it out. You’re sick, aren’t you?” Frankie’s words are slick with venom, but all you can see is the little boy whose features are worn with disappointment.

Anthony noticeably has tears welling in his eyes, his round fingernails as white as the tablecloth in front of you as he wipes them away. For a moment, you all hold your breath before he ultimately nods.

You watch Anthony’s shaky hands run down his face, seemingly uncomfortable to lay his weaknesses out on the table. “Yeah, son. M’sick.” He takes Frankie’s cold silence as a nudge for him to explain further. “I don’t know, guess it started with liver disease then turned into the cancer. They did lots of tests, and all that turned into a biopsy.” Anthony opens his mouth to speak before taking a moment to find his words. “Docs say I’m not a candidate for a transplant. Kinda disqualified myself after all those years of downing shit I shouldn’t.”

The revelation changes the energy of the table. It’s clear what he’s implying.

“You were going to ask Frankie if he’d donate part of his liver?” Your voice lacerates the tension between them. Your gaze flicks over to Frankie, whose expression is entirely unreadable.

Anthony scratches his skin and stares at the flaming candle wax melting downward onto Frankie’s birthday cake.

“I didn’t want to tell you. Not today. It’s your birthday, and I wanted you to be happy.” Anthony forces up a wavering laugh, but it only makes things worse.

Frankie’s jaw shifts from left to right, and he looks from Anthony down to where you hold his hand for support.

After a breathy sigh, Frankie expels the truth that’s sat with him for decades. His eyes are solemn and devoid of hope once again. “I’m never happy when you’re around, dad. You’re not here to say you’re sorry. You’re not here to make things right. You’re not here for me. This is about you because you’ve got fucking cancer!” Frankie’s bottom lip quivers. You can’t tell if he’s so angry he could cry or if he’s so sad that he’s angry with himself. “You can tell me you’ve changed, that you’ve gone to substance abuse meetings and got sober, but the cancer came on anyway. I don’t know or care what pulled you out of the gutter. I just know it wasn’t me, wasn’t your family. If you’re just here to apologize and ask for my forgiveness as part of your stupid twelve-step program, just know that they don’t fix the years of absence and abuse. Ma was a good woman, and we were good children. You’re fucking poison, Anthony, and now you’re soaking in your own poison like a sponge. You’re sick. And you’re not getting a thing from me.”

Frankie whips the cloth napkin off his lap and onto Anthony’s plate of cold food. His next words are enough to cause a shiver up your spine. “And if I hear that you ask my sisters for a cut of their livers, I’ll fuckin’ kill you myself.”

The tables around us start to whisper and gasp at that, turning their curious, eavesdropping ears like owls as they chitter about the drama at table thirty-four.

Anthony sat across the table with his lips parted, eyes filled with hurt but more so of an understanding that he deserved this. He wiped at his eyes again and slowly nodded, giving you a half-apologetic smile.

“It was nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

The ride back home in Frankie’s truck is quiet. He couldn’t even stand the radio’s Top 40 as he jabbed his thumb into the volume button and let the truck cab fall mute.

He was wrestling with what to say. So were you.

No words felt right or good enough. What could you say to make him feel better? Or were you not supposed to say anything and let him feel this pain? Would he wallow in it, or would it help him resolve his feelings?

These questions were answered for you as his wavering voice ended the silence.

“Please,” Frankie’s tired voice whispered, “tell me somethin’ good.”

You look up. You’re parked outside his apartment building, the truck idling in the dead of night as the navy sky watches over you both with twinkling stars.

At the sight of Frankie’s silent tears gliding down his cheeks, you feel compelled to take the pain away in any capacity possible.

In one swift movement, you lift the center console that separates you from him and lock it in place, filling the space beside him. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him to you. His arms hesitate but ultimately snake around your lower back, and the hold he has on you only tightens as he realizes this is exactly what he needs.

Your fingers weave into the mess of curls at the nape of his neck, his hat knocking off his head as he buries his nose into the space between your shoulder and neck. A sob escapes from somewhere deep in his throat, and it thrusts you into tears.

You've never experienced a love so profound that their pain becomes your own, cutting through you with an intensity that defies all reason.

Frankie's POV

Frankie’s experienced overwhelming sadness before. When he was a child, it used to be all he knew. All those memories were coming back, not in little flickers of light, but huge waves that made him feel as if he was drowning under the weight of all that he endured.

The corners of his vision crackled and glitched like an old, broken television. His hearing went fuzzy, and he could only hear the pounding of his heart.

His father returning only to leave him with more scars and tears was too much to handle. He should have said no to seeing him. He should have left when you offered. But for some reason, he was drawn to his father.

He wanted his apology and attention. To be the one to let him down this time. To take back his personhood and disown his father for good.

A part of him hated to hear that Anthony was doing better than he was before, because why couldn’t he have gotten better for him? Was he not good enough? Was he not worth turning his father’s life around?

These horrific questions ping-ponged inside his brain until he couldn’t breathe. The fear and anxiety surged all the air from his lungs, and what was at first a tearful release of cries turned into strangled breaths.

He was losing control, suffocating on his thoughts. His pulse throbbed angrily against his throat and his bleary eyes could sparsely make out the shape of your body against his.

“Fuck I can’t—” Frankie’s eyes clenched closed, talking only making things worse. Heat filled his head, a thin layer of sweat gliding across his skin as he gasped for air.

The echo of his name breaks the high-frequency buzzing in his ears. He blinks through his tears, feeling your thumbs swiping away at the waterfalls on his cheeks.

“Frankie,” you whisper, voice steady and strong, like an anchor in a hurricane. “I’m here. Breathe with me.” Your hands take his trembling ones and guide them to the much slower, more relaxed rhythm of your heart.

“I can’t,” he chokes, his voice raw and jagged.

“You can,” you said, your thumb making circles over his clammy and cold palm. His fingers twitched against your own, wanting to pull away but unable to garner the strength.

“Look at me, Frankie.”

For a moment, his gaze fluttered around the cab of his truck before it finally centered on you.

Frankie stares into your eyes, and his memories are pulled in a separate direction–one filled with the blinding yellow light that filters through the diner in the early mornings and paints the entire room in sunshine and gold.

The clock reads fifteen minutes after seven in the morning.

“You’re late, Francisco,” your teasing voice echoes like he’s in a dream. You’re haphazardly trying to balance a serving tray of pancakes, toast, an egg scramble, and a cute Mickey Mouse waffle you had made yourself. He knows because you put the two sausage links on Mickey’s eyebrows, bright red strawberries on his cheeks, and a whipped cream smile along his signature grin. You walk towards a family of four, but he quickly rushes to your side and takes the teetering tray from your hands.

“I got it, Princess. Do me a favor and say we came in together, and I’ll make your breakfast special for you. With a coffee.” Frankie entertained you with a wink, knowingly playing into your flirtatious repertoire.

You scoffed and gave him that wicked smirk, your eyes catching the sunlight and turning into a completely different color that he would love to explore under a microscope for hours if given the chance.

“Deal,” you smile with ease as you hand him the packed tray. He quickly serves the happy family before following you like a dog into the back kitchen.

“Ah-ah-ah, Francisco Morales. Do not tell me you were late again, or I’ll have to whoop that cute little butt of yours out onto the street, and you’ll be lookin’ for a new job.” Carla, the manager, held a motherly tone whilst playfully snapping at her favorite line cook as she brewed a fresh pot of coffee.

Frankie pauses his footsteps halfway through the kitchen like a kid caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar. Your head whipped to look up at him, both of you sharing a look until you casually shrugged. You point to the tray in his hands and look adorably confused.

“He was helping me carry some plates out. Oh, Frankie, did you forget to clock in again? We came in together. You can write in his time card the same as mine.” You’ve always been a terrible liar. You gulp after each nervous breath.

Carla lets out a not-so-convincing mhmm before she walks through the swinging door.

Frankie smirks down at you with a breath of relief, tying his dirty apron behind his back and hanging his hat on a hook while he replaces it with his red bandana. “I so owe you. Let me take you out for a drink tonight.”

“Only in your wet dreams, Francisco.”

“Good,” your voice whispers to him. He blinks, and he’s back with you in his truck, his vision a lot less foggy and his breathing slower.

“That’s good. Now, follow my breaths.” You draw in a deep puff of air, exaggerating the motion so he can see. “In through your nose and count to four,” you wait, thumb still rubbing soothing circles on his hand, which is the grounding touch he desperately needs. “Now, out through the mouth for six.” You count with him, and he starts to feel his senses return to him unhurriedly.

With each breath he takes with you, he grows steadier by a fraction. The tension strung tight between his shoulders and neck slowly eases.

One of your hands leaves his to press against his damp cheek. His skin burns under your palm, but it feels good to sense your gentle touch.

“You’re not alone,” you murmur. He’s not sure if he started leaning his forehead in or if it was you, but your skin lightly brushes, and he craves the feeling of love you so easily give him.

“Tonight was… a lot. I’m so sorry, Frankie. But you’re not facing this by yourself. I’m not leaving you. I’m here.”

You both eventually fall into a hug once more, his head dipping and resting against your shoulder as his breathing mellows. You wrap your arms around him tight, and the compression helps. He can feel his breaths this way.

“I’m here,” you repeat, your voice a steady promise that he knows to be true. “You’re who I want. I love you.” Your fingers thread through his messy hair, and he lets out a soothing hum of appreciation.

He pulls together the strength he needs to find his voice. It’s rugged and muffled against your warm skin. “I love you.”

The next morning, Frankie notices the pale white envelope sticking out of your purse. It was the letter his father slid across the table before shit hit the fan.

Your eyes catch on to his one-sided staring contest, padding across the carpet with two mugs of coffee in your hand as you’re quick to distract him. “I didn’t want to throw it away without your permission, and last night didn’t seem like the time to ask.”

He nods understandingly but stands anyway, grabbing the card silently before settling back down beside you on the couch. You pull the thick dark green blanket over both your laps and slowly run your hand up and down his back, working supportive circles over his freckled skin.

“You don’t have to read it,” you remind him. He wonders what would hurt worse: knowing what’s inside or never knowing.

“Am I a glutton for punishment?” Frankie asks with his familiar teasing smile, ripping open the envelope by its seam, letting out a long breath before looking down at the card.

It’s abundantly clear that his father perused the birthday card aisle and followed the signs alphabetically from boss, brother, child, to nephew, sister, son and chose the first one with a funny picture on the front.

Frankie cocks an eyebrow and shakes his head in annoyance at the sight of a large cartoon grizzly bear who dons a bow tie, glasses, and a party hat and balances the words Happy Birthday, Son! over its head.

Your hand protectively wraps around his bicep, your temple connecting to his shoulder as you rest your head there. Your beautiful eyes flick up to meet his under dark lashes as you exchange a wary glance.

Frankie presses a kiss to your lips, one that feels like heaven after a night of hell.

He’s unsure what to expect when he opens the card. His jaw shifts from left to right at the sizable letter written with a pen on the inside. Maybe he had more to say that he could never properly verbalize.

“What’s it say?” Your tender voice asks beside him. Frankie takes a deep breath before clearing his throat and reading for himself.

“Francisco, I don’t know where to begin or if these words will even matter to you now. I made so many mistakes when I was younger, ones I know I can’t take back, no matter how much I wish I could.

I’m sorry I never came into your room when I heard you crying. I’m sorry that I stopped coming to my arranged visitations with you. I’m sorry that I didn’t attend your high school graduation. I’m sorry I’ve let you become someone I don’t know anymore. You deserved a better dad, someone who didn’t let their own mess spill over into your life. I see that now and see how much I took from you. I wish I could take it all back and change it. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t even know if I deserve it. Learn from my mistakes and be a better man than me. Truth be told, I already know you are.

Happy birthday, Francisco. I hope it’s not too late to say these things, even if I should have said them a lifetime ago.

-Dad”

whatcha think? probably our most dramatic episode thus far. hope you liked the angst xx that's for reading all this, that's crazy! you just read 10k+! can't believe you spent all that time reading my little fic chapter :')) ily

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nameless-jamie · 3 months ago

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Can we get some PA and Jamie’s mum and Simon interaction? 💙💙💙

The Tartt's

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

TW: cursing

A/N: Sure, I love this idea. Guys keep sending me more ideas, love your requests. Ready for some pushy loving parent moments?

As his personal assistant, Y/N had gotten used to handling all aspects of Jamie Tartt’s life—from scheduling his training sessions to making sure he actually showed up to interviews on time. But coordinating a surprise visit from his mum and Simon? That was a new challenge entirely.

The last few weeks Jamie was very well-behaved. He was still annoying, but he worked hard to show up on time and make Y/N's life as his assistant and friend way easier. He was also very hard-working and trained his ass off. That paid off because he scored 5 goals in the last three matches!

As a little treat Y/N wanted to surprise him with his favourite people in the world. His mum and step-dad Simon. They live 3 hours away from Richmond in Jamie's hometown Manchester. He doesn't have time to visit them much, so any updates Georgie, Jamie's mum gets, are from Y/N.

Y/N and Georgie text and call often, not only to keep her updated on Jamie's life... Georgie and Simon had always been a fan of Y/N, calling her love and darlin’ whenever they met or talked. Asking Jamie where Y/N is at, whenever he FaceTimed them. Georgie would gush about how lucky Jamie was to have Y/N keeping his life in order, while Simon, in his usual dry humor, would mutter something about her being the real MVP of the family.

Georgie is also sure that Y/N is going to be her daughter-in-law... But she wouldn't rush those kids. She just knew.

And now? Well, now, they were showing up at Nelson Road to surprise Jamie at training.

Y/N stood outside the training ground, scrolling through her phone when she spotted the familiar couple heading toward her. Georgie’s face lit up the second she saw her.

“Y/N, my love!” Georgie beamed, pulling her into a warm hug before Simon wrapped an arm around her shoulders in greeting. “Oh, it’s been too long! Jamie giving you any trouble? Bet you’ve got your hands full. Love that boy to pieces, but he's a bunch of work sometimes.”

Y/N laughed. “You have no idea. But he's been good the last few weeks. I missed you guys so much and I know he's missed you too. So let's go surprise him!”

They started the walk to the pitch. Simon snorted wrapping an arm around Y/N and Georgie. “Reckon you’re the only reason he’s not showin’ up to training in his bloody dressing gown, right Y/N? By the way I brought your favorite shortcakes.”

"You guys spoil me and I'm not even your daughter!"

Georgie linked arms with Y/N as they headed toward the facility. “Who says you're not our daughter! Honestly, love, I don’t know how you do it. If Jamie were my boss, I’d have quit ages ago. Does he still sleep bottomless?”

Y/N blushed after hearing Georgie call her, her daughter. “Oh, believe me, Georgie, I've considered quitting like every day,” Y/N joked. “But then who else is going to make sure he eats actual food instead of just protein shakes and gummy bears?”

Georgie shook her head fondly. “That boy. Honestly. You are a saint, Y/N. And you know you’re basically family at this point, right? He should just marry you already...”

Y/N smiled, warmth blooming in her chest. “Well, I—”

Before she could finish, a voice interrupted from across the pitch.

“Mum? What the fuck?”

Jamie stood a few feet away, brows raised in confusion as he took in the sight of his mum, Simon, and Y/N looking very chummy.

Y/N grinned. “Surprise.”

"Language, Jamie!" Georgie shouted, angry at Jamie's fruity outburst.

Jamie blinked. “Why—how—”

"Surprise, baby!" Georgie squealed, throwing her arms wide, and before Y/N could even register it, Jamie was bolting across the grass, launching himself at her like a six-year-old.

She oofed at the impact, but Jamie just clung to her, his head buried in her shoulder.

“Mum,” he muttered, voice muffled but so full of love. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Y/N folded her arms, grinning as Simon walked up beside her. “He’s such a mumma’s boy.”

Simon chuckled. “The biggest. Watch this.”

Georgie’s face lit up. “Oh, Jamie, look at you. You’ve been eating well, right? Getting enough sleep? Moisturizing?”

Jamie sighed, leaning into her touch like an overgrown golden retriever. “Mum, yes. I’m fine.”

Georgie turned to Y/N. “Is he lyin’ to me?”

Y/N smirked. “You know what? He has been skipping breakfast.”

“Mum, no I haven’t—”

Georgie gasped dramatically, smacking his arm. “Jamie! That’s awful for your metabolism! You need to eat in the mornings, baby, I told you this!”

He turned to Y/N, slightly betrayed that she told on him, but happy. “You did this, huh? Brought them 'ere” he gestured towards his parents.

“Obviously.” She crossed her arms. “You haven’t seen them in ages, and I figured you could use some family time instead of annoying me all day.”

Georgie beamed, patting Jamie’s cheek. “She’s right, you know. You’re lucky she puts up with you.”

Jamie scoffed, blushing a little. “Yeah, yeah. Everyone loves tellin’ me how lucky I am to have her.”

Simon clapped a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “Well, mate, you are.” Then, with a smirk, he turned to Y/N. “Tell me, love, how long you plannin’ to put up with him before you make it official?”

Y/N choked on air. “Wait, what?”

Jamie turned bright red. “Simon, mate, shut up.”

Simon ignored him, grinning. “Oh, come on. We all know it’s gonna happen eventually.”

Georgie nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. I’ve already decided Y/N’s my daughter-in-law, whether you two want it or not.”

Y/N laughed nervously. “Jesus Christ.”

Jamie groaned even louder, now totally embarrassed. “Bloody hell.”

“Oh, don’t act like it’s a bad thing,” Georgie said, waving him off. “You love her.”

Jamie scoffed, folding his arms, but there was a telltale blush creeping up his neck. “Mum! I do not. Don't say stuff like that.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Really? So why’d you spend all last Christmas on FaceTime with us, complainin’ that she wouldn’t answer your texts?”

Jamie’s face flamed. “I did not—” He turned to Y/N. “I didn’t, okay?”

Y/N grinned. “Mhm. Sure.”

Georgie nudged her playfully. “You should’ve heard him, love. Walkin’ around all moody, muttering, ‘Dunno why she’s ignorin’ me, I’ve been proper nice to her this year.’”

Simon snorted. “Proper sad, it was.”

Jamie groaned. “I hate both of you.”

Y/N, thriving off of his suffering, smirked. “Aw, Jamie, you missed me?”

He huffed. “You know I did.”

The way he said it—low, almost begrudging, but completely honest—made Y/N’s stomach flip.

Georgie waggled her eyebrows. “See? You do adore her.”

Jamie rolled his eyes dramatically. “Right, well, this has been proper fun for everyone except me. I need to shower.”

He turned to Y/N, eyes flicking over her with something way too mischievous.

“Fancy helpin’ me pick out my clothes, love?” he teased. “Heard my mum...You are my future wife, after all.”

Y/N scoffed, trying to ignore the heat crawling up her neck. “You’re impossible.”

Jamie winked. “You love it.”

Georgie sighed dreamily. “God, you two are ridiculous.”

Simon nodded. “Just date already.”

Jamie and Y/N groaned at the same time.

“No one asked you!”

#jamie tartt #ted lasso #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #roy kent #ted lasso show #jamie tartt imagine #sam obisanya #afc richmond

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bumblesimagines · 4 months ago

Text

Lessons in 'Chemistry'

Request: Yes or No

Summary: After getting stranded on the side of the road, (Y/N) is helped by Sarah Cameron and given a ride home. Weeks later, she asks if he can return the favor in an unexpected way.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical OBX warnings, mentions of drugs and dealing, mentioned/implied classism, sexual content

Idk what possessed me but goodnight

~~~

The moment he crossed the threshold from the hallway into the bedroom, he immediately felt out of place, like a worn-out pair of dirty old boots being set amongst a shiny new pair of Mary Jane's.

He scoped out the room, noting it was much bigger than his bedroom back on the Cut, and felt a hint of uneasiness settle in the pit of his stomach. Everything looked as if it'd come right out of a magazine or a sitcom based around high school, including its inhabitant who slotted into the space like the last piece of a puzzle.

Sarah leaned against her vanity, the table trembling under her weight and almost knocking over some upright lipstick tubes. She hooked her fingers into the back of one of her sneakers and pushed downward until her heel popped out, then casually tossed the shoe aside to be forgotten until she needed it again. She did similarly with the other sneaker, and then her socks, which she threw into the laundry basket a few feet away. She seemed comfortable yet nervous, her fingers fidgeting with her golden bracelet as she turned around to face him.

They weren't friends, hell, they were hardly acquaintances. Though he assumed that was precisely why she'd even approached him in the first place asking him to repay a 'favor'. It hadn't been entirely his fault that his dirt bike had chosen to suddenly stop working and she'd just happened to be driving down the same road, but that act of kindness was typically repaid with a similar favor.

He still wondered if it was all some sort of prank, a test set up by Rafe to test his loyalty or something. But Sarah clashed with her brother enough for him to take Rafe out of the equation.

"So," She exhaled, scooping her hair over one shoulder and toying with the ends of it. "What.. what should we do first?"

(Y/N) needed a drink, or two, or maybe three to process what Sarah was asking of him fully. She'd gone up to him the day prior just as he'd been preparing to drive home from another kook party with his pockets full of cash.

For a moment, when she asked if he was willing to return the favor, he thought she meant hitching a ride back to Tannyhill or scaring the shit out of some jock who wouldn't leave her alone but then she'd given him an almost sheepish smile.

"I... I want you to teach me some things." She'd said, tugging her jacket further over her body to escape the nipping chill of the night. He'd grimaced, expecting her to mean shooting a gun or doing some sort of drug that'd send her spiraling down the same path as Rafe. Instead, she nearly made him and his bike tip over into the grass. "Like... in the bedroom? How to, you know... please? Ugh, that sounds so weird."

"Why?" He'd asked slowly, the word drawled out 'cause it sounded batshit for her to be asking him and not her boyfriend.

"I don't want to embarrass myself with Top. I always hear the guys talking shit or- or complaining." Her cheeks had gone red by then, a combination of the chill and what she was asking of him. He almost felt guilty but then Topper's irritating little face flashed in his mind and he considered telling her to straight up dump the guy.

"Yeah, sure."

He'd been mostly itching to get out of the cold, his tired brain telling him it was just some dumb dare and she'd be texting him some apologies by the time he got home. His phone had vibrated with a message telling him what time he could come over without Rafe around to ask questions that night.

There he stood, half-certain the regret would begin settling in for her in a few minutes and he'd be compensated with some snacks from their walk-in pantry. She tilted her head, though, and he quickly realized that maybe the Camerons were all really fucking weird.

"You do realize this is cheating.. right?" (Y/N) asked with an arch of his brow, maneuvering his leg around the door to push it shut behind him. Maybe they'd sit on the bed and he'd offer her a free therapy session on why kook guys weren't worth stressing over, because no guys who unironically wore polo shirts and khakis together were worth stressing over. She gave a flimsy shrug.

"Yeah," She answered casually, because she was Sarah Cameron and she was known for that sort of thing, before she took a few cautious steps toward him. She looked at him like middle-aged women with nothing better to do looked at banned breeds in shelters, with intrigue and a desire to reach out. "But it's whatever. I'll have other boyfriends."

He was beginning to believe she was using him to get out of the relationship, as a reason why they weren't working out. The most that'd happen to her would be a few nasty looks from Topper, and the least that would happen to him would be a fight. A kook with a bruised ego was a dangerous kook, and he was certain Rafe believed there was a bro code between them. No macking on siblings was always a given, no matter the relationship.

"What do you want to do?" (Y/N) asked, because he wasn't fully sure what she'd meant by 'teaching' her 'things'.

The fancy private school she and the other kooks attended definitely had to have classes where they were taught anatomy, and at the very least had some basic Sex Ed classes. All Kildare County High had was a teen pregnancy epidemic that was treated like cooties because they were all at a higher risk of OD'ing on something and not making it into their twenties. Not that DARE ever swayed anyone.

Sarah smiled, almost bashful, and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I want to kiss you." She answered, stepping closer to him, still slow as if she were dealing with a shelter mutt.

Something coiled around his gut, hot and electric and uncomfortable. He was no prude, he'd lost his virginity as a sophomore two years prior, but to be wanted aloud felt wrong.

His life had been spent learning how to hide, how to blend into the background and be forgotten within the hour. You only had two choices in the Cut: become a ghost floating on by or become a feral dog with bloodied teeth. He'd chosen the former, his brother the latter. To be noticed raised an alarm in his head and sent his senses into overdrive.

"Mm." He made a noise in the back of his throat, his hands furling in the pockets of his worn jacket. The room suddenly felt hot despite the AC blasting cold air into the back of his head and his fingers twitched for something to fiddle with while thought about his next words.

He was starting to wonder if maybe he was a new passion project of hers, though he'd never seen Sarah Cameron care for that sort of thing.

"Why not one of your friends?" He was stalling. He knew he could easily back out, mutter some excuse and offer to do her another favor, but some part of him wanted to stick around. Maybe for the chance at a good time, maybe from dumb curiosity. He just despised the idea of something more forming from it.

(Y/N) could hardly count as a playboy. He'd been with three girls in his long nineteen years of life and he only ever had to look one in the eyes when he attended school. The other two were tourons, the daughters of eager tourists who visited during summer break to bask on their beaches and get a taste of their day-to-day lives. He preferred them over girls he'd grown up with, over girls who lingered and could potentially continue prodding at him.

Sarah's lip jutted out in disgust. "Like Kelce or Benson? They're basically my brothers, it'd be too weird." (Y/N) did not comment on the fact either of those two would jump at the opportunity to do anything with her. He simply nodded as if he understood, as if he had girl friends who were like sisters to him. It'd always been just him and his brother.. and Rafe, he supposed, but Rafe was more like a stray who refused to leave. "Plus, they're friends with Top. I don't trust them not to snitch."

"But you trust me?" (Y/N)'s brows furrowed.

"Yeah," Sarah laughed lightly. "You're not like those other guys Rafe hangs out with." Sleazeballs, she meant.

The one singular time they'd ever had a proper conversation aside from polite small talk had been when she'd given him that ride in her shiny BMW. The car still had that brand-new smell, fresh and light and almost cool but mixed with subtle hints of vanilla and coconut that he often associated with Sarah.

She (unsurprisingly) proved to be a better driver than her brother who believed going the speed limit was optional, and she spent most of the ride chatting with him as if she were catching up with an old friend who'd left for college. It was odd, somewhat endearing but odd.

"Right." He exhaled and rolled his shoulders, his jacket sliding off his shoulders and exposing his upper arms to the cold air. He tugged each arm free from the sleeves and rolled the jacket up before jumping it on a chair pressed up against the wall beside the shelf built into the wall, the faded brown fabric clashing with the floral pattern.

If she was comparing him to Barry and his clients, the bar for trust was in hell. He could count on one hand the number of guys from that group he trusted, and it only included Barry 'cause the same blood ran through their veins.

Most of them were older men; ones with wives who despised them, divorcees with enough bitterness to create generational feuds, deadbeats who rarely remembered their kids ages or birthdays, or hopeless folks who'd long given up on their dreams of the future. (Y/N) pitied them sometimes, before he'd be reminded violence and greed came just as easy as breathing to the hopeless.

Sarah's room was incredibly nice, he noted, though an odd shape from being on the side of the manor. It looked like a hexagon cut in half with its slanted walls, leaving the lower half of it to be decorated with pictures and frames and the upper half to loom over the bed. Sarah must've really liked blue because nearly everything was blue or white. Her lamp, the floral loveseats, the large circular rug, the decorative pillows on her bed that had S and C threaded into them, the curtain. He felt tempted to ask if half the things in her bathroom were blue too.

When he tore his eyes away from a framed picture of different butterflies and their names, he found Sarah standing much closer than before. His first instinct was to flinch, to create distance between them, but his feet kept him rooted in place and rendered him to blink at her in surprise. Sarah's eyes crinkled, amused she'd caught him off guard, and then her hands moved to rest over his cheeks. Her hands were soft and smooth, free from callouses and chaffing because unlike most of the kids in the Cut, her father had ensured she'd never have to work a day in her life if she so desired.

"Can I kiss you?" Sarah asked, voice soft and almost breathless, dripping with anticipation. She cradled his face in a way that was unnatural to him, too gently, too sweet; it made him uncomfortable, it made him want to press pause and savor the moment. Affection was a fleeting thing on the Cut, and most often involved a trade of sorts.

Another threshold, another line he contemplated crossing. Technically, he'd done nothing to warrant the wrath of the kooks yet but kissing their princess would be breaking an unspoken rule between pogues and kooks. The 'war' between them was dumb, he very well acknowledged that, but he still followed the laws of their divided land to avoid conflict. Most kooks knew to leave him alone, his status as the local dealer's baby brother giving him an advantage over others, but kooks weren't particularly known for their intelligence.

"Yeah, sure," He exhaled, his go-to words with Sarah at this point, and she laughed again like windchimes in a summer breeze.

Just as expected, Sarah's lips were soft and plush, suddenly making him self-conscious about how his own lips felt. He applied chapstick a fair amount of times, would that change anything? He wasn't sure but he tried pushing the insecurity away to close his eyes and focus on not making a fool of himself in front of the nicest kook in all of Figure Eight.

His hands clumsy grasped at her waist, exposed by the crop top she wore riding up when she circled her arms around his shoulders. His hands retreated briefly when they touched her skin, worried for a moment that it was going a step too far as if their mouths weren't on each other. He placed them over her waist again more confidently, massaged the skin warm from constant time in the sun, and tried not to focus too heavily on how well he was kissing.

Sarah tilted her head and her button nose rubbed against his, her lips parting slightly and teeth gently digging into his lip. He tentatively opened his mouth, just a bit, and swallowed the muffled giggle the bottle-blonde released. He'd kissed girls before (just the three but enough to keep his brother's teasing to a minimum) but they'd always been rushed kisses, frantic and fast-paced to get to the part they actually wanted to do. Sarah took it slow, exploring his mouth and then pressing against him to encourage him to do the same.

She began moving, her chest bumping into his and forcing him to blindly move along with her until his legs bumped against her bed. They parted when he plopped down on the bed, the comforter rustling and the bed creaking softly with the added weight. He took a moment to catch his breath, to allow his mind to catch up and he peeled his hands off her waist. His lips felt different, likely smeared with the barely noticeable pink lipstick she wore, and his heart had kicked up its pace.

"What exactly-" He swallowed and pressed his palms into the smooth white comforter. "What exactly do you want help with?"

Her arms hugged his shoulders again and the moment their lips met again, she took advantage of their position and proximity by grinding her hips. His hands flew to her waist and a quiet grunt escaped him, his body naturally beginning to fully react to the situation. Her lips curved up into a victorious grin and he began to wonder just how inexperienced she actually was.

It definitely wasn't kissing. If anything, Sarah was an expert at that already with her years of dating boy after boy after boy.

He assumed the 'lessons' would be about heavy-petting or featherlight touches underneath clothes but instead of answering, Sarah smiled at him and dug her knees into the bed as she straddled his thighs. The lingering smell of her scented body lotion invaded his senses while she got comfortable on his lap, light and sweet-smelling enough to nearly make him hungry.

Sarah suddenly pulled away and brushed her fingertips over her bottom lip to wipe away the slick that'd gathered there. Her legs moved, sliding effortlessly along the comforter until her toes met the floorboards and then her knees followed with a soft thump. (Y/N) stared at her long and hard before the switch flicked and realization dawned on him like a wave of cold water.

"Is this okay?" She asked softly, her palms already moving along his thighs and hazelnut eyes peering at him through her dark lashes. She almost reminded him of a siren trying to entice him to make a costly decision, and his body seemed fairly keen on doing just that. Sarah palmed the growing bulge and smiled when he shuddered, her eyes darting back and forth between his crotch and his face.

"Are you sure about this?" He managed to ask without his voice miraculously cracking. His fingers dug into the comforter and crinkled the material but he desperately needed something to grasp onto while his brain struggled to comprehend what he'd gotten himself into. Heat invaded his face, covering his neck and ears before creeping down his spine and torso.

Sarah pressed the pad of her index finger into the button of his jeans and then nodded, her fingers popping the button and slowly dragging down the zipper until it reached its end. He felt clammy and nervous, like a fourteen-year-old seeing an old Playboy magazine for the first time or watching a scene from a film get steamy. It was the type of jittering nerves you got when you were doing something you shouldn't and the risk factor was beginning to set in. It made him a little light-headed.

Sarah's fingers dipping beneath the waistline of his jeans and the band of his briefs snapped him out of his momentary daze, his gaze darting downward in a flicker of confusion before he lifted himself enough for her to begin shimmying the articles of clothing down his legs. He lowered himself down closer to the edge of the bed, inhaling heavily through his nose when the cold air hit his thighs and reminded him he was now exposed in front of Sarah fucking Cameron.

He almost flinched when fingers curled around him and his eyes darted down, his cheeks flushing with heat at the sight of her long fingers slowly dragging over his length. He twitched in her hand, slowly hardening further, and he wished for nothing more than to shove his face into a pillow to avoid being seen by her curious eyes.

All the times he'd been touched by a girl had been quick, swift pumps before he sunk into her through a drunken haze. He wished he had a drink in hand, something that'd fog his brain and halt his instinct to overthink every single little thing. It was difficult to try not to when he had the Princess of Figure Eight with his dick in her hand. And she had the gall to look intrigued, if not delighted.

"Should I take my top off?" Sarah asked breathily, and (Y/N) almost hadn't heard her through the light ringing in his ears when she gave him an experimental squeeze.

His eyes immediately jumped down to the shirt she wore, one he actually thought looked nice. It was a light rose-pink shirt with a darker pink floral pattern that he thought looked rather fancy for a casual everyday party until he stopped to wonder if she'd dressed up a little nicer than usual just for him.

He had no sisters to run questions by, to watch and take notes of what girls purposefully did or didn't do, just an older brother who'd rob anyone if given the chance and whistled at pretty girls on the street occasionally.

He shrugged. "If you want."

Sarah smiled, a little cheekily, and released him to lift her top up and over her head, tossing it aside without a care. He swallowed thickly and her smile turned into a grin, one that blatantly spelled trouble for him. She leaned forward onto her knees, ones that'd likely be red and numb by the time she had her fill of fun, and arched her back slightly.

He tried focusing on her layered necklace, the gold one she frequently wore that had an S charm, but his eyes flickered lower regardless. His grip on the comforter tightened and he twitched again, his misery coming this time in the form of a small watery glob that trickled down from his tip.

Jesus.

A chill shot up his spine when Sarah abruptly leaned forward and dragged her tongue over his tip to collect the pre, his hips involuntarily bucking at the action. She gave a light hum and took him in her hand again, giving him a few experimental pumps that had more pre trickling down his shaft. Her eyes watched him, observing every reaction his body gave her as if it were an actual lesson and she was taking mental notes.

"I-" He made a low noise in the back of his throat and she stopped, blinking up at him with doe eyes like it was all some casual thing and wouldn't have her dad whipping out a shotgun if he walked in on them. He gave a shaky exhale regardless and raised his hand, suppressing the trembles by pressing his fingers together before he spat into his palm.

"Oh." Sarah peeled her fingers from him and brought them to her mouth, licking the mess off them while she watched him with a concreated furrow of her brow. Dangerous, was what she was.

He tried ignoring the sight and gave himself a few pumps, pre mixing with saliva and making him glisten under the sunlight pouring in from the window. Her hand replaced his and he rubbed his palms against his thigh, not daring to dirty the comforter that likely costed more than his mattress back home.

She continued moving her hand, squeezing lightly at times and slowly picked up her pace. Her eyes flickered upward to his face once his pants and quiet noises became noticeable, another spark of victory glowing in her eyes.

A strangled curse fell from his mouth when she leaned forward and wrapped her lips around him, her hands falling to grip his calves and dig half-moons into his skin. (Y/N) had half a mind to gather her bronze hair up with his cleaner hand, loosely holding it in a ponytail as she began attempting to fit him further into her mouth.

Her eyes squeezed shut, driplets of drool escaping from the corners of her mouth. He could tell she made an effort to breathe through her nose through the newfound haze in his head and gave her hair a light tug to coax her into taking a breather.

She leaned back and inhaled, her lips already swollen and slick. Her forehead creased with some frustration, reminding him that stubbornness ran in the family, before she leaned in again, wet warmth enveloping him and forcing another buck from his hips despite his best attempts at remaining still.

She made a small noise, unintentionally sending vibrations right to his gut where a knot slowly began to form and forcing a guttural groan out of him. He practically watched a lightbulb flicker in her head.

Sarah Cameron, as he came to learn, was a quick learner. She scraped him lightly with her teeth every now and again, her watery eyes jumping up to look at him apologetically to which he gave a reassuring nod despite his gaze only focusing on where they were connecting, but she managed to keep it to a minimum. She had little idea what she was attempting to do, likely going off what she'd seen or heard, but she gave it her all and was rewarded with noises he'd never heard from himself before.

It was messy, with an occasional gag or choke or gasp for air when she pulled back, but she kept going with determination he'd certainly never have.

Kook girls were certainly something.

With another curse, another half-stutter of his hips, and another surprised noise from the kneeling blonde, the tightened knot in his gut burst and he spilled in her mouth. Her hand grasped the base again and she pulled back enough to only have the tip ensnared in her mouth, suckling as if she were drinking soda that'd spilled over onto the lid of a cup.

His legs trembled and his back slumped, the AC keeping the sweat from collecting across his temple. He hoped he could shower or at least curl up for a nap somewhere in the manor like a cat who'd strolled in through an open window.

Sarah leaned back and wiped at her mouth, looking like the cat who'd caught the canary with her prideful and even smug smile. She was full of surprises.

He released her hair and took the liberty of slumping back onto the bed, letting out a heavy exhale that left his body deflating into the comforter. His view of the white ceiling was obstructed by her pretty face, lips still glistening and pulled into a small smile.

"Maybe we could.. go all the way sometime?" Sarah asked, strands of her hair tickling the side of his face when she leaned down to kiss the corner of his lips. He blinked.

"Thought this was all for Topper?"

Her nose crinkled with a laugh and her shoulders moved with a shrug. "I used him as an excuse." She revealed, lowering down to lay on top of him and prop her chin on his chest.

"Oh." He should've guessed as much; no girl with any actual interest in her partner gave head to other people. His brother always lamented about his gullibility.

"So?" She tilted her head and batted her lashes. "What do you say?"

"Yeah," He murmured, lips pulling upward. "Sure."

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sweetheartsofpanem · 22 days ago

Text

I've Been Yours - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

i definitely did not sob writing this… i totally did. UGH MY BABIES

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.14k

series masterlist | main masterlist

You wake to the sound of birds.

Not the frantic screeching kind—though you’ve met more than your fair share of those in the last three years—but the soft, slow kind. Morning birds. Gentle and full of quiet purpose, like they’re reminding the world to stretch.

The light filtering through the curtains is golden. It paints the hardwood in long strokes, warm and slow-moving, like everything’s in no rush now. Like the world isn’t on fire anymore.

And for once, you believe it.

You don’t get up right away.

You just lie there, tucked into sheets that smell like laundry soap and comfort, curled into the warmth of the man still half-asleep beside you, and let yourself feel it.

The stillness.

The way your chest doesn’t ache the way it used to.

The fact that your first thought isn’t how do I disappear? but maybe we should get up before the market closes.

It’s been three years since you came back to District 12.

Three years since you stumbled through the ruins and ended up here. Since Katniss and Peeta took care of your wounds like it was the easiest thing in the world. Since you looked at Haymitch and thought, he’s just another man who will hurt me and leave.

And now?

Now you’re tucked under the covers of a home you helped build from the inside out.

Now you work three days a week at an Apothecary, and the rest are split between tending the herb garden with Katniss and helping Peeta paint the side of his bakery. Therapy is a regular part of your week—one of the first things District 12 added once the final reconstruction funds rolled in. It’s quiet. Gentle. You like the woman who runs it. She reminds you of your dad in a strange, comforting way—says your name like it matters, asks questions without trying to break you open.

And you answer them.

You talk about the cellar.

You talk about the things you still don’t have words for.

You talk about love—what it feels like to be wanted in the exact way you are.

Haymitch shifts beside you with a soft grunt, one arm tightening around your middle, breath warm against your neck.

You smile.

You’re not afraid of the morning anymore.

Eventually, you slide out of bed, careful not to wake him.

You leave a kiss on his temple anyway.

He grumbles something incoherent, tugs your pillow into his chest like a substitute for your body, and immediately falls back asleep.

The floor’s cool under your feet as you pad to the kitchen, tugging on one of his old flannels over your sleep shirt along the way. It smells like cedar and whiskey and a thousand quiet mornings just like this.

You start the coffee without thinking.

Two spoons of sugar in his mug. Just a splash of milk in yours.

The kettle whistles low and steady. The window above the sink is cracked open, and a breeze rolls through the curtain. The sun is high enough now to spill gold across the countertop, catching on the small glass vase you keep beside the window—today it holds little blue phlox and mountain mint you picked with Katniss earlier in the week.

You reach for the pan on the stove. Eggs. Toast. A little bit of goat cheese you bartered for at the market.

Footsteps shuffle behind you.

“You makin’ that smell delicious on purpose?” Haymitch rasps.

You smile without turning around. “I considered letting you starve.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist. “But you’re getting soft in your old age.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“And you’ve aged beautifully, honey.”

You roll your eyes and elbow him gently. “Mug’s on the table. Go sit down before you fall over.”

He kisses your shoulder before letting go.

You move around each other with the ease of a shared life—him pouring coffee, you plating breakfast, him grumbling at the chair that squeaks, you laughing because you swore you’d fix it last week and still haven’t.

Everything is slow. Familiar. Easy in a way it never used to be.

By the time you both sit down to eat, the sun is full and warm across the table. Soot appears like a ghost in the doorway, leaps up into your lap, and settles in with her usual dramatic sigh like finally, the attention I deserve.

You scratch behind her ear. She bites you gently. Haymitch mutters something about her being possessed.

You sip your coffee and let it all sink in.

You have a home.

You have love.

You have mornings like this.

After breakfast, Haymitch insists on doing the dishes, grumbling the whole time about how you’re not allowed to “turn into one of those people who hum while they clean.” You hum just to spite him.

Back in the bedroom, the two of you get ready without really saying much—there’s no need to. You move around each other like a dance you’ve been doing for years. Haymitch pulls on a button-down while you stand in front of the dresser, brushing your hair. He walks past, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck on his way to grab socks. You toss his belt at him before he even asks for it.

He still tugs the hem of your shirt down after you pull it over your head—out of habit more than anything—and murmurs, “Pretty.”

You swat at him, flustered even now, and he grins like it still works every time.

By the time you lace your boots and check your little shoulder bag for your market list, there’s a soft knock at the door. You open it to find Katniss already waiting on the porch, a small satchel slung over her shoulder, her braid over one shoulder and her expression unreadable as always.

“Ready?” she asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Haymitch appears behind you, leans against the doorframe, and peers out at her. “You break her, I’ll break you.”

Katniss deadpans, “Then don’t give me defective products.”

You’re already laughing as you step onto the porch. “We’re literally just going to the market.”

“I’ve seen the way she shops,” Haymitch says. “She gets this look in her eye.”

“Peeta’s worse,” Katniss mutters.

You turn back to him before leaving and rise up on your toes for a quick kiss—soft and simple, pressed into the corner of his mouth. “Be good.”

“No promises.”

Peeta appears on his porch across the way right as you and Katniss start walking, waving dramatically like you’re leaving for war. Haymitch calls something sarcastic back, but you’re too far down the path to catch it clearly.

The Victor’s Village has changed in three years.

All twelve houses are full now—some with returning families, others with people who came to rebuild and never left. Kids play in the yards. Gardens bloom along the fences. Someone waves from a porch a few houses down and you wave back without hesitation.

It’s a neighborhood now.

A real one.

And for the first time in your life, you feel like you belong in one.

The sun’s already high by the time you and Katniss reach the edge of the village, the path worn into something familiar beneath your boots. The grass hums with heat, bees drifting between wildflowers along the fence line, and every so often you catch the sound of distant laughter—kids chasing each other barefoot, someone shouting from a garden.

It’s summer. Full, and green, and alive.

Katniss doesn’t talk much as you walk.

She never has.

But it’s a comfortable silence, one that doesn’t press. She gestures once with a tilt of her chin, and you follow her down the side road that cuts toward the main square. The buildings are all rebuilt now—stone and wood and clean glass windows. There’s even a small sign above the tailor’s shop, hand-painted and hung by thick rope.

The market is already buzzing when you arrive.

Stalls line both sides of the square, shaded by linen cloths and patched umbrellas. People call out names, wave across the street, trade goods over tables cluttered with jars, produce, and worn baskets full of herbs.

Katniss heads straight for her usual booth—the one that sells dried roots and salves—and you veer off to check the bread stall.

You both fall into rhythm. Picking through vegetables, bartering gently. Passing things back and forth without really thinking about it.

At one point, Katniss holds up a small jar of wild honey and says, “You think Peeta would like this?”

You raise your eyebrows. “He’ll cry with joy.”

She almost smiles.

You end up with two bags full by midday—bread, peaches, mint, goat cheese, a few tiny jars of jam. Katniss grabs extra soap and something that smells vaguely like cinnamon and ash. You find a pair of hand-stitched tea towels that match the mug Haymitch always insists is his favorite and buy them without thinking twice.

When the sun hits its peak, you duck under the shade of a tree near the square and split a chilled plum between the two of you. It’s sticky and perfect. Katniss licks juice off her wrist and mutters that it’s too hot. You agree, but neither of you makes a move to head home yet.

You’re just… there.

Existing.

Together.

And that, somehow, feels like the most remarkable part of all.

The sun’s settled into its lazy afternoon stretch by the time you and Katniss head home.

The bags are heavier now, your arms warmed from the weight, and your skin carries that soft, sun-drunk feeling that only comes from a long summer day spent in good company.

You glance over at her, hiding a smile.

“So,” you say, casual as anything, “how’s it feel being a married woman these days?”

Katniss gives you a side-eye so sharp it could slice fruit.

You grin. “I’m just saying. You’ve got a husband now. That’s commitment.”

“He still leaves socks everywhere,” she mutters.

“And you still chose him.”

“I didn’t choose his laundry habits.”

You bump her shoulder lightly. “You love him.”

“I tolerate him aggressively.”

“You married him in front of witnesses.”

She exhales through her nose, but her ears are pink.

You don’t press any further.

You don’t need to.

The two of you walk in comfortable quiet for a few minutes, dust puffing up beneath your boots, the village just coming into view around the bend. Katniss shifts one of her bags higher on her shoulder and says, mostly to herself, “It’s not what I expected.”

“What isn’t?”

“Marriage,” she says. Then adds, after a pause, “Happiness.”

You blink.

Then smile.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Me neither.”

And for a second, the world narrows to that moment—sun on your back, sweat on your neck, the woman beside you quiet but steady, and the path ahead leading home.

When you get back to the Victor’s Village, the afternoon light has turned syrupy, golden and soft across the porches. A light breeze stirs through the trees, fluttering laundry on the lines and rustling the late-summer leaves.

You wave goodbye to Katniss and split off toward your house, arms aching but heart light.

Inside, it smells like Haymitch’s soap and morning coffee left too long on the stove.

You set your bags down on the kitchen counter, take a moment to pull the jam jars and tea towels free, and tuck them into the cabinet with a fond little smile. Soot is curled in a sunspot on the back of the couch, belly up, all four legs flopped to the side like she’s been through so much.

You scratch her belly. She kicks you. You kiss her head anyway.

Then you head back out, wiping your hands on your skirt as you cross the porch and make your way across the square to Katniss and Peeta’s house.

She’s already on the porch waiting.

Wordless, the two of you fall back into step, circling around the side yard toward the backyard fence.

And then you hear it.

A crash.

A loud one.

Then Peeta’s voice, “You’re not supposed to throw it like that!”

Followed by Haymitch, shouting, “I said I was aiming for the log!”

Katniss stops walking.

You exchange a look.

Then both of you step into the backyard at the same time.

There’s a lopsided wooden target propped up against a tree.

Three kitchen knives sticking out of the grass nowhere near it.

A pile of firewood with a very clear dent in one log.

Peeta standing with his hands on his hips, looking betrayed.

And Haymitch with a fourth knife in hand, already rearing back for another throw.

You stare.

Peeta sees you and immediately points at Haymitch. “He said he could hit the center.”

“It used to be easier,” Haymitch mutters.

“You threw it into my garden bed.”

“That’s what you get for planting lettuce like a coward.”

Katniss exhales through her nose. “Are you two okay?”

“No,” you say at the same time.

Peeta opens his mouth to argue. Stops. Looks down at the knife sticking out of a perfectly innocent zucchini plant.

Then sighs. “We may have made poor choices.”

You don’t even get a chance to settle in before Haymitch gives you a look.

Not the tired, vaguely annoyed one you usually get when you ask him to do something mildly wholesome. No, this one’s more… focused. Like he’s already made up his mind about something and you’re just now catching up.

“You done playing farmer’s market baron?” he asks.

You raise a brow. “Maybe.”

“Good,” he says, wiping his hands on his pants. “We’re going for a walk.”

You blink. “We are?”

“Mm.”

“Right now?”

“Unless you’ve got a pressing appointment with the lawn.”

Peeta turns around way too quickly, pretending to water something that absolutely does not need watering. Katniss is suddenly very interested in the inside of her bag.

You glance between all of them, squinting. “Why do I feel like I’m being ambushed.”

“You’re not,” Haymitch says immediately. “You’re just being handled.”

“Wow. Comforting.”

He shrugs and grabs your hand anyway.

His palm is warm. A little calloused. Familiar in a way that settles something deep in your chest.

You glance down at your clothes. “Should I change?”

He looks you over slowly, then leans in to murmur, “You look perfect.”

Your face burns. “Ugh, why do you always say cute stuff like that?”

“Not my fault you react like that every time I tell the truth.”

Peeta coughs behind you—loud and exaggerated.

Katniss doesn’t even pretend not to smile.

You squeeze his hand once before following him across the grass, past the fence, out toward the trees.

The woods are warm but shaded, sunlight filtering through the leaves in long streaks that dance across the path. The air smells like moss and green things, the way it always does in midsummer—like everything is alive and still growing.

You and Haymitch walk side by side, hands still loosely clasped between you.

He hasn’t said much since you left the yard.

Not that that’s weird. He’s never been much of a talker when you’re out here. Just prefers the sound of wind through trees, birds calling overhead, the soft crunch of leaves under your boots.

But still… he’s quiet today in a way that makes you glance at him twice.

“You okay?” you ask.

He hums.

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing.”

“That thing where you act normal but also like you’re hiding a secret and I’m about to find out you’ve buried a body.”

He snorts under his breath.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re definitely hiding something.”

“I am literally just walking.”

“Suspicious.”

He doesn’t rise to it. Just squeezes your hand and keeps walking.

You fall into step again, smiling to yourself.

The path to the lake hasn’t changed much over the years—still soft and winding, a little overgrown in places, but well-trodden by your boots, his, Katniss’, Peeta’s. This trail has carried so many of your summers. So many of your memories. You know it by heart.

The last curve in the trail opens up into the clearing.

The lake shimmers in the sunlight—broad and still, catching the sky in its surface like glass. The trees frame the water like a picture, the breeze bending the tall grass gently at its edge.

You stop for a moment at the top of the slope, letting it settle over you.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just stands beside you.

Hand warm in yours.

Breath steady.

Like he’s trying to remember this moment forever.

The breeze off the lake ruffles the edge of your shirt. The sun’s warm on your back, but it’s gentler now—late afternoon creeping in. Golden and slow.

You watch the way the light shimmers across the water and think: it’s always been this beautiful.

But it wasn’t the lake that stopped your heart.

Not really.

You squeeze Haymitch’s hand, thumb brushing slow over his knuckles. “Hey.”

“Mm?”

“You remember the first time we all came here?”

He glances sideways at you. “What about it?”

You look out over the water. Let your gaze drift to where the dock is half-shadowed now, the surface rippling with the wind.

“I think,” you say, slow and careful, “that was when it started for me.”

“What started?”

You glance up at him. He’s watching you now—eyes narrowed, not suspicious, just focused. Waiting.

You shrug, a little shy. “Us.”

He goes still.

You press on, gentle. “You were standing in the water.”

He blinks. “That’s the memory?”

“Yes.”

“That was your big moment?”

“Let me finish,” you laugh, swatting his chest lightly.

He smirks but quiets.

You swallow, eyes back on the lake. “You were just… there. Knee-deep. Looking like you hated every second of it. But you didn’t. Not really.”

He’s silent beside you.

“I remember looking at you,” you say softly, “just standing in the water with the sun hitting your face, like you were trying so hard not to enjoy yourself. And for some reason, my heart just… stopped.”

You pause. Let it settle.

“I don’t know why. I just remember thinking—oh. Like it had already happened and I was only just realizing it.”

Haymitch doesn’t speak right away.

Doesn’t look at you either.

Just watches the water, jaw tight, breath a little deeper than before.

You smile to yourself. “You probably thought you looked grumpy and mysterious.”

“I was grumpy,” he mutters.

“You were gorgeous,” you say, eyes still on the lake.

And that’s what finally makes him turn.

His hand finds yours again. Steady. Warm.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, honey,” he says.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not even when the silence stretches out between you again, warm and full, like it’s holding its breath for you.

You glance over, catch him watching you with that same look he always gets when he’s about to say something important—like it tastes strange in his mouth, like it might hurt to let it out.

“Alright,” he mutters suddenly, like he’s talking to himself. “Okay. Fine.”

You blink. “Fine what?”

Haymitch shifts his weight and digs into his jacket pocket, expression pained like he’s about to perform surgery without anesthesia.

Then pulls something out and holds it in his closed fist.

You stare at him.

“…Did you just start a sentence and then not finish it?”

He glares. “I’m getting to it.”

“You’re the one who said ‘okay’ like you were being held hostage.”

“I am being held hostage. By love. And your face.”

Your lips twitch. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He doesn’t respond.

Just opens his hand.

And there it is.

A ring.

Simple. Silver. No fancy stones, no polished shine. Just a smooth, slightly scuffed band with a tiny engraving on the inside—real enough for now.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You look up.

Haymitch is already staring at the lake again, jaw tight, like if he looks at you for too long he might combust.

“I know it’s late,” he says quietly. “Three years of living together and being in love and being stupid and waking up next to you like it’s normal. And I know we don’t need it. Don’t need paper or rings or people knowing our business. I know you already chose me.”

You say nothing. Can’t.

He glances at you once, quick. Then back to the water.

“But I wanna do it anyway,” he mutters. “Because you’re it for me. Always have been. And I figured if I’m gonna die one day, I might as well go out knowing I locked this shit down.”

You make a sound that’s half laugh, half sob.

He clears his throat. “So… what do you say, honey? You wanna marry the town drunk?”

You blink fast.

Stare at him like he hung the damn stars.

Then smile so wide your cheeks hurt. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, sunshine. I do.”

He finally looks at you—really looks.

And it’s all there.

All of it.

He slides the ring onto your finger, a little crooked, a little clumsy.

Perfect.

And then he says, just loud enough to hear, “You better tell people you begged.”

You don’t give him a chance to say anything else.

You just launch at him.

He grunts as you crash into his chest, arms flung around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance in the grass.

“Honey—”

But you’re already pressing kisses to his cheek, to his forehead, to the line of his jaw, breathless and grinning like your whole chest might explode.

He stiffens for half a second—pure Haymitch reflex—and then melts. Just completely gives in, arms winding tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you hard enough.

“You’re such an idiot,” you murmur against his skin between kisses. “I love you so much.”

He huffs, low and shaky, and mutters, “You’re gonna break me one day, y’know that?”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

Eyes shining. Lips parted. Ring gleaming on your finger where it rests against his chest.

“Guess you’ll have to marry me before that happens,” you whisper.

He looks at you like he’s never seen anything so ridiculous and so holy all at once.

Then, soft but very seriously, “You’re mine.”

Your smile widens. “I’ve been yours.”

You kiss him again—slower this time.

The lake shimmers behind you. The wind stirs the trees. And for a moment, the whole world hushes around the two of you.

Just long enough to hold it.

Just long enough to remember that you made it.

You walk back hand in hand.

Slowly. Like the path feels different now. Like the whole world cracked open and decided to give you everything you thought you weren’t allowed to want.

The ring catches the light every time you move. You can’t stop looking at it. Can’t stop looking at him.

Haymitch doesn’t say much on the walk back.

But he keeps glancing over at you, like he’s making sure this is real. Like if he looks away for too long, you might disappear. Every few steps, he squeezes your hand. Like he can’t help it.

And honestly?

Neither can you.

By the time the houses come into view, the sky’s starting to shift—blue deepening, gold stretching across the fences and porches. It’s still warm, but there’s a breeze now, and you can hear the faint sound of laughter from the backyard.

“They’re gonna be insufferable,” Haymitch mutters.

You grin. “Can’t wait.”

You round the corner of Katniss and Peeta’s house just in time to see Peeta hurl a tomato at Haymitch’s terrible wooden target and Katniss judging him from her lawn chair with deep disappointment.

They both look up when they hear your footsteps.

Peeta immediately brightens. “Oh good, you survived your walk.”

Katniss glances between you. Then your hands.

She freezes. “Is that—?”

Peeta squints. “Wait. Is that a ring?”

You don’t even say anything.

You just lift your hand and smile.

Peeta screams.

Like, actually screams.

Katniss groans and covers her face with both hands. “You’ve killed him.”

Haymitch winces.

Peeta launches himself at you like a human golden retriever, nearly knocking you off your feet. He hugs you first, then Haymitch, then both of you at once while saying something about flower arrangements and dresses and themed desserts.

Katniss stands up and shakes her head. “I’m not wearing a dress.”

“We’ll find you a tasteful jumpsuit,” you say, laughing, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

Haymitch watches you with something soft and warm in his expression—like the chaos doesn’t matter. Like nothing matters except this.

Except you.

Except the fact that after everything, after all the grief and noise and pain, you are still here.

And so is he.

Together.

Always.

Epilogue

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usagiarchive · 5 months ago

Text

love. — jing yuan x reader.

나의 작은 마음도, 그 안에 작은 파도처럼, 부서지고 밀려와선, 네게 녹아내리고, 그제서야 보이는 나의 영원.

sypnosis. [ 1.1k words. fluff + sfw. ] — the usual weekend trip with your lover turns into an unexpected, but welcome surprise.

usagi's note: àirén - my love (or quite literally the person i love) xīngān - darling, heart, or my humanity

“Are you ready to go?”

You nod as he reaches out to take your hand carry for you, giving him your hand as he lets you step into the starskiff first.

It had been tradition, since the two of you started dating, that every weekend, you would have a date night, every two weeks, a whole day together, doing whatever, as long as you spent it with each other, and every three months, you would go on a weekend trip.

This was established to work around both your busy schedules, with you working as a full time healer in the Alchemy Commission and with him always at the Seat of Divine Foresight.

This weekend, he was the one to choose this time and he decided to take a drive to an island beach four system hours away from the Luofu.

As soon as you took off, your lover made sure you were comfy and okay.

“You should take a nap,” he tells you, “I'll get us there, besides, I know you took Li Meng’s graveyard shift last night,”

The tone of his voice betrays little, but you know he's scolding you for putting others before yourself again.

“I know, I know, her daughter had a fever and no one could take care of Xiao Ying,” you say, snuggling into the soft, fluffy blanket he draped over you the moment you were buckled in.

“Sleep, Àirén,” he leans in to give you a kiss on your forehead, “I'll wake you when we're there,”

He does not wake you up.

Or maybe he did and you didn't get up, because the moment you open your eyes again, you're already settled into the bed of the villa he rented.

You hear him tinkering away with something in a different room, so you get up and look for him.

You find him in the walk in closet fiddling with both your clothes and putting them up in hangers.

Quietly, you sneak up on him and hug him from behind.

You feel him chuckle, “How's your sleep, my love?” he asks as he puts his hand on top of yours and draws circles on it.

“Had a really good nap,” you rasp, “Why didn't you wake me up?”

He detaches and turns around, booping your nose then cradling your face, “I did, you wouldn't wake up, so I carried you in,”

You pull him into a hug again and snuggle his chest, “Mm, okay,”

The two of you stay there for a moment, with him hugging you back, one hand on the small of your back while the other the back of your head.

“How about we go and have dinner, Àirén?” he asks, and when you nod, he pulls back, takes your hand, and leaves a kiss.

“I'll be wearing cream,” you tell him and he smiles, “I know, I packed a matching one,”

You smile back and he gives you a kiss on your forehead, “I'll leave you to get ready then.”

Jing Yuan never skimps out on dinner. Ever.

Especially so when he's with you, which rings true when you then find out that the restaurant he brings you to was one he rented out the entire outdoor deck for the two of you.

Again, as always, he reassures you that it's simply for privacy considering his position as the Luofu Arbiter General, but you know better than that.

You roll your eyes at him with a smile as he gives your intertwined hands a kiss.

The view was wonderful, the outdoor deck overlooked the beach with the orange-pink hued sunset, the breeze was cool, and it was really quiet, save for the crashing of the waves.

“It's beautiful,” you say in awe.

Jing Yuan squeezes your hand, admiring how pretty the sunset reflects on you, “Yes, it truly is beautiful,” he whispers.

The dinner goes as planned, the two of you had wine, ate really good food, then headed back to the villa.

Of course, you didn't forget to update Yanqing on what was happening (the boy worries, okay?) and sent him what he calls a “proof-of-life” picture. Yuan was sure to send him plenty.

Other than that, the night was really peaceful, the two of you snuggled together on the bed, reading books, nothing out of your usual routine.

And as always, Yuan falls asleep first and you have to stifle your cuteness aggression with how he looks. You snap a few photos to Yanqing before telling him to go to bed.

He replies with pictures of paperwork, followed by ‘as soon as i finish this i will >n<’.

You smile and put both your books away before tucking yourself into bed with him, too.

Jing Yuan wakes without you beside him, and for a moment he panics. He's always the first to rise on weekend vacations, or on the off chance that he does not, you wake him to have breakfast together.

His worries were quelled when he sees you outside in your sleepwear, reading a book.

He walks into the closet and pulls out a shawl before getting out to join you.

“It's cold,” he says as he drapes the fabric around you, “I don't want you to get sick,”

You give him a soft smile and sink onto his side as he sits next to you. He wraps a hand around your shoulder and pulls you close. The two of you sit like that, just watching the ocean wake up as the sun rises.

Suddenly, Jing Yuan says your name and you look up at him.

He pulls away from the hug and gives you a kiss on the forehead.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he starts, and immediately your lips part in shock.

“You helped me in the times I was in my lowest, you helped me raise Yanqing, and you've become such an integral part of my life it would be a mistake not to do this,”

He pulls out a simple gold band from his pocket.

“I've spent most of my life with you, and now I want to keep living it with you,”

There were no questions needed to be asked, he knew, and you knew, too.

With a smile and a sigh, you bury your face in his neck and nod, “Yes, I would like to spend the rest of my life with you, too, Xīngān,”

Your now fiancé pulls you back and slips the ring on your finger then cradles your face.

“May I please kiss you?”

You lean forward as your answer.

BONUS:

usagi's note: im so happy i survived omg guys, i only have one presentation left then my finals THEN IM FREE. like our holiday break spans until the 3rd week of january. aaaa r u guys proud of me ?? also i love 'love.' by w2e, i like calm songs and ive always liked calm wedding proposals, i am TOTALLY projecting okay bye!!

@usagiarchive 2024. do not repost, translate, or use for AI.

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magical-reid · 5 months ago

Text

The Rings We Keep Part 2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!FBI!Reader

Genre: fluff

Content warnings: none

Word count: 2.2K

Part 1

Two months had passed since the case ended, your team was spending more and more time assisting the BAU with their cases, and you were still adjusting to being known as Mrs. Reid. The BAU’s teasing had mostly subsided, but Penelope couldn’t help herself, sending you daily texts with variations of “How’s married life treating you, sugarplum?”

Spencer, of course, was blissfully oblivious to half the jokes. You envied his ability to compartmentalize. For you, the line between personal and professional felt increasingly blurred—especially when you came home to find him sitting on your couch, flipping through one of your dog-eared mystery novels like he belonged there.

“Hey,” you greeted, setting your go-bag on the floor.

“Hey,” he replied without looking up. “Your landlord called earlier. The leak in your bathroom should be fixed tomorrow.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, thanks?”

Spencer finally glanced up, his expression innocent. “It’s easier if they call me. You don’t always answer your phone.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Easier, huh?”

He shrugged. “Legally, I’m your emergency contact. Makes sense.”

Your chest tightened a mix of irritation and something warmer that you weren’t ready to name. Spencer had a way of making the most unconventional things seem logical—like casually fixing your plumbing situation as if it were just another bullet point on his to-do list.

You crossed the room, plopping onto the couch beside him. “You know this is weird, right?”

“What is?”

“This,” you gestured between the two of you. “Being married but… not married.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Spencer tilted his head, considering your words. “It’s unconventional, sure. But it’s not weird. We work well together.”

“That’s not exactly the foundation of a marriage,” you pointed out, though your tone lacked bite. “Shouldn’t we—I don’t know—try to figure out what this actually is?”

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “You mean, like dating?”

The word hung in the air between you, heavy and full of possibility.

“Maybe,” you said, feeling your cheeks warm. “I mean, it might help. Get to know each other outside of work. Outside of… whatever this is.”

Spencer nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “That’s logical. We could schedule something.”

“Schedule?” You laughed, the sound half nervous, half amused. “Spence, you don’t schedule a date. You just… go.”

His lips quirked in a small, sheepish smile. “Right. Of course.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The First Date

Three days later, you found yourself sitting across from Spencer at a cozy little café near the library. He’d insisted on picking the place, and you hadn’t protested—it was quiet, intimate, and felt like him.

“I, um, wasn’t sure what you liked, so I ordered a variety,” Spencer said, gesturing to the spread of pastries between you. “There’s a 73% chance one of these is your favorite.”

You bit back a smile, reaching for a chocolate croissant. “Good guess.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, and you realized he’d been nervous—an unusual look for someone so confident in every other aspect of his life.

“So,” you began, tearing off a piece of croissant. “Do we talk about work, or is that off-limits?”

Spencer shook his head. “It’s not off-limits, but we could talk about other things. Like… hobbies.”

“Hobbies,” you repeated, amused. “You mean like your extensive knowledge of obscure trivia?”

“Or your knack for solving puzzles,” he countered, a rare teasing tone in his voice.

You laughed, the sound drawing a faint smile from him. For the first time, the awkwardness began to fade, replaced by something warmer—something that felt almost like normalcy.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Navigating New Territory

Over the next few weeks, your dynamic shifted in subtle but undeniable ways. Spencer started leaving his favorite books on your nightstand, claiming they were “better than the ones you usually read.” You, in turn, introduced him to your guilty pleasure TV shows, relishing the way he tried (and failed) to resist getting invested in the drama.

But it wasn’t all smooth sailing.

One evening, as you cooked dinner together—a rare occurrence, considering your busy schedules—Spencer reached for the salt just as you turned to grab a spoon. The collision was minor, but it left you both frozen, faces inches apart.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, stepping back quickly.

Spencer’s cheeks flushed. “No, it was my fault.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension. You busied yourself stirring the sauce, your mind racing. Was this what it felt like to be in a real marriage? The constant push and pull of closeness and uncertainty?

“I’ve been reading about communication in relationships,” Spencer said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

You raised an eyebrow. “Of course you have.”

“It says physical proximity is important,” he continued, his tone serious. “Small gestures, like holding hands, can build intimacy.”

You stared at him, torn between exasperation and affection. “Spence, are you saying we should hold hands more?”

He nodded, his expression earnest. “It might help.”

You sighed, setting down the spoon. “Alright. Let’s try it.”

Tentatively, you reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. His skin was warm, his grip firm but careful.

“How’s this?” you asked, half-joking.

Spencer’s gaze met yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you.

“Good,” he said softly. “It’s… good.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

A Step Forward

One night, after a particularly grueling case, you found yourself leaning against Spencer on the couch, too tired to care about boundaries. His arm was draped around your shoulders, and you realized with a start that it felt… nice. Comforting.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low.

“Yeah,” you murmured, closing your eyes. “Just tired.”

He didn’t move, didn’t press for more. Instead, he simply held you, his presence steady and reassuring.

In that moment, you realized something had shifted—not just between you, but within you. This wasn’t just a marriage of convenience anymore. It was becoming something real, something worth fighting for.

And as you drifted off to sleep, Spencer’s voice echoed softly in your mind.

“I’ve got you.”

You believed him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Unspoken Shift

It was late one night when the shift finally happened when everything you and Spencer had been tiptoeing around finally came to a head. The case had been grueling—intense, dangerous—but in the end, the team had solved it. The adrenaline had faded, leaving an unfamiliar silence in its wake.

You were sitting on the couch in your small apartment, your mind still racing from the day’s events. You’d barely had time to think about anything beyond work in the past few weeks, but now, with the threat neutralized, everything came rushing back.

Spencer, on the other hand, seemed completely unaffected by the chaos. He was curled up in the armchair across from you, his laptop open in front of him, but his eyes weren’t on the screen. He kept glancing over at you, his face unreadable, as if there was something he wanted to say but didn’t know how to say it.

It was in moments like this that you found yourself wondering what this was between you—this odd marriage of convenience that had slowly morphed into something you couldn’t quite define.

We work well together, Spencer had said once, so casually that it hadn’t quite clicked at the time. Now, though, as you caught him looking at you again—this time with a sort of tenderness that made your heart skip a beat—you wondered if he meant more than just work.

You shifted on the couch, trying to distract yourself. You couldn’t allow yourself to think too deeply, not with everything that was still unresolved. But Spencer’s voice cut through the silence.

"Y/N, I... I think I need to apologize."

You froze, unsure if you had heard him correctly. "Apologize? For what?"

He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keys of his laptop, but he didn’t look at the screen. Instead, his gaze lingered on you, serious and a little vulnerable. "For... for how distant I’ve been. I know I’ve been focused on the cases and... well, on myself too much." His lips tightened, as if he regretted the words before they even left his mouth. "I’ve been pushing you away without even realizing it. And I’m sorry."

You blinked, taken aback by his honesty. Spencer was never one to admit when he was wrong. He was always so logical, so composed. But tonight, something was different. There was a rawness in his voice that made your chest tighten, and you realized with a jolt that maybe you had been pushing him away too.

"You haven’t been distant, Spence," you said softly. "You’ve just been... you." The words felt heavier than you intended, but it was the truth. Spencer had always been focused, and driven, and even when he was there, he seemed so far away, locked in his own world.

"I know," he said, his voice low. "But that’s not an excuse. I—I should have been there more for you. You’ve been doing this alone, and that’s not fair."

You stared at him, processing what he had just said. Spencer Reid, always so sure of his intelligence and his work, was admitting—without words—that he wasn’t sure how to be a partner in this unconventional marriage. And as much as you wanted to brush it off, you couldn’t. You had been struggling with the same doubts.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you said quietly, motioning between the two of you. “This whole… marriage thing. It’s not what I expected, either. But that doesn’t mean I’m not trying.”

Spencer’s eyes softened, his expression vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “I know you are,” he said. “And that’s why I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t know what this is, but... I don’t want to lose it.”

There was a long pause as you both let the words settle. You felt the weight of everything that had been building up—the awkward moments, the shared glances, the near-kisses that you’d both avoided. But in that moment, you realized something: you didn’t want to keep avoiding it.

“I don’t want to lose it either,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Spencer inhaled deeply, his hand moving hesitantly toward yours. When his fingers brushed against yours, your pulse quickened. The touch was gentle, uncertain—but it felt like a promise, one you hadn’t even realized you were waiting for. The space between you seemed to shrink as if the universe itself was holding its breath.

"I think I—" Spencer started, but the words hung in the air, unspoken, because neither of you could say them aloud just yet. Instead, you reached for him.

You moved slowly, carefully, but when your lips met his, it wasn’t cautious. It wasn’t calculated. It was everything that had been building between you for the past two months. It was vulnerability and longing and the quiet admission that you couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

His lips were warm, soft, and he didn’t pull away, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he did. The kiss was tentative at first, but it deepened as you both leaned into it, the world around you fading until it was just the two of you. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you felt right. Not because the kiss had solved everything, but because in that moment, you finally felt seen.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, both of you breathing heavily. Spencer’s hands were still lightly touching your arms, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them, but you didn’t want him to move. You didn’t want to break this moment of rawness between you.

“I... I’ve wanted that for a while,” Spencer said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, your heart racing. “I think I have too.”

For a moment, you simply stayed there, sitting together, breathing in the same air. You didn’t need to talk, didn’t need to say anything more. Everything had shifted, in a way that felt both terrifying and liberating at the same time.

You were no longer just coworkers. You weren’t just a married couple in name. In that kiss, you had taken the first step into something more. Something real.

And for the first time, you believed Spencer when he said he didn’t want to lose this.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Quiet Moments After

The days after your first kiss were a mix of confusion and excitement. There was still tension between the work you did and the lives you were building together, but somehow it felt more manageable now. You and Spencer began finding ways to open up to each other—slowly, carefully, but with more and more honesty.

You would catch Spencer looking at you with that same soft expression as if he was still trying to figure out the person sitting beside him, but there was no hesitation anymore. No pulling away.

He didn’t say much, but his actions spoke volumes. Whether it was bringing you your favorite coffee when he knew you were having a rough day or simply sitting beside you on the couch, his presence had started to mean more. And with each passing moment, each new shared experience, you felt your connection deepening.

Maybe this wasn’t the marriage you had expected. But maybe, just maybe, it was the one you needed.

Part 3

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