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archivegyu · 1 month ago

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The Art of Being a Girl Dad

dad! seungcheol x reader ll 5k words

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the Choi family’s living room, casting dancing shadows across the hardwood floor where an unlikely wrestling match was taking place. Kkuma, Seungcheol’s beloved white coton de tulear, had somehow found herself pinned beneath a giggling five-year-old who was attempting to braid the poor dog’s fluffy ears.

“Kkuma-ya, stay still! You’re going to be the prettiest princess dog in all of Seoul!” Naeun declared with the kind of unwavering confidence that only children possessed. Her small fingers fumbled with tiny pink hair ties as Kkuma’s tail wagged frantically, clearly torn between escape and enjoying the attention.

Seungcheol paused in the kitchen doorway, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, watching his daughter’s latest creative endeavor with barely contained laughter. His hair was still messy from sleep, sticking up at odd angles that somehow made him look younger than his years. The sight of his two favorite girls bonding over questionable grooming choices filled his chest with a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee.

“Naeunie,” he called softly, padding over in his slippers. “What are you doing to poor Kkuma?”

“Appa!” Naeun looked up with bright eyes that were carbon copies of his own. “I’m making her beautiful for the tea party! Mama said you have to come too because Uncle Gyu is bringing cake!”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows shot up. “Uncle Mingyu is coming? When did this happen?”

“This morning! Mama was on the phone and she was laughing really loud and then she said yes to cake!” Naeun had returned to her mission of transforming Kkuma into what appeared to be a four-legged fairy tale character. “She said you were grumpy about getting up early but Uncle Gyu said he’d bring the really good cake from that place with the fancy name you can’t say right.”

“Patisserie Laurent,” Seungcheol muttered, already knowing exactly which place Mingyu meant. Trust his member to remember his weakness for their mille-feuille. “And I wasn’t grumpy, I was tired. There’s a difference.”

“You made that face,” Naeun said matter-of-factly, scrunching up her features in an exaggerated frown that was disturbingly accurate. “The one where your eyebrows touch and Mama laughs.”

Before Seungcheol could defend his morning expressions, the sound of his wife’s laughter drifted from the kitchen, followed by what sounded suspiciously like multiple voices on speakerphone. He recognized the chaos immediately – Seventeen’s group chat had gone live.

“Is that the whole circus?” he asked, settling down on the floor beside Naeun and gently rescuing Kkuma from her latest hair accessory.

“Jeonghan is being mean to Seokmin again,” his wife called from the kitchen, amusement clear in her voice. “Something about stealing his face mask.”

“It was a limited edition!” came Seokmin’s distant, indignant voice through the phone speaker.

Seungcheol shook his head, simultaneously exasperated and fond. Five years of marriage and fatherhood had done nothing to mature his bandmates. If anything, having Naeun around had made them more chaotic, each trying to claim the title of ‘favorite uncle’ through increasingly ridiculous means.

“Appa, can we call Uncle Hannie too? I want to show him Kkuma’s new look,” Naeun said, having successfully managed to get one small bow attached to the dog’s ear. Kkuma looked resigned to her fate.

“Let’s wait until after your tea party, okay? Uncle Mingyu will be here soon and you know how he gets when he’s not the center of attention.”

As if summoned by the mention of his name, the doorbell rang with the specific pattern that could only belong to Kim Mingyu – unnecessarily long and dramatic. Naeun shrieked with excitement and abandoned Kkuma entirely, racing toward the front door with the kind of speed that made Seungcheol wonder if she had inherited more than just his eyes.

“Uncle Gyu! Uncle Gyu!” Naeun’s voice echoed through the hallway.

Seungcheol followed at a more reasonable pace, already smiling at what he knew he’d find. Sure enough, Mingyu was crouched at Naeun’s level, having somehow produced not just the promised cake box but also a small bouquet of daisies and what appeared to be a toy crown.

“Princess Naeun!” Mingyu announced dramatically, placing the crown on her head with ceremonial precision. “Your royal tea party awaits!”

“Did you really bring a crown?” Seungcheol asked, accepting the familiar one-armed hug that Mingyu offered while juggling his various gifts.

“Hyung, I don’t do anything halfway. You know this.” Mingyu’s grin was shameless. “Plus, I may have had help from a certain someone who shall remain nameless but definitely knows a lot about princess accessories.”

“Uncle Wonwoo helped!” Naeun announced, completely ruining Mingyu’s attempt at mystery. “He said princesses need proper headwear for important occasions!”

Seungcheol’s wife appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel and shaking her head with fond exasperation. “Wonwoo called ahead to make sure Mingyu brought age-appropriate entertainment. Apparently, last time’s magic tricks were ‘too easy for the target demographic.’”

“They were great magic tricks,” Mingyu protested. “It’s not my fault Naeun figured out where I was hiding the cards.”

“You left them on the kitchen counter in plain sight,” Seungcheol pointed out.

“Details,” Mingyu waved him off, then turned his attention back to Naeun. “So, Princess, what’s on the agenda for today’s royal gathering?”

What followed was an elaborate explanation of the tea party requirements, including but not limited to: proper seating arrangements for all attendees (including Kkuma, who was apparently the royal pet), specific tea flavors (apple juice was acceptable as a substitute), and a very serious discussion about cake cutting protocol.

Seungcheol watched his daughter command the attention of a grown man who regularly performed in front of thousands, completely unaware of how naturally she held court. There was something magical about the way children could make adults remember how to play, how to find joy in the smallest things.

“She’s got your leadership skills,” his wife murmured, settling beside him on the couch as Mingyu and Naeun began arranging the living room for optimal tea party conditions.

“And your ability to wrap people around her finger,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The actual tea party was a masterpiece of organized chaos. Naeun had assigned seats with the precision of a military strategist: herself at the head of the coffee table (which had been draped with her favorite blanket to serve as a proper tablecloth), Mingyu to her right as the guest of honor, her parents flanking the other sides, and Kkuma positioned on a small cushion with her own tiny tea cup.

“Now,” Naeun began, having insisted on wearing her fanciest dress for the occasion, “everyone has to hold their cups like this.” She demonstrated with her small hands positioned just so on her plastic teacup, pinky extended in what she clearly believed was the height of sophistication.

Mingyu, without a trace of self-consciousness, mirrored her posture exactly, even going so far as to straighten his imaginary tie. “Like this, Princess?”

“Perfect! Appa, your pinky isn’t high enough.”

Seungcheol adjusted his grip on his mug with exaggerated precision, earning an approving nod from his daughter. His wife was barely containing her laughter behind her own cup.

“Okay, now we have to toast,” Naeun continued. “Mama taught me. We say something nice and then we clink.”

“What should we toast to?” Mingyu asked seriously.

Naeun considered this with the gravity of a diplomat. “To… to Kkuma being the prettiest princess dog, and to Uncle Gyu bringing the best cake, and to Mama’s apple juice that tastes like tea, and to Appa for making funny faces when he drinks it.”

“I don’t make funny faces,” Seungcheol protested weakly.

“You do,” his wife and Mingyu said in unison, causing Naeun to dissolve into giggles.

They clinked their mismatched cups together, and Seungcheol felt that familiar tightness in his chest that came with these perfect, ordinary moments. This was what he’d been missing all those years on the road – not just the big milestones, but the silly Tuesday morning tea parties and the sound of his daughter’s laughter mixing with his wife’s.

The cake, as promised, was exceptional. Mingyu had somehow convinced the patisserie to create a miniature version of their famous mille-feuille decorated with edible flowers. Naeun insisted on cutting it herself, resulting in uneven slices that she distributed with the solemnity of a judge.

“Uncle Gyu gets the biggest piece because he brought it,” she announced, “but Appa gets the piece with the most flowers because he’s the best appa in the world.”

Seungcheol felt his throat tighten unexpectedly. “Thank you, baby.”

“And Mama gets the prettiest piece because she’s the prettiest mama.”

The conversation flowed easily from there, jumping from topic to topic the way it did when Naeun was involved. She told Mingyu about her new favorite book (something involving a dragon who was afraid of its own fire), demonstrated her latest dance moves (a combination of ballet and what appeared to be taekwondo), and explained in great detail why purple was clearly superior to all other colors.

Mingyu listened to every word with the kind of attention usually reserved for important business meetings, asking follow-up questions and offering commentary that made Naeun beam with importance. Watching them together, Seungcheol was reminded of why he’d fallen in love with this chaotic group of men in the first place – their capacity for genuine care, for making others feel seen and valued.

“Uncle Gyu,” Naeun said suddenly, having finished her cake, “are you sad that you don’t have a little girl like me?”

The question caught everyone off guard. Mingyu’s expression softened, and he reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Naeun’s ear. “You know what? I’m not sad, because I get to be your uncle. That means I get all the fun parts – tea parties and cake and hearing about dragons – but I also get to spoil you and then send you home to your appa and mama when you’re too full of sugar.”

“That’s sneaky,” Naeun observed approvingly.

“I learned from the best,” Mingyu glanced at Seungcheol with a grin. “Your appa taught me everything I know about being sneaky.”

“I did not—” Seungcheol started to protest, then caught his wife’s knowing look and decided discretion was the better part of valor. “Okay, maybe I taught him a few things.”

The doorbell rang again, interrupting what was surely going to be an embarrassing trip down memory lane. This time, the pattern was shorter but repeated three times – definitely Jeonghan.

“Did you invite more people to my tea party?” Naeun asked, not sounding particularly upset about the prospect of additional guests.

“That would be Uncle Hannie,” Seungcheol’s wife said, already moving toward the door. “He said he had something for Naeun.”

“Something” turned out to be Seokmin, Joshua, and Wonwoo, along with what appeared to be half of a craft store. Jeonghan waltzed in like he owned the place, carrying a bag full of supplies, while the others followed with varying degrees of sheepishness.

“We heard there was a princess in need of proper royal crafts,” Jeonghan announced, dumping his bag on the coffee table with a flourish. “And Seokmin insisted on bringing his guitar.”

“For royal entertainment,” Seokmin added quickly, holding up his acoustic guitar case. “Princesses need proper serenades.”

“I just came to make sure nobody burned down the apartment,” Wonwoo said mildly, though he was already pulling something from his jacket pocket. “Also, I brought more appropriate magic tricks.”

Joshua, ever the gentleman, presented Naeun with a small wrapped box. “I thought you might like these for your next tea party,” he said in his careful, accented Korean.

Inside were a set of actual porcelain tea cups, child-sized but clearly real, painted with delicate flowers. Naeun’s eyes went wide with wonder as she lifted one carefully from its tissue paper nest.

“They’re real grown-up cups,” she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might make them disappear.

“Very real,” Joshua confirmed. “My mom helped me pick them out. She said every princess needs proper tea service.”

“Uncle Shua, they’re the most beautiful cups in the whole world,” Naeun declared, and Joshua’s smile could have powered the entire building.

What had started as a simple tea party was rapidly evolving into something resembling a small festival. Jeonghan had begun spreading out craft supplies with the efficiency of someone who’d clearly planned this in advance, while Seokmin tuned his guitar and Wonwoo shuffled what appeared to be a deck of actual magic cards (as opposed to his previous amateur hour attempts).

“Hyung,” Mingyu leaned over to whisper to Seungcheol, “I think we’ve been upstaged.”

“I think our daughter has an entire entertainment company at her disposal,” Seungcheol replied, watching Naeun flit between uncles like a butterfly sampling flowers.

His wife settled back beside him, shaking her head with amazement. “Remember when we used to worry about her not having enough socialization?”

“I remember when we worried about a lot of things,” Seungcheol said quietly. The early days of fatherhood had been terrifying in ways that performing on stage never was. Every cry, every fever, every milestone had felt monumental and fragile at the same time.

“Look at her now,” his wife murmured.

Naeun was in her element, directing her uncles with the confidence of someone who’d never doubted her place in the world. She’d assigned Jeonghan the task of helping her make crowns for everyone (apparently, one royal crown wasn’t enough for a proper court), while Seokmin provided background music and Wonwoo prepared what he promised would be “actually impressive” magic.

“Uncle Hannie, this one needs more sparkles,” Naeun declared, holding up a construction paper crown that was already ninety percent glitter.

“More sparkles, got it,” Jeonghan replied seriously, reaching for another container of craft supplies. “What about Uncle Gyu’s crown? Should it match his height?”

“Make it extra tall so everyone knows he’s the giant uncle,” Naeun decided.

“I’m not a giant,” Mingyu protested from where he was attempting to fold his long limbs into a child-appropriate sitting position on the floor.

“You’re bigger than the refrigerator,” Naeun pointed out with irrefutable logic.

While the crown-making continued, Wonwoo had set up what appeared to be a proper magic show area, complete with a small table draped with one of Naeun’s blankets. His movements were precise and practiced in a way that suggested he’d been doing more than just casual research into children’s entertainment.

“When did you learn actual magic?” Seungcheol asked, genuinely curious.

“YouTube,” Wonwoo replied without looking up from his card arrangement. “Also, Mingyu’s cousin teaches kids’ magic classes. I may have attended a few sessions.”

“You took magic lessons for my daughter?”

“I took magic lessons for my pride,” Wonwoo corrected. “Getting outwitted by a five-year-old is unacceptable.”

Seokmin, meanwhile, had found the perfect background music tempo – something light and whimsical that made everything feel like a scene from a family movie. His voice hummed along with the melody, unconsciously harmonizing with himself in that way that never failed to remind Seungcheol why they’d all chosen music in the first place.

“Appa,” Naeun appeared at his elbow suddenly, having momentarily abandoned crown construction. “Are you happy?”

The question was so direct, so purely her, that it caught him off guard. “What do you mean, baby?”

“You’re making your thinking face,” she said, climbing onto his lap with the ease of long practice. “The one where you look far away. Are you thinking sad thoughts or happy thoughts?”

Seungcheol wrapped his arms around her small frame, breathing in the scent of her strawberry shampoo mixed with glitter and cake frosting. “Very happy thoughts,” he said truthfully. “I was thinking about how lucky I am.”

“Because you have the best daughter in the world?” Naeun asked with a grin that was pure mischief.

“Because I have the best daughter in the world,” he agreed, “and the best wife in the world, and the most ridiculous uncles in the world who love you almost as much as I do.”

“That’s a lot of bests,” Naeun observed.

“I’m a very lucky appa.”

She seemed satisfied with this answer and settled more comfortably against his chest, content to supervise the ongoing craft production from her new vantage point. Seungcheol caught his wife’s eye across the room and saw his own contentment reflected back at him.

“Naeunie,” Jeonghan called, holding up a completed crown that was somehow even more elaborate than the original. “What do you think of Uncle Wonwoo’s royal headwear?”

The crown in question was a masterpiece of construction paper architecture, featuring multiple layers, an impressive array of gems (plastic, but convincing), and what appeared to be actual feathers. It was also approximately three times too large for any human head.

“It’s perfect,” Naeun declared. “Uncle Wonwoo will be the most royal uncle at the magic show.”

Wonwoo accepted his fate with the stoicism of someone who’d learned that resistance was futile when it came to Naeun’s vision. The crown perched precariously on his head, held in place by sheer determination and possibly divine intervention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced formally, “prepare to be amazed by feats of wonder and impossible possibility.”

What followed was genuinely impressive. Wonwoo had clearly put considerable effort into learning tricks that would actually surprise and delight a child, rather than the transparent sleight-of-hand that had characterized Mingyu’s previous attempts. Cards appeared and disappeared, coins materialized from behind ears, and somehow he managed to produce a small stuffed rabbit from what had definitely been an empty box.

Naeun was entranced, gasping and clapping at each reveal, but Seungcheol found himself equally captivated by the sight of his normally reserved friend fully committed to entertaining a five-year-old audience. There was something beautiful about watching people step outside their comfort zones for love.

“How did you do that?” Naeun demanded after a particularly impressive card trick.

“Magic,” Wonwoo replied solemnly. “True magic can’t be explained, only experienced.”

“But really, how?”

“Trade secret. Magicians never reveal their methods.”

Naeun considered this seriously, then nodded with acceptance. “Okay, but can you teach me one that I can show Mama later?”

“I think that can be arranged,” Wonwoo said, and Seungcheol made a mental note to prepare for his daughter’s inevitable new obsession with prestidigitation.

The afternoon continued in this vein, flowing from activity to activity with the organic rhythm that seemed to characterize all gatherings involving Naeun. After magic came a mini concert, with Seokmin leading everyone in increasingly silly songs while Joshua provided harmony and Jeonghan added dramatic interpretive dance.

Mingyu had appointed himself official photographer, documenting every moment with the dedication of a professional despite the fact that his subjects kept moving and his main model had a tendency to make faces at the camera when she thought no one was looking.

“Appa, come sing with us,” Naeun called, having climbed onto the coffee table to serve as conductor for what appeared to be an original composition about tea parties and magic shows.

“I don’t know the words,” Seungcheol protested weakly.

“There are no words!” she replied with five-year-old logic. “We’re making them up!”

And so Seungcheol found himself standing in his living room, surrounded by his bandmates and family, singing a nonsensical song about royal cake and magical uncles while his daughter conducted with the serious concentration of a maestro. His wife was laughing so hard she was crying, Kkuma was barking along in what might have been harmony, and somehow it was the most natural thing in the world.

This was what happiness looked like, he realized. Not the roar of crowds or the satisfaction of a perfect performance, but this – chaos and laughter and the complete absence of dignity in service of making one small person feel like the center of the universe.

As the impromptu concert wound down, exhaustion began to set in. Naeun’s energy, while impressive, was not infinite, and the combination of sugar, excitement, and multiple uncles had begun to take its toll. She found herself gravitating back toward Seungcheol’s lap, her movements becoming slower and her blinks longer.

“Someone’s getting sleepy,” his wife observed gently.

“I’m not sleepy,” Naeun protested, even as she curled more firmly against Seungcheol’s chest. “I’m just resting my eyes so I can see the magic better.”

“Of course,” Seungcheol agreed seriously. “That’s very smart princess thinking.”

One by one, her uncles began the process of taking their leave, each stopping to say proper goodbyes and receive official thanks for their contributions to the royal tea party. Jeonghan left behind enough craft supplies to stock a small art classroom, while Wonwoo presented Naeun with a junior magician’s kit and a promise to teach her three tricks at their next meeting.

Seokmin and Joshua coordinated their departure with the efficiency of long practice, but not before Seokmin had been made to promise to bring his guitar to the next family gathering. Mingyu lingered the longest, as he always did, reluctant to leave the peaceful chaos of their little family unit.

“Thank you,” Seungcheol said as he walked Mingyu to the door, Naeun having finally succumbed to sleep in his arms.

“For what? Bringing cake? That’s basic uncle duty.”

“For all of it,” Seungcheol gestured vaguely at the living room, which looked like a craft store had exploded in the most wonderful way. “For loving her like she’s yours.”

Mingyu’s expression grew serious for a moment. “Hyung, she kind of is mine. Yours and hers and all of ours. That’s how family works, right?”

“Yeah,” Seungcheol said quietly, “that’s exactly how family works.”

After Mingyu left, the apartment settled into the peaceful quiet that followed a day well-spent. His wife began the process of cleaning up while Seungcheol carried Naeun to her bedroom, carefully navigating around the various craft projects and new toys that marked the path of her day.

He tucked her into bed still wearing her princess crown, deciding that some rules were made to be broken. She stirred slightly as he pulled her blankets up, just enough to mumble something that sounded like “best tea party ever” before settling back into sleep.

“Sweet dreams, princess,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Back in the living room, his wife had made impressive progress on the cleanup, sorting craft supplies and folding blankets with practiced efficiency. Kkuma had reclaimed her favorite spot on the couch, though she was still wearing one small bow from her earlier princess transformation.

“Leave it,” Seungcheol said as his wife reached for the last of the paper crown supplies. “She’ll want to finish those tomorrow.”

“Our dining room table is going to be unusable for a week,” she pointed out, but there was no real complaint in her voice.

“We’ll eat on TV trays. It’ll be an adventure.”

She laughed, settling beside him on the couch and curling into his side with the easy intimacy of years together. “Remember when we thought having a baby would make our lives quieter?”

“I remember thinking a lot of stupid things before she came along,” Seungcheol said, tightening his arms around her. “Like thinking I knew what love was.”

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Choi Seungcheol.”

“I’m getting honest in my old age,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the last of the afternoon light fade through their windows. The apartment still hummed with the energy of the day – glitter catching the light, the lingering scent of fancy cake, the echo of laughter in every corner.

“She’s going to remember today forever,” his wife said softly.

“Good,” Seungcheol replied. “I want her to remember that she’s loved. Not just by us, but by everyone who matters to us. I want her to know that our family is bigger than just blood, and that she’ll never have to navigate this world alone.”

“Even when she’s fifteen and hates us for existing?”

“Especially then. That’s when she’ll need Uncle Mingyu to remind her that her parents are actually pretty cool, and Uncle Jeonghan to teach her how to get revenge on mean girls, and Uncle Wonwoo to show her that quiet strength is just as powerful as loud confidence.”

His wife tilted her head to look at him. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“I think about it all the time,” he admitted. “About what kind of life we’re giving her, what kind of person she’s going to become. Today… today I realized I don’t have to worry so much. Look at how she commanded that room, how she made everyone feel special and included. Look at how naturally she loves people and expects to be loved back.”

“She gets that from you, you know.”

“She gets that from both of us. And from them.” He gestured toward the door through which his bandmates had recently departed. “She’s growing up surrounded by people who chose to love each other, who made family out of friendship and commitment instead of just accepting what they were given. That’s not nothing.”

“No,” his wife agreed quietly, “that’s everything.”

Later that evening, after dinner had been eaten off TV trays as predicted and Naeun had been convinced to take a bath despite her argument that princesses didn’t need to wash off their royal sparkles, Seungcheol found himself in her bedroom for the second time that day.

She was already in her pajamas, a set covered in cartoon dragons that seemed to contradict her earlier dedication to princess aesthetics, but somehow made perfect sense for her eclectic personality. Her hair was still damp from the bath, and she smelled like lavender body wash and childhood.

“Appa, will you tell me a story?” she asked as he tucked her in properly this time, having convinced her to remove the crown for sleeping.

“What kind of story do you want?”

“A story about today. But make it like a real story, with once upon a time and everything.”

Seungcheol settled into the chair beside her bed, the same chair where he’d spent countless nights during her infancy, watching her sleep and marveling at the fact that he’d helped create something so perfect and terrifying.

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a princess who lived in a magical kingdom with her mama and papa and her loyal companion, a brave white dragon named Kkuma.”

“Dragons can’t be white,” Naeun interrupted drowsily.

“This one could. It was a very special dragon. Now, one day, the princess decided to hold the most magnificent tea party in all the land…”

He wove the day’s events into a proper fairy tale, complete with magical uncles who appeared with gifts and talents, enchanted cakes that granted wishes, and crowns that bestowed special powers upon their wearers. Naeun’s eyes grew heavy as the story progressed, but she fought sleep to hear every detail, occasionally murmuring corrections or additions to ensure accuracy.

“…and so the princess realized that the real magic wasn’t in the tricks or the crowns or even the cake,” Seungcheol continued softly, “but in being surrounded by people who loved her enough to spend their day making hers special. And she lived happily ever after, knowing that whenever she needed them, her magical uncles would appear with exactly what she needed most.”

“What did she need most?” Naeun whispered, though her eyes were already closed.

“Love,” Seungcheol said simply. “She needed to know she was loved, and she was. More than she could ever imagine.”

“That’s a good story, Appa.”

“It’s a true story, baby. The best kind.”

He sat with her until her breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep, then allowed himself a few more minutes to simply watch her. Five years old, with the whole world ahead of her and the unshakeable confidence that came from being unconditionally loved. She would face challenges, heartbreaks, moments of doubt – but she would face them knowing she had an entire chosen family in her corner.

His phone buzzed quietly with a message. The group chat, predictably.

Mingyu: Thanks for today, hyung. I needed that more than you know.

Jeonghan: Same. Nothing like princess duty to put life in perspective.

Wonwoo: I’ve already ordered more magic supplies. Next time I’m doing levitation.

Seokmin: I’m writing a song about royal tea parties. Naeun inspired me.

Joshua: My mom wants to know when the next family dinner is. She’s making Naeun a matching tea set.

Seungcheol smiled, typing back quickly: You’re all ridiculous. She’s going to be so spoiled.

Mingyu: That’s the point of being an uncle.

Jeonghan: Wait until she starts dating. We’re going to be terrifying.

Wonwoo: I’m already researching intimidation techniques.

Seokmin: We have fifteen years to prepare!

Joshua: Thirteen years. Kids grow up fast these days.

Seungcheol could picture them all, scattered across the city but connected by their phones and their shared investment in his daughter’s wellbeing. They’d be there for every birthday, every school play, every milestone and heartbreak. They’d spoil her outrageously and drive him crazy and love her with the fierce protectiveness that had always characterized their approach to family.

He turned off the bedside lamp and padded quietly out of Naeun’s room, closing the door behind him with practiced stealth. His wife was already in their bedroom, propped up against the pillows with a book and a cup of tea, looking completely at peace with the chaos that had been their day.

“How long did the story take?” she asked as he began changing into pajamas.

“Longer than usual. She wanted all the details included for historical accuracy.”

“Of course she did. She’s your daughter.”

Seungcheol climbed into bed beside her, automatically reaching for her hand the way he had every night for years. “Today was perfect.”

“Today was exhausting,” she corrected with a laugh. “But yes, also perfect.”

“I keep thinking about what Mingyu said. About how she’s all of ours. Sometimes I feel guilty about how much they love her, like I’m taking advantage of their kindness.”

“Seungcheol.” His wife set down her book and turned to face him fully. “They don’t love her because they have to. They love her because she’s loveable, and because she’s part of you, and because love multiplies when you share it. You’re not taking advantage of anything – you’re giving them the gift of being part of something beautiful.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“I married you, didn’t I? I had to develop wisdom in self-defense.”

He laughed, pulling her closer and burying his face in her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Even when you get all philosophical about tea parties.”

“Especially then.”

They lay together in comfortable silence, processing the day and preparing for whatever tomorrow would bring. Probably more craft projects, definitely more questions about magic tricks, possibly another impromptu gathering of uncles bearing gifts and chaos.

“Hey,” his wife said suddenly, her voice soft in the darkness.

“What?”

“We’re really good at this, aren’t we? The whole family thing?”

Seungcheol thought about his daughter’s laughter, about the easy way his bandmates had folded themselves into their domestic life, about the casual miracle of ordinary happiness. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “we really are.”

And in the room down the hall, a five-year-old princess slept peacefully, dreaming of magic shows and royal tea parties, secure in the knowledge that she was the center of a universe built entirely from love. Tomorrow there would be more adventures, more laughter, more opportunities to learn that family wasn’t just about the people you were born to, but about the people who chose to show up, day after day, with cake and crowns and an endless capacity for making the ordinary feel magical.

It was, Seungcheol reflected as sleep finally claimed him, the best kind of fairy tale – the kind that was absolutely, perfectly true.

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pucksandpower · 7 months ago

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Under the Mistletoe

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Lando really wants you to kiss him under the mistletoe. Sounds normal enough, right? Wrong! So wrong

Warnings: 18+ content and description of an allergic reaction

The apartment is finally quiet. The muffled thrum of conversation and laughter that had filled every corner just hours ago has faded, leaving only the faint crackle of the fireplace in the living room. It smells like pine needles, spiced cider, and the faint citrus tang of your new body wash. You pad softly down the hallway in your slippers, the wooden floor cool beneath your feet.

“Lando?” You call, peeking into the dimly lit bedroom.

He’s there, of course, but the sight that greets you isn’t what you expect.

Lando is lying on his back, smack in the middle of the bed, arms folded behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s wearing nothing. Absolutely nothing … except for a single, strategic adornment. Tied with what looks like a strip of red ribbon, a sprig of mistletoe dangles provocatively from his dick.

“Seriously?” You stop in the doorway, blinking. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Happy Christmas,” he says, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an invitation.” He tilts his head slightly, his curls a messy halo against the pillow. “You’ve got to kiss me.”

“Oh, I’ve got to, have I?” You fold your arms, biting back a smile.

“Under the mistletoe,” he clarifies, as if that makes it any less ridiculous. “It’s the rules. I don’t make them.”

“You absolutely made this up.”

Lando shrugs, utterly unrepentant. “Does it matter?”

You stand there for a moment, torn between amusement and disbelief. “You know, normal people just leave cookies for Santa. Not …” You gesture vaguely at him, at the ribbon, at everything.

“Not everything has to be normal,” he says, his grin softening slightly. There’s something teasing in his tone, but there’s sincerity, too. “Come on, it’s Christmas. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love me for it.”

There’s no point denying it. You do love him — ridiculous, over-the-top antics and all. With a sigh that’s more for show than anything else, you take a few steps closer to the bed.

“Alright,” you say, pretending to consider. “Where exactly am I supposed to kiss you? The mistletoe’s not even …” You trail off, waving a hand vaguely in the air.

Lando smirks, his eyes dancing. “Where do you think?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you say again, but you’re already climbing onto the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, and Lando watches, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re not protesting much,” he points out.

“Shut up.”

“You could have just stayed in the doorway, you know. Told me off or something. But no, here you are-”

“Lando,” you cut in, leaning over him.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Your lips are on his before he can say anything else, cutting off whatever smug reply he had planned. His hands slide instinctively to your waist, pulling you closer as you kiss him.

It’s not rushed. The night has been long, full of people and noise and obligations, and this moment feels like a welcome reprieve. Lando’s mouth is warm, insistent but unhurried, and you let yourself get lost in it for a while, your fingers tangling in his hair.

When you finally pull back, he looks up at you, flushed and grinning.

“Good start,” he says, his voice a little breathless.

“Don’t push your luck.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look. “Really?”

“Okay, maybe a little,” he admits, his grin widening.

Shaking your head, you shift your attention downward. The ribbon, the mistletoe — it’s so absurd you have to laugh.

“Did you seriously tie this yourself?” You ask, running a finger lightly along the edge of the ribbon.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Fine, yes. Took me a solid twenty minutes, too. Those stupid YouTube tutorials make it look way easier than it is.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, “you’re still here.”

You meet his gaze, your laughter fading. The teasing, playful look in his eyes hasn’t disappeared, but there’s something else there now — something softer, more vulnerable. It’s the look he gets when he’s reminding you, without words, just how much you mean to him.

“Well,” you say quietly, “it is Christmas.”

“And you’ve got to follow the rules,” he murmurs.

“Right.”

The bed creaks slightly as you shift again, positioning yourself more comfortably. You lean down, pressing another kiss to his lips — gentler this time, more lingering. Then you trail kisses along his jaw, his collarbone, the faint dusting of freckles across his chest.

Lando lets out a soft, contented sigh, his hands finding your hips again. “You’re taking this very seriously,” he says, his voice tinged with amusement.

“I’m nothing if not thorough.”

“Lucky me.”

You glance up at him briefly, smirking. “You’ve no idea.”

When you finally reach the ribbon, you pause, your lips hovering just above it. Lando’s breathing hitches slightly, his grip on your waist tightening.

“Merry Christmas, Lando,” you murmur.

“Best Christmas ever,” he replies, his voice low and fervent.

And then, with deliberate slowness, you kiss him under the mistletoe.

You pause for a beat, the mistletoe brushing lightly against your cheek. Lando’s breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling beneath you. He’s trying to stay still, but his fingers dig into your skin, betraying how much control he’s losing.

“You alright up there?” You ask, teasing, your voice low.

“You know I’m not,” he mutters, his words strained.

“Good.”

And with that, you continue. Deliberate. Unhurried. Every movement of your mouth is purposeful, every touch designed to unravel him. Lando groans, low and broken, the sound rumbling through the quiet room like a storm on the horizon.

“Fuck, you’re …” He cuts himself off, his head tipping back into the pillow. His hands flex against your hips, as if holding you steady is the only thing grounding him.

“Say it,” you murmur, barely pulling away for a second.

He glances down at you, his hazel eyes dark and glassy. “You’re killing me,” he manages, his voice hoarse.

You smile, the corners of your mouth curving just slightly before you return to your task. Lando’s hands slip from your shoulders, clutching the sheets instead. He’s completely undone now — his breathing ragged, his head thrown back, his body trembling beneath you.

“F-fuck … close,” he stammers, his words tumbling out like he’s barely holding them together.

You hum softly in acknowledgment, the vibration of it drawing a sharp, involuntary gasp from him. It’s all he can take.

He breaks.

A strangled sound escapes his throat as his body tenses, and you taste the telltale musky warmth on your tongue. You stay where you are for a moment, letting him ride out the high, his grip on the sheets going slack.

When it’s over, you pull back slowly, swallowing before wiping at the corner of your mouth. One drop clings stubbornly to your lip, and you swipe it away with your thumb, catching Lando’s hazy, satisfied gaze as you do.

“You alright there?” You ask softly, your tone light but full of affection.

“Barely,” he mutters, his voice thick. He exhales sharply, his chest still heaving as he lets his head fall to the side, watching you with a dazed grin. “You’re-”

“What?” You tilt your head innocently, wiping your hand on a tissue before tossing it onto the nightstand.

“Perfect,” he finishes, his voice soft and full of something deeper than just the moment.

You laugh quietly, crawling up the bed to lie beside him. He pulls you close immediately, one arm draped over your waist, the other brushing back a strand of hair from your face.

“Was this your master plan all along?” You tease, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Maybe,” he admits, still catching his breath.

“And?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” He grins, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

You roll your eyes but smile against his skin. “Merry Christmas, Lando.”

“Happy Christmas,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with exhaustion and contentment.

For a moment, neither of you says anything more. The only sound is the quiet crackle of the fire in the distance, and the world beyond the bedroom feels miles away.

Eventually, Lando breaks the silence. “So … same thing next year?”

You shove him playfully, laughing as his grin widens. “Go to sleep.”

And with him wrapped around you, the warmth of his love settling over you like a blanket, you do.

***

The morning light creeps through the curtains, warm and soft, a stark contrast to the frantic energy in the room. You stir awake first, stretching lazily until you feel Lando shift beside you, letting out a low, uncomfortable groan.

“Ugh,” he mutters, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?” You mumble sleepily, rolling over to look at him.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just shifts again, his body stiff and tense. Then he sits up abruptly, wincing as if every movement hurts.

“Lando?” You ask, more alert now.

“It … hurts,” he says, glancing down at himself. “Like, bad.”

You follow his gaze, and that’s when you see it. The redness. The swelling.

“Oh my God,” you say, your voice shooting up an octave. You sit up fully, the sleepiness disappearing in an instant. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” He exclaims, his face a mixture of panic and embarrassment. “It was fine last night!”

“Well, it’s not fine now!” You scoot closer, carefully inspecting the irritated skin. It’s blotchy, bright red, and looks alarmingly angry.

“It’s swollen,” he groans.

“No kidding.”

“What do we do?” He asks, his voice bordering on frantic.

“First, calm down,” you say, though your own voice isn’t exactly steady. “Second … oh my God, Lando, do you think it’s the mistletoe?”

His eyes widen as the realization hits. “You think I’m allergic?”

“Do you have any idea where that stuff’s been stored? It’s probably coated in dust or pollen or something. Or-” Your voice catches. “Do you think you’ve always been allergic?”

“I’ve never, uh … put it on my cock before, so how would I know?”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, panic simmering between you.

“We need help,” Lando says finally.

“Like … a doctor?”

“No!” He yelps. “We’re not going to a doctor for this!”

“Then what-”

“Call Jon,” he blurts out, cutting you off.

“What?” You ask, incredulous. “Your performance coach?”

“Yeah! He knows, like, medical stuff. And he won’t make it weird.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow but grab your phone anyway, scrolling to Jon’s number. “Oh, this isn’t going to be awkward at all,” you mutter as it rings.

“Hello?” Jon answers, sounding far too chipper for the situation.

“Uh, hi, Jon,” you begin, exchanging a look with Lando. “It’s Y/N. Lando and I have … a bit of a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Jon asks, his voice immediately shifting to professional concern.

“Well …” You trail off, glancing at Lando, who gestures frantically for you to continue. “It’s kind of … personal.”

“Y/N,” Jon says patiently, “you’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

You let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Okay, fine. Lando’s … area is swollen and covered in a rash.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“… Come again?” Jon finally says, and you can practically hear him trying not to laugh.

“It’s not funny!” Lando shouts from the bed. “It’s serious!”

“Oh, it’s serious?” Jon repeats, his voice full of barely concealed amusement. “Alright. How did this happen?”

You hesitate, then mumble, “He … tied mistletoe to it last night.”

Jon doesn’t reply immediately, but the faint sound of him choking back laughter comes through the line.

“Can you help or not?” Lando snaps, his cheeks flushing red — whether from anger or embarrassment, you’re not sure.

“Okay, okay,” Jon says, his tone softening. “It’s probably an allergic reaction. Clean the area thoroughly, apply a topical antihistamine if you have one, and keep it elevated to reduce swelling.”

“Elevated?” You echo, frowning. “How are we supposed to-”

“Just do your best,” Jon says, clearly suppressing a laugh again. “And if it doesn’t improve in a few hours, you might need to, uh … consult a professional.”

“Thanks, Jon,” you say quickly, hanging up before Lando can yell again.

Lando groans, flopping back onto the bed. “This is the worst Christmas ever.”

“You’ll survive,” you say, grabbing the first-aid kit from the bathroom. “Now, let me see.”

“This is humiliating,” he mutters, but he doesn’t resist as you sit beside him, carefully applying the ointment Jon suggested.

“Hold still,” you say gently, your touch careful.

He winces but doesn’t complain further, watching you with a mix of gratitude and lingering embarrassment. After a few minutes, the redness looks slightly less angry, though the swelling is still noticeable.

Once you’re done, you sit back with a sigh, your hands on your knees. “Well, that was a bonding experience.”

Lando lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, not exactly what I had planned.”

You glance at him, your lips twitching upward despite everything. “So … was it worth it?”

He grins, some of his usual confidence returning. “Next year, I’ll make sure to have an epipen ready.”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Next year, maybe let’s stick to normal traditions. Like cookies. Or matching pajamas.”

“We’ll see,” he says, smirking as he leans back against the pillows. “I’ve still got a whole year to think of something even better.”

“God help us all,” you mutter, but there’s affection in your voice.

And despite the chaos, as you settle back into bed beside him, you can’t help but think it’s still a Christmas to remember.

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friskalicousbiscuits · 18 days ago

Text

Neglected The Mask!reader x platonic Yan!Batfam

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Epi

I’d also like to say this Reader is Gender Neutral or at least you can pick your gender. Most of the pronouns are “you” and when they are referred to by other people, its “they” so… Yeah! Have fun reading and tell me if there are any spelling mistakes or things that don’t make sense.

Chapter Two

Waking up the next day, you felt like garbage. Garbagé if you will. You were face down in bed, faced pressed against your pillow. You closed your mouth to stop any drool from leaking and shifted around until you were on your back.

How did you get back to your room?

Your body felt achy, like you’d run a marathon you were soulfully unprepared for. Not only that but your eyes felt achy from staring at a large, torn piece of paper plastered to your ceiling. How in the world did that get there? It was of your dad. Someone took a sharpie and scribbled some rather crude drawings over him, forcing Bruce Wayne to looked like a big-chested pirate.

Who left that here?

You should probably take it down. If Bruce of Alfred ever came into your room that’d be awkward to explain.

Getting up was a task in itself. You were so tired, your eye bags probably had eye bags. You kicked off your sheets and trudged to the bathroom. When you looked in the mirror, you did indeed look like you pulled three all-nighters in a row. You did the usual brushing teeth, doing hair, just all around making yourself look presentable. As for clothes though…

You walked to the closet and opened it. You blinked and a bunch of money sprung out of it and piled all over the floor and over your legs. It had probably been hastily shoved in judging by how much burst when the closet door was opened.

You stood in silence for a few seconds before carefully grabbing the first shirt and pants you laid your eyes on and hurling them onto your bed before stepping out of the pile. Your shoe rack was covered in money and you didn’t want to make the venture to find it. You probably had a pair lying around though.

You proceeded to spend about five minutes shoving all the money back in.

All of the bills were Benjamin’s too!

Getting dressed, you looked at your rather… distasteful outfit (distasteful for a school like Gotham Prep anyways) and sighed. Blue pajama pants patterned with rubber ducks and a wife beater. Before you could work up the courage to open the closet again to find better clothes and have to shove the money back in, you grabbed the jacket draped over the back of your chair, pulled on some socks (you went and grabbed the duck-patterned ones too, even if they weren’t rubber ducks. Might as well be consistent) and slipped on the only shoes available that weren’t in the closet. Pink, fuzzy slippers.

While debating your life choices as you head to your door, you heard some scratching and whines from the other side of your door.

Ace!

You opened the door and swiftly picked up the German Shepard. It was a little comical that a dog that size was wagging its tail and hopping around slightly for “uppies” but whatever. Ace is your dog. Your baby. Heck, you literally built up muscle so you could keep carrying the dog. He’s your pride and joy.

You walked with him to the kitchen as he licked your cheek. He was barking every now and then and you nodded along. So far, you were pretty sure he was telling you about a squirrel he chased around the barn. “That’s great buddy.” You said as you put him down conveniently as Alfred was filling his, Titus’, and Alfred the Cat’s bowls. Titus, while being Damian’s dog, is also your dog (in spirit). You gave the Great Dane some pats too as you headed to the coffee machine. You made the pot, and after some careful consideration, took the entire thing with you, because like you said earlier, you’re tired.

You said bye to Ace, Alfred and Titus as you headed to the door. You picked your backpack out of the pile everyone threw their bags in near the door, slung it over your shoulder and were off.

School was a long walk and two buses. Sometimes, you considered taking the limo with the rest of the family, but then you’re reminded of how out of place you feel in their presence.

Like you don’t belong.

Like how you’re not supposed to be there despite having been there since a little after Dick first came.

But anyways, here you were at school! If you were ignored at home, it was a little better here! You had friends, were the student council’s treasurer, and all the other titles you held and so on.

You were in the walking period to second block that Tim suddenly jumped out of nowhere, wagging his finger in your face.

“[Name]!”

“Uh— yes?” You were extremely confused. You couldn’t think of a single time in the multiple years that you and Tim had gone to school together that he’d ever approached you, let alone looked your way, while at school. (You figured it was because he didn’t want to be seen with his older sibling at school. He was a Junior, you’re a Senior.)

“Where’s the coffee.” He paused for a moment. “Also, what are you wearing?” He looked you up and down. You supposed that was fair. Gotham Prep had a dress code, and you clearly weren’t adhering to it. You’d already taken the warning from Mrs Sharpay, the front desk lady. You were lucky it was only a warning too and that the lost and found had been recently emptied lest you wear someone’s dirty clothes. (She gave you a wink at that and slid you a Hershey Kiss as you went on your way.) You’d probably be showing the little pink slip she gave you to all the teachers, hall monitors, and janitors in the building so they wouldn’t write you up again.

“It’s trendy right now.” Was the only thing you could pull out of your behind.

“Do you actually believe tha— never mind. Coffee.” He made grabby hands for the pot in your hand. It was about a quarter full. You’d really overestimated how much coffee you could drink in one morning.

You hesitantly handed it to him, scared he might bite your arm off with the way his eyes looked downright feral. “It’s cold bu—” You were cut off by Tim, throwing his head back and chugging the entire thing. “Oh okay.”

You both stood in silence for a bit as Tim wiped his mouth and handed the pot back to you. He made grabby hands again. “Fifty bucks.”

“What?”

“Fifty bucks. I forgot my wallet at home because I was super tired and I want to get several cups, purely filled with espresso shots.” He said, stone-cold serious.

“Isn’t that extremely unhealthy for yo—” You were cut off again by your little brother.

“Fifty. Bucks.” He emphasized each word, keeping that serious expression.

You stared for about a minute before you sighed and walked to a trashcan, not to the throw the pot away but to simply put it down on top of it for a moment. You got out your wallet and fished out two twenties and a ten, leaving you with a sad little five, and handed it to him. “At least get a croissant with those cups of expresso shots. Maybe it’ll soak up all the expresso-ness and not give you a hard attack.” You spoke shoving your wallet back into your jacket pocket, feeling the folded note from Mrs Sharpay as your hand brushed against it. You picked the coffee pot back up.

“You seriously underestimate the capability of my heart.” Tim said, eyes not leaving the bills he counted before walking off. You watched him go, sending a silent prayer to whatever deity can hear you so they can make it so that Tim doesn’t end up as a news story.

You continued walking to second block.

Wow, that was like the sixth conversation you’ve had with Tim in the nearly five years of you both knowing each other.

It was during third block that you heard about that new rogue. It was science class and the teacher was playing a movie— Jurassic Park actually. A classic, honestly. You and your lab partner, Samantha, or Sammy as she let you and her other friends call her, were sharing a piece of paper riddled with tic-tac-toe columns. She’d used the same strategy three times in a row and you’d also lost to her three times in a row. As for the reasons of your embarrassing losses? The girls behind you were whispering a little too loud about said new rogue so you were distracted.

They talked of a green-faced freak with cartoon powers, dressed in a polka-dotted suit. Now if that doesn’t just sound ridiculous, you don’t know what is.

…then again, you were pretty sure you had a dream of being that rogue…

Eh. It was probably just a coincidence.

Then, they started talking about how the rogue set the Joker of all people on fire.

Huh. That was similar to your dream too.

Then about how they robbed a bank immediately after.

…okay, you remembered dreaming about that too. Was that where the money in your closet came from?

Nah, there’s no way. Duke or Steph or maybe even Damian probably just withdrew way too much money and thought your room was a storage room, and the closet, a storage closet. Thats it! Probably. Hopefully. Maybe. It’s not like that hadn’t happened before. One time, (this was after he’d nearly beaten you to death) Jason stumbled in super bloody and put a bunch on guns in your closet before leaving. That encounter had you hiding under your blankets like it was boogieman instead of him. You don’t even think he noticed you. (He’d later came by when you weren’t home and took all of them back except a pistol wedged at the back of your shoe rack weeks later. You still have that thing. It’s at the bottom of your bedside drawer, buried under miscellaneous items such as chapsticks and pens. It’s for just in case the man loses his mind again and tries to kill you once more. You won’t have a repeat of that night. No siree.)

He probably had a concussion. Either that or maybe he was delirious from blood loss.

But the point is! Whoever put the money there thought it was probably storage. Hopefully.

Though, as their conversation went on, and Sammy scored more wins, you heard about how the rogue ripped off a piece of a billboard with your father’s face on it. How they would spin around like Taz from Looney Tunes. How they gave several police officers wedgies. Overall, how they were an all around a chaotic, kinda horrifying individual.

And you remembered doing all of that.

The billboard thing was also likely the picture of Bruce stuck to your ceiling.

As soon as you got home you needed to burn that. No way José were you having a connection to the newest rogue in Gotham.

That is, if these girls weren’t (somehow) messing with you. (There’s like no way you accidentally sleepwalked to one of their houses and they FaceTimed it to one of their friends and now they’re just messing with you, right?) You quickly tossed Sammy the packet of peanut m&ms she won form all the rounds of tic-tac-toe and pulled out your phone to look up what they were talking about. It didn’t turn on. In fact…

You pulled off your phone case and screen protector. Some water droplets dribbled down onto the desk. It was still wet from last night.

You stared at it.

Oh right, you fell— or were pulled into the water because of a wave. You don’t ever remember charging it during the… dream, let’s just call it that for now, either. So, it was either dead from battery loss or fried from the radioactive Gotham water.

Darn it.

You shoved it back into your pocket and looked to Sam who’d just finished her m&ms. “Sammy, can I borrow your phone?”

“Why?” She asked suspiciously. Oh right, that thing was her baby.

“Cause I need to look something up and I think the school computers have the Gotham Gazette blocked.”

She squinted at you before putting her hand out. You slapped another little bag of peanut m&ms into her hand before she handed you her phone. You typed into the search bar, clicked the first link, waiting for the crappy signal to do its thing and load the page, and started reading.

That science class drilled into your head that last night was in fact not a dream at all.

The sun was starting to set as you made your usual speedy trek home. The earliest you got out of school was five. This is because of all the clubs you’d joined so you wouldn’t have to go home so early like said previously. The latest you could get out is six. The reason you couldn’t go any further was because the bus lines shut off at seven. You didn’t want to walk all the way home. You’d rather bus a chunk of the way and run the rest.

That’s how by 6:37. You get out of school by three by the way. So you’d shaved off three hours of time in family vicinity.

Now to trudge to your room to avoid the rest of them.

As you entered, you watched Ace pad over. You picked him up again, your head pressed into his chest fur as he licked your hair. You walked to your room, still carrying him.

“Hey, Dick.” Someone said as you passed by them.

Both you and Ace let out a confused noise but kept walking. You deposited Ace on your bed and threw your bag near your bed. You sat down, feeling the mattress give under your weight before you did a double-take at something you say on your nightstand.

It was a mask. Wooden, said wood was greenish in color. Where did this thing come from? Your hardest to remember when you’d gotten it, but nothing.

Unless…

That night in the water… the blob. That had been a mask. It’d stuck to your face and turned you into that rogue.

This can’t be that mask, right?

Right?

You’d picked it up and slowly brought it to your face. You sat there for a few moments until Ace let out a confused whine. You eventually let it rest in your lap again.

“Maybe it only works at night.” You murmured staring at the mask. It didn’t have that glowing you remembered from the night before. Neither purple nor green.

Nah. There’s no way. It was probably just a one time fluke and all the magic in the mask is drained now. Yup. Totally. You open the window near your bed and threw it out like a frisbee, making sure to grab Ace’s collar before he would lunge at it. With that settled, you turned around to open your book bag so you can finish your homewor—

Thunk

Something hit you in the back of the head. “Ow!” You exclaimed as you turned around. It was the mask again. It was laying innocently on your bed, its little wooden smile mocking you.

You repeated your throwing it out of the window three separate times, only for to smack you in the head three more times until you gave up and just placed it back on your bedside table.

You swear its grin got more mocking with each smack to the head. Ace just looked at you with as much confusion as a dog could muster.

You were later laying in bed when you decided to put the mask on for a second time. You’d been staring at the ceiling, at the place the picture of your father used to be. You were desperately trying to ignore the—

Put it on.

—being whispered into your ear. The ear that was closest to the mask. You wouldn’t. Why? Well because everyone thinks you’re a rogue, of course! And sure, while everything was so freeing and colorful and fun— you didn’t think you’d felt so much of that in one night— You also lit the Joker on fire, and while that itself isn’t bad, you really don’t wanna do that to someone else. What if you did that to a mother, a husband, a child?

“But— but it was just so… so freeing,” the voice whispered. “Can you even remember the last time you felt like that, [Nickname]?” It hissed as your eyes slid to it, drawn to it. “Come on. It’ll be just us! You and Masky, having endless fun and mischief.”

Your hand moved. You couldn’t stop it. You knew this was a bad idea. A horrible one even. But just the thought of feeling like that again…

Put it on.

Put it on!

The voice sounded like it was chanting at this point. You picked it up and held it above your face, you could already feel your skin, pulling itself forward to the mask. It was shimmering once more. It was almost hypnotizing.

When it stuck to your face again, you clawed and struggled just like you did last night and soon you were spinning and spinning and spinning.

Bruce Wayne - The Batman POV

Bruce landed on the next rooftop, taking cover behind a ventilation unit to look down below in the streets. This was the street. This was the street that the Riddler had planted bombs in. Yet, instead of Bruce being the first to engage with the man, it was instead the green-faced rogue from the night before.

The one he and his family had spent the entire night chasing after.

He’d gotten Oracle to stream the conversation to him using a camera they were close to.

“Well, this is new.” Nygma mused, rubbing his chin. “Are you the one who decided to test tempt fate, because I hate to say it, you don’t look like an intellectual.” He started leaning on his cane as he spoken his usual condescending tone.

Bruce took his time to examine the new rogue. They were wearing something different this time. A royal blue three piece with orange wavy lines for the pattern. The tie was orange. They were wearing a fedora this time too. It had a peacock feather attached.

The new rogue gasped at this. “I’ll have you know I am quite these esteemed scholar with over 800 years of experience, bub!” The green-faced flicked their wrist, and a cane slid out of their sleeve. Black with their head at the top of it their cane. They leaned on it in a similar way to the Riddler. Bruce blinked and they had glasses which they pushed up dramatically. “Try me!”

The Riddler rattled off a riddle—

Try saying that five times—

Which had the new rogue freeze. Their cane then suddenly broke, and they face planted before shooting back up. “Okay, I’ll admit, you lost me. Now where are those bombs?” They asked looking around, pulling large binoculars out to look around the buildings. Bruce was sure he was hidden enough.

“I suppose you’ll just have to find out.” The Riddler said smugly as he press the button on one of his watches. Soon after that, a timer, started to run on one of his other watches. Oracle reported that it was counting down from five minutes. The Riddler’s words seemed to make the new rogue sigh and toss their comically large binoculars to the side. They almost landed on Nygma, and would’ve if he hadn’t stepped out of the way.

“Indeed! Looks like this is a job that needs to be done manually!” The new rogue exclaimed as they started spinning and spinning until they were straight out of a cartoon spinning around bursting through building doors, and from what Oracle reports, spinning through each and every single individual room.

And if a room had a bomb in it? It grabbed it.

In every room it entered, windows shattered, furniture was thrown about and floors were ripped through. In fact, when it first started spinning in the street, it tore through the concrete with the road. It went through every single building in that street until it came back with five bombs, all deposited in front of the Riddler.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking. They can’t possibly eat it, right?” The green-faced rogue said with a grin as they tied a bib around their neck and pulled some utensils from somewhere. Contrary to its words, Bruce, the Riddler, Oracle, and everyone who watched this recording later for review, watched as it scarfed down each of the bombs, unhinging it’s a jaw to shove each of them in. When it finished with the last one, Edward’s timer ran out and they all seemed to explode. Its stomach inflated for a moment before deflating as the rogue let out a large burp.

“Smokey.” It drew the word out as it then started laughing and spun off to somewhere else.

Just as it left, both Robin and Red Robin arrived. Bruce directed Tim to arresting the Riddler while Damian was ordered to come along with him so they could chase after the creature. Imp maybe? Its powers sort of aligned with an imp. Less theorizing more catching up to it.

When Bruce got to the scene…

…Of course it was forcing an entire street of people to tap dance with it… Because why not?

And when he tried to apprehend it? Well, he got his cape wrapped around him and tied into a little bow before being pushed over to fall on ground. Robin got the same treatment, but instead of a light push, he got more of a shove.

And of course Jason was the one who found them like that.

The next morning, you were crabby to say the least. You were also watching cartoons too before you had to leave for school. It was around five in the morning right now, and as for why you were up and dressed (in your actual uniform this time. Were those five minutes shoving the money back into the closet really worth it?) so early? Well, after you came back from being a rogue, you collapsed in bed at around two in the morning. From there, you got about an hour of sleep. Then, at like 3:30, you woke up and stared at your ceiling for another hour and a half before finally getting ready.

Ace was across your lap, getting dog fur on your clothes, but you honestly couldn’t bring yourself to care. You were petting him until someone slid onto the couch next to you.

Are you joking right now? Damian? Are you fu— freaking serious?

The kid went all but a couple seconds before making his demand. “Put on Animal Planet.” He spoke in his usual stoic tone. This really should not have been so irritating (you were honestly surprised you even got irritated at him in the first place) but… then again it is five in the morning.

“Damian, I don’t want to.” You tried your best to sound polite. Can’t have your younger brother pull another katana out of his behind and try to slice your throat open again, now can you?

“I said put on animal planet.” He was glaring now.

“Damian.” Your tone almost sounded saccharine as you tried to stay cordial. “For fuck’s sake, I said no.” It was really hard to say that while still forcing a polite smile.

Also, wait. Shit. You just cursed at him.

You silently prayed he wouldn’t come at you with a katana fresh out of the shower later today. Surprisingly though, he actually went quiet.

Eventually, the silence got to you. To keep yourself from squirming like an idiot, you instead turned to him and spoke, “I’m sorry, Damian. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that. I’m just tired, okay? How about we watch animal planet after this episode?”

He continued staying quiet for the rest of your time at the couch. Even after you switched it to Animal Planet.

Damian Wayne - Robin POV

A thought blared through the boy’s mind, “[Name] actually grew a backbone!”

Bonus Lore About the Story:

1.) Mrs Sharpay/the desk lady gave you that Hershey Kiss because she thinks you’re a cutie. Whether you’re a boy or girl or neither, she thinks you’re a cutie. 2.) The conversation between Duke, Steph, and Tim after he demanded the buckeroones, resulted in Steph calling him a lecherous little monster. 3.) Jason is pretty sure that either you or Alfred has the gun he forgot. He came back to your room for a third time to see if he could find it and it was still missing. He hopes that it’s you who has it because he himself doesn’t ever want a repeat of that night either. 4.) The person who thought you were Dick was an extremely tired Bruce. He has multiple memories of Dick carrying Ace like that when the dog was smaller so he thought it was Dick. You also take a bit to recognize his voice due to the fact you’ve held maybe two steady conversations with him.

Taglist: @yourtypicalhuman09 @cupid73 @yhin-gg @galaxypurplerose @xxgrimripp3rxx @hai-there-how-are-you @suckmyballzfr @yarn-mony @patatasolitaria

#yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #neglected reader #x reader

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mangooes · 4 months ago

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Sleepwear Crisis

It started with a simple suggestion.

"Sylus, you need new sleepwear."

And it ended with Sylus standing in the middle of a luxury boutique, arms crossed, lips curved into a knowing smirk, while his wife aggressively flipped through racks of pajamas.

"Sweetie," Sylus drawled lazily, watching her with amusement, "I already told you, there’s no point. They’ll just get ripped again."

She turned to glare at him. "And whose fault is that?!"

His crimson eyes gleamed mischievously. "Yours, obviously."

She gasped, scandalized. "Excuse me?"

Sylus chuckled, stepping closer, voice dropping into that teasing purr that always made her toes curl. "Kitten, let’s not pretend here. Every time I wear a shirt to bed, you somehow find a way to get me out of it."

She huffed, rolling her eyes. "That is completely untrue—"

"Oh?" Sylus raised a brow, smirking. "Shall I recount the incidents?"

He held up one finger. "The first set got ripped because you decided my buttons were too annoying and just—" he made a dramatic tearing motion, "—handled the problem yourself."

She coughed. "That was one time."

"Then, the second time," Sylus continued, holding up another finger, "you got ‘too warm’ and used me as a personal cooling device, pulling my shirt off in your sleep."

She pursed her lips. "Listen—"

"And let’s not forget the last one," he smirked, leaning down so his lips brushed against her ear, voice wickedly smug, teasing, "Where you got frustrated mid-kiss and literally clawed it off me."

(Name) turned completely red.

"SO!" she clapped her hands together loudly, turning back to the clothing racks with extreme determination. "Matching pajamas it is!"

Sylus threw his head back and laughed. "You’re just ignoring me now?"

"Yes."

She yanked a pair of soft, red-maroon silk pajamas from the rack and shoved them into his arms. "These. No complaints."

Sylus arched a brow, unfolding them. "A button-up again? We both know how that’s going to end, sweetie."

(Name) huffed. "Fine." She grabbed another set—this time, a plain black tee with matching pants. "This then."

Sylus smirked. "Mmm, better. But what’s this about ‘matching’ pajamas?"

She grinned, holding up a soft crimson set for herself. "You heard me, mister. We’re getting couple pajamas. You’re not getting out of this one."

Sylus chuckled, draping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "I would never dream of escaping, kitten."

Then he glanced at the shelf nearby and spotted something that made his grin turn downright wicked.

"Matching slippers too?" he asked innocently, holding up a pair of absurdly fluffy, pastel animal-shaped slippers. One was a tiny donkey. The other was a tiny dragon.

She gasped. "YES! WE NEED THEM! wait are you calling me a donkey???"

Sylus snorted. "Glad you see the resemblance sweetie. My donkey."

"You’re ridiculous."

"And you love it."

She sighed dramatically "Unfortunately, yes."

Sylus chuckled in response, leaning in, pressing a kiss to her temple.

And that was how Sylus—one of the most wanted criminal, feared bosses in the N109 Zone.

Ended up walking out of a luxury store carrying couple pajamas and ridiculously fluffy slippers, all because his mischievous wife demanded it.

Or yet maybe sylus, sleeping shirtless might be the better option.

hEYY i'm back! And i'm on schedule i think, if i can revise another fic tonight i might post another one later! :)) anyways i HC that mc would be involved in sylus's sleepwear always being torned LMAOO

#lnds #love and deepspace #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #qin che #lads sylus #sylus

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mingapace · 25 days ago

Text

𝕿𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝕮𝖆𝖗𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ʙʀᴀᴛᴛʏ!ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇʀ!ᴄᴀʀɪɴɢ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴘ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴠᴀɢɪɴᴀʟ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, ꜱᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛɪᴛꜱ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙜 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙚𝙧

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 3ᴋ

Darkness still embraces you when your eyes snap open.

At first, you don’t understand why. The bed is still warm from his body, the scent of moss, rain, and ancient incense lingers in the air like a subtle caress. But then it comes—the sound.

A thunderclap breaks the silence like a broken scream, violent, sudden. The whole house seems to tremble. You tense up, sitting on the mattress with your heart already pounding in your chest.

A storm.

Rain lashes the windows with the fury of a thousand fingers, and the wind howls like a pack of ancient wolves. Shadows dance on the walls in rhythm with the lightning. You rise slowly, your fingers brushing against the cold of the empty sheets beside you.

He’s not there.

You knew that, of course.

Remmick went out, like every night, with that gaze of his veiled by a calm that smells of eternity, and lips that brushed your forehead like a promise.

“I’ll be back 'fore you're up, love.”

He always says that. And he always does. But tonight… something clenches your heart.

You slide out of bed. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Every sound in the house is amplified: the creak of wood contracting with the humidity, the sigh of wind slipping under the beams, the relentless drumming of rain on the windows. You pull your robe from the corner of the chair and wrap it around you, but the chill you feel has nothing to do with temperature.

You slip on your slippers in the dark and head down to the living room. The hallway lights he had turned on before leaving are flickering. The steady ticking of the clock on the mantel keeps company with the rumble of the storm.

It’s 3:45.

You approach the living room window. You check to see if he might be outside, like that time a few months ago. You’re sure that if he could, he would’ve torn the door off its hinges or broken a window to get in and avoid being scolded for forgetting the one thing he was supposed to remember—the keys.

But the porch is empty. There is only the fury of nature out there—the world has vanished. The contours of reality have blurred into a shroud of driving rain and shadow. Even the road leading to the clearing is no longer visible. Only a gray, liquid sea swept by wind. The air smells metallic, saturated with electricity and fear.

You clutch the linen robe tighter, trying to contain the shiver running up your spine.

Remmick has told you so many times about his hunts. How he can feel the blood pulsing in the bodies of forest animals, the whisper of arteries, the scent of life. How he could spend hours in the woods. He spoke of it with such passion and obsession that you often feared he might get carried away and forget that the sun, in the end, always rises.

You make yourself some tea—more to keep your hands busy than to drink it. The kettle whines, steam curling into the air like a shy ghost. You pour it into your favorite cup, the one he gave you during your first month together. His hands touched it. His lips laughed when you said it looked like something from another era. But now your hands tremble. The spoon clinks too loudly as you stir.

At 4:30, you’re at the window again. You open it slightly and peer through the half-closed shutters that keep the rain out. You just stare into the night as if you could carve it with your gaze, as if wanting it hard enough would make him appear. The air slaps your face. Forces you to close it.

You begin pacing the house.

In the living room, you stop to tidy the books on the shelf. Pointlessly. Then you adjust the blanket on the couch, fold it, unfold it. In the kitchen, you dry a clean cup. You bend down, pick something off the floor—a dried petal, maybe, fallen from an old bouquet. Every gesture is without purpose, but if you stop… you feel too much. A shadow in the pit of your stomach. A sense of absence pressing against your ribs.

Fucking Remmick and his sense of order.

At five o’clock, you sit in front of the door.

Not in front of the window. Not on the couch. Right in front of the door. On the step before the threshold.

You stare at it, as if it could reveal where he is. Now and then, you think you hear a footstep. A beat of wings. A distant, muffled sound, dulled by the rain.

But it’s not him. Not yet.

You hug your knees and rest your forehead on your arms. The now-cold cup remains abandoned on the hallway shelf.

Once, you asked him if bad weather bothered him.

“Bad weather?” He had laughed, resting his chin on your stomach to look at you. “Darlin', I’ve lived through plagues, revolutions, and over a thousand years without so much as a fire in the grate and you're askin' if a bit o' rain bothers me?”

Then why…? Why was he so late?

Maybe the hunt went long. Maybe he was too hungry.

Maybe he heard a heart beating too loudly and couldn’t resist. And then another. And another.

Maybe he’s still out there, in the forest. With heavy breath, claws and teeth sunk into flesh.

At 5:17, a thud on the porch halts your dark thoughts and lifts your head from your knees. Then you hear the unmistakable sound of keys turning in the lock and leap to your feet before the door even opens.

Remmick closes the door behind him and furrows his brow when he sees you standing right in front of the entrance.

He’s there, soaked, his dark coat heavy with water. One eyebrow arches in a surprised, slightly amused expression.

“Why're you outta bed?” he asks, running a hand through his dripping hair, shaking it out a little. Water slides down his forehead, past his temples, framing that chiseled face—damned as it is desperate for affection.

You just sigh. Slow, deep. Relief bites you gently, but you’re not going to let him off that easily.

He approaches with his usual feline grace, a half-smile curving his lips, a clever light in his eyes. He reaches out to embrace you, but you stop him with two fingers planted firmly on his forehead.

“Not so fast, Count Dracula,” you murmur in a flat tone. “Chair. Fireplace. Now.”

Remmick laughs—a low, hoarse laugh that rises from his chest and dissolves into a smirk.

“You’re heartless. I’ve been trudgin' through muck and thorns for hours, and you go treatin' me like some mangy stray…”

“A mangy stray that reeks of rain and trouble,” you retort, turning away and leaving him with his melodrama. But you don’t see the way he looks at you as you walk off—the look of a man who never really knew what home was until you entered his life.

When you return, you’re holding a white towel and find him already seated by the fireplace, the embers still glowing, casting coppery reflections on his pale skin. He’s taken off his coat, left in a bloodstained shirt, lit by the hallway light.

You slide between his open legs, lying in front of him, without a word.

You start with his head, brushing his skin with the warm cloth, your movements measured, careful. Rubbing his hair to absorb as much water as possible.

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if savoring the touch.

“You were late,” you finally say in a low voice.

He mutters something in a language you don’t recognize, but you’re pretty sure it’s a curse.

“Sure the storm put the fright in all the big ones — deer, boar, the lot of them. I had to go in fierce deep.”

Your cloth stops. You look at him, serious. A faint wrinkle forms between your eyebrows.

He notices. And smirks.

“Ah now, don’t be makin’ that face. No werewolves took a chunk outta me. No forest spirits, no Custodians neither. I’m here—alive, drenched, and still devilishly handsome, as always.”

But you don’t smile.

“You’re ruining all your shirts. That’s the fourth one this week…”

Your irritation is clear.

Your hands keep moving, sliding down his arms, then patting his chest. But you do it with a kind of affectionate harshness, like you’re trying to punish him through the cloth.

The blood had stained it almost to the hem this time, and it didn’t seem like it would come off. And Remmick, stubborn as always, insisted on wearing a new one every time instead of reusing the ruined ones.

“Oh no. The pout,” he snorts. “That grumpy pout’ll be the death of me, I swear. It’s the only thing that ever takes me down.”

Then, as if the punishment wasn’t enough for him, he starts to pinch your waist. His fingers, ice-cold, slip beneath the thin fabric of your robe, seeking out that exact spot where you’re most ticklish.

You flinch. Try to pull away, but not quite fast enough.

“Remmick!” you protest, half amused, half annoyed. “Stop it, you’re getting me all wet.”

And then he begins to tickle you.

Until you squirm, laughing, trying to swat his hands away.

“Remmick—stop it! You’re such a—”

You shove his hands off, but you’ve already lost the battle. The smile tugs at your lips and you hate him for it.

And he sees it. And he doesn’t let it go.

“Ah, you were worried, weren't ya?” he says, teasing but warm, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. “You thought I got meself lost. Or went a bit mad altogether. Or maybe ran off with a new lass in the woods—some doe-eyed beauty struttin’ around like a queen—”

“Stop it,” you cut in, face flushed. You try to wriggle free, but he’s already quicker.

His hands lock around your hips, holding you to him with a firm yet tender grip.

Suddenly, you’re in his lap, your protest drowned by a kiss that steals your breath before it even forms thought.

Remmick always kisses like he’s proving how deeply he adores and desires you.

His tongue finds yours with wild urgency, and you often struggle to keep up with his pace—but it doesn’t matter. He loves taking control just as much as he loves surrendering it.

You feel your robe shift, the ties loosening until your chest is bare, your skin pressed against the cold, wet fabric of his shirt.

His mouth still tastes of rain and coppery blood. He groans into the kiss with that strange mix of desperation and devotion only he seems to carry—like he never wants to stop, like your mouth is the only thing that can soothe his eternal hunger.

When you pull away, you’re breathless.

“Rem…” you scold softly, sighing and rolling your eyes as you feel his hands slip past the edge of your robe and settle on your hips, clothed only in your underwear.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he whispers, lips brushing your throat. “Easy now, you’re all knotted up. Let me take care o’ ya.”

His palms are cold, but it only make your skin burn hotter. You gasp softly as he grab you there, possessive, like he needs to anchor himself.

“You can’t always solve everything with sex…” you mutter, though you clearly had no real objections.

“Is that so?” He murmurs, as he brush his lips on your jaw before pulling his back against the chair and look at you with a devil grin on his stupid face.

You’re ready to argue again or punch him in the face when one of his hands leaves your hip and moves up to his mouth. Yours goes dry when you see him lick a long trail of drool off two long fingers and you think it’s the most pornographic image you’ve ever seen.

His hand moves away again and his satisfied smile returns to tease you.

“Do I have the all-clear, then?”

You glared at him but your eyes still dropped, drawn to the slight pull he was exerting on the waistband of your panties, separating it slightly from your skin. A clear request, his fingers slick against the soft flesh of your thigh, waiting.

You didn’t need to speak. The way you leaned into him, the soft hitch in your breath, the way your fingers slipped into his damp curls and tugged just a little—it told him everything.

He used his dry fingers to push your panties aside just enough and you held back a shiver when you felt his cold, wet fingers press against your naked center.

“You’ve always taken care o’ me, haven’t ya? Now let go, darlin'. Let me make you feel good.”

He murmurs sweet words to you when you arch slightly, biting the inside of your cheeks. To him, you are a vision. He will never tire of watching you give in, breaking the mask of indifference and sarcasm you wore most of the time. Unraveling on him, thanks to him.

“It’s late…I have to wake up soon…I—” you try to wriggle away but the hand still resting on your hip wouldn’t let you move an inch. He was always stronger, when he fed.

“Let me, love.” He looks at you with those puppy dog eyes that you can never say no to. “I’ll only use me fingers. Won’t take long, swear it.”

His high confidence in his abilities pisses you off but you don’t have the audacity to argue back. Remmick was really good at what he did.

You nod, leaving a caress behind his head and closing your free hand on his shoulder to steady yourself astride his closed legs.

His knuckles return, but this time, the contact is more concrete. They separate your vaginal lips and rub inside, making you gasp and tilt your hips lower, wanting more.

“There she is, my good girl.” He hums, stretching his fingers into a V and letting them slide out, clearly wanting to torture you some more. But before you could go back to your old self, all bossy and everything, he’s pinched your clit between his fingers, making you throw your head back from the pleasurable discharge along your spine.

“Rem…”

“I know, darlin'. I know. Just be patient for me.”

His gray eyes fall to your breasts and he leans over one of them as he continues to torture you.

You winced at the wet sound and the wave of heat that ran through you as he pressed the flat of his tongue to your sensitive nipple and sucked hard, closing his lips around it.

Your fingers closed in his hair, just the way he liked it, and you tugged a little, making his moans vibrate against your flesh.

He moves a little in his seat, shifting your body with his movements, as if he were seeking relief himself, but he was almost immediately still, continuing to care for you.

“There,” he whispers after pull of your nibble leaving behind a flushed, wet mark. “There. That’s where ye belong.”

You watch him — how his pupils dilated, how his jaw tensed as he starts to push his thumb against your clit, now all wet and ready.

He found it with maddening precision, drawing small, slow circles that made your breath catch in your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, voice low. “Let me feel ye. Let me give this to ye.”

You rock your hips gently against his hand. He groans like you’d hurt him in the best way.

“Always so perfect like this,” he whines. “On me lap. Letting me have ye. Letting me love ye like this.”

You whimper as he slid one finger inside, slow and deep. He kiss your throat, your jaw, your cheek, never once stopping the movement of his hand.

“Gods above, ye're suckin’ me finger right in…” he choks. “Yer body’s so honest.”

You cling to his shoulders, breath hitching as he add a second finger —stretching you just enough to make your legs shake. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing slow and steady as he curl his fingers just right inside you.

You moan — softly, brokenly — and he groans in response.

“That’s it, darlin'. Let me hear it.”

You couldn’t stop yourself. Couldn’t stop the way your hips moved in tiny, helpless circles, chasing the rhythm of his fingers, the heat blooming low and deep in your belly.

You grip his shoulders tighter, hips jerking as the coil inside you tightens.

“Ye gonna come for me?” he asks, leaning back again to meet your eyes. “Right here, in me lap, so I can feel it?”

You nod, barely able to breathe.

“Go on then,” he stammers. “Let go, princess. Show me how much ye missed me.”

You shatter with a cry, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash through you. Remmick kiss you through it — holding you tight, grounding you, worshipping every sound you make.

You collapse against his chest, shaking. His fingers stays inside you a moment longer, gentle now, soothing — coaxing you down, back to yourself.

He kissed your hair.

“Did I do good?”

Him and his constant search for approval.

“I can’t fuckin’ think straight…you did just fine…”

You hum, voice ragged.

“Just fine.” He repeats.

You smile, eyes closed. “Mmhm.”

You felt his breath shift. A tiny hitch. Then — nothing. Until suddenly, he lifts you off his lap in one fluid motion, standing with you in his arms like you weighed nothing at all.

Your eyes blinks open, your hands closed instantly at his neck. “What are you-?”

He doesn’t answer.

He carries you — slow, steady, controlled — out of the living room and down the hallway. You see the set of his jaw, the focus in his eyes. That particular expression he wore when he had something to prove.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot making you laugh.

“Just fine…I’ll show ya just fine."

#remmick #sinners #jack o'connell #ryan coogler #remmick x reader #remmick smut #remmick x you #remmick fanfic #sinners 2025 #vampire #domestic remmick #service top remmick

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moonchildstyles · 10 months ago

Text

cloudburst

y/n and harry broke up. he goes on a date, and y/n drives in the rain.

wordcount: 8.5k+

—————

(Y/N) knew it was hypocritical to be feeling jealous at the moment—pathetic, even. She was there that night, she knew she was the one that ended her relationship with Harry. He was single, and there was nothing wrong with him going out with another girl; he could take her to whatever restaurant he wanted, including the one that they had found together last month.

It had only been a couple of weeks, though. And, he had been the one that wanted to try and work things out with her. Harry had been the one that was insistent that they could work through this—the miscommunications, the lack of time together, the passive aggressive arguments—, but now he was the one moving on nearly immediately. She wanted to cry that it wasn't fair, that he was supposed to still be torn up about it the same as she was.

It wasn't as if she didn't love him anymore or was itching to get out and meet other people, she was just finding herself more unhappy than she was happy when she thought about him. He had told her that he loved her, that he wanted her—needed her—when she had sat him down, she thought neither of them would be moving on this quickly.

But, it's fine. It's whatever. Good for him.

Locking her phone, she placed it face down on her kitchen counter with a startling slam. She didn't double check to see if she had cracked her screen, instead stepping away from the device all together as if it wanted to sulk just as back as she. If her phone was a good friend, it would delete the Instagram app as soon as possible; there was no reason to see any more pictures of Harry and his new friend at dinner.

Forcing her head to clear, (Y/N) padded through her apartment with the intention of cleaning up. The last weeks had left her with heartbreak brain, chores having been pushed to the wayside as she recovered. When was the last time she went grocery shopping? Had she really run out of tissues or did she have an extra stash in some closet she'd been too lazy to check?

She shook her head, taking the pile of dirty socks to her washing machine while her mind raced with distractions. It was late, but she could go grocery shopping, at least to pick up a few essentials so she didn't order in again for the next couple of days. Seeing the world for another reason instead of work would be good for her, she thought. Even if the thought of putting on shoes that weren't slippers made her want to tear up.

After starting up the washing machine, she trudged up the stairs towards her room. The cloudy night called for something warmer than the ratted t-shirt and frayed shorts she had on, leaving her to rifle through the collection of sweats she had tucked in her dresser. No matter the garment she pulled out of the drawer, didn't seem to be enough; not thick enough, soft enough, warm enough. Leaving the pieces in a mess in the drawer, she didn't let herself think before she was drifting to her closet where there was a too familiar hoodie hanging up.

The smell wasn't quite as strong as it had been weeks ago, but there was still a faint scent of Harry's cologne embedded in the fibers. It was truly nothing more than a plain black hoodie, the material showing wear in the way the strings were tied into a bow at the neck with frays at the end, holes lining the sleeve hems, and a lipstick stain smeared on the back shoulder in a shade she had on her bathroom counter. Though it was his hoodie, she had stolen it enough times that it lived at her home with Harry taking it back every now and then, imprinting himself on it for her to revel in once he gave it back.

Taking her bottom lip between her teeth, she knew it was a bad idea. There was no reason for her to wear that hoodie. Really, it was surprising that he hadn't asked for it back yet—especially if he was going out with other girls.

It would be crazy for her to wear it, right? It was not normal to be mourning a relationship she ended. That was not her hoodie.

She slipped it on, anyway.

As much as (Y/N) was crazy, and hypocritical, and jealous, and insensitive—she missed him.

This whole thing would be a lot easier if she wasn't still in love with him. If he had just broken her heart and ruined those feelings for him, she wouldn't be feeling insane as she pulled the sleeves over her hands and pretended as if she wasn't breathing in his scent.

Going out didn't seem so bad when she had this on, though.

Collecting her bag and keys, she made a point to rush through the final steps of readying herself before she was going out the door. If she waited too long, she might end up crying in this hoodie instead.

Outside, it was raining much harder than she had initially thought. Pulling up her hood, she attempted to protect her hair from the droplets though there were casualties that were immediately pasted to her face. By the time she made it to her car, the hoodie was beginning to grow heavy against her back, rain streaked down her bare legs (in the interest of getting out of the house, she didn't change from her shorts like she'd wanted), and her lashes made heavy with mist.

Once safe inside her car, she pulled in a heavy breath.

She could do this. While Harry was out at dinner on a date, she'd go pick up some spaghetti noodles and more cheese than she should eat in a week.

Because she wasn't upset. She wanted to be broken up. She's fine.

With a forceful turn of the key in the ignition, (Y/N) gladly focused on the mechanics of driving through the rain as opposed to everything else on her mind. The clean scent in the air filtered through the cab, comforting her more than she realized.

No doubt, she could do this.

Pulling onto the main road, she turned up her music to be heard over the sound of the rain beating against the windscreen. The pavement was slick, dyed a slate black with the help of the droplets, puddles growing in every small divot in the road. The streetlamp twinkled off of the gathered water, rippling with each added drop. Everything was just a bit bleary through the windshield, even with the reach of her wipers going in overtime to wipe away the streaks.

While she was never a huge fan of driving in less than perfect conditions, especially at night, the scene out here tonight was a perfect match to the pit in her stomach. It made sense for the weather to act this way, she thought; she was too torn up for the world to be given a cloudless, warm night.

The music playing sifted through a playlist she'd found the other day, her search having been nothing more than for "breakup music". While she didn't know every song, or if she was even allowed to be moping to the tunes considering she was the one that cut things off, the lyrics she could catch were felt in her chest with a weight on her lungs. The ones about the other party moving on before the singer was ready stung particularly sharp tonight.

Especially when an all too familiar song started up, a voice she'd heard thousands of times before pleading with his ex lover to keep from calling her new flame "baby".

This song had come out long before (Y/N) had met Harry, written with another in mind, but she remembered listening to it back then. She remembered wondering just how heartbroken one would have to be to write stanzas just as these, how hurtful it would be to see your love finding someone else to take your place.

(Y/N) automatically reached out to skip the song, not even knowing it was on the playlist despite it being an obvious pick, but her hand stopped short.

It'd been weeks since she heard his voice, even longer since he sang around her. Even if this was through speakers, mastered and fit to music, it was something she'd been missing despite pretending she didn't. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, dropping her and back to the steering wheel as if she hadn't just submitted to self-torture.

As the tune went on, (Y/N) no longer had to wonder what kind of heartbreak went into poetry like this. She was right where Harry used to be, wishing he would give her just a bit longer of pretending to be his baby before he chose another.

She hadn't realized she was tearing up until her wipers were unable to keep her view from being blurry. The rain outside now paled in comparison to pools glimmering at her waterline. Her skin felt hot, resistant to the chill seeping through her vents. She didn't even make it through the full of the outro before she repeated the song once more, knowing it would only spur her tears on that much more.

Before she knew it, her bottom lip was quivering before a broken sob puffed from her lips. She sniffled with tears racing down her cheeks, searing over her warmed skin.

It wasn't her business, but did he share the same bite of sushi with this new girl that he'd also given to (Y/N) a month ago? Did he order the same bottle of rosé? Did he reach across the table to push her hair out of her face just as he did for (Y/N)? Was tonight going to be the first date they would relay to friends and family when asked how they had found someone so special? She had no right to ask any of these questions, but was Harry going to fall in love with this new girl?

Did he think of (Y/N) at all tonight, like she was thinking of him?

The idea of being on Harry's mind at all was enough to have her hands tensing around the wheel, but the thought of not crossing it at all had them shaking instead. Her eyes were flooded, hands wavering on the steering wheel, skin warm and nose wet. The rain beat down against the hood of her car with as much force as her heartbeat, riding the tempo as if she couldn't hear it well enough in her ears.

She shouldn't've left the house tonight. It would be way easier to sob like this if she wasn't having to also keep track of the road in front of her and the slick pavement beginning to flood with more water than the drains lining the sidewalks could handle. At least she seemed to be the only one out on the road at the moment.

Scrubbing her hand over her eyes, she attempted to clear them in hopes of regaining her focus. The song was over now and she planned on wiping that song and subsequent album from her vicinity as soon as she made it to the grocery store.

By the time she blinked her eyes open, lashes sticking to one another under the weight of her tears, she was only a few hundred feet away from the vague outline of a stoplight. She hadn't even seen the light shift from green to yellow, let alone to the blazing red that shone overhead.

Of course, now would be the time she saw one other person on the road, already creeping out into the intersection to use their own green light.

In a knee-jerk reaction, (Y/N) stomped on her brakes. Her breath caught when she felt that tell-tale give under her tires, the feel of the back of her car shifting out of sync with the steering wheel.

The broken rattling of her heart was replaced by the pounding of the beats against her ribs as she realized there was no way she was going to stop. She was currently gliding over the road, her tires unable to grip onto anything underneath them through the layer of rain on the pavement. All she could do was turn the steering wheel and hope that her car followed, hopefully missing the poor bystander who would learn that she wasn't paying as much attention as she should have been when coming to the intersection.

Every thought in her head seemed to happen in slow motion, but the world around her raced by in a second. She could feel her mouth moving, her voice muttering curses that made no sense, but there wasn't a single sound she heard over her heartbeat. Beyond her windows, the rain blurred every moving shape, her foot still heavy on the brake despite it being a fruitless effort.

Headlights shone against her face for a brief second before she cranked the wheel, spinning just in time as she hit the middle of the intersection. Her new bleary view showed off the vague outline of the pole of the stoplight for a brief moment before spinning out even further until she was facing the direction she'd come in, her car turning in a complete one-eighty in her lane until everything suddenly stopped with a metallic crunch.

She heard the impact before she felt it. Her driver's side door whammed into the pole of the stoplight, denting through the layers of metal with the window cracking and breaking. Prisms of glass rained over her, grazing her face and tops of her thighs with prickling shards. Her dented door threaded to push in on her before stopping, leaving a pressure against the side of her body and a complicated way to get out of the vehicle once she found her head. Her dashboard was lit up with every caution insignia as if she had no idea of what had just happened. Through the broken window, rain began to stream in, seeping into the cuts on her face and legs. She shivered though she couldn't feel a single chill from the air, her body beginning to reel from the accident she had just found herself in.

In the back of her mind, over the pelting rain and pounding heartbeat, she heard her breakup playlist filtering through the remaining speakers.

A wretchedly familiar voice singing about fine lines and being alright.

"Hon? Are you okay?"

Turning to face the nice woman who'd come to check on her after witnessing her blunder, (Y/N) opened her mouth to respond.

She burst into tears.

—————

Harry really needed to stop wearing this necklace.

He'd known that for the last few weeks, and, yet, every time he'd thought to unclasp it and put it at the bottom of a jewelry box to never be seen again, he never had the strength to. Instead, he continued to wear it every day, absently playing with the single pearl sitting at the base of his throat.

Natalie watched as he fiddled with the pendant, but he still couldn't get himself to stop his idle hands.

He hadn't even wanted to be here tonight, anyway—he had to self-soothe somehow, even if that meant playing with the necklace his ex-girlfriend gifted to him.

Natalie was nice enough, a friend of a friend of a friend who'd been around to some parties here and there, but she wasn't (Y/N). Harry had only agreed to come out tonight in hopes of giving him a reason to wash his hair and eat something that wasn't bread or coffee while sitting on the kitchen floor. Even with clean hair and an order of his favorite sushi cleared from his plate, he still felt slices of guilt; one for going out with someone while still being very hung up on his ex, and for going out at all with someone who wasn't (Y/N).

Harry wasn't stupid, he'd caught the cell phones pointed in his direction when he and his date had been seated. If it wasn't up already, it was only a matter of time before those photos would be circulating on all of the socials and appearing on timelines. He could already picture the headlines for tomorrow morning, detailing the mystery woman on this dinner date while questions about his previous flame were posed. He just hoped (Y/N) would somehow be able to dodge these flecks of news—even for only a couple of days.

Hopefully, he'd have a chance to talk to her before she knew. If she was open to hearing from him, he'd explain where he was coming from in even agreeing to this date, and maybe she'd take him back. If she knew he was still in love with her, willing to change his schedule, relearn how to communicate, start going to therapy weekly again, would it be enough to salvage their relationship?

"But, what about you?"

Being pulled from his head, Harry had to face Natalie with a blink of his eyes. She had been talking about a movie or something—or was it her last holiday?—, but he hadn't heard a single word. Another pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach.

He thumbed over the pearl at his throat. "Um... I'm so sorry, wh—"

Divine intervention came in the form of his phone vibrating in his pocket. He shot an apologetic smile at Natalie before slipping the device out of his pocket, eager to pick up for whoever was on the other side.

Until he saw the contact name, anyway.

(Y/N)'s mother. She was calling him.

"Who is it?" Natalie asked, canting her head at Harry's startled expression.

"Um... Jus'—uh—someone I haven't heard from in a while. I have to take this, 'm sorry."

He didn't catch Natalie's reaction before he was rising from his seat and heading towards the front door with the phone pressed to his ear. Rain sprinkled over his head while thunder cracked in the distance. A darker storm was moving in.

"Hello?"

"Harry?! Harry, are you there?"

"'M here, yeah. Is everything alright?" He'd never heard her voice in such a frantic state, especially not over the phone like this. Was she that upset over the breakup?

"(Y/N)—It's (Y/N). She's been in an accident, and I—we—Her father and I, we're—She's alone. I-I know you two broke up, but she's in the hospital by herself and the nurse said she's not doing okay, she's—I don't know, I don't want her to be alone but I can't get on a flight until tomorrow morning and there's—"

Frantic chattering continued on through the receiver, but there wasn't a single syllable that was able to breach his thoughts.

(Y/N) was in the hospital. She'd been in an accident and was now at the hospital. Alone. She wasn't doing well while she was in the hospital after being in an accident, all alone.

His stomach turned.

"Wha—Where's the hospital? What hospital is it?"

Was he having a heart attack? Every beat of the organ fluttered at the base of his throat, the chambers squeezed tight.

He needed to find her. She couldn't be alone. She had to be okay and he needed to be there.

Her mother shakily relayed the name of the hospital and room number, stumbling over the syllables until Harry had them seared into his memory.

"I-I'm so sorry to ask you, I know what—"

"No, no," he shook off her words, "Th-Thank you for telling me. 'M going to her right now, I'll let you know how she's doing."

Shaky goodbyes were shared with quiet sobs sounding on the end of the other line. Harry felt breathless as he stowed his phone away, hands shaking with fumbling fingers. His head was a mess.

All he wanted to do was go—get in his car and go, be with (Y/N). But, there was Natalie sitting at their table, a dessert ordered to the table with their check of sushi and wine waiting with their server. There were people around them who would no doubt post about any kind of commotion he sounded tonight, perhaps even leak his location if hearing he was on the way to a hospital in the city. (He usually liked to see the best in others, but it'd happened before, these wild invasions of privacy).

Despite every instinct pushing him towards the parking lot and abandoning the night, Harry forced himself to walk back into the restaurant. He held a thin grip on his control, but it was enough to get him back to his table with Natalie so he could quietly speak with her.

"Is everything okay?" she asked before he'd even taken his seat.

Swallowing, his throat bobbed as he shook his head. "No, actually. I—'m really sorry, Natalie, but I have to go. My, um, a friend of mine—they're in the hospital. I need to go."

Natalie's features were marred with surprise, mouth dropped open with her lashes in a glimmering flutter up at him. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. That's so scary. No worries, go ahead I'll take care of everything. Call me when you can, okay?"

Meeting the blue shimmer of her gaze, Harry felt his features tighten. She was much too nice for him.

He wasn't going to call.

Harry didn't say anything before he was rushing out of sight, only stopping at the hostess station for a slick second to tell the staff to charge the card attached to the reservation. Natalie was open to order whatever she wanted for the rest of the night, but she wasn't paying for a single cent. This would be his apology for never calling.

It was with shaky fingers that he typed in the name of the hospital (Y/N) was at—all alone—as soon as he was in his car. Though his heartbeat didn't settle much, his head felt a bit clearer knowing that with every mile he was cruising down the street, he was growing closer to (Y/N). His hands couldn't stay idle for very long, consistently reaching up to the necklace around his throat.

(Y/N) was going to be alright, right?

The question warmed the backs of his eyes, flushing his skin. As much as he wanted—needed—to be at her side, Harry realized he wasn't sure what he was walking into. Her mother had said she wasn't doing okay—whatever that meant. What kind of scene was he going to walk into?

Stop lights and brake lights passing in a blur through the growing rain, Harry made it to the hospital in record time. The pavement was slick, reflecting the glow of the streetlamps and the many car lights bumbling through the carpark. He didn't think before he was pulling into the first spot he found, parking at a sloppy angle before he was rushing out.

With the rain coming down, his hair fell across his forehead, slicking to his skin. The droplets acted as the tears he was unwilling to shed until he saw (Y/N) in person.

He marched his way into reception, shoes squeaking over the linoleum. Behind the desk, a woman perked up, spotting him with bored eyes before she perked up with recognition he knew too well.

"Hi, um, how can I help you?" she sputtered.

Unable to muster a greeting smile, he kept his eyes low. "I—um—I need to see someone, please?"

The rest of the checkin passed in a daze, Harry only barely able to keep himself from begging to see (Y/N). He relayed as much information as he could, showing any kind of identification needed. He was more than thankful to hear that her parents had approved his visit during their initial phone call, something he filed away for later so he could thank them when he had a clear mind.

The best thing he heard, the one that stuck glaringly in his mind, was the fact that she wasn't housed anywhere to be treated for critical pain. She was being held somewhere safe and hopefully comfortable.

Following the given directions, Harry felt like a ghost as he floated through the different doors and elevators. He moved restlessly while he dinged through the floors, feet shuffling while his eyes were trained on the rising numbers.

Was this the slowest elevator on earth? Or were they always like this?

Once set free on the correct floor, Harry floated through the halls, sweaty palms pressed into the pockets of his pants. All he could focus clearly on was the room numbers pinned beside the doors, the thumps of his heart bubbling in his ears.

After going down what felt like endless miles of hallways, the correct room number finally appeared before him. The door was shut, the lights inside dim. His hand hesitated on the door handle.

He had been so consumed with making it to her, to make himself feel better with the sight of her, that he hadn't really considered if she would even want to see him. If she wasn't asleep at the moment, would she just kick him out? She had been the one to break up with him, anyway.

Before he could doubt himself any more, he pushed through, keeping his steps light over the linoleum.

Just as he thought, the room was quiet and dark, rain streaking down the window. There was a warm glow coming from the standing lamp at the corner of the room, machines beeping along with the television with a made-for-tv movie playing. A whiteboard marked with her name was pinned to the wall, filled with stats and jargon Harry didn't have the mind to decipher.

Amongst it all, (Y/N) was laid in the hospital bed with the thin covers pulled to her middle. Her eyes were shuttered, showing off the bruising underneath alongside the myriad of cuts over her skin. As peaceful as she appeared, sleeping away under the crumpled sheets, Harry couldn't help the tears that touched his eyes.

With the door closing behind him, he drew closer to her bed. It didn't take much examination to spot the tear tracks glimmering on her cheeks, the swollen puff of her lips. It was the same way she'd looked when she had told him she didn't want to be with him any longer.

Harry wasn't sure what broke his heart more: the obvious evidence of weeping on her features, or the fact that her tears would have skated over every cut and scratch marring her cheeks?

He shuffled over the floor. He wanted to be at her side, hold her hand and let her know she wasn't alone anymore, but he didn't want to wake her. There was a reason that she wasn't allowed to head home after being checked out by the hospital team, the more rest she received the better.

Instead, he gingerly made his way to her bedside, taking a spot in the uncomfortable chair seemingly waiting for him in the lamplight. With the way she was laid up in the bed, he had an unobstructed view of her relaxed features, some of the more notable injuries on her face bandaged up while others were left treated with nothing more than a glistening salve. She didn't look particularly comfortable, especially knowing how she usually liked to curl up with her hands to her cheek and legs to her chest, but this was better than nothing.

Better than being in a wrecked car somewhere.

The thought was sobering, enough to have those tears he had been urging away to resurface on his waterline once more.

She was here. (Y/N) was okay—hurt, but well enough to be left to sleep on her own. She was no longer alone.

He hung his head in his hands. He didn't want to think about what kind of accident would have put her here, blood on her face with machines monitoring every vital in her body.

With those tears in his eyes, peeking up at her between his lashes, she looked like a watercolor painting. The edges were blurred, leaving the general outline of the person that filled his dreams and became his muse for the better part of the last year and a half.

He couldn't believe the last month of his life. He'd lost her. And for what? Because he didn't think it was important enough to send her a text when he was going to be out later than initially thought? Because it was easier to let his schedule happen to him, as opposed to shaping his life around making enough time to spend time with her? Because why would he talk to her, tell her where he was coming from, when he could be passive aggressive and sweep everything under the rug instead?

The beeping of the heart monitor was the pitched baseline that anchored him to the room. Every dotted sound kept him from being swept away in the rivers of tears dripping down his heated cheeks.

He could have lost her today. In the worst case scenario of this day, he would have received a very different phone call. He wouldn't have had the chance to sit at her side right now. He wouldn't have seen these healing injuries on her, instead having only old photographs to remember what life looked like on her.

As cracked as his heart was at the moment, he would take these cuts and scrapes, this uncomfortable chair, the stiff set of her bedding, over any other ending this night could have had.

The rain pelted against the window as Harry fixed his gaze to the love of his life.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, if it had been nothing more than a few minutes or if it had been hours at her side, until there was the soft click of the doorknob twisting with the door pushed open. Entering was a nurse in soft purple scrubs, hair pulled back and a clipboard in her hands. She had her eyes trained down before looking up to catch Harry wiping his eyes and (Y/N) unstirring in her bed.

"Oh, hello," she murmured, voice soft as they were both aware of the patient in bed, "I didn't know she was having any visitors tonight."

A barely there smile curled Harry's cheeks, his skin smooth of dimples. "Yeah, got here as fast as I could. Have you been helping her?"

The nurse shook her head, "A little, but she's been asleep for most of it. Poor thing cried herself into exhaustion, so I doubt she really remembers meeting me."

Her statement had his bottom lip quivering. Harry had to remind himself to be grateful she was even here to cry.

"She's doing alright, though?"

With a quick glance at the clipboard, the nurse nodded her head. "Yeah, she's doing much better—now that she's calmed down a little. We've just gotta keep an eye on her for tonight. She got a good crack to her head, so I want to make sure she doesn't sleep for too long tonight."

Harry gave her a nod, a moment from offering to wake (Y/N) for her before the nurse stepped forward. In gentle tones with a hand to her shoulder, she woke (Y/N).

Unlike her, she had been sleeping rather lightly, jumping awake after only a single call of her name. (Y/N) fluttered her eyes open, lashes sticking together from the dried crust of her tears, enough so that she reached her scratched hands up to rub the mess away.

"Hi," (Y/N) greeted, her voice in a croak as she got her bearings.

"Hello," the nurse responded with a gentle smile, "Sorry to wake you, hon. I just wanted to check on you, then you're good to go to sleep, again."

"Okay," (Y/N) breathed, struggling to sit up.

Without thinking, Harry surged forward, helping her as much as he could. The second he put his hands on her, (Y/N) jumped, having not seen him prior.

It was clear she was more than surprised to see him with the way her eyes widened, blanching at the sight of him.

"Harry?"

He offered a quiet, thin smile, sitting back in his spot once she was stable, sitting up for the nurse. "Hi."

Before much else could be shared between them, the nurse began running her tests. Small talk was shared between the two, (Y/N) glancing more than once in Harry's direction. His hands were a fiddling mess in his lap, watching with rapt attention as every evaluation was run.

"Everything's looking okay—what I expected we'd be seeing," the nurse mused, writing down her information on the clipboard in hand, "But, how are you feeling? Any extra pain, anything you want me to take a look at or mention to the doctor?"

"I'm fine," (Y/N) smiled, the expression less than convincing, "Nothing hurts any more than earlier."

"Okay, okay," the nurse nodded, "That's good, let me know if that changes. I'll be back to check on you in a few hours, so get in your rest while you can."

A pointed look was placed in Harry's direction at her last statement, a teasing curl to the corner of her lips. (Y/N) gave a sheepish nod.

"Right, thank you."

The nurse departed with a couple of well wishes and a reminder that she'd be back in a few hours. Once the door clicked behind her, a stiff silence settled between them. The only sound came in the form of the mechanical beeping of the machines around her and the ending of the television movie playing.

(Y/N) had her eyes facing ahead, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Harry stared at her.

"(Y/N)—"

"You're here."

His throat bobbed as he heavily swallowed. "I am," he nodded, dropping his gaze to his picked cuticles in his lap, "Your mum called me."

A furrow had her brow pinched. "Her and my dad are on vacation right now."

Another nod, a strand of hair touching over his forehead. "They'll be back tomorrow morning, but she wanted someone to be with you tonight."

Maybe it was the way her shoulders tensed, the glassy look that took over her gaze, or the pinch to her features, but something brittle settled in the air between them. Every breath felt delicate as he waited for any kind of response.

"I'm sorry."

It was his turn for his brows to knit together. "For what?"

That fragile tension between them cracked.

"You were on a date."

Harry hung his head, lips thinning. He thought he would have more time to explain this.

"'S not what it looks like, (Y/N)."

She shook her head, voice quiet under her breath. "So it wasn't a date?"

Sucking in a breath, his lungs squeezed. "I mean—It—Yes, it was a date, but—"

The beeping of her heart monitor heightened, the pitch seemingly hitting higher than a moment before with the pace quickening. "So it is what it looks like."

"(Y/N), 's more—there's more to it than that."

(Y/N) only shrugged at his half-hearted response, her head hanging between her shoulders.

Harry felt just as defeated as she looked now. This wasn't how he wanted to reunite with her, but he guessed beggars couldn't be choosers. This was the opportunity he had, and he wasn't going to turn it away.

"What happened tonight?" he murmured, shifting the conversation away from his own blunders. Unfortunately, this avenue would be an easier section to stomach than anything she would want to know about his date.

"I got into an accident."

"I know," Harry gently prodded, "But, what happened? Y'usually only hit curbs, not anything else."

His shoulders loosened when his teasing was enough to draw a huffed laugh from her, a slight smile softening her features.

As much as they may have deteriorated recently, he did know her. He knew her better than he knew himself.

"It was just raining really hard, and—I don't know—I wasn't able to stop like I thought. I slid and hit a pole, and... yeah."

As much as he did like teasing her about her more precarious driving habits, he knew more than anything that she was cautious. It wasn't like her to settle into accidents like this—she rarely ever drove in weather like this anyway, let alone at night.

"Y'never drive in the rain," he pressed, an unaired question bookending his words.

"I know."

Harry looked at her, waiting for more than those two syllables. It was fruitless, he knew.

He hung his head, running an absent hand through his hair before his fingers found the pearl at his throat. Eyes on the floor between his feet, he couldn't look at her as he spoke once more.

"(Y/N). What happened tonight?" This isn't like you. Why did this happen?

The air in the room seemingly went still.

When he chanced a look up once more, he saw her sitting in her hospital bed with sparkling tears in her eyes. His chest panged at the sight. He knotted his fingers tighter together, forcing himself to see from reaching out.

"(Y/N)...," he started, voice decidedly more gentle than a moment before.

She shook her head. "I didn't want to be home—and I was crying, and I wasn't paying attention and the rain was heavier than I thought—and just... Everything happened."

What was worse? Hearing that she had cried more than once tonight, before she'd even got in her accident, or seeing her recount it with another set of tears racing down her cheeks?

This time he couldn't help himself; Harry reached out to touch her wrist. Her skin was warm under the chill of goosebumps on her skin. While she didn't move to hold his hand like she used to, she didn't flinch away. That was enough, he thought.

"Why were y'crying, lo—(Y/N)?" He internally cringed at his slip up. He had no place calling her anything but her name. "What happened?"

Another shake of her head. "It's stupid," she sniffled, fluttering her eyes closed with the tears clinging to the tips of her lashes.

"Not if it made y'so upset that y'ended up here tonight," he crooned, words a quiet lilt only for her to hear, "What happened?"

"I—It's..." she cut herself off more than once, throat bobbing, "I don't... I was the one that broke up with you, I-I'm not supposed to be upset. It-It's not fair."

Her voice was barely a whisper by the time she finished speaking. His hand on her wrist tightened, a snug warmth against her skin. He ran his thumb over the bone, pretending he didn't feel the cut just on the underside.

He waited.

Another made-for-tv movie started on her television.

He waited.

She took a deep breath. Her eyes still closed.

"You went on a date tonight."

Harry's shoulders deflated.

"(Y/N)—"

"No," she peeped, shaking her head with her arm stiffening under his hold, "No. You were on a date, and I'm crazy and I'm not supposed to be upset, but I couldn't handle it—I didn't want to be home alone an-anymore. I didn't think you'd be over it already since I'm not, but you-you can do whatever you want an-and I need to be okay with that. And, then you—your music, it started playing while I was driving and I-I—Harry, I couldn't stop crying and then I crashed." Her voice was clogged in her throat, muddy and thick. Her tone came in waves, ebbing and flowing until it gave out. "I'm sorry."

There was no chance Harry had of keeping his own tears at bay as he listened. It was too much—all of it; hearing her beginning to sob over the thought of him being over their relationship, how just the sound of his voice over her speakers brought her to tears while driving, the fact that she'd seen photos of him out on a date had driven her from her home to get away from herself.

He felt his skin flush, the warmth heading down his neck the same way his tears did. He sniffled his nose, his lips rolled between his teeth to keep himself from blurting out each thought he couldn't help but to have.

He doubted telling her how much he loved her was going to be much help when she was so dedicated to the thought of him already finding someone new to replace her.

"You—" he cut himself off when his voice came a croak, clearing his throat with his hand on her wrist. "Y'don't have to be sorry, (Y/N). You're not crazy, either—I don't know what I would do if I'd seen y'go out with someone else, either. Y—'M jus' sorry, I never—I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay, it's okay," she murmured, shaking her head as she slid her arm out from under his hand, curling into herself while she refused to open her eyes. "It's not your fault—you—I ended our relationship, you can do whatever you want." A shuddering breath had her shoulders shaking, lungs rattling. "I-I'm sorry you're here instead of with her."

Just short of climbing up on the bed beside her, Harry pulled his chair as close to her side as he could. There wasn't anything he could say—nothing that he could imagine would shift her mind on what she'd seen and decided was the truth. All he could do, even if it involved uncomfortable bending of his joints, was collect her into his arms and hold her. It was only then that the slow roll of her tears were let loose into full weeps, her face buried into his neck.

She burrowed against him, sinking into him as if the last month hadn't occurred. His hands spanned over her form, familiar with every plane and curve. His fingers caught on the raised abrasions that could be felt through her thin gown, but Harry could only be grateful that those were the only evidence of her accident. The mechanical beeping of her pulse skittered high, enough so he worried that the nurse could be alerted of the disturbance. Nonetheless, he held her tighter.

"There's nowhere else I want to be," he murmured into her hair, his voice watery like the tears running down his cheeks.

Reaching towards him, (Y/N) wrapped her hands in the wool of his jacket, fingers clawing into the fabric in a tighter grip than he'd expected from her state. "E-Even tonight?"

Her cry was thin and pathetic, causing Harry to pulse his arms around her once more. "Tonight—every night. As long as 'm with you."

He could feel the flutter of her lashes as she cinched her eyes shut tighter. Her voice was barely a whisper when she spoke again, just audible given how closely he had her wrapped around him, "Wh-What about her?"

He shook his head against her hair, his nose skating over her crown. There would be a time to really unpack why he found himself at a candlelit table with Natalie, including everything that was going through his head every time she spoke to him, but that wasn't tonight. She needed him, and all of the reassurance he could give more than he needed to clear his conscience and monologue over his feelings.

"She's not you and that's all that matters to me," he told her, sincerity dripping in his tone, "All I want is you."

(Y/N) cried in a blubbering sob, "I didn't think you loved me anymore."

Harry's own eyes had to be shuttered closed then, a fruitless attempt in hopes of stemming the tears falling out of his eyes and into (Y/N)'s hair. "I didn't think y'loved me anymore, darling."

"I-I do, I do," she countered, shaking her head in his neck with her grip tightening on him, "We-We just never saw ea-each other anymore, and I-I thought you were mad at me all th-the time and I thought we'd be happier apart—b-but I was wrong and—"

"It's okay, it's okay," he soothed her, starting a circuit of his palm over her back, "I-I understand. But now we know—you're all I want, an-and I'll do anything to make it work with you."

"You're all I want," she whimpered, voice tight, "Don't leave me."

While a part of him was soaring knowing that she was still in love with him, that this wasn't over the way he'd thought, he was still more than heartbroken to hear that she was so torn up and broken herself. She thought she had no choice but to end the relationship in hopes of making both of them happier elsewhere. He never imagined himself making someone he loved feel that way.

"I won't."

—————

Rubbing the lack of sleep out of his eye, Harry stood back as (Y/N) checked out of the hospital. Her mother was twined to her side with her father looking just as distraught, though he was better at giving his daughter space. They'd come straight here as soon as they landed only a couple of hours prior, walking in on Harry who had stayed far longer than the originally carved out visiting hours with (Y/N) still in his arms.

Gratitude was exchanged between them—Harry for coming to (Y/N)'s side at a moment's notice, and her parents for telling him at all and letting him be there for her—with a thread of stiffness lingering afterwards. Harry couldn't blame them; the last they'd heard about him was the fact that he'd been dumped by their daughter along with all the reasons why. They didn't know what had come of the night before, yet, only seeing the aftermath of their tear puffed faces and his arms wrapped around her.

Truthfully, Harry wasn't even sure where he stood with (Y/N) at the moment. Promises uttered through sobs after a traumatic event wasn't something he was going to hold her to. Even if he wanted to believe she was still in love with him and wanted to be with him like she'd said last night.

Armed with paperwork and parents at her side, (Y/N) nodded to the nurse at the checkout with a plastered smile. Though they were still clear on her skin, the cuts and scrapes she'd earned in her accident didn't look so bad when she smiled with light in the eyes.

Though he was still a bit too far away, he could hear the mumblings of a quiet conversation happening between (Y/N) and her parents. He was sure she was going to go home with them, and sort out everything else that couldn't be helped with a night at the hospital, but he'd wait until he knew she was safe before he'd leave himself.

He watched from the corner of his eye, giving them privacy, though he could see (Y/N) waving off her parents before stepping towards him. It was a lingering departure, her mother refusing to let go too readily, though she eventually resigned herself to head down the hallway towards the bank of elevators with her husband and her daughter's paperwork.

(Y/N) took shy steps towards Harry, empty hands a fiddling mess.

"You're still here," she said, voice quiet to match the waiting room.

He shrugged, a small smile having curled the corner of his lips. Was he supposed to remind her that she had asked him to stay, or keep that ex-boyfriend barrier in place? (If it was even still standing, given the way she'd fallen asleep in his arms just hours before).

"You're doing alright?" he asked instead, scanning over the planes of her face as if he didn't have them memorized already.

She nodded. "Just sore, but I think I'm just going to feel that way for a little while. My head's doing better, though—I still have a headache, but I don't think it's because of the accident."

Though she ended with a laugh, Harry figured she wasn't sure what to make of last night anymore than he did.

"'M happy you're alright," he told her, sincerity weaved through his words, "Are your mum and dad taking y'home?"

"Yeah," she nodded, looking over her shoulder to the couple waiting at the elevators, "I think my mom wants me to stay at their house tonight, but we'll see."

"Oh, y'don't want to spend hours watching soap opera reruns tonight?" Harry teased, a sly smile touching his lips. The curl only stretched when (Y/N) laughed.

"Not particularly, but who knows," she said, sparing another glance over her shoulder to see the audience waiting on her, "Um, we talked a lot last night."

"We did, yeah," he nodded, throat bobbing as swallowed, eyes dropping from her own, "But, we don't—'m not—If y'don't feel the same way as y'did last night, 'm not going to ma—"

"I do," she cut him off, a bright chirp that matched the spark in Harry's chest. "I do feel the same, I mean. We should probably talk a little more, though, right?"

A dimple dented Harry's cheek, suddenly feeling incredibly more alive than just a heartbeat before. "Probably."

"Are you busy tomorrow? In the morning?"

It didn't take a second thought before Harry was moving his schedule around to keep his morning stark open tomorrow. Those meetings could be moved—maybe even made into an email or a quick phone call.

"Not for you."

The blooming smile she gave him was reminiscent of the first time he pulled that flirtation on her.

"Good," she quipped, "I'll call you tonight or something, then. Maybe we could get breakfast tomorrow?"

"I'll be there," he cemented, "Jus' tell me when."

The rewarding light in her eyes made it easy for Harry to forget the last month of his light (except for the night he'd just spent with her, of course).

"I will," she told him, "Bye, Harry."

Maybe it was the way she hesitantly stepped towards him, or the shy way she had her lips rolled between her teeth with a budding smile, or the memory of her warmth against his chest, but Harry didn't think before he was collecting her into his arms. (Y/N) melted into his chest on instinct, wrapping her arms around his middle. He could feel the mush of her cheek against the cuff of his shoulder. Despite the sterile scent of the hospital clinging to her, underneath it all was the familiar fragrance of her shampoo and sweet body lotion she somehow never ran out of.

Drawing away first, (Y/N) only put enough space between them to get a look up at Harry. Though her eyes were bloodshot, bags darkening underneath, and the shadow of her tears lingering in the corners, he'd never seen anything more beautiful than (Y/N)'s eyes.

"I'll see y'tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow."

Long after she untangled herself from his hold, Harry still felt (Y/N)'s warmth long enough to carry him home and keep him company until his phone rang a familiar tone later that night.

—————

ahhhhhh I never write angst so I hope this turned out all right! thank you sm for reading, and sorry for any mistakes! if you have any ideas or anything at all send them in!

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sevsgiirl · 5 months ago

Text

— piss her off ‘til she hates me, pt. 2

pt. 1, pt. 3

mechanic!sevika x reader. men and minors dni.

synopsis: when the vacant house next to sevika’s finally got new tenants she didn’t think much of it. as long as her new neighbors didn’t cause any trouble, all was well. that is until she found out the neighbor had a young daughter.

word count: 9k words.

tags: age difference, alternate universe, mechanic!sevika, brat!reader, enemies to lovers, oral sex, dom!sevika, sub!reader, pet names, scissoring, hate sex, vaginal fingering.

you can check out the fic playlist here.

it’s been two days since you and your father moved in and sevika was beginning to think she had nothing to worry about.

your old man seemed nice enough and his shift at the town’s office started this monday morning. she found out yesterday that he clocked in at exactly 6am and would come back home at 7pm and sevika felt bad for the guy. her job starts at 9am and ends at 6pm, and that was already exhausting for her.

she didn’t have any work today because her boss wanted to remodel the place. some of the paint on the walls had chipped off and her co-worker, ran, almost had one of the metal shelves fall on them due to rust.

but she still went out of her way to wake up early so she can work out, meaning she was able to catch up with your father when he pulled up at your driveway, ready to leave as he unlocked his car while sevika watched from her garage.

she just finished her cardio and was toweling herself dry from the sweat dripping off her forehead when you suddenly ran out in a pair of fluffy pink slippers, your hair in disarray while a thin blanket was draped over your shoulders. you gave your dad a quick hug and he smiled before he kissed the top of your head and sevika had to admit she found the view endearing.

she didn’t have a good relationship with her father. after her mother died her relationship with him got tethered and for the remaining years before he passed it just felt like living under the same roof as a ghost - a shell of a man who once had everything and then nothing, which made her resentful given the fact he still had a daughter, after all. that’s why she admires your father.

that in spite of everything he still looked out for you. and she admires you too in a way, that after everything you didn’t let the passing of your mother weigh you down too much that you still managed to stop yourself from going down the path of an addiction. unlike her, it took her a good chunk of her twenties and thirties to overcome hers, but even now, she still needs at least 4 pints of alcohol to get through the day.

so that’s what convinced her that since your old man was a good example maybe you wouldn’t be too troublesome.

oh, but she thought wrong.

it wasn’t until a few hours after your dad left and she finished her workout and decided to go back to bed was when she heard it.

that awful, grating sound of a speaker blasting music from your bedroom window, which coincidentally happened to be right across hers.

sevika tried to tune it out thinking maybe she’d be able to sleep it off or that eventually you’ll turn it off, but after twenty minutes where you showed no signs of stopping, she begrudgingly got up from bed in only a wife beater and sweat pants hanging low on her hips, marching out of her house and up to yours.

she didn’t want it to come to this, she thought maybe she was just overreacting when she sensed you were going to be a problem but like always, her gut instinct was right.

she pounded on your front door and when you took too long to open it, she scowled and banged on it so hard she swore she could’ve torn the hinges off.

“open up!” she yelled.

the music came to a screeching halt. fucking finally. she never really let her temper get the best of her, she normally had a tight hold on it, but in moments like these where she was given some time off work and to relax, to have that disrupted so early in the morning irked her beyond comprehension. plus didn’t you have any consideration? it’s nine in the fucking morning.

it took a couple of moments before the door swung open and revealed you, still clad in your pajamas (rather skimpy at that, as you only sported a baby black tee and shorts) distracting her with your bare thighs before your voice snapped her out of it.

“can I help you?”

again, your voice got on her nerves because not only was it a huge contrast to your inconsiderate behavior, being soft-spoken and all, but the way you asked the question didn’t help either. you almost sounded like you were the one being inconvenienced.

her jaw clenched “can you turn the music down? it’s so loud and I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s still so goddamn early.”

you blinked up at her with your big doe eyes, and if it were any other person, they would’ve fallen for the oblivious facade you were trying to pull. but she knew better.

and you sensed that she wasn’t having any of it either, making the ends of your mouth twitch as you glared up at her.

“you know, I’m beginning to doubt my dad’s judgment when he said you were cool.” you quipped back which only made her chuckle.

“I am, only because your father was good company and respectful. but you,” you dared her with your eyes to continue and quite frankly, she had no problem doing just that “you on the other hand? yeah, can’t really say the same.”

you shot daggers at her with your eyes but you were quiet for a bit despite her remark. then you grinned before walking closer and getting up in her personal space, too close that she was taken aback because she could practically feel your chest rubbing against hers due to the close proximity.

“that’s not a nice way to talk to your neighbor now is it?” you asked, tone dripping with sarcasm while your face hovered near hers, the height difference being the only barrier that stopped your lips from touching hers considering the top of your head could only touch her chin “sevika?”

the way her name rolled off your tongue shouldn’t have made her spine tingle, but it did. you had an obnoxious effect on her and she wanted to justify it as her being annoyed by you. nothing more.

“turn that shit off or else,” she said gruffly before turning back around and walking away, sparing you one last heated glance before she reached her house, and slammed her front door once she got inside.

the music still didn’t stop.

𐙚˙⋆.˚

it only got worse from there.

she should’ve known better than to confront someone like you who probably fed off on being told no more than anything, and you were slick with it too. you pulled your tricks just around the same time your father leaves for work, leaving no possible witnesses to see how much of a menace you are.

it started with the music, which became louder and more horrendous that she was convinced you only put it on just to grind her gears. it’d last for three hours until eventually you go the whole day before turning it off when you knew your father would come back home.

as if that wasn’t enough, you made some friends. not just any other friends, of course, you just had to get close to powder of all people, vander’s youngest, along with the rest of her friends who’s been sevika’s biggest nightmares for as long as she could even remember.

they’d stop by your house to hang out which would’ve been fine hadn’t powder brought her whole damn crew with her, and she means that literally too. powder and her boyfriend ekko had their own little band as a sideline job which they called the firelights, and for some ungodly reason, you decided to invite them over as well.

the firelights testing out their new equipment in your garage while you and the rest had drinks in your front yard, flinging some of the red solo cups you were using carelessly into the trash bin and of course missing, causing three or four to land on sevika’s yard instead.

combined with the commotion coming from your garage and the fucking littering, sevika was about to pop a vein. she knew she’d have to confront you again without there being other people so as to not cause a scene, so instead, she took her jacket and got out of the house so she wouldn’t have to endure any more of this nonsense. but while she was stomping away, the sound of your maddening voice made her pause.

“afternoon, sevika!” you chirped from where you sat in your front yard in your plastic chair, a stupid obnoxious grin on your face as you drank from your red solo cup before flinging it directly on sevika’s lawn, making her eye twitch before she got into the driver’s seat of her car and slammed the door shut. scowling at you one last time and she swore she saw you giggle.

fucking brat.

𐙚˙⋆.˚

she couldn’t take any more of your bullshit.

but she didn’t want to make it awkward with your father by bringing it up. aside from the fact she got along with him, she’d seen how tired he was after a long day at work. he does not need sevika giving him crap about how his daughter is a major pain in the ass.

vander and silco seem to agree as well.

“just ignore her, girls her age tend to act like that so they can get a rise out of you.” silco advised as sevika scoffed.

“I’d be lying if I said vi and powder don’t act the same way sometimes,” vander chimed in from behind the counter of the bar, a bustling little establishment he and silco opened years ago, before pouring sevika another pint of beer.

sevika chugged it down in mere seconds, letting out a groan “why did you even let that gremlin daughter of yours befriend her? now I got two problems on my hands.“

vander sighed “you know how she is, she’s sociable. and the girl is new here, are you really mad that she’s making friends?”

“I couldn’t give less than two shits that she’s making friends, my problem is that she and your daughter are causing a ruckus while I’m a few feet away.” she snapped “I only have a few days off before my boss clocks me in again, and I haven’t had the time to enjoy it.”

both men exchanged deliberate glances with one another before vander nodded in understanding.

“I’ll talk to her.”

sevika held onto that promise. even as she returned home from the bar, her head pounding from the afternoon spent complaining about how much of a nuisance you were while she drank her stress away.

she noticed that your father’s car still wasn’t in your driveway, but thankfully powder and her friends already left. relieved, she strode up to her house and up to her bedroom, already wanting to sleep the day away because she knew you’d wake her up with your obnoxious music in the morning.

she begrudgingly stepped into her bedroom while she stripped herself from her shirt, leaving her in only her sports bra as she tossed her keys onto her nightstand, about to turn the lamp shade on when her peripheral caught something from your window.

there you were, clad in a matching black lace set of lingerie. you looked at yourself in your vanity mirror while your hands roamed from your torso up to your shoulder blades until you fidgeted with the thin straps of your bra.

’what the fuck?’ sevika thought to herself as she watched you almost in a daze, entranced at how you fondled parts of yourself while being unaware that you had an audience.

one of your hands reached for your drawer, rummaging a bit until you pulled out a lengthy, purple object that sevika took a while to decipher what it was until it hit her.

you gripped the purple dildo in your hands as your nimble fingers made quick work to remove your bra, unclasping it from behind before it fell graciously down your back. giving sevika a good view of the small dip just above your rear, her gaze moving slowly back up to where your mirror was.

your vanity mirror which gave her a vantage point of your round perky breasts, your nipples pebbling in the freezing night air and you let your palm stroke them slowly, making you shiver as your head fell back, and sevika was sure you let out a moan.

sevika’s throat clamped up. she knew she shouldn’t be watching this. she didn’t like you but it’s not like she should be invading your privacy, it was wrong and she was forcing herself to turn away.

but you were hypnotizing, to say the least. a small little forbidden fruit she was so tempted to take a bite into, curious what you would taste like - how you’d react if the simplest of touches already got you so riled up like this.

she felt her cunt throb at the thought, wondering how you’d feel under her callous hands. if you’d squirm if she decides to manhandle you, pull your hair back while she yanks your hips and jerk you down onto her stra-

she snapped out of her trance when she noticed you were no longer in your own little bubble, eyes finally meeting hers and she startled before running to close her blinds in a hurry. but not before catching the way your eyes squinted, watching her.

fuck. fuck. fuck.

it was like it was your mission to make her life hell.

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #arcane #arcane fanfiction #arcane smut #wlw smut #lesbian #sapphic #dividers by fairytopea

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yinyuedijun · 9 days ago

Text

phainon wip snippet that i may or may not delete

posting this at @nazberry-icecream's request. I will be real with you guys I drafted this while drunk/high last night and I'm not sure what to do with it because it's. good in some places but it's also incredibly bad in others and the canon accuracy is questionable. I'm not sure if it's salvageable SLKDFJLJSDf

canon context: bath tub is from this event

divider credit: @/cafekitsune

Phainon realizes that he’s in love with you at age nineteen, on the day he catches you running through Marmoreal Palace in nothing but a towel and pair of wet slippers. You're waving at him, calling his name, your skin still damp with bathwater and a sunlit smile stretched across your face. For a minute, he thinks he’s hallucinating—dreaming, probably, though usually his dreams about you wearing next to nothing aren’t nearly so ridiculous—but the way you grip him by the shoulders feels too real to be a fantasy.

The way you wheeze and cough at him, too.

“I’ve found you a birthday present,” you say, and he can tell from your voice that you’re dead serious.

“Oh,” he replies. He can't think of anything else to say when confronted with the image of you panting and holding onto him in nothing but a towel.

“I need to give it to you now,” you tell him.

He blinks. Then laughs. “Now?”

“Now.”

“You don’t want to put on clothes first?”

“I don’t need to have clothes on to give this to you.”

Alright. Phainon must be dreaming. There is no way in his real, actual life that you’d ever give him a present while intentionally this close to being naked. But he plays along with his incredibly shameful dream and laughs, “Sure.”

You’re excited to show him whatever you’ve found. Coming up with a birthday present for him is your worst nightmare, and one you struggle with every year. It makes me feel like a bad friend, you always moan. But I can’t ever think of anything good. You never want anything.

Phainon gives you suggestions each year, rattling them off in a list that never satisfies you. I could always use a new sword, he’d said, and you’d replied, I’m not going to get you something for your work. Then he tried, New armor could be nice, and you’d whined and replied, That’s what Aglaea wanted for you—she hates your sense of style, you know. As a last resort, he’d said, It would be nice to go to that new Aurelian restaurant together, and this time you’d scowled: That’s where I wanted to go! You don't even like Aurelian cuisine! And you always pay the bill when I’m not looking whenever we go out to eat—how am I supposed to let you pay for your own birthday meal!

Pretty easily, he’d replied cheerfully. All you have to do is sit there while I go pay.

You’d groaned.

Your birthday is about you! What do you want?! What would you like?!

“I like seeing you happy,” he always answers, smiling brightly—because it always gets you flustered, and he rather likes that too.

You think he's being insincere. You accuse him of being a terrible flirt, which he finds unfair, because he’s not flirting—he really does just like seeing you happy. He likes seeing you glow, kicking your feet and grinning in a way he’d have never been able to imagine back in the refugee camp. He was worried, for a long time, that you’d always be as miserable as the way you were back then. That you’d never want to eat. That you’d never want to talk. That you’d starve to death in silence, forever caught in the grip of the Flame Reaver—torn apart like the rest of Aedes Elysiae.

That Phainon would fail to protect you, the way he’d failed everyone else back home.

But you’d healed, eventually. Mostly. Sometimes Phainon catches you in moments of melancholy, a distance between you that he can’t figure out how to traverse. Catches you thinking about home, and your family, and all the other things you miss. He’ll give them back to you one day—you’ll see them all again when he ushers in the Era Nova, and he’ll be able to see you smile like never before—but it’ll be a long time until then. It’ll be a long time before he can deliver this wish of yours.

He guesses that it’s enough seeing you like this for now, though: beaming as you drag him through the palace, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the marble underneath you. You lead him into the bath house, and he’s so endeared that he plays along without even questioning it. More than happy to humour whatever’s got you bouncing with so much excitement.

He also plays along because he really wants to see the rest of this dream. He has high expectations for its course: you’re holding his hand, dragging him into a bath, wearing nothing but a flimsy little towel. It's clear where this is going.

But then it doesn’t go there.

You let go of Phainon’s hand, and you don’t drag him into the water, and you keep your towel on. Instead, you lead Phainon to a very old, very plain tub—a lacklustre sight in comparison to you—and gesture at it.

“Here,” you say smugly.

He stares. “You’re giving me a used bathtub?”

“I’m giving you a treasure. This old thing is made out of Sacred Tree Wood—can you believe it? I thought the attendant was full of it when she told me, but I inspected it and I’m pretty sure it’s the genuine article.”

“Huh,” Phainon says, still too distracted by the sight of you to really pay attention to any bathtub, sacred or not. You mistake this for fascination.

“Take a look for yourself,” you insist. “It’s most obvious if you look at the detailing inside the tub—here, let me show you—”

You climb into the tub, and your towel stays on, and you really do just show him all the characteristics of the wood hinting at its origins. Phainon can’t fathom it. He’s probably been spending too much time appraising antiques with Theodoros, and now his hobby’s invaded his favourite dreams. He needs to get another pastime.

He plays along anyway: “Sure,” he says, crouching down to peer at its make, his lips curled into a smile. “I'll take a look.”

Twenty minutes later, his eyes have gone wide and his jaw has gone slack. He lifts the bathtub with his bare hands and carries it out of the bath house, making a beeline to Theodoros’ shop—with you and a frazzled bath attendant in tow. You’re practically bouncing on your heels as Phainon receives his certificate of authenticity—and then you balk when he asks Theodoros how much he’ll get when he sells it.

You give him a betrayed look. “Are you really going to re-sell my gift?! I thought I'd finally found something you'd like!”

“I did like it,” he says. “And I’m going to sell it. I enjoy finding and appraising treasures, but I never really hang onto them. There are always better places for them to go.”

You give him a sullen look. “So you didn't like my gift.”

“No,” he says gently. “I loved it. This was a lot of fun, but it’d be a waste for me to actually keep a relic like this. It belongs in a place like Theodoros’ collection, where everyone can see it.”

You frown, clearly dissatisfied. “Then what kind of gift would you keep?”

Phainon shrugs. “There’s nothing I really need,” he answers truthfully, and the noise you make is so comical in its frustration that he realises instantly that this isn’t a dream. Despite the remarkable ability of his subconscious to recreate your body down to the most minute details (Phainon pays a great deal of attention to it in his waking hours, after all), it’s not that great at capturing your funnier idiosyncrasies. That scowl of yours—along with your long-time obsession with finding him the perfect birthday gift—can only be the genuine article.

He understands now that all of this is real. And because it is real, so too must be his desire to kiss you.

Phainon wants to grab you by the shoulders and kiss you in the middle of Marmoreal Market in his real, actual life; and he also wants to take you to the theatre and give you gifts and court you properly in his real, actual life; and he also wants to take you home and watch his parents fawn over you in his real, actual life. Because they’d have adored you. They’d have been excited about you. They’d have invited you over for suncakes and venison every night, and they’d have had you over for Oronyx prayers, and they’d have cried during his wedding with you. It was one of their biggest wishes for him to find someone nice and marry them properly, after all—and he can’t imagine anyone nicer than you.

They’d have loved you.

And they will love you some day, when he collects the last coreflame and delivers all of humanity into Era Nova. They’ll love you just like in all his dreams.

#i was soooo incoherent when i typed this out slkdjflsdkfj i spelled aedes elysiae like 10 different ways #i could not remember what the life of me what era nova was actually supposed to be and i ended up just making something up #ANYWAY. i guess i will agonize over whether or not i should keep this....#SO MUCH WORK all i wanna do is write timeloop pwp man.....#yueshuo

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 9 months ago

Text

The Coldest Blue

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x twin sister!reader Warnings: Angst. Word count: ~2.1k

Summary: When her husband returns unexpectedly from the ongoing war, she is elated. However, the sinister news she receives in the days that follow threatens to shatter her happiness.

Author's note: Happy Halloween! No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She startled as a cold hand was placed gently upon her arm, the sensation tugged her violently from the warm and blissful comfort of slumber that she had been about to succumb to. As she turned over in the bed, her heart felt as though it ceased beating in her chest, and her eyes widened in shock as she took in the unexpected sight of her husband.

“Aemond!” She gasped, all traces of sleep suddenly cleared from her mind.

She reached out to touch him, and immediately he clasped her hands in his. The contact sent a shiver down her spine - he had always had that effect upon her, the simplest brush of his fingers against hers often caused butterflies in her stomach. It had been that way ever since their mother had informed them they were to be married. However, the juxtaposition of the chill of his skin against the buttery-soft warmth of the crisp, white bedding was jarring.

He must have come straight to her after having dismounted Vhagar, and his skin was still chilled from the night air of the flight – all the way from Harrenhal – a place that had torn her twin, her husband, away from her for months. It was no surprise that he felt shockingly unfamiliar, the last time they had touched felt like a distant memory.

She had made a home in loneliness, the ache of his absence, alongside continuous fear and uncertainty had become so familiar that it felt like slipping on an old pair of slippers. No longer would she pine for the weekly raven that delivered news of his well being, and declarations of his love and loyalty to her, instead she must now grow accustomed to his presence by her side, though it was an adjustment she was all too happy to make.

“I did not know you would be returning,” she said softly, a twinge of guilt in her tone – had she known then she would not have been abed, she would have prepared for his return, provided a warmer welcome. A man that had spent months away at war did not deserve to return to the sight of his wife’s sleeping back. “You did not send word.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, releasing his hands as she leaned against the pillows gazing down at him. Even in the dim candlelight that burned low upon the bedside table – she had taken to sleeping with a lit candle when Aemond had departed, unable to bear sleeping alone in the dark – his eye was still as vibrant as ever. At least that still feels familiar. Eyes of the coldest blue, that stared into hers with such intensity she was often torn between wanting to lose herself in it, or turn her face away for fear of that very thing happening.

“I just wanted to see you,” he replied quietly, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

Her mind reeled with a thousand questions and he laid there patiently, watching her impassively, as she sorted through her thoughts, deciding upon which she would ask first.

Does mother know you’re back? Aegon? How are you feeling?

“Is it over then? Have you come back to me?” are the questions she finally settled upon.

“Mmm…it is over,” he told her, “Daemon is dead.”

Her breath caught in her throat as happy tears filled her eyes, not quite able to believe what she had heard. “I have missed you so,” she whispered in a trembling voice, “you cannot imagine how much it gladdens my heart to have you back.”

“You should sleep, my love,” he murmured.

“What?!” she demanded, outraged by the notion. Her lips parted and her brow furrowed as she stared at him incredulously. She had not seen him for months, how could he simply appear in their bed without warning and then just expect her to fall asleep?

“I have not known peace in such a long time,” he explained softly, “I just want to watch you as you sleep. I did not mean to wake you, I just could not resist touching you.”

“We need to tell mother that you are back,” she argued, reaching for him again. Once more, he took her hand in his, his slender fingers chilly against the soft skin of the back of her hand. “Aegon must know you have returned.”

“Later,” he insisted, “sleep.”

Despite the commanding nature of his request, his vibrant, blue eye held within it a silent plea that she could not ignore. She sighed, turned onto her side, and closed her eyes. There was a part of her that had daydreamed that Aemond would ravish her upon his return, eager for the closeness and intimacy that only she could provide, after such a long separation. She was more than a little disappointed that he had made no such attempt, though she supposed he was tured after his journey home.

She had expected the excitement of the past few moments to prevent her from falling asleep. To her surprise, the pull of sleep dragged her under swiftly, a comforting, inky blackness enveloping her. Eyes of the coldest blue filled her dreams that night.

When she awoke the next morning, her tired mind was convinced she had dreamed Aemond’s return, especially as when she turned to his side of the bed, it was empty, utterly unrumpled as though it had not been slept in. Her heart sank, disappointment settling upon her chest like a stone that threatened to crush her. The mere act of throwing the covers back and climbing out of bed felt like an effort, her bones felt heavy with sadness.

She padded barefoot, slowly, to the adjoining nursery, stopping in her tracks when she saw the back of Aemond, stood in his riding leathers, looking over the cradle of their son, Rhaegar. The warm wave of relief that washed over her almost made her knees buckle, such was the elation that she had not imagined the return of her beloved twin and husband. Her cheeks almost ached under the strain of her smile, she had not expressed such joy in a long time.

Rhaegar had been a tiny babe when Aemond had pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head in farewell all those months ago. Now, he was approaching his second name day, and growing to resemble his father more with each passing day, his features possessed a sharpness that was uncanny to Aemond’s.

The infant babbled happily as he sat in his cradle, chubby fists clenched around a wooden dragon toy.

“Are you pleased to see your father?” She cooed as she came to stand beside Aemond.

Rhaegar squealed upon seeing her, waving his toy vigorously.

“You may hold him if you wish,” she urged her husband gently.

Aemond shook his head. “He seems happy enough, I do not wish to disturb him. My boy…he has grown.”

She hummed in agreement, nodding. “He looks more like you with each passing day.”

Aemond reached out a hand towards the child, stopping short of touching him. His expression became pensive, a faraway look in his eye, before he pulled his arm back, letting it drop back to his side.

His behaviour in the short time he had been back was puzzling to her, yet she knew that war changed people. Hopefully, as time passed, he would return more to himself, and be the man she married once more.

He turned and walked from the room as the nursemaid entered and lifted the child from his cradle in order to wash and dress him for the day.

As she returned to her own chamber, she noticed that bread, fruit and cheese had been laid out upon the table, by her chambermaids, for her to break her fast. Aemond had taken the armchair beside the fireplace, his favourite place to settle before he had left to defend Aegon’s claim to the throne.

“Will you join me for breakfast?” She asked hopefully.

“No,” he responded, “I have little appetite.”

She pursed her lips. She wanted to press the issue, he needed to eat, to maintain his strength, yet she did not wish to nag and cause him any additional torment after he had already endured so much.

“We will have to take Rhaegar to see Vhagar now you are back,” she said, attempting to lighten the mood, as she seated herself at the table and placed grapes upon her plate. “He is big enough now that he can actually comprehend what she is.”

“Vhagar…did not survive the battle,” Aemond uttered, staring off into the unlit fireplace, his tone sombre.

No wonder he seemed so different. Losing his dragon would have been a devastating blow to Aemomd, after all he had endured to claim her. She was his most prized possession.

“I am sorry, my love,” she murmured, rising from her seat and approaching him. “How…how did it happen?”

“Caraxes and her were surprisingly well matched. They both now rest at the bottom of the God’s Eye…alongside Daemon, and…”

He stopped, shaking his head and lifting his gaze to meet hers. The sadness within made her want to cry. As she stepped towards him, he held his hand out, the coolness of his skin enveloping the warmth of hers.

“And what?” she pressed quietly.

“It does not matter. At least I am reunited with you, I got to see you.”

She was about to respond when a knock at the door interrupted her. She sighed, calling out for them to enter.

A page boy opened the door, just enough for him to slip through the crack, before bowing to her. “Princess, the King has requested that you go at once to the Small Council chamber.”

She frowned, scoffing as she replied, “can it not wait until I am dressed?”

“Apologies, princess,” the page boy said, not meeting her eye, “the king insists that it is urgent.”

“Very well,” she huffed, tying her robe tighter around her nightgown, “I shall be there momentarily.”

The page boy bowed, leaving the way he had come.

“I suppose we could not avoid it forever,” Aemond said wearily, rising from his seat.

He trailed after her as they walked to the Small Council chamber, his steps quiet behind hers.

“Do not forget that I love you, I always have,” he told her softly as they approached the heavy doors.

“And I love you,” she said in turn, her heart fluttering as the coolness of his fingers briefly entwined with hers.

She did not knock, simply pushed open the door and stepped in. Only Aegon and their mother stood at the long, wooden table.

Her mother’s big, brown eyes were tearful, as Aegon leaned over a parchment that was rolled out before him, his features pinched in anguish. His bottom lip trembled in a manner that only occurred when he was angered to the point of near hysteria.

She had expected them both to be overjoyed to see Aemond, considering he stood at her side, but both seemed too engrossed in the contents of the letter they were reading.

“Oh, my dearest love,” her mother whispered tearfully, clutching a handkerchief as she stepped towards her and embraced her tightly.

“What? What is it?” She asked, and pulled back, brow furrowed in concern as she looked at her mother and then Aegon.

Alicent kept her arms around her, stroking her hair gently, as Aegon looked up from the parchment. His voice was quiet, almost croaky, as he spoke. “News from Harrenhal.”

What more could there possibly be?!

“So?” she asked in exasperation, “what is it?”

“There was a battle between Aemond and Daemon above the God’s Eye…”

I know this, I know this, I know this!

She wanted to scream in frustration, he was not telling her anything she did not know already. She pulled her shoulders up towards her ears momentarily, an impatient gesture for him to continue.

“Daemon is dead,” Aegon said, swallowing thickly, “and so is Aemond.”

She almost wanted to laugh. No, he was not! What a ridiculous thing to say.

“No, he is–” she reached out to Aemond, grasping the front of his riding leathers, her breath hitching as her hand passed straight through him.

Her blood ran cold as her horrified eyes lifted to meet his.

“I just wanted to see you,” he murmured, eyes of the coldest blue looking straight into hers as he faded away to nothing.

“...he’s gone,” she whispered tearfully. The painful clenching of her heart dulled every other sensation, and she did not even feel it when her mother wrapped her arms tighter around her.

Eyes of the coldest blue, let me see into you.

He had returned to her one final time, and would never again.

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sweetlikelace · 2 months ago

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MY HANDS ARE TIED, MY SLEEVES ARE TORN

PART FOUR | wandanat x reader

[part three]

paring(s): wandanat x reader, wanda maximoff x reader, natasha romanoff x reader

content warning: smut, exhibitionism, voyeurism, cunnilingus, mommy kink, daddy kink, breath play, praise, teasing,

word count: 2.3k

A/N: this was a little rushed toward the end, but i’ve been having such a hard time writing so hopefully it’s good enough for you

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, spilling gently over the bed. the world outside was quiet, the birds chirping faintly in the distance. the air felt warm, cozy, like the kind of morning where you could sleep in just a little longer, bury yourself deeper into the covers, and forget about the world outside.

you were tangled in the sheets, nestled between natasha and wanda. the three of you had fallen asleep the night before in a mess of limbs. wanda's arm draped across your waist, natasha's chest pressed against your back. you were warm, comfortable, and, for once, everything felt peaceful.

when you woke up you were reluctant to open your eyes. wanda and natasha's duvet was the comfiest you had ever slept in, and the longer you spent with the couple the more often you found yourself waking up in their bed. wanda liked her space, usually facing outward when the three of your slept, while natasha ran perpetually hot. you, on the other hand, were a full-time snuggle bug according to natasha. always wanting to be near her, or on her. she loved it of course, except for when she was sleeping. but today was the exception. usually after a more spicy night, they'd give in to your extra clingy behaviour.

you stretch your arms out before nuzzling back into natasha's side, moving around a bit trying to find a comfortable position. as you stirred, your leg shifted, and before you knew it, your foot had made contact with wanda's side with a gentle thud.

"ow," wanda muttered groggily, squirming away from the unexpected hit. her voice was thick with sleep, and her hand instinctively reached for the spot where your foot had nudged her.

you froze for a moment, eyes still closed. "sorry," you mumbled, your voice muffled in the pillow. "didn't mean to—"

wanda nestles back into her pillow, closing her eyes when it happens again. another kick into her thigh. "what the-"

natasha lifts her head sluggishly. "what's going on?"

"tasha, control your woman." wanda mumbled with her eyes closed. you could feel natasha's arm sling across your waist. she whispered in your ear, her voice husky. "relax malyshka."

"I am relaxed." you mutter back, face still buried in the pillow. natasha hushes you and pats your hip. out of the two older women, natasha took every opportunity to sleep in if she didn't have to wake up early for work.

"don't 'shush' me." you protest causing wanda to release an exaggerated sigh. "you two are ridiculous." she climbs out of bed, wrapping her robe around herself and slipping on a pair of natasha's slippers.

you reach your arms out and let out a dramatic whine. "nooo stay!" you pout. wanda just stands with her arms crossed.

"it's already 9, detka, time to get up."

you let out a dramatic groan and fling your arm over your eyes. "fine. but I'm staying in my pyjamas."

"you mean my pyjamas." wanda raises an eyebrow. for some reason it had always slipped your mind to bring extra clothes when you stayed over. the evenings always resulted in you drowning in one of their oversized t-shirts or crewnecks. you didn't mind it one bit, and neither did they. natasha found it to be extremely attractive, seeing you in her wife's clothes. “why are you even getting up this early? it’s not like you have work.” you roll over in the bed. natasha, who was trying to go back to sleep, reluctantly sat up too.

wanda opened the curtains, the sun reflecting through the vanity mirror. “oh it’s a hot one today,” she flicks her wrist, the windowsill hot from the sun. your eyes light up and you sit up. “can we go to the beach?!” you ask with a hint of excitement in your voice. wanda hated the beach, she didn’t love the idea of open bodies of water, and the sand, relentlessly finding itself in places sand shouldn’t be. you knew this of course, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

natasha watched her wife’s reaction. the way she sighed, almost anticipating the question. “a beach day could be nice.” she says, her gaze flicking between you and wanda.

once natasha was on board you thought you might actually have a chance, your eyes snapped back to wanda’s. “pleeaaseee.” you push out your bottom lip.

wanda grabs clothes from the hamper and sighs. “a beach day could be nice…” she repeats. your face lit up as you push the floral duvet cover off your legs and jump out of bed. natasha’s lips twitched into a grin, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ to her wife.

wanda had a way of making even the simplest of things feel planned. every detail, no matter how small, had to be perfect or it would throw off her whole vibe. it wasn’t that she was a control freak, but she could be meticulous at times. natasha was a lot more spontaneous. she often tried to push her out of her comfort zone, testing her limits without making her totally uncomfortable.

but when you came into the picture, natasha was no longer the one testing wanda, you did it perfectly. a natural type b personality, and how easily it could clash with the older woman’s.

wanda and natasha had a pool, so there was already a drawer filled with swimsuits in your size. you pick out a perfect baby blue bikini and slip on a crocheted dress over top.

natasha always wore the same black one piece with slits at the side, and wanda packed a yellow floral two piece.

it was hottest day this summer. the sand burnt your toes as you struggles to stay upright in your flip flops. you wait for natasha to walk ahead before jumping onto her back, causing her to tumble a bit. "a heads up would be nice." she chuckled, wanda shaking her head playfully.

"don't like the sand." you mutter into her shoulder. natasha always wore uggs on the beach for that very reason.

wanda finds an empty space and lays out a green gingham sheet she had found packed away in her closet. she takes out the sunscreen, tanning oil, and bottled water.

natasha drops you onto the sheet and you hurry toward the water.

"detka! come back you need sunscreen." wanda calls out after you, the warmth of the sun already making your skin tingle. Wanda's fingers brush against your back as she squeezes some sunscreen into her hands. You feel a little shiver run down your spine, her touch light but deliberate as she smooths the lotion over your skin.

her hands move expertly, spreading the sunscreen evenly across your back, working from your shoulders down to your lower back. the feeling of her fingers massaging the lotion in makes your muscles relax, and for a moment, you forget you're on a beach with the others. wanda is always so gentle, yet there's something reassuring in the way she takes care of you, like she's the one keeping the sun's harsh rays at bay.

natasha skipped the sunscreen and went straight for the tanning oil, wanda gave her a glare. once she finished up lathering the lotion onto your body, she moves beside natasha who was already laying on her stomach.

wanda pours a line of oil down natasha's back and gently massages it into her skin. your eyes lock onto the blonde's body, losing sight in her curves.

wanda's fingers find each inch of her wife's skin, deliberately teasing with the oil. natasha lets out a soft moan and your eyes immediately widen.

the motion of wanda’s hands becomes hypnotic as she moves down natasha’s back, her fingers light but deliberate. she massages the oil into natasha's lower back, her touch growing softer near the waistline. wanda's presence is soothing, like a safe harbor, and natasha seems to melt further under her touch. her hands linger just for a moment longer on natasha's back, almost as if she's reluctant to stop, but she does.

you blink a bit and tilt your head. "you're not coming in the water with me?"

natasha murmurs something you can't quite hear. you look out into the shoreline and decide to go yourself. wanda keeps a watchful eye on you like a mother would a child, while natasha sunbathes.

despite how hot it was, the beach was almost deserted. there was a family a few years down but not close enough where you could hear any of the kids.

the moment your toes touch the water, a soft shiver runs up your spine, the coolness of the sea contrasting sharply with the warmth of the sun still lingering on your skin. the sensation is freeing, as if the world outside of this little bubble doesn't matter for a while.

you look back to your spot on the beach. squinting your eyes to see the married couple close, closer than they were a few moments ago. you watch as wanda’s fingers slip inside the other woman, drawing out soft sounds that were muffled from the waves. you head snaps around quickly to see if anyone is watching, but it’s only you.

you slip further into the water, your nose just above as you watch wanda climb on top, tugging at natasha’s bathing suit. you felt the familiar tingling sensation between your legs. you didn’t know whether to stay put and watch, or interrupt them.

you watched natasha squirm beneath her, your eyes just watched her finish, her skin radiating afterglow.

you swallow the lump in your throat before slowly stepping out of the water and making your way back. you felt a little embarrassed watching, maybe a little bit of shame too.

when you return natasha is back to tanning on her stomach, wanda reading her book. you look between the two of them.

“how’s the water, malyshka?” wanda asks, her eyes glued to the page.

“cold.” you speak in a corse whisper. was she not going to acknowledge what you saw? “were you…”

“what’s the matter, baby? you’re shivering.” wanda hands you a towel and pats the spot beside her. you didn’t even notice the goosebumps covering your arms.

you shift beside her and watch as she continues to read. natasha laying peacefully in the sun, like she hadn’t moved in hours. “i saw you guys…” you confess.

“saw us what, detka?” wanda tilts her head.

you didn’t want to say it. it made your cheeks burn. “i saw you guys, you know…” it felt childish the way you couldn’t say the words.

“you mean you were being nosy.” natasha corrects you, lifting her head up.

you freeze at her words and look to wanda. “no it’s not like that.. i just… there’s people over there.” you stutter, causing the two women to exchange glances.

“you mean all the way over there?” natasha looks, resting her sunglasses on her nose. “don’t tell me you’re that shy.”

you felt small under their eyes. “i’m not shy, i just never…”

wanda lets out a taunting gasp. “you never been fucked in public, detka?”

that was the last of your composure. you tense up, pressing your legs together at the thought. that was never something that had crossed your mind before today. it would be a lie to say you didn’t enjoy watching them from the water, but a part of you was shocked. you’d never expect either of them to be into exhibitionism. before you could blink again natasha’s oily hand found your thigh and gave it a squeeze, while wanda tied your hair up out of your face. she kisses your cheek, and then your lips and you find yourself laying down against the sheet.

the oil smelt like coconut and pineapple, natasha smelt like coconut and pineapple. it was intoxicating. “she smells good, doesn’t she, baby?” wanda murmurs in your ear. “go on, tell tasha she smells good.” she slips her hands underneath your bikini top, massaging your breasts gently.

“you smell good, tasha.” you repeat quietly and natasha smiles and pours some of the oil into her hand rubbing it into your legs. “you’re gonna smell so good after this too, sweet girl.”

wanda traces patterns up your chest as natasha works the oil into your legs. natasha pours some into wanda’s hands and places them on your collar bone. she unties the bikini knot behind your neck, pulling it down completely.

her thumb circles your erect nipple, pulling soft moans and whimpers from your lips. “shhhh, my love, you don’t want anyone to hear what a naughty girl you are, hmm?”

natasha smirks and runs her oily fingers to your hips, dipping them into the straps of your bathing suit. she doesn’t take them off, just tugs enough so there’s room for her hand to slip in.

you squeeze your eyes as natasha uses the coconut oil to fill you up. her fingers exploring every inch of you. you squirm against the warm sheet as wanda holds you in place. “you’re doing so good for mommy and daddy, detka. almost there.”

natasha continues to work her magic, bring in you closer and closer to the edge. wanda’s hands find your breasts again, squeezing them between her palms.

you take a deep breath and hold it as the wave washes over you, natasha’s thumb pressing down on your clit, helping you ride out your orgasm. “breathe, baby.” wanda whispers, a soft reminder in your ear to ground you. you let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding and collapse onto the sheet.

wanda ties your bikini top back in place and pushes the damp hair away from your eyes, your skin still salty from the ocean.

“you know, i think i’m starting to like the beach.” wanda smiles.

tags: @ciaoooooo111 @htinha157 @milflovers4 @artemisarroxvolkov @ssasa-romanoff @angelicbrats @vyvvycg

#wlw #lesbian #sapphic #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #marvel x reader #mcu #black widow x reader #black widow #the scarlet witch

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aeruconn · 17 days ago

Text

Homophrosyne (WILL BE REWRITTEN)

— tim drake x male! reader

edit : im gonna rewrite this soon since i posted this part without thinking of how i'll do the full story soooo

PART I

word count — 1.5k

notes — reader is a bit older than Tim, he has the same relationship to the team as babs, steph, luke, etc. (aka not bruce's kid), slowburn (co-workers to friends to best friends to something to friends again to lovers??)

summary — maybe you weren't part of the team like you once thought. despite being there since the early years, your relationship with them could only wither. unbeknownst to you, one boy was still there. funnily enough, he was the one to ignore you from the start.

warnings — cursing (just one lmao), tim's kind of a bitch when you first meet, mentions of jay's death, more of an introduction/prolongue if anything, as we go further i'll go more in depth with how reader is and how he feels which is lwk projection but not. his psyche is fucked like the rest of them and has an unordinary perception of love and all.

You didn’t belong in the Bat family — at least, not like before.

It wasn’t exactly fair to say you were ignored ever since. Bruce wouldn’t just take in a child only to ignore them from the start. There was a process, one that you must admit, you took part in.

A tiny child you were, only 7 years old, covered in dirt and whatever polluted the streets of Gotham. Torn slippers were all that protected your feet as you ran, far, far away from the crackhouse you were meant to call home.

You ran away at midnight, all the lamps in your street flickering in a fight to stay alive. Even as they tried, the lights were dim, so they didn’t have much use. You were unsure how far you’ve gone; perhaps a block before collapsing to your knees.

And as much as you needed to, you couldn’t cry. All you could do was pant in exhaustion, mentally and physically.

That was the moment he arrived. He was dressed in all black, his infamous bat symbol imprinted at the center of his suit. As you stared up at him, he stared back. Even through the cowl you could see the way his eyes had softened, a cold mask warming up at the sight of you.

Mere seconds later came his sidekick — complaining about his mentor — and then he saw you. There was a look of surprise, then a bit of concern. You were beaten, dirty, your clothes inappropriate for the cold (though he couldn’t say much without sounding like a hypocrite with his shorts).

What was most worrisome was your expression. You looked dead, completely done with life and uncaring if you live or die. Maybe that’s what made the both of them reach out to you.

Dick was still uncertain. Even so, he helped you adjust to the manor, bringing you a warm set of clothes the moment Alfred brought them out. He was even kind enough to sit by your bed as you rested, only leaving once he was sure you were sound asleep.

There were times you’d think about that night. You can’t say the same for him, perhaps he had long forgotten about it. It’s not like it was his job to remember. And besides, you weren’t his sibling nor were you Bruce’s kid, just a child he helped out.

Some years later he’d leave, stepping outside of Bruce’s shadow to form his identity outside of Robin. You were happy for him, but sad to see him leave for a different city. The night before he left, he held you tight, promising to visit, and read you a story like he had just a few years ago. He may have a negative relationship with Bruce, but he couldn’t find himself to project it onto you.

After he left Bruce brought in another child. It was the same time you began your training as a vigilante.

He was older than you by two years, another scrappy kid from the streets. Due to his past it was rather easy for you both to form some kind of bond. Apparently he tried to steal the tires from the batmobile only to get caught by Bruce.

You trained alongside each other, patrolled together with Batman, and formed a strong relationship. All was well, until just a year or two later.

Regret filled your body as Bruce held his; lifeless and bloody. Maybe you should have gone with him, should have followed him. If you were there your friend might have been saved.

Something nagged at you, screaming that you somehow took part in his death. You could only break down into the arms of Barbara (your mentor was mourning, you couldn’t burden him with your grief). She kept you in a motherly hold, rubbing your shoulders as she whispered that you were just a child, you shouldn’t bear responsibility for his death.

Even at that point in your life, you didn’t shed a tear. What you could do was shake and pant, struggling to breathe like oxygen was suffocating you.

You think that was when it began.

Bruce wouldn’t talk to anyone unless it was vigilante-related. He avoided leaving his study, only doing so to put on the suit. He became a ghost, or maybe he treated everyone as ghosts.

Neither you, Alfred, nor anyone else close to him, could gain his attention.

Patrolling with him was nothing but silent; he refused to ask you how you were, correct your stance, nothing. All he did was give orders and leave you to follow. Even as your body bled, limbs aching, he did nothing. He was too deep in a pool of his grief that you couldn’t swim to him.

Soon enough, he’d take your suit away from you. He thought it was unsafe, he couldn’t risk losing you too, he thought he was doing good. Your new job was behind the scenes, gathering intel and sitting in the batcave. At first you hated it, but then grew to enjoy it a bit more than your old job. Hell, in the daytime you’d go out (as a civilian) and sneakily investigate scenes to gather more information first hand.

It took no less than a year for there to be a new Robin. This time, it wasn’t the bat who took him in. No, that boy barged into your lives with full knowledge of who you all were, what you do, and despite the risks; he still joined.

He didn’t bother forming any personal bond with any of you at first. Tim was only focused on being Robin, helping Batman get back on his feet.

Although you were once part of the trio-now-duo, he paid no mind to you. As long as you were there to do the job, he didn’t care. He didn’t even bother to greet you properly.

It irritated you a bit, though you understood that he stood on business. You allowed him to act that way, and you reacted similarly. Present you can’t really blame your distant relationship, seeing as you played a part in keeping the distance. Though there were times you’d catch him staring at you, saving a seat for you beside him at the dinner table, simple things despite the lack of communication.

However if there was one thing that bugged you, it was the attention he got. From Alfred to Dick and Barbara, they were hyper focused on him. It continued on as more people joined the family, slowly pushing you out of the frame. They began knowing you as your ‘vigilante’ persona rather than as yourself.

They’d refuse to train with you, making excuses that you were experienced enough, didn’t need to given your job, and they needed to help the others. Bullshit — as the others grew they still spent more time with them than with you. It was your fault for allowing it, for beginning to silence yourself and stray away from them as they pushed you. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt you one way or another.

The revival of Jason was something you had mixed feelings for. You thought he’d at least look at you when the rest didn’t, but like the 3rd Robin, he didn’t even spare you a glance. The only times he’d give you his attention was during your encounters while in the suits. Those times he’d make some comments, never a full sentence, but at the time it was good enough for you.

Now, at 20 years old, you were still nothing to them without the job. There were many times you wished to stop, but you couldn’t find it in you to do so. You loved what you did, loved stopping crime from the sidelines. Reasons were still unsure; you knew you should save people, but did you enjoy it? Perhaps you only liked beating those who hurt them, especially the elites who took advantage of the oppressed.

Your identity developed, changing names and hero identities like the other members. Yet as much as you did, nothing felt right, no new suit or name made you feel like yourself, and you didn’t know why.

It was past midnight, and you stood at the edge of a rather tall building. It was abandoned, in one of the emptier areas of the city, an old apartment building that had been labelled as inhabitable a year back.

While it’s been years since you’ve lived here, over a decade to be exact, it was still so familiar. You would visit the place often, ever since you found out there was no life inside. This was where your parents had died, the crack house they helped create despite the children living there. With such a shitty city as Gotham, it was no surprise that those below the upper class would find ways such as this to cope.

As you stare at the ground below, something egged at you to jump, to feel some form of freedom. You wanted to feel the air on your skin as you fell to death, a small taste of openness in a suffocating life before it ends.

But you knew that thought was stupid.

Even as you suffocated in your own home, you knew there was something you could do about it. There was something you had and would do.

“What’re you thinking about?”

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