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rambling-at-midnight · 6 months ago

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omg a part 2????

i loved it so much!!!

Ahh I'm so glad you liked it!!! It's my first Jason x reader fic :) Here's a part 2!

Pros and Cons of Midnight Snacks (Part 2)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Gender Neutral Civilian!Reader

Summary: Now it’s time for a meet-ugly-ish with some dude named Jason. Also, you see the Red Hood again.

Word count: 6.3k (holy shit)

You’re not crazy, right? It’s weird that the library is completely empty because it closes in two hours and the weather is actually nice outside for once, and some random dude wanders in and sets up two seats down from you. He’s not even here to study; he pulled out a sci-fi novel as soon as he sat down.

Who comes to a GCU campus library to read recreationally? The seats are uncomfortable and plastic. And the sun is shining. Everyone else is outside soaking up the Vitamin D.

Honestly, you’re mostly surprised the chair he’s on didn’t snap as soon as he sat. The dude is huge. Football player huge. Shouldn’t he be at practice, instead of forcing the chair to make the most irritating squeaking noises known to man every time he moves an inch?

You grit your teeth and put on your headphones, but you can still hear the poor chair’s dying lamentations, so you turn on an instrumental playlist that hopefully won’t distract you too much from studying.

You let yourself stew over the annoyance until your stomach growls so loud you hear it over the soft music. He has the good grace not to look at you, but you definitely see him pause.

Okay, you’ll call it even. This is what you get for running to the library right after six hours of classes. You need to cement the knowledge in your mind while it’s still fresh, and if that means you have to forego lunch…

He’s still there two hours later when the closing time alarm goes off. It’s a shrill old-school bell, the kind no one can ignore, and he jumps like he’s never heard it in his life. The poor chair finally gives up. He tumbles to the ground.

You look over in case he needs any help, but he’s scrambling for the book, face bright red.

If he is a football player, you wouldn’t be surprised that he’s never heard the bell before. That sort rarely stays this late at the library—if they enter at all.

He rushes out. You pack up a little more methodically. All that’s left for you to look forward to tonight is trying to study in your apartment, but you never have much luck.

He’s outside the library on his phone when you walk out. Maybe waiting for a ride? You’re a little on edge from the events of two days ago, so you watch him out of the corner of your eye as you walk away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t follow you.

At least the library closes earlier on Wednesdays, 6 pm instead of 9:30. You don’t know why. It’s still a weekday. But it forces you out while the sun’s still shining, which is probably a good thing.

Within two minutes of the twenty-minute walk home, your hip hurts. By the ten-minute mark, you’re trying not to limp.

Despite your better judgment, you keep your gaze turned to the rooftops, even though you know the vigilantes are nocturnal. It’s stupid to want to see a flash of red helmet, anyway. The Red Hood probably saves hundreds of people every week; there’s no way he would remember you.

Of course, when you finally get back, there are the stairs to contend with.

Your cat, that ungrateful little beast, beeps at you furiously for being gone so long. Never mind that your roommate works nights, so at most the cat’s been alone for an hour. He makes a break for the hallway, and you box the doorway with your legs and slam the door closed against your hip as you slip through.

Your injury explodes with pain, but at least the cat doesn’t get out. Ungrateful little beast. As if he isn’t fed and loved enough.

You finish slipping through the doorway and just stand for a moment listening to the blood rushing through your ears. Damn, but that hurt.

In the bathroom mirror, you hike up the hem of your shirt and check the state of your injury.

All in all, it could have been much worse. The bullet scooped out a fair chunk of skin, but it was just a surface wound. There’s no fresh blood on the gauze, and when you change the wrappings, the skin is pink and raw but starting to scab. It scooped out a chunk and left a trail of bruising, but you got off fairly lightly, all things considered.

The GCPD released the robber’s mugshot yesterday morning. In the picture, the man’s eyes were so swollen from your pepper spray he could hardly open them.

You preferred the bullet, honestly.

You try in vain to study a bit more, but even after you take more painkillers, you’re not in the mood. You feed your cat, then curl up on the couch to watch a couple episodes of the show you’re currently in the middle of.

That was the first time you see the huge guy, but it’s certainly not the last.

You wouldn’t notice him so much if he wasn’t the size of a damn refrigerator. He’s gotta be a linebacker for the Knights, but he’s not on their roster. You looked it up after the third time he wandered into the library just a couple minutes after you. It’s probably not updated yet, but you see him so often, you’d like to know his name.

Also, he’d bleached a patch of hair right at the front of his head—was that a trend now, or something?—so it wasn’t hard to spot him.

On Saturday, your feelings shift from mild annoyance and curiosity to a sinking sort of dread when you notice him at the coffeeshop you always visit on the weekends. The employees know you by name and use it to call out your order, so now he knows it, as long as he’s paying attention.

You think he might be.

You don’t want to be that person. Not everything in the world revolves around you, obviously. But you might still be shaken from what happened on Monday, because the thought wiggles in the back of your brain: what if you have a stalker?

You try to tell yourself that it’s just paranoia. GCU isn’t that big a campus, after all, and there are only so many places in the city that are: A. close to campus, B. reasonably priced, and C. comfortable to work in. You’ve run into classmates here before, and you don’t have a monopoly on the library or this coffeeshop. Just because he shows up at the same time you do doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He might be establishing a schedule that just so happens to line up with yours.

But, you have to admit, it is easier for stalkers to stalk people when they know their regular schedule.

You keep a watchful eye out and are pretty good about keeping off the streets after dark, but a week and a half later finds you stranded an hour’s walk from your apartment. The buses worked for two days, then shut down again, and you foolishly believed that following the detour that said would get you home would actually get you home. You don’t want to call an Uber because traffic would make the ride longer than the walk and bankrupt you in the process. Same reason you can’t call anyone to pick you up unless you waited the two hours until rush hour dies down.

Walking is, unfortunately, the best option.

So you clutch your trusty pepper spray and prepare yourself for a long night of looking over your shoulder and ignoring the pain in your side. The wound has mostly closed, although the bruising has gotten worse.

Three minutes later, you hear the roar of a motorcycle followed by angry car honks. You barely pay it any mind until the motorcycle pulls up next to you and doesn't pass.

You keep walking, avoiding eye contact. Maybe ignoring them will dissuade the rider from catcalling you.

It doesn't work. "Hey," the rider says, and it's only because the voice is mechanically distorted, recognizable only because of how many videos of him that you won't admit to looking up the last week, that you look at him. "What are you doing?" asks the Red Hood.

"What are you doing?" you counter. He's blocking the flow of traffic talking to you.

The Red Hood looks over his shoulder, flips off the person honking behind him, and steers his motorcycle onto the sidewalk. He drives fast, and you flinch in case he tries to run you over, but he screeches to a halt at the last second.

"Haven't seen you in a couple of weeks," he says casually, like you two meet up often.

"I've been staying out of trouble," you say.

"Not tonight?"

"No. That wasn't my fault, though. I took the Southwest bus because it was supposed to connect with the L line, but all the signs they posted were a lie, apparently, because—" You cut yourself off. "Never mind, I'm sure you don't care. Point is, I'm walking home. It's not too far."

"It's about an hour," he points out. "How's your bullet wound? Will it object to that walk?"

"I'll be fine."

He pats the back of his motorcycle seat. "Hop on. I'll drive you."

You take a couple hasty steps back. It may not be a white van, but you know better than to follow candy into someone's vehicle. "Oh, no, thanks. Traffic's pretty bad right now."

You get the sense he's smiling when he says, "I bet I can get you back faster than walking." If only he wasn't wearing the stupid shiny helmet, you would be able to read his expressions better.

"Really, I'm okay. I'm sure you have better things to do than drive me home."

"Helping people is literally my job," is his response. "I have to make sure you get home safely. So either you get on the back of my bike, or I follow you the whole walk back to your apartment."

You know a losing battle when you see it. As a general rule of thumb, it's usually smart not to argue with the dude carrying at least two guns. "Don't kidnap me," you order before slinging your leg over the seat.

He chuckles. It's the first time you've ever heard him laugh, and it makes him sound so much younger. "You can't ride like that."

"Like what?"

He cranes his neck to look back at you. There's at least six inches between both your bodies. You clutch the sides of the seat with both your hands, hoping he doesn't take off with such a lurch that you topple off the back. "I drive fast. You'll have to hold on."

"I am holding on."

"To me."

You've only met the man twice. You're pretty sure clinging to someone's back is at least a third-meeting type of touch, but he reaches back. The Red Hood snakes a hand nearly twice the size of yours into the crook of your knee, then yanks you to him. You shoot forward with a strangled yelp and catch yourself on his back.

You've never before understood the phrase 'wall of muscle,' but you get it now.

He is huge. And strong. You gingerly put your hands on his shoulders. That's not an inappropriate touch, you think.

He has to live at the gym, right?

"You're still not holding on," he chides. "I don't have a helmet for you, so you really shouldn't fall off."

You swallow and move your hands, but he's too thick for you to link your hands around his front. So you fist both of them into his jacket. It presses your bodies tight against each other from shoulder to thighs. Through the layers his body radiates heat, but you shiver.

"Going," is all the warning you get.

Then you're gone; the bike shudders beneath you, then takes off like a jet.

You can't catch your breath. This must be what riding a dragon feels like, is your first nonsensical thought, a side effect of your roommate's obsession with Game of Thrones.

The bike roars beneath you, but you can hardly hear it over the rush of wind and the pound of blood in your ears. You can't see much with the wind drying out your eyes, so you press your head against the Red Hood's back and squint to one side. Cars and street lamps blur together into a stream of mismatched lights and colors.

The Red Hood drives fast. He weaves between lanes, runs through red lights, cuts onto the sidewalk. A couple bikers shake their fists at him when he passes them in the bike lane. A lot of cars honk at the two of you.

Judging by the way his shoulders shake with laughter, he likes pissing them off. You have to admit, the feeling is a little intoxicating.

You can't hear the sound, but your front is plastered to his back. Even with the layers of his suit and leather jacket, you can feel the vibrations of sound deep within his chest. He has a fairly deep voice, after all, unless the helmet changes that.

No less than ten minutes later, he parks abruptly. You lift your head, blinking moisture back into your eyes, and stare dumbly at your apartment building.

He'd actually brought you back.

Maybe he really was reformed.

You stumble off the bike onto unsteady legs. The Red Hood kicks his stand into place and rests against the bike, leaning with elbows on his handlebars. Like he expects a Midwest goodbye. And you find yourself dawdling.

Maybe you want one, too.

"Thanks for the ride," you finally say awkwardly.

"Anytime," he says, and you laugh, thinking it's a joke, but he doesn't. After a brief awkward pause, the Red Hood tries, "So how have you been?" as if you're old pals meeting up for brunch, and the question is so ridiculous coming from a sort-of-reformed crime lord slash serial killer that you respond without thinking.

"Pretty good, except I think I may have a stalker."

His helmet doesn't do a great job translating whatever sound he makes in response to that. It comes out as a crackle. "What?"

"I've noticed this dude recently showing up wherever I go," you say. "But I think it's just a coincidence. Sorry. That was a bad joke." It wasn't, but you don't want to accuse someone without proof of stalking you. If he's not, you'll seem self-obsessed. If he is, then he knows that you know, and it's not like the GCPD will do anything. One of your friends from your hometown had a stalker for literal years, and the police never did anything, even after he sent her death threats. They said there wasn't enough proof to make an arrest then, so someone showing up at the same places you are definitely isn't enough proof now.

The Red Hood tilts his head. "Does he make you uncomfortable?"

"You don't need to beat him up or anything on my behalf," you say. "I mean, you've seen me with a bottle of pepper spray. I'm pretty sure I can handle myself."

"I know you can," he says. You can hear the smile in his voice, like he finds something about the situation funny. "And I'm pretty sure that you know that I'm going to check this out anyway."

"No," you say, surprising yourself with your firmness. You can't rely on vigilantes to solve all your problems for you. "Seriously, it's okay. Thanks for the ride. Maybe I'll see you around."

"I'm counting on it," he calls as you walk away.

And he's right. Two days later finds you at the gas station at ten-thirty at night. You don't want to see him, per se. You're definitely not looking over your shoulder at the slightest sound. You definitely didn't check the parking lot for a notorious red motorcycle on your way in, and you certainly aren't taking peeks out the window every time headlights pass by on the street.

You're just... curious.

Maybe.

But you have absolutely no warning, not even a suspicion that someone is behind you, when you reach for a box of Cheez-Its. Someone else's hand gets there first and you nearly jump out of your socks.

"Hey," the Red Hood wheezes. He's clutching his side like he has a cramp. "Question: if I buy these for you, will you patch me up?"

"What?"

"I may have been cut," he admits. Judging by the angle of his hunch, it's a little more serious than just a 'cut'. "So: do we have a deal?"

The thought occurs to you, as you help him up five flights of stairs to your apartment, that you're escorting a strange man into your place of residence. You haven't even given your roommate a heads-up, though you're pretty sure tomorrow's his night off.

Sure enough, the only person there to greet you when you walk in is your cat. As per usual, he tries to escape. The Red Hood gently but firmly ushers him inside with his foot with such ease he must have one of his own. "It's cute," he says, still clutching his side.

"Thanks," you say. "He always tries to get out, but if he actually escapes then he just freezes in the hallway until I bring him back inside." Then you realize that you're discussing your cat, of all things, with the Red Hood. You clear your throat and say, "Let me take a look at you."

The crime lord and cat trail after you into the bathroom. It gets a little cramped because the Red Hood's about as small as a fridge is small, but you two figure out a passable system: he's too tall, even while sitting down, and you don't want to bend in half while you stitch him. So you sit on the toilet, he stands in front of you, and your cat jumps on top of his leather jacket on the counter to observe and judge. Luckily, the suture kit is still in the bathroom from when you thought you would have to stitch yourself up, so it's not long before you're instructing him to lift up the hem of his shirt so you can see the damage.

You hiss between your teeth at the sight. Someone grazed his side with a knife, by the looks of it, but the wound is deep. It might go all the way to his subcutaneous tissue.

After you clean it off, you're sure that it does. "You call this a cut?"

"I've had worse," he says gruffly.

"And you're still alive?" You squint at him.

He huffs like that's funny.

"They basically cut you in two! I don't know if I can fix this. I've never stitched someone up before!"

"What do you mean?" He tilts his head. "You stitched yourself up, remember? You told me you would."

Shit. Of all the ways to stick your foot in your mouth—

"It wasn't that bad," you say weakly.

“It looked pretty bad.”

“It just looked bad because I was wearing a light colored shirt. Don’t worry; I’ve learned my lesson.”

The Red Hood scratches under your cat’s chin. “About wearing light colored clothing, or about getting shot?”

You’re trying to thread the suture needle, but the stupid thread won’t cooperate. “Hmm?”

“Which lesson did you learn?”

“The former, mostly. Believe it or not, ‘try not to get shot’ is something most people, including me, know intuitively.”

"Let me see."

"Yeah, right," you say, "my apartment's basically a strip club, isn't it? First your shirt's coming up, then mine. Absolutely—" You slap his hand away— "Not. I'm fine. Now hold still while I stab you."

The process goes by quickly. He stands like a statue the whole time, like he's used to the pain of getting stitches. Considering his profession, he probably is.

Actually, you can see a couple healed-over scars on his torso just from the small bit of skin he's revealed by pulling up his shirt. And, you're pretty sure, a perfectly defined six-pack, but that's none of your business.

"I don't have the fancy dissolving sutures, unfortunately," you say while you tie off the thread. "These should come out in about a week."

"Yeah, I know," he grunts, letting his shirt fall back down. And you're not disappointed. At all. "Same time next week, then?"

"What?"

"To get them out."

"Uh." Your brain stalls out. You'd been operating under the assumption that this was just another freak coincidental run-in.

Is it just you, or is the Red Hood looking to make a friend out of you? Or maybe just a free pseudo-surgeon?

"Sure," you say. It's not like you can stop him, really.

"Thanks," he says, stroking your cat one more time. Then he nudges the pest off his jacket and shrugs it on, even though there's not really a need for it. The weather's been pretty mild the last week.

You walk him out the door. He pauses in the hallway, turns, and says, "By the way, what's your name?"

You tilt your head and tell it to him.

"Nice to meet you," he says. Then he walks away.

You watch him walk down the hallway until your cat escapes, and then you have to chase him. You're pretty sure the Red Hood sees it, because low-pitched laughter hits your ears as you gather the little bastard up, but when you look, the vigilante's gone.

"God, I hope he's up to date on his tetanus shot."

You find yourself at the coffee shop the next morning, determined not to let a buff bookworm change your routine. You're the first customer, and they have your order ready by the time you finish setting up your stuff on a small table in the corner of the shop, far from where the line will build up when more people trickle in.

Like clockwork, the bookworm wanders in just a couple minutes after you do, orders two coffees, and settles down across the room with his front to you.

Every time you glance up, he's utterly focused on his book. He's probably not watching you. Right?

Fifteen minutes later, the coffees untouched, he stands up. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he picks one up, approaches the counter, and...

Walks right past it.

Walks in your direction.

You stare blatantly, and he holds your gaze with a set jaw and something a little challenging in his gaze.

He's walking to you.

The coffee cup slams on the table, splashing a little over the edge, and you jump to move your laptop away from the liquid.

"Shit, sorry," the bookworm says. He runs away.

You stare until you realize he's grabbing napkins and hurrying back. At least ten, even though the spill's pretty small, and he piles them all onto the table.

His face gets redder the longer you watch without saying anything.

Once he's absolutely sure your laptop is safe from the couple drops he spilled, he balls them all into one large fist and rushes out, "I'm sorry—I was supposed to meet my brother here, but he canceled, and your drink cup's empty, so I was just wondering if you wanted this one? It's a little warm, but..."

"But free is good," you say, deciding to put him out his misery. And he certainly looks miserable rambling in front of you. Like he's mortified for some reason. "Um, thanks. What..."

"Just an iced coffee. Probably watered down."

You take a sip, just to be polite. It is watered down, but he didn't add any milk to it, so that's probably a good thing. "Thanks..." You tilt the cup to look at the name written on the side. "Jason?"

"Yep." He nods. He's still standing in front of you, like he wants to be invited to sit, but you have a lot of work to do, and he's a complete stranger, and all his stuff is still on his table across the room.

Something clatters behind the counter. You both turn in time to see the two baristas duck out of sight, whispering furiously. Probably about the spectacle you two are making.

"You go to GCU's campus library a lot, right?" Jason asks suddenly.

"Yeah, I do. So do you." You don't phrase it like a question.

"Yeah," he says. "It's peaceful to read in there. Quieter than my apartment."

"Okay," you say slowly. You're really not interested in this conversation, but you don't want to be rude.

He must understand you, though, because he rubs the back of his head and steps backwards, mumbling something about getting back to his book.

Jason's brother never does end up meeting him. You tell yourself that's why you keep glancing at him. Once or twice, you two peek at each other at the same time, and you always look away first, face hot like he's caught you doing something wrong.

The next time you go to the library, it's packed. The weather has turned, so students have nothing better to do than prepare for their finals. You head to the quiet floor, slowly losing hope that you'll find a seat.

A head snaps up the moment you walk in, dark-haired with a striking streak of white at his forehead. Jason.

Something like relief passes over his face, and he waves you over.

"I saved your seat," he whispers, dragging his bag off of the chair.

"Thanks," you say, actually touched. "You didn't have to."

He shrugs. "You're my reading buddy."

The next day, he's sitting at the library's entrance when you walk in. Jason shakes his head. "All the seats were already taken when I got here."

"Ugh." Strictly speaking, you don't need to study tonight. You're pretty confident about the next test's material, and you're also pretty burnt out.

"We could check out the Student Center?" he suggests. As if it's a given that the two of you are going to spend the afternoon together. And, you realize, after two straight weeks of studying in his proximity, you don't mind the presumption. That's how you made your closest friend in undergrad, anyway.

In fact, you think you might want to get to know Jason. Maybe ask about his white streak; you've been growing more and more curious about it. And why he's about seven feet tall and two hundred fifty pounds of muscle but has a passion for romance novels.

"I don't think I've studied in there before."

"It's not too bad, but it's a little louder than the library."

So you two head to the Student Center, but he doesn't open his book, and you open your laptop but don't turn it on. He buys you coffee, though you insist that you can pay for it yourself, and a simple query into what book he's reading currently turns into a two-hour conversation.

Jason likes to read every genre, but he likes classics and romance best. He doesn't just have one brother, he has four, and a sister. He's not on the football team like you'd assumed; he just likes to work out. He's finishing up his sophomore year of undergrad studying English Lit—he sees how your smile freezes at those words, and you're asking how old he is, and he's laughing when he tells you he took a couple gap years. He's your age, actually, and that's relieving for reasons you can't quite put to words.

When you check your watch and curse at the time—it's almost time for your cat's dinner—he asks for your number, and you put it into his phone.

You feel good on your walk home. You haven't made a new friend since the first semester of vet school; the course load is too demanding for you to participate in any GCU clubs. Your roommate asks why you're smiling and you wave him off. Of course, your cat doesn't care that you're in a good mood. He only cares about getting fed.

You see Jason a couple more times over the week, and soon you're too embarrassed to admit that you thought he was stalking you. He's almost as bad a texter as you are, responding at such hours you're half-convinced he doesn't sleep, so you're less self-conscious about taking hours to respond.

You've just gotten around to answering his last text when something knocks against your window.

You drop the phone on your face.

The Red Hood is laughing at you when you open the window to let him in. You'd forgotten he was coming, but you don't say so. He tumbles in, moving a little stiffly, but a lot better than he'd been last week. Your cat, the little traitor, runs to greet him and rubs against his ankles, purring like an engine. The Red Hood bends to pet him. "Hey, kitty." The red helmet tips up and those unnerving white lenses fix on you. "Hey, doc. Here to get my stitches out."

"How have you been feeling?" you ask.

"Good," he says, almost defensively.

It makes you suspect that something is wrong, but when you all pile into the bathroom again like it's a clown car and he pulls up his shirt, the wound is healing nicely. No pink or heat that signals infection, no puffy skin. You remove the stitches quickly, and again he hesitates, like he wants to stay longer.

You find yourself thinking about Jason. You're pretty sure you wish he was here.

"Well, thanks."

"Anytime."

He pauses. "Really?"

You shrug. "I mean, not if you need a hospital. Then I'd expect you to head straight to a hospital. But stuff like this—no worse than this, ideally—I guess I can help you with."

"You're pretty cool for a vet," the Red Hood says. "The last one I visited kept freaking out on me for stealing codeine."

"Well, that's a restricted—wait, you were stealing codeine? What for?"

He shrugs.

"What were you using it for," you repeat sternly.

"Okay!" he says loudly. "Well, thanks for patching me up, doc. I'll see you later, yeah?"

"Wait," you call out uselessly, but he vaults out the window. You gasp and rush to the sill, but there's no Red Hood-shaped puddle on the ground. Instead, his rapidly shrinking form disappears in the distance, swinging between the buildings that make up the Gotham skyline.

You don't see the Red Hood for a while after that, but you hear whispers of him wearing a new costume. You get caught up with finals and Jason, who asks you out after the semester ends.

Your vehement 'yes' takes you by surprise. Him, too, judging by his wide eyes and wider smile. You wonder why he asked if he thought you would say no. You wonder why you didn't realize earlier how desperately you wanted him to.

Now that you're out of school, you pick up shifts at the vet clinic. By some unhappy circumstance, they can only schedule you for the evening shifts. Jason works nights, too, and you've never fully squirreled out where he works, but at least you can spend some days together.

It's when you're walking back from your first shift that you see the Red Hood again after almost three weeks of radio silence. He pulls up next to you on the motorcycle. It's so late that there's no one on the road, so he stays on the asphalt and idles along at your walking pace until you break and say, "Long time no see, Hood."

"Did you miss me?" he teases.

You stop walking, because.

Most of his costume changed. Because it's summer, and even the nights are hot and muggy, you assume.

The pants are the same. So are the boots. But his jacket is red and sleeveless and has a hood that goes down to his eyebrows, the armor beneath short-sleeved, which means most of his arms are bare.

And...

Your mouth is dry. You swallow.

You're pretty sure not even Batman is that ripped. He looks like he's chiseled out of marble.

The longer you're speechless, the more amused he gets. You don't know how you know that, but something about his posture seems smug.

"You're taking 'red hood' seriously now, are you?" is all you manage to say. Because what else are you supposed to comment on? His bare forearms? His veins are so beautifully pronounced, they would be a dream to take blood from, but you have a boyfriend of a whole one and a half weeks, and you may be many things, but you're not a cheater.

He laughs, then pulls his hood low when it slips back a bit. His voice is still modulated, although it's not through a red helmet anymore. This is more like a muzzle. You can't tell if the eye covering is part of it, or like the domino masks that Batman and Robin wear, but the lenses are red now instead of white.

He's really leaning into the theme.

"You want a ride?"

"We're two blocks from my apartment."

He shrugs. "I'm heading there anyway."

What the hell. You've already hopped on the back of his bike before. It's easier to do so the second time. You wrap your arms around his torso again, and when his arms settle over your own, they're warm with his body heat, but not hard, even though the muscles look sharp enough to cut glass. He's firm all over, but his skin is soft, apart from the raised, bumpy scars that seem to cover him from head-to-toe. It makes you worry about him, just a little.

He doesn't drive fast this time. He drives slow enough to hold a conversation and tosses over his shoulder, "So what's new with you?"

"Not much," you say into his ear. Is it just you, or does he shiver? "I finished another semester of vet school."

"Top grades, I'm sure. Did you get extra credit for patching me up?"

"I wish." No, your grades are good, but not exceptional. But exceptional is what got you into vet school. As long as you graduate with a DVM, even if you're the lowest in your class, you're a licensed doctor. There's some relief in that. "The dude I thought was stalking me asked me out, actually."

"Really?" he asks, interested and alert. "Was he really stalking you? Do you need me to scare him off for you?"

"No," you say, smiling at the thought of the Red Hood trying to scare off Jason. They're about the same build, now that you think about it, which you're sure the vigilante isn't used to. And Jason's never been anything but gentle and polite, but you saw an undercurrent of something strong, something like titanium, under that gentle spirit the one time he stood up for one of the baristas at the coffee shop that you first spoke to each other. He hadn't needed to do much apart from stand up and glare at the beleaguered corporate guy angry that there wasn't enough sugar in his coffee, and the dude shut up and scurried out as fast as he could.

It was probably the hottest thing you've ever seen him do, except for that one time you pushed your laptop a little too close to the edge of your desk while studying, it tipped over, and he caught it one-handed without looking up from his book. What can you say? Saving you a couple hundred dollars in getting that fixed was hot.

"It was a misunderstanding," you say. "We just ended up in the same places at the same times."

A gust of wind pushes back the Red Hood's hood, exposing a head of thick, dark hair, the same shade of black as Jason's. The motorcycle swerves in his haste to pull his hood back up, and when you reach your apartment and hop off the bike, he's pushing his hair back, back, beneath the hood.

What's the point of ditching the helmet if he's just going to be fussing with the hood all the time?

"What's new with you?" you ask, scuffing your toe against the sidewalk. Your shoes are falling apart; the sole is peeling away.

"Same old, same old," he says. His voice sounds rougher, but that might just be the new modulator.

"How's your side?"

"How's yours?" he counters. "You still haven't let me see it. I bet it scarred because you were too stubborn to take my advice and patch it up."

You will never admit that he's right. You challenge, "Let's compare scars, then," knowing full well his armor dips below his pants. It's a little silly to picture the Red Hood wearing an armored one-piece, but that's all you can imagine.

He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. It dislodges the hood. A patch of hair falls down to his forehead, and it's white.

But the back of his hair is black.

White and black—

Your stomach flips.

"I thought you had a boyfriend, honey. Why're you asking me to strip?"

So that's what all the teasing's been about. He hasn't been flirting—or he has, his own weird version of flirting, because he's a dumbass.

For a moment all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears, then you flex your fingers to regain feeling in them. You roll your eyes and say, "I think we've established that my apartment is basically a strip club. Why don't you come up and show me, Jason?"

"Well, I'm flattered, but—what?" He splutters like he's choking on his own tongue. Serves him right. "I'm not—why do you think that—I mean, I could be anyone—"

Yeah, he can have his little crisis on the street. You tug on your own fringe, then swipe into the building.

You hear his muffled cursing as the door closes.

You look forward to him catching up.

(My requests are open, so let me know if you want me to write anything in particular! Also let me know if you want to be added to a taglist.)

Forever tag list:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

#reader insert #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd fic #jason todd x reader #jason todd

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cottonlemonade · 10 days ago

Text

Brushing Your Stress Away

word count: 1321 || avg. reading time: 6 mins.

pairing: University AU!Tsukishima x chubby!Reader

genre: spice with fluff

warnings: mdni

request: Hello!! can me and my dear Tsukki get an 11 and 23 for lunch before i procrastinate? || fluffy-spicy, dealing with exam stress + studying together with boyfriend Tsukishima

Tsukishima didn’t even flinch when the pen zoomed past his head, bounced off the wall, and landed perfectly in his hamper. Without looking up from his notes, he asked, “Tough chapter?”

You groaned and let yourself fall on your back, arms and legs outspread like a starfish, “I wanted to study art because I love painting, not because I love remembering dates! This is impossible!”

You dramatically flung an arm over your eyes to drive your point home that you were done with studying.

“Come on, only 32 more minutes on the timer.”, your boyfriend said, turning a page and pushing your art history book closer to you.

“No.”, you pouted, wiggling a foot in defiance, “Don’t wanna.”

“So, you plan on working in a museum as… what? A barista?”

Letting your arm fall off your face, you turned your head to look at him, “You could come visit me during your breaks.”

“Not likely. Coffee is disgusting.”

“Not the point, Kei.”

“Resign to your fate or study for another 31 minutes. Either way, stop whining. Some of us want to focus.”

You sat back up, squinting indignantly at your boyfriend, who skillfully ignored you as his eyes skimmed the pages.

Letting out a small huff of boredom, you looked around his bedroom. When he invited you to come spend the break with him in Miyagi you were excited, even more so when on the drive here he casually mentioned that you’d be alone because his older brother was staying at uni with his friends and his mother was away on some conference. But four days of your precious week had already passed without so much as a roaming hand.

On a whim, you reached for your pencil case to take out a cheap replica of an old artist’s brush - a small gift from the souvenir shop Kei had gotten you the last time you visited a museum together. Turning it in your fingers to have something to do, you stared at the page of your book, admiring the pictures at least.

Kei meanwhile, chewed the inside of his cheek, throwing a quick glance over his glasses at you. He knew he wasn’t doing a particularly great job as a boyfriend right now.

To not make it too obvious what he was looking forward to the most during this week together - uninterrupted alone time with no nosy roommate to worry about or forgetting his key and having to spend the rest of his night on a bench in front of his building - he had put together quite the itinerary under the guise of how much you’ve nagged him to show you his hometown (you asked once). Somehow, being in his childhood home after the months away at university made him almost shy. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he felt guilty for bringing you here without telling his mother. However, if his shower thoughts were any indication, he wanted nothing more than to make use of the empty house with you - not seeming too eager, of course. He flipped a page without having read the previous one. Unless he finally acted on his impulses, you would return to academic life without even a good solid make-out session at this point.

A soft caressing sensation on his arm made him snap out of his thoughts. He found you running your brush along a faint vein on his wrist.

“What are you doing?”, he asked unnecessarily but didn’t pull away.

“Nothing.”

The smooth bristles followed his long fingers now one by one.

Without any conviction, he said instinctively, “Stop that.”, whilst really hoping you wouldn’t.

Luckily, you never listened to him, so instead you brought the brush up to his neck and tickled the sensitive spot under his ear. He shuddered and you laughed.

“You think this is funny?”, he asked.

“Hilarious, actually.”, you said.

He got to his knees and all too easily made you tumble backward, making sure to catch your head in his hand before towering over you. With a superior sneer, he took the brush from you.

“Let’s see how ticklish you are.”

Trapped between his long legs, you giggled and squirmed when he ran the brush under your chin, and you ducked your head between your shoulders to defend yourself. So he brought it to your ear.

“Stop!”

Your hand shot up to cover one side, but he just took this to mean he could attack the other. He sat back on his heels and in an attempt to hide the outline in his sweats, pursed his lips in fake pondering.

“Hmm… looks like you leave me no choice.”, he shrugged with a heavy sigh and unceremoniously lifted the hem of your shirt, making extra sure his palm, rough from the years of playing volleyball, dragged gently over your pillowy tummy as he did. You became very still, waiting for his next move. He felt you pressing your thighs together between his legs and scoffed while painting invisible lines on your skin as if he were sketching the outline of your bra.

“This is very much in the way.”, he said more to himself than to you and pulled a cup down from your breast. He leaned forward now, his free hand holding him up next to your head and with precise little teasing strokes he flicked the brush over your perked nipple. You made a small noise, one he loved to hear so much, so he did it again, and again.

“Pretty sure the other one is just as sensitive.”, he murmured and without warning, he pulled down the second cup, tucking it safely under your breast, then got the brush into position. You bucked your hips under him when he twirled the bristles this time.

“You’re right, this is fun.”, he noted and kissed you, not letting up on the teasing with the brush. You ground against him, making him gasp into the kiss.

“Will you finally focus on your studies if I give you what you want?” He had trouble catching his breath, was met with a very enthusiastic nod, and kissed you again.

Kei moved back, slowly dragging your sweats down with him, and had to suppress a dreamy groan. You were nothing short of perfection. With the pudgy tummy, the generous love handles, and full thighs you had always reminded him of beauty depicted in Renaissance paintings.

He shifted to lay on his stomach, propped up on his forearms, spinning the brush in his long fingers. A little spring of pride bloomed in him when he noticed a wet patch on your panties already.

The more he dragged the brush over the soaked fabric the more he noticed a definite gleam on the bristles. With the very tip of it, he focused on the pronounced little nub of your clit and was rewarded with a high moan. He was curious if he’d be able to make you cum just with a simple little painter’s brush when the door to his room slid open.

“WOAH!”

Akiteru spun around to look away.

“Sorry! I just heard a noise and - don’t mind me.”

“Why aren’t you in Tokyo?!”, Kei yelled in frustration, scrambling to his feet. A low rustling behind him told him you followed his example.

“Needed some fresh air?” His brother shrugged awkwardly, still with his back to him. “I’ll uhm… I’ll head to the convenience store. Should take me maybe 20 minutes. Do with that information what you will.”

He grabbed around behind him to find the handle before pulling the door closed again, then called from the hallway, “I’ll bring you some snacks!”

Kei exhaled, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, “I’m sorry… y/n, I- mfpg”, he was interrupted by you turning his head and yanking him down to you by the collar of his shirt to kiss him.

“You heard him, 20 minutes. Let’s go.”

a/n: reader was on mission! Thank you to the anon who requested this prompt! I hope you enjoyed it 🌟

#tsukishima x chubby reader #tsukki x chubby reader #haikyuu x chubby reader #chubby reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x curvy reader #tsukishima smut #tsukishima x reader #haikyuu tsukishima #tsukishima kei #tsukki smut #tsukkishima x reader #tsukki x reader #hq tsukki #haikyuu tsukki #tsukkishima kei #hq smut #haikyuu smut

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bqstqnbruin · 1 month ago

Text

Christmas Crashing

I'm taking a break from my regularly scheduled Swayman programming for a different fic where I'm actually not mean with the ending????? Who would have thought I could do that

ANYWAY this is for @wyattjohnston's winter fic exchange, and I got to write for the absolutely amazing @laurenairay! We're ignoring that it's more than the week after Christmas but oh well

Also shoutout to @nicohischier for letting me yell about this and reading this while I scared her ily

Warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, I actually gave you a happy ending?????

WC:8890

Flashbacks are in italics

______________________________________

“What are you saying?”

“That I’m done.”

“That we’re done,” he clarifies for her.

She can feel her chest start to tighten, a lump forming in her throat. “Yeah.”

Mimi hangs up without letting him get in another word, telling herself that she didn’t want to let him listen to the first sob that came out of her. She couldn’t read the text that he had sent trying to make sense of what just happened, telling her that he loved her and knew she loved him, that he wanted to figure this out and get through whatever was going on.

________________________

“You should totally post this photo,” Stella tells her, her mouth hanging open while she stared at Mimi’s phone screen.

“Are you sure?” Mimi leans over her friend's shoulder, trying to look at Stella’s handiwork. Mimi was facing the arena, the back of the jersey her mom got her for Christmas a couple of years ago on full display as she looked back over her shoulder, her ponytail covering part of Hischier’s name.

“Babe, you look so hot.” Stella opens up Mimi’s account, drafting up a post for her roommate.

Mimi tries to snatch the phone from her before she could do anything, her taller friend holding the phone over her head while people around them filter into the arena, probably thinking these two girls outside were acting ridiculous. They were, but that wasn’t going to stop Mimi.

Stella manages to get the picture posted, despite Mimi saying she wasn’t sure. “You look hot, shut up and let everyone see it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And you love me anyway.”

They go into the game, Mimi ignoring the notifications that were coming up on her screen from Instagram despite the ego boost she denied they gave her. She could have spent the entire game on her phone, just scrolling through notifications and making her head bigger than it should be.

“So?” Stella asks after the first period when the two of them head to the concourse to get food. “Was I right?”

Mimi had her phone in her hand, showing Stella her screen and scrolling for what seemed like forever to the end of the notifications she had yet to open. “Fine.”

“Tell me I was right,” Stella gloats.

Mimi rolls her eyes. “This kind of shit is why I broke up with Sofia, if you remember.”

“You broke up with her because she was an awful girlfriend in general, not because she was right more often than you were.” Mimi ignores her, continuing to scroll through the notifications while Stella looks over her shoulder. “Wait, woah, go back.”

Mimi scrolls back down, waiting for Stella to tell her to stop. “There’s no way.”

Stella starts jumping up and down, trying not to bring too much attention to them this time. “Did he comment on your photo?”

“Did you tag him in the photo?”

Stella smirks. “There’s no harm in trying.”

“I can’t believe you.”

“What does it say?”

“No.”

“It has to say more than just, ‘no.’”

“No, I mean,” Mimi says, moving up in the line. “I’m not gonna read it here.”

“Why not?” Stella whines.

“What if he thinks the picture is weird to tag him in? I don’t want to see that while he’s literally on the ice,” she says in a hushed voice.

“What if he doesn’t?”

“I don’t want to read it.”

The game ends, Stella somehow gaining full control over Mimi’s phone as the two of them head out to a bar after a quick pit stop at home to change, despite Mimi’s protest for wanting to stay home and read her book instead. Her bed was right there, after all.

“Go do your thing,” Stella says, heading off to find a table for the two of them while Mimi tries to secure drinks.

“Hey,” Mimi approaches one guy, pulling out a trick that she got from one of her books. “Buy me a drink if I beat you at tic-tac-toe.”

The guy looks perplexed, agreeing while his friends root him on, Mimi grabbing a napkin from the bar counter and pulling a pen out of her bag. She normally won, considering the fact that the guys were normally too drunk by the time she got to them to think straight enough to play the game.

This time was no different. She won easily.

“What do you want?” the guy asks, his friends making fun of him for losing and putting him in a foul mood.

“Vodka Sour,” she asks for Stella’s drink.

She gets the drink and leaves before he can say or do anything else, heading back to Stella with her drink in hand.

“Free?”

“Free,” she confirms, seeing her phone in Stella’s hands. “What are you doing?”

Stella smirks, a facial expression that makes her nervous. “Nothing.”

Mimi nods. “I’m gonna try and find another guy.”

She heads back to the bar, scanning for another person she could get a drink from. She sees a guy talking to a friend, looking nervous. He looked sweet. Maybe she could actually talk to him and bring his friend over for Stella, too.

“Want to play tic-tac-toe?” she asks him, the guy looking like a deer in headlights. “Winner buys drinks?”

“I’ll play,” she hears behind her, the two guys eyes getting wide as they stare at the person. “Mimi, right?”

“Nico?”

He smiles at her, taking a step closer and reaching over her shoulder to grab a napkin. He brushes against her, sending a shock through her body. “Let’s play.”

________________________

Mimi gets to baggage claim, trying her best to ignore the fact that she was supposed to be here with Nico, not by herself, as she gets home for Christmas. He wasn’t even going to be with her for that long because of his schedule, but it was supposed to be something, at least. He knew Christmas was her favorite holiday, her favorite time of year, and instead of being with her like he was supposed to be, he was back in New Jersey.

“Emilia,” she hears her mom calling her name, way louder than she needed to be since there were only about five other people around the carousel, the airport surprisingly empty considering it was December 23rd. Her mother came running up to her, practically tackling her into the bags that were starting to roll around as her father sighed, grabbing Mimi’s bag.

“Where’s Gram?” Mimi asks. Every single time she came home, without fail, no matter what time of day it was, her grandmother was always there to see her when she got off the plane.

“She’s with Uncle Sam in New York for this Christmas, remember?” Mimi nods, not remembering the conversation her mother goes on to claim they had weeks ago. It was weird that her grandmother wasn’t there. “Where’s Nico?”

Mimi hesitates, another thing that was wrong. She hadn’t told her parents yet. She didn’t know how to. “His practice schedule changed at the last minute, so he had to stay back. He’s going to let me know later if he’s going to be able to come out here.”

Her father nods, incredibly indifferent. Despite how much he seemed to adore Nico, he would rather have less people around the house so he didn’t get overstimulated when he was cooking. More people meant more food he had to keep track of.

Her mother on the other hand. “Oh, no. He’s not coming? But we haven’t seen him in so long. What if we Facetime him, tell him we can pay for the ticket for him to come. Where’s your phone?”

Mimi swats off her mother’s hand, trying to follow her dad out to their car so she could go home and go to sleep. “Mother, money is not the problem, I promise. He can’t help his practice schedule,” she lies.

Her mother continues to fret, walking to the car going on and on about how she wished she had known so she didn’t spend all the extra time preparing for Mimi’s boyfriend to come home with her. Mimi lets out a sigh, climbing into the backseat as her father loads her bags into the trunk.

________________________

“Where are we going?” Mimi asks, climbing into Nico’s passenger seat once his car pulls to a stop in front of her building.

He smirks, leaning across the center console, giving her a kiss, one hand on the wheel with another cupping her face. “It’s a surprise.”

“That’s what someone would say before they dump the body,” Mimi jokes as Nico pulls away from the curb.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mimi,” Nico groans, Mimi noticing the smile on his face regardless of his tone. They had been dating for about a month now, spending more time with him than she spent with Stella despite the fact they lived together. It wasn’t her fault; she couldn’t say no to him when he asked her to do something, no matter what it was.

Mimi shrugs, a teasing look on her face. “Think about it, it would be perfect to take me to some far off location to commit a felony when I have no idea where we’re going.”

“Stella has your location.”

“You could steal my phone.”

Nico rolls his eyes. “Mimi, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Then where are we going?”

“Can’t I surprise you? Please?” he begs, his tone turning a little more serious.

She sighs, staring out the window as he drives away from the city in an attempt to hide the smile on her face. “I guess.”

The snow on the ground became more pristine the longer he drove, untouched and perfect as they got away from the more densely populated area they lived in. The trees lining the streets made her wish she lived out here, giving that illusion of serenity that you couldn’t get in the city.

Nico pulled off the road to follow a gravel path, lined with a wooden fence on either side, just barely wide enough for the car to fit down.

“This is definitely the perfect place for a murder,” Mimi jokes.

“Jeez,” Nico sighs. “We’re doing something fun.”

Mimi sees the sign in front of her as Nico starts to slow down, a Christmas tree farm in front of them. She looks at Nico, who was already staring at her with a smile on his face. “So?”

“We’re getting a tree?” Mimi said, feeling herself getting giddy as she unbuckled her seatbelt, practically jumping out of the car.

Nico joins her, taking his hand in hers and leading her closer to the plethora of trees in front of them. “You said you used to love going with your dad and cutting down the perfect tree when you were younger. These are pre-cut, but I figured you could help me pick out the perfect one for my place.”

________________________

“You already have the tree up?” Mimi asks, her heart dropping when she walks into her parents house, seeing what was supposed to be a tradition between her and her dad already there. They never got the tree this early. And they certainly never had it already decorated with lights.

“Mimi,” her mother starts as she beelines for the tree.

“It’s not even real.” Her mouth hangs open as she examines the fake, plastic monstrosity before her, the lights on the tree because it came prelit. “You got a fake tree.”

“Donohue retired.” Mimi stared at her dad, the sad look in his eyes mirroring her own. “There was nowhere to get a real tree this year.”

Mimi nods, knowing it was stupid to get upset over something so trivial, that feeling that something . “We still have all our ornaments, right?”

Her mother comes over to her, putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “You think we could get rid of those?”

________________________

“What are you doing today?” Nico’s voice comes through Mimi’s phone.

“Nothing.”

“Now you’re not.” Mimi could hear his smile. “I’m picking you up in five minutes.”

Mimi hangs up without another word, rushing to get ready for him.

He knocks on her door moments later, coat in hand with plastic bags full of stuff there with him. “Hi,” he says, using his free hand to pull her in for a kiss.

“Hi.” She looks at the bags in his hands, trying to suss out why he had craft supplies with him. “What’s all this?”

“Well,” he starts, pushing past her and heading for her kitchen table, placing the bags down and starting to clear the surface off. “After we got my tree, I realized I don’t have anything to put on it.”

Mimi watches him taking out everything from the bags; paint, markers, stencils, scissors, paper, pipe cleaners; it looked like he raided the store purge style for everything you could possibly think of. “And?”

He organizes everything into piles in front of them, gesturing to his haul. “I thought we could make some ornaments together.”

Mimi laughs, her heart fluttering as Nico beams at her. “How good are you at arts and crafts?”

Nico smirks. “Horrible. You?”

“Awful.”

“Then this will be fun.”

________________________

“Hey, what time is Celeste getting here?” Mimi asks as she hangs up one her ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ Ornament as high as she could, something she has done every year since she could walk. Her sister was supposed to be getting in before she did if her memory served her correctly.

Her parents exchange looks behind her back, thinking Mimi didn’t catch them. “She got snowed in.”

“What?” she asks, nearly dropping the ornament her great-grandmother made. “So when is she going to get here?”

“The snow isn’t supposed to clear until tomorrow.”

“So she should be able to get here tomorrow, then?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Mimi screams. This was an overreaction on her part, but it was now the third thing that had been wrong with this Christmas, on top of Nico breaking up with her right before she was getting on the plane. “Celeste has to come to Christmas. Where else will she go?”

“She would be with Quinn and his family, I would assume,” her mother says, referring to her sister’s fiance.

Mimi just nods, knowing there was nothing she could do to control it. That didn’t mean she couldn’t still feel upset about it.

The rest of the day feels like a blur, a weird emptiness knowing her sister wasn’t going to be showing up like she was supposed to, her grandmother was spending Christmas on the other side of the country, and the tree wasn’t real like it had been for as long as she could remember.

That and she kept checking her phone, expecting a text from Nico to show up on her screen, despite the fact that he hadn’t texted her in weeks.

“Hey, Emilia,” her dad pulls her out of her trance, standing in front of her with the car keys. “Want to run out and grab some things with me?

________________________

“Stop bouncing your leg, you’re shaking the car,” Nico reaches over and presses down on Mimi’s thigh, trying to get her to stop.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, sinking further into his passenger seat. She looks out the window, snow everywhere, less and less cars on the road as they get to the cabin Nico’s friends rented out for the weekend. They had a rare break between games without so much as a practice (according to Nico, this was unheard of), so some of his friends took the opportunity to get away from home for a while and just relax somewhere else.

It looked like Nico was driving her into her death.

It was worse, actually. She had to meet new people and interact with them without anywhere to retreat.

“Our room is the only one on the top floor if they get to be too much,” Nico says, reading her mind. “They’re going to love you.”

They had just had the ‘what are we conversation,’ where Nico let her know that he considered her to be his girlfriend a while ago. Apparently, Nico’s entire team had been referring to Mimi as Nico’s girlfriend for the last month. It was time to actually meet them, and Mimi felt like she would rather run out into the wilderness and disappear with the bears.

Mimi lets out a deep breath as he turns down the road the GPS told him to turn down. This couldn’t be that bad, could it?

As soon Nico pulled up in front of the cabin, the car seemed to be surrounded by his teammates, screaming about god only knows what and opening every door despite not needing to.

“You said you were bringing the beer,” Luke whines.

“I did,” Nico deadpans. “You’re barely old enough to drink, calm down.”

“Luke, go back inside,”Jack says, reaching up and trying to mess with Luke’s hair. Luke stomps back inside, Mimi hearing him muttering something about being treated like a child. “He’ll be fine.”

“I told you not to bring him,” Nico says, handing his teammate the aforementioned case of beer. “He’s too young.”

“Ok, Dad,” he says, Nico rolling his eyes. “You know as well as I do that I couldn’t leave him home when all of us were here.”

Nico hands Mimi her bag from the trunk once she gets out of the car, taking her hand in his and leading her into the cabin. “That’s Jack and Luke.”

Mimi nods, recognizing them from long before she and Nico even started dating. Nico, for some reason, had a habit of forgetting that she actually knew the sport and the team well enough, growing up with her dad being a fan of them since they were in Kansas City and passing it onto her as they relocated to Devner, then to East Rutherford. She probably knew more about the Devils as a franchise because of her father than Nico did as captain.

They get inside, the heat hitting Mimi’s face. The inside of the cabin was beautiful, the walls entirely made of wood with light fixtures that looked like oil lamps attached to the walls. Thankfully, there were no dead animals stuck to the walls as she had feared, but a huge TV mounted in front of the couches, playing none other than an NHL game on the screen.

“There’s Dawson, Jesper, and Nate,” Nico points, the three guys waving to them.

Mimi pulls Nico aside. “I thought you said they were bringing their partners, too.”

Nico blinks at her. “None of them are seeing anyone.”

“So it’s just you, me, and your teammates?”

Nico nods. “Yeah, of course.”

Mimi nods slowly, biting the inside of her cheek. “I think I’m going to head up to our room.”

Mimi layed on the bed she and Nico were going to share in the cabin, trying to read while Nico and his teammates were screaming downstairs, clearly already drunk despite them only being there for two hours. This wasn’t how the weekend was supposed to go. She was supposed to meet his teammates and their partners as Nico had told her, so she wouldn’t be alone with the guys.

It’s not that she didn’t think she would have fun, it’s just not what she was expecting.

She hears a knock on the door as she stares up at the ceiling, her book laying facedown, open, on her chest. She was making no progress. Nico pokes his head in before she can say anything. “Can we talk?”

Mimi nods, sitting up and marking her place in her book.

“You’re mad at me.” Nico sits down on the bed by her feet.

She sighs. “I’m not mad.”

“But you aren’t happy with me.”

“I’m annoyed that you didn’t tell me what I was getting into this weekend.”

“What can I do to make it up to you?” Nico pleaded with her. The look on his face made her chest ache, knowing that he actually wanted to do that.

Mimi exhales. “Give me,” she hesitates. “Like an hour?”

“Ok.” Nico nods. She stares at him for a second, neither of them moving while the sound of his teammates laughter rings through the house. “Are you not going to go back down?”

“Not without you.”

“I’m just going to sit here and read,” she tells him, giving him a suspicious look.

Nico nods again, shifting to rest his back against the headboard, his arm raised for her to cuddle right into. “That’s fine.”

The two fell into a comfortable silence, Mimi feeling Nico’s eyes on her while she read her book. They stayed that way for two hours, just enough time for Mimi to think of herself as the character in the book falling in love with the man she was going to spend her life with.

________________________

The two of them drive in silence, Mimi not really caring where they were going. She keeps resisting the urge to check her phone, knowing that she would see her background instead of any notification she would actually care about.

“So, kid,” her father starts, pulling into the grocery store parking lot. “Nico isn’t coming, is he?”

Mimi looks out the window, pursing her lips and shaking her head. “No.”

“Are you two alright?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

He parks the car, sitting there for a moment. “Ok. Let’s go in.”

“What are we doing here, anyway?” The two of them walk through the aisles, her dad pushing a carriage with the loudest wheel possible. He had a talent for picking out the most rickety one every time, somehow not caring and not getting annoyed as he shopped.

He starts pulling things from the shelves, ingredients Mimi recognized as being for her favorite ricotta cookies, the recipe that had been passed down through her family from her great-great-grandparents. “Mom thought it would be fun to make these again this year.”

Mimi smiles, looking at his cart to see what he still needed that she could grab. The last thing he needed, the most important ingredient, was the ricotta. She heads over to the cheese, scouring the case for the right one.

“Any luck?” her father appears behind her, seeing the frown on her face. She shakes her head, staring at the case. They had to have the ricotta. They couldn’t make ricotta cookies without it. Her father flags down an employee.

They shrug, shoving their hands in their jean pockets. “If it’s not out here, we must be out. The trucks haven’t been coming in with everything lately.”

Mimi looks at her dad as the employee stalks away. “What do we do?”

Her dad shrugs, staring at the cart. “We can check another store later, but I guess we can’t make them tonight.”

________________________

The first snowfall of the year happened abnormally early; in October, actually. The last time Mimi remembered an October snowstorm was around 2010, when she was eleven. That resulted in most of her life getting shut down for the week, but at least she didn’t have to go to school.

Mimi remembered staying in while her father cleared the driveway, her and Celeste sitting at the door near the back porch and staring towards the sky while the snow fell toward them, pretending that they were being transported to a different winter wonderland that wasn’t their backyard. Their mother would make mac and cheese and turn on a movie for Celeste while Mimi curled up on the couch, cuddling with her mother while she read whatever book she could get her hands on. The hot chocolate always came later, with extra marshmallows.

As she got older, it meant no school, then no work, but always snuggling on the couch under her warmest blanket, a movie playing in the background while she read with a mug of hot chocolate next to her.

She sits down on her couch, getting ready to spend the day not moving when someone is buzzing her apartment to come up, a text from Nico letting her know it was him.

“What are you doing here?” she asks when she opens her door.

He smiles at her, making her heart skip a beat as he bends down to kiss her. “Practice and the game got cancelled tonight, I thought I would stop by since your location said you were home.”

“Oh,” she lets out, cringing at the disappointment that she heard come through her voice. She watched Nico’s smile falter.

“Do you want me to go?”

Mimi looked out the window, watching the snow fall even harder than it had just mere minutes ago, Nico already covered in snow as it was. “No, no, it’s not safe for you.”

Nico nods, unsure what to do.

“I was just about to read my book,” Mimi says, taking his hand and leading him in.

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “I thought we could just kinda,” his voice trailed off, his eyes flicking back and forth between her and the hallway leading to her bedroom. “But that’s fine. You can read your book.”

“I do this every snow day,” Mimi tries not to whine, sitting down on her couch and clutching her book.

Nico exhales, nodding. “That’s fine,” he repeats, clearing his throat. “What else do you do?”

Nico sits down next to her, Mimi pulling her book closer to her chest. “I just,” she starts, feeling her heartbeat rising for no reason that she could think of.

“Hey, hey,” Nico coos, gently bringing her into his chest. He kissed the top of her head, one hand rubbing her back while the other rested on her lap. “I can leave. If you don’t want me here, I will leave. If it’s not safe to go I will just sit in the hallway.”

Mimi lets out a strangled laugh, picturing him playing games on his phone while he posted up outside her door, probably staying there until one of her neighbors ventured out of their place and called someone to come take away the man sitting outside an apartment he didn’t live in. “I put on a movie in the background and then just sit with my blanket and read it.”

“Can I join you?”

“You want to watch the movie or do you want a book?” Nico shifts, getting up and heading down the hall to her room. “That’s not an answer,” she calls after him.

He comes back, waving a book in his hands. “I’ll read and then if I get bored, I’ll fall back on the movie.”

Mimi stares at the book he picked, her heart swelling in her chest. “That’s my favorite book.”

“I know. That’s why I want to read it again.”

________________________

Mimi and her father finally get home, the one missing ingredient for some reason impossible to find and the remaining groceries unable to be left in the car for much longer without ruining them, too.

“I’ll head out in the morning again and see if I can find it,” her dad tries to reassure her when he pulls into the driveway.

She heads inside to her old room. Every little thing has gone wrong so far, it seemed, but why should it bother her? She was going to be with her family at Christmas, something she hadn’t really been able to do the last few years because of work. Her sister might not be here,or her grandmother, or her boyfriend, but still with her parents.

Her ex-boyfriend.

Staring at the walls of the room she grew up in, seeing the posters from the musicals that she was in when she was in middle school and high school taped above her bed, the game-day posters from the games she went to with her dad as a child surrounding her closet, the awards she won for various random clubs and activities she did in order to go to college where she did above her bookcase.

Mimi thinks back to her packing job, trying to remember what books she brought with her for the trip. She had the one she read while she was in the airport and on the plane, but she finished that right before her plane landed, putting that back in her bag and spending the rest of the time in the air logging the book rather than starting another one. Did she even bring another one?

She remembers plugging in her e-reader before she started packing, but did she ever unplug it and pack it? She texts Stella to check and unplug it so she doesn’t murder her prized possession while away.

“Mom,” Mimi yells, not waiting for any acknowledgement. “What books do you have?”

“Check our bedroom,” she hears, heading to the bookcase that’s against the wall.

“I’ve read all of these,” she yells back, trying not to let a whining tone come through her voice. And she actually had. Most of her parents were her old books that she had read that she gave to them, or that she bought separate copies of for them. The books her parents got on their own somehow found their way into Mimi’s hands, leaving her with nothing.

Her mom appears in the doorway, a concerned look on her face while she watches her daughter stare defeated at the books. She checks her watch, grabbing her wallet from her closet. “Take my library card and check out what you want. They’re still open for another hour or so.” Mimi takes the card and stares at it. She wasn’t even sure if this was allowed. Wasn’t it some sort of fraud to use someone else’s library card? “I have a book on hold, I’ll call them and let them know they can give it to you. Go.”

Mimi gets pushed out the door and handed the keys, faster than she can even process what was going on.

She hadn’t been inside her hometown library since she was in high school, everything still exactly the same except for the self check out computers they added for when the librarians were busy. They had set up a holiday book display, Mimi beelining there in hopes of finding anything that could potentially put her in a better mood.

Mimi picks up a book with two girls on the cover, some sapphic holiday romance that had been on her radar since October when someone she followed on social media had posted about it.

“Emilia?” She snaps away from the book to see a guy standing in front of her, someone who she swore looked familiar but couldn’t, for the life of her, remember why she knew him. “Niall Walsh.”

The guy she went to junior prom with. Shit, he looked good. “Of course, how are you?” she asks him, trying to sound enthusiastic about seeing him. She just needed to get books and go home.

“Good, good. You’re still out in New Jersey?”

They fall into a stupid conversation, Mimi trying to back away and find more books for her stay. She needed at least three to survive the holiday.

“A bunch of us are heading to the green later to skate, you should join us,” Niall offers, starting to list off people from high school Mimi hadn’t kept in touch with.

“That sounds so nice, but I’ve gotta help my mom with stuff for the holidays.”

Niall finally says goodbye with his books in hand, letting her know that she was still welcome to join if she had the time.

She didn’t want to go ice skating. It made her think of Nico.

________________________

“For fucks sake,” Mimi huffs, kicking the door open. “Next time we want to move, we’re not doing it in the middle of winter, and we aren’t doing it in the middle of your season.”

Nico laughs, getting up from the couch and grabbing the box from her. They had been together for over a year, finally making the decision to move in together. “Both of our leases were up and you would hate moving in the summer, too.”

“I’m somehow sweating and freezing. This is awful.”

“How many more boxes are in your car?”

“All my books.”

“There’s no way you fit all of those in your car.”

Mimi makes a face, taking Nico’s hand and dragging him back downstairs. “Stella might also be there with her car full of my books.”

Nico sighs with a lazy smile on his face, puts his arm around her and pulls her close as they walk outside and kisses the side of her head. “That’s my girl.”

“You have too many fucking books,” Stella mutters, opening her trunk. “I nearly died because I couldn’t see out my windows.”

“You were probably fine,” Nico deadpans, checking his phone. “Jack and Luke said they’ll be here in an hour with the truck.”

“You’re meeting them back at our place?”

“My place.”

“Your place.” The two stare at each other, the gravity of Mimi moving out just about to hit them.

Nico clears his throat, hoping to distract them long enough that they can have their moment inside rather than out on the street. “Let’s get these books inside before it gets dark out.”

The girls unload the cars, boxes upon boxes of books being brought up to the new apartment and placed haphazardly throughout the space.

“Where are all of these going, anyway?” Stella huffs, setting down a book that Mimi had labelled as ‘Fantasy,’ meaning that all of her biggest books were stuffed in there.

“We have the second bedroom that we’re turning into a reading space,” Nico says.

Stella nods. “Well,” she straightens her back, all of them feeling the pain of moving too many boxes. “I’m going to go back and meet the idiots for the rest.” She leaves before the girls can say anything else to each other, both of them avoiding the fact that they wouldn’t be living together anymore after nearly seven years. They were so close to having a common law marriage.

Mimi looks at Nico, staring at all the boxes scattered around them. “We have to unpack these.”

Nico smiles at her. “I have a better idea.”

Mimi eyes him curiously, watching him head to one of the closets that she still wasn’t sure held, Nico pulling things out. “Ice skates?” she asks, staring at the two pairs in his hands.

“There’s a pond that’s frozen over behind the building, we can take a break before it gets dark.”

“We’ve never gone skating before,” Mimi points out. “You don’t even know if I can.”

Nico hands her the pair meant for her, taking her hand and grabbing his keys as they head out. “You’re probably better than me.”

“Obviously. You’re pretty shit at skating, aren’t you?” she teases him.

Nico laughs. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

________________________

“Did you leave any books for other people?” her dad teases her when she comes back through the door.

“There’s still all the books written by Republicans.”

“Do they know how to write books?”

Mimi hears her mother scold him for that one, trying to stifle her own laugh so she isn’t scolded as well. “I have enough books for the time that I’m here. I think. Don’t worry.”

Mimi heads up to her room, flopping down on her bed with a book open in her hand. She didn’t need anyone else to be here for it to be Christmas for her. She could just be with her parents and whatever other family they had coming over this year.

She reads her book, a group of friends going to one of their parents' houses for the holidays because none of them have anywhere else to do until they realize that two of them were not only together previously, but one had left the other at the altar.

Mimi sits up straight on her bed, shutting the book as fast as she could. She had to stop going into books blind. Every time, without fail, they reminded her of the things that were going wrong in her life.

________________________

“When do we have to leave?” Nico asks, his arms wrapped around Mimi as they lay in bed, the snow falling outside and coating the window, his bare chest against hers.

Mimi hums, turning herself to nestle into his shoulder. She didn’t want to leave this moment. “Our flight is at noon.”

Mimi was heading home for Thanksgiving this year, bringing Nico home with her for the first time. Her parents had met him before, but this was her whole family now. They had been dating for two years at this point, living together for almost a year, and at this point, they both decided it was time to meet her family.

It was terrifying.

“Ugh, shit,” Nico groans, letting go of her and getting out of bed. “I need to shower, then.”

Mimi lays in their bed for a few moments, trying to fathom taking a boy home with her. Not just any boy, but the one she lived with, the one she loved.

One of the phones on the nightstand makes some noise, Mimi hearing the shower starting in the bathroom. She reaches over for the one lit up, not sure whose she was grabbing.

Her mom’s first name came up as the contact sending a message.

“Nico, my mom is texting you.”

She hears something fall in the shower. “You can just leave it,” he yells back, a weird tone in his voice.

Why would her mom be texting him? Normally, she texted both of them in a group chat that included her father, Celeste, and Quinn, regardless of who she actually needed to talk to. Her mom never even texted her separately, even on her birthday.

Mimi knew Nico’s passcode. She could just open his phone and look at what they were talking about.

But why would she do that? Mimi shook her head, putting the phone back on the nightstand and started to get ready, pushing the thought of Nico and her mom talking about something that she couldn’t know about from her mind every time it popped up.

They had to focus on finishing up the last of their packing and getting to the airport, which they had less than an hour to get to, at this point.

“Babe, hurry up,” she yells, throwing the last things they needed in their bags, Nico still in the bathroom fucking around. “We need to leave, like, five minutes ago.”

“I’m good, I’m ready,” he says, emerging from the bathroom, his hair still soaked. “And we have plenty of time before we need to leave.” He grabs his phone, Mimi seeing him open the text from her mom and a smile growing on his face.

________________________

Mimi finishes one book and quickly moves onto the next, losing track of time. The last thing she remembered, the SecUnit was freaking out about dying and not saving its humans.

Next thing she knows, it’s three am, her lights are still on, her book is still in her hand miraculously with her page saved by her finger, and something was making noise downstairs. Actually, someone.

Mimi practically launches herself out of bed, finding the kitchen lights on and her sister checking the fridge. “What the fuck?” she breathes out, grabbing Celeste into a hug.

“Hi, to you, too,” Celeste laughs, Quinn in the background going through cabinets. “We need food.”

“I thought your flight couldn’t come in?”

“Quinn here drove us.”

“From Vancouver?”

Quinn shrugs, the normal sullen look on his face made even worse from the exhaustion of the long drive. “Celeste had to get here.”

“Yeah,” she says, taking Mimi’s hand and leading her to the kitchen table. “How are you?” She had called her sister almost immediately after it happened to tell her.

“Good.” Celeste gives her that look that tells her she knows it’s a lie. “Fine.” Another look. Mimi sighs, letting out the words she hadn’t said out loud to anyone. “I miss him.”

________________________

Her family loved Nico.

Her little cousins flocked to him, her aunts and uncles raved about how easy he was to talk to. Celeste nearly drooled over him despite Quinn standing right next to him and her having seen him plenty of times on TV. Her parents, Mimi was sure, wished he was their actually child. They would trade Mimi for three mini cans of soda and a bag of corn chips if it meant Nico was their son.

Mimi was watching Nico play with her youngest cousin, Vivianna, as she showed Nico all the dolls she brought with her and told him about all of them in that high-pitched toddler babble she was probably going to have grown out of by Christmas. Her chest ached at the sight of his smile at Vivianna, finding herself daydreaming about him with their own kid one day.

“Hey,” her mom pulls her out of her trance. “Can you go grab my phone on my nightstand? It has the recipe for the mac and cheese and I need to take out the turkey in a second.”

“Got it.”

She heads upstairs to her parents room, finding the phone, an unread message notification from Nico from a couple of hours ago on the screen. She was looking for the recipe, not the messages. It was saved in her mother’s notes app, and that was all she needed to look for.

But her mom told her to get her phone. She could see the messages and then just ‘unread’ the one Nico had sent her.

No. That was crazy. What was she even worried about? Her mom and Nico haven’t some sort of illicit affair? That would never happen.

She shakes her head of the thought. She was going crazy over nothing. Mimi unlocks her mothers phone, expecting to find her home screen with all her apps, her notes app in the bottom left hand corner of the main dock.

Instead it opened right to Nico’s messages.

Mimi couldn’t help herself. She scrolls up to the last few messages, her mom for some reason either not replying to him or deleting all of her messages to him, leaving only what Nico sent.

It was links upon links of engagement rings.

And she hated every single one of them.

“Mimi,” her mother yells up the stairs. “Did you find my phone?”

Shit. “Yeah,” she sets the message back to being unread and pulls up the notes app just as her mom appears in the doorway. “Here, sorry. I grabbed Dad’s phone instead.”

Her mother eyes her suspiciously, looking at the other nightstand where the other phone sat. “No problem, let’s head back down stairs. Nico was looking for you.”

Nico.

________________________

“I think you should call him,” Celeste says, ignoring the fact that Quinn was falling asleep in the chair next to her. Actually, Mimi was sure that he was already asleep.

Mimi shakes her head. “He wanted to propose, to get married, to spend our lives together and he didn’t even know what kind of ring I liked? He doesn’t know me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Celeste sighs.

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“No, I’m supposed to call you out when you’re being a fucking dumbass.”

“What did I do wrong here?”

“Mimi, the ring is not important.” Celeste reaches across the table and takes her sister's hands. “You love Nico and he loves you. You guys talked about getting married, didn’t you? The ring can be changed, but if you wait too long, it might not be Nico who gives it to you.”

Before Mimi can respond, Quinn stirs and startles the sisters, shifting on the table. He sits up, his forehead bright red from where he was resting. “Can we go to bed?” he mumbles, his eyes still closed.

Celeste helps get him out of the chair. “Yeah, babe.” She leads him out of the kitchen, leaving Mimi sitting there by herself. “Maybe think about calling him tomorrow? Tell him what you saw on our mother’s phone and tell him you’re an idiot?”

Mimi laughed at her sister’s bluntness. She had been wanting to call Nico for the last few weeks since she broke up with him. Worst of all, she did it while he was on a road trip and took a bag of things out and back to Stella’s place. She never went and got all her things, all her books.

She heads up to her room, her phone flashing 4:00 am. She had to get to sleep if she wanted to be ready for whatever chaos her family brought with them when they got to their house the next afternoon.

________________________

Mimi was shaking, walking down the street with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder, heading to Stella’s.

Nico was away on a west coast road trip for over a week already, scheduled to come back the next day. She had been keeping him at arm's length since Thanksgiving, since the text messages to her mother. Everything felt weird, between them and Nico had no idea why. Mimi couldn’t talk to him.

Her phone was in her hand, Nico’s number typed from memory ready to call, all she had to do was press the green button. They had talked earlier that morning, when he woke up, but she couldn’t say anything to him.

She goes for it, knowing that she had to say something to him as to why she wasn’t at their apartment when he got home.

“Hey, babe,” he answers groggily after a couple of rings. Mimi takes the phone away from her ear, trying to figure out the time difference. He was at the end of his pre-game nap, just waking up. “What’s up?”

“I’m going to Stella’s.”

“Oh, ok,” she hears him say, the ruffling of sheets as he sits up. He yawns, Mimi able to picture him stretching as he does so. “Are you guys doing a girl’s night?”

“No, um, I’m going to move back in with her.” Nico doesn’t say anything, Mimi standing outside her old building, checking to see if the call dropped.

Nico finally clears his throat. “You’re what?”

Mimi could feel the tears coming, trying to hold them back. As soon as she started to cry, she knew he would hear it in her voice. “I can’t do this anymore, Nico.”

“What are you saying?” She hears him getting out of bed, shuffling around the hotel room. He was frantic, things falling over, Nico bumping into things, probably in a panic.

Mimi hesitates. “That I’m done.”

He stops. “That we’re done,” he clarifies for her.

She can feel her chest start to tighten, a lump forming in her throat. “Yeah.”

Stella appears outside, holding the door open for her just as Mimi bursts into tears, bringing her friend in for a hug.

“What happened?”

Mimi can’t get a word out between her crying, feeling ridiculous for doing this on the street. Stella tries to console her, dragging her in the building. “You’re gonna be ok. Stay as long as you need. You’re heading to your parents in a few days, anyway.”

________________________

Mimi woke up to her mother standing over her like she was back in high school and had snoozed her alarm one too many times. “It’s almost noon, are you going to get up?”

“Ugh,” Mimi lets out, swearing in her mind. She jolts out of bed, trying to find all the clothes she had planned to wear that never managed to get unpacked from her bag.

“Everyone gets here in an hour.”

“I know, Mom.” Mimi nearly falls over trying to get her pants on, her mother just standing there watching.

“Anything from Nico?”

Mimi stops, her pajama top in one hand, the sweater she was planning on wearing in the other as she looks at the smirk her mom had on her face. “I just woke up and haven’t looked at my phone yet, I’m not sure.”

Her mother nods. “Just let us know if someone needs to go pick him up at the airport.” She leaves without another word.

Mimi shakes it off, whatever weirdness her mother gave off probably just from the normal anxiety that came with hosting their family for Christmas Eve. Both sides of the family showed up, which meant the most chaos possible for their family. She heads downstairs, going through the motions of helping her father get the food ready, setting the tables, trying to find the bag of toys that had somehow completely disappeared since Thanksgiving that they kept for the little ones.

The doorbell rings, Mimi hearing one of her aunts call that she was letting herself in as she always did, a container of gingerbread cookies with her to hand off to Mimi. The rest of the family starts to filter in, the entire house filled with talking, laughing, screaming, and everyone in a good mood.

Except for Mimi.

“You didn’t call him, did you?” Celeste pulls her aside.

Mimi shakes her head, taking out her phone since she knew Celeste would make her call him now anyway. She types in his number, pressing the call button without hesitating.

“It went right to voicemail.” Mimi knew the color drained from her face, her heart dropping to her stomach. Did he block her?

She tries to pull up his location, the last time his phone registering one being at Newark Airport around the same time Celeste got home. He couldn’t be travelling for hockey.

Celeste bites her lip, a concerned look on her face. “He’s probably just busy. His phone is off.”

“What if I can’t get him back?” Mimi felt like crying, again. She really fucked this up.

Celeste pulls her in for a hug. “Then we figure it out.”

The sisters are interrupted by one of their father’s brothers, yelling something about Quinn being too quiet for the family and how he was sure they would break him out of his shell. Celeste immediately leaves to try to save her boyfriend, Mimi laughing at the image of the poor boy panicking over the anxiety that their family could cause.

The doorbell rings, the rest of the family too loud for anyone but Mimi, who had happened to wander by the door on her way to the kitchen, to hear. She was sure everyone was already there, her mother not mentioning that anyone was going to be late.

She checks through the small window at the top, the angle of the glass distorting any good view of the person she could have. All Mimi could see was brown hair pacing back and forth on the front porch.

Mimi opens the door. “Nico?” Her heart swells as he stops pacing, pulling her in for a hug as she shuts the door, not wanting her family to hear any of their conversation. “What are you doing here?”

He pulls away from her slightly to look at her, his one hand still on her waist and he brushes her hair off her face with the other, tucking it behind her cheek. “You’ve been avoiding my calls, and my texts. Stella, Celeste, and Quinn have all called me or Jack or Luke trying to figure out what happened.”

She sighs, wanting to bury herself in his chest and forget everything ever happened. “I saw the rings you sent my mom.”

“And?”

“I hated them.”

“I knew you would.”

“What?”

Nico laughs, pulling her back into his chest. “I sent those to your mom because I knew at some point, your mom would ask you to pull up something on her phone for her, and I don’t want you knowing what you’re going to get when I do ask you.”

“When you do?”

“When I do ask you, it’ll be perfect for you.”

Mimi doesn’t say anything, pulling him in for a kiss instead. She could feel him smile against her lips, his hands tightening around her waist.

“I do have this for you, though,” Nico pulls away, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a small ring box. “It’s what I’m going to put your ring in.”

Mimi raises her eyebrow at him as he encourages her to open it. “What’s on the lining?” Nico smiles, Mimi staring at the lines and marks. “Holy shit.” Her eyes grow wide when the realization hits her.

“It’s our tic-tac-toe game from the night we met.”

Mimi hugs him, nuzzling his face against his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat as he holds her tight. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Hey, there you are,” Celeste interrupts, the door open with their entire family standing there watching. Mimi felt her face get hot as they all gave the two of them knowing looks. “Look who crashed Christmas.”

#winter fic exchange 2k25 #nico hischier #nico hischier fic #new jersey devils #devils #devils fic #new jersey devils fic #hockey #hockey fic #nhl #nhl fic

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augiewrites · 1 year ago

Text

"secret admirer" - dead poets society (part 3)

summary: y/n joins meeks and pitts for a study session

pairing: anonymous!dead poet x gender neutral reader

word count: 977

previous | next

Y/N approached the bespectacled boy before they could lose their nerve.

“Hey—Meeks, right?”

“Yeah,” he stumbled a bit, surprised to be approached by his usually reserved classmate, “you’re Y/N.”

Y/N chuckled, “that I am.”

He signaled to the taller boy waiting for him by the door—Pitts, Y/N remembered—before he gave them an easy smile, "what can I do for you?"

“You tutor Latin, right? I could use a study partner that actually knows what they're doing,” a laugh, "if you have the time, of course.”

"Oh, sure," he glanced at his watch, “Pitts and I are going to the library during common hour if you want to meet us there.”

Y/N touched Meek’s arm briefly, “thanks, Steven. You're a lifesaver.”

The boy turned a shade of red that rivaled his hair and excused himself.

Relief bloomed in Y/N’s chest as they released a breath they didn’t realize they were holding. Their half-cocked plan was in motion.

_________________________________________

“So much for ‘we’re just going to have to wait and find out’ huh?” Quinn mocked Y/N from their seat at the lunch table.

“Well I can’t just let him be the only player in this whole thing,” Y/N shook the latest letter around, “if he wants to play a game, I want to be the one winning.”

“Y/N, the man is infatuated with you. I wouldn’t exactly call it a game.”

Y/N huffed as they shoved the letter back into their bag, “these things are starting to get annoying.”

“Oh, yeah,” Quinn rolled their eyes, “it must be such a burden to have Whitman reincarnate writing you love letters.”

“Whatever.”

“So, what is your plan, exactly?” Quinn asked around a mouthful of pasta.

Y/N was suddenly bashful, “I honestly didn’t think I would get this far.”

Quinn stared blankly back at Y/N.

“This is the part where you tell me what to do, Quinnie.”

“Torture. Medieval style. Get your answers.”

“You’re truly unbelievable,” Y/N ran a hand through their hair and stood from the table, “I’m going to be nice, and I’m going to study latin. Roll with the punches.”

_________________________________________

Meeks was mildly surprised when Y/N actually showed up at the library. He was well aware that Y/N wasn’t struggling with the subject matter—Welton made sure that its students knew who was at the top of the academic food chain. He was one of the rare lucky ones to be among them. He was curious why Y/N sought him out, but he knew better than to push the subject.

It took nearly all of common hour before Y/N started to feel at ease around the two boys. It seemed the feeling was mutual.

“So, Y/N,” Pitts started, looking bored by his trig homework, “have any hobbies?”

“A few,” Y/N muttered as they finished their last verb conjugation, “I like to read and write. I used to draw, but I barely have time to breathe outside of schoolwork.”

The boys shared a glance that Y/N couldn’t quite decode.

“Welton isn’t exactly a breeding ground for creativity,” Meeks sighed.

“That’s an understatement,” Y/N scoffed, “Welton is where creativity comes to die.”

Another look between the boys.

“Touché,” Meeks drawled, “so…you’re roommates with Quinn, right?”

Pitts grinned as a blush tinted Meeks’ cheeks.

Y/N raised their eyebrows, breaking into a cheeky smile, “yeah, I am.”

Meeks was suddenly very interested in the wall, the bookshelves, his textbook—anything other than Y/N, really.

“Are they…seeing anybody?”

Pitts laughed, earning a scolding hush from the librarian.

“No, they’re not,” Y/N smiled, “I’ll put in a good word for you, Meeks.”

Relief flooded the boy’s features and he was finally able to look at Y/N again, “thanks. I—”

“Like you could pin down someone like Quinn.”

Charlie Dalton had a habit of showing up at the worst times.

“Very nice, Dalton,” Y/N closed their book and slid it into their bag, “that’s my cue to leave.”

“Oh, please. I—”

“Don’t let him get in your head, Meeks,” Y/N looked between their study partners, “see you two around.”

Before Y/N could leave, Pitts called out, “we’re usually here during common hour,” he laughed and nudged Meeks with his elbow, “maybe you could bring Quinn next time.”

Meek’s head turned to Y/N so fast they thought his neck would snap, ��could you?”

They grinned, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Y/N could hear the three boy’s rushed whispers as the door closed behind them.

_________________________________________

“So you don’t think it’s either of them? Why?”

Y/N turned onto their side in bed, facing Quinn, who was doing the same.

“I don’t know,” Y/N looked at their nails, “I could just tell they weren’t interested like that.”

Quinn scoffed, “well, we’ve established that you aren’t exactly aware when people are interested like that.”

“Well, they gave me a pretty open invitation to join them again,” Y/N smirked, “maybe you could come and run interference.”

“You’re not taking this seriously enough, Y/N.”

“Whatever,” Y/N flipped to face the wall, “goodnight.”

Y/N couldn’t fall asleep, though.

The issue with infatuation is that it’s nearly impossible to not let it consume you at all times. It burrows deep into the fibers of your very being and suddenly you’re fully engulfed by the idea of that person.

And that’s all this was, really—an idea of a person. Y/N didn’t know what their admirer looked like, how they acted, or even if their proclamations were truthful. Could reality meet the expectations being set by the letters? Y/N didn’t want to admit it to themselves, but they were afraid to find out.

Y/N dreamed of a faceless poet that night.

Their heart ached in the morning.

~~~

part four

#dead poets society #dead poets society x reader #dps boys #dps #dps fanfiction #todd anderson #neil perry #steven meeks #gerard pitts #charlie dalton #knox overstreet #todd anderson x reader #neil perry x reader #steven meeks x reader #gerard pitts x reader #charlie dalton x reader #knox overstreet x reader #dps x reader

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wordsofelie · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter 1

🎋The footprints he etched on the earth

Bokuto x f!reader

Prequel : 🌌The stars he left in the sky (can be read as a standalone)

Summary : The stars he left in the sky are nothing compared to the footprints he etched on the earth.

or when you meet bokuto koutarou and wonder if you’ve ever truly known beauty before him.

Context warning: time skip setting, ex!oikawa, alcohol consumption, swearing, a lot of french words sorry

Words count: 3.1k

chapter 2 - chapter 3 - chapter 4

You’re grateful for the life you’ve been given. You’re healthy, you have a loving family with supportive parents and a funny little brother. You’ve worked hard to become a pâtissière and had great opportunities in Europe. But right now, as your boss argues that a Tatin tart and a Normande tart are essentially the same thing, you can’t help but think the gods are conspiring against you.

“Huh? What’s the problem? They both have apples in them,” he dares insisting.

You’ve studied in Paris. Paris, France. Alongside the best chefs in the world. And yet, here you are, being contradicted by a fifty-something man on something so basic. You’re not just being told you’re wrong, but in front of colleagues and even a few customers.

So, yes, you’re grateful for your life. But you’d be even more grateful if you could punch that man in the face. Of course, you won’t. You can’t. You need this job to pay your bills, your rent (because Tokyo is expensive), and to save for building the pâtisserie you’ve dreamed of for years. You know exactly what it’ll look like—where the counter will be, what colour the walls will be. Everything is planned, except for one detail: how and where you’ll actually get the place.

You force out an apology. It’s painfully obvious that it isn’t sincere, but you bow anyway, hoping it hides your annoyed expression. Then, you retreat to the back room because the croissants are ready and even though you hate your boss, you hate letting food burn in the oven more.

Days have felt repetitive since you arrived in Tokyo six months ago. Your routine begins at 4 a.m., with a quick breakfast. Most mornings, your roommate, Umi, is still awake, surrounded by her mountain of medical textbooks. You don’t know how she manages to decipher the words in her books because the light from her desk is dim (well, that might be the reason why she’s using glasses now).

“I’ll be back around five,” you say, even though she knows your schedule by heart.

“Got it. Have a good day!”

“And have a good night,” you reply with a smile.

The walk to the bakery is usually pleasant. You love seeing the sunrise over Tokyo—except now it’s May, and the weather is horrible. Still, you’ve never regretted moving here. You remember your professor in Paris warning you about how tough and unfair the culinary world can be, especially for women. It didn’t deter you. You’ve never wanted fame; you just want to open a pâtisserie and make people happy with your creations. For now, though, gaining more experience is your priority, so you work at a well-known bakery in Shibuya.

It’s only temporary, it’s only temporary, you often need to remind yourself—especially on tough days like today.

You don’t think you’re gaining a lot of practical skills but at least, you’ve learned a bit of humility here (no matter how forced and unfair it feels).

When you return home that evening, you’re not expecting much. When Umi comes home later, she often brings groceries or takeout. For someone who bakes, you’re surprisingly terrible at cooking savoury dishes. Umi discovered this shortly after you moved in, watching you struggle to roast vegetables or boil an egg.

Weeks of your culinary disasters led her to casually take over dinner duties. Ever since then, she’s been the one in charge and seems satisfied with it. You don’t mind—it’s a fair trade, especially since she’s a great cook.

“My dad was awful in the kitchen, so I had to take over cooking for me and my siblings,” she once explained. “I also had two neighbours who played sports. I made bentos for them all the time. I mean, I used to help their mother make them, she’s the one who taught me everything about cooking. One of the twins would help, but the other was a total ungrateful bastard who just ate everything.”

In return, you sneak pastries home from your workplace (a small rebellion against your boss) and make pancakes on the weekends.

Tonight, you’ve just stepped out of the shower when Umi bursts through the door.

“Hiii!” she exclaims brightly. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” you reply, keeping it short.

You’re usually good at hiding negative emotions—your teachers in Paris were brutally harsh at times, and showing weakness only invited more criticism (maybe even exclusion) . But with Umi, it’s different. She has an uncanny ability to read people’s feelings and make you feel comfortable with those feelings.

“I grew up with two younger siblings, an introverted best friend, and childhood friends who were all boys,” she told you. “I’ve basically seen every version of emotional repression there is.”

So, it doesn’t take her long to figure out you’re upset.

“Bad day?” she asks. “Wanna talk about it?”

“It’s just… my boss,” you mutter.

“What did that old geezer do this time?”

You sigh. “He was wrong about something, I tried to explain that he made a mistake but he just looked down on me. But I’m not surprised, he would rather die than admit that a girl like me is right… But honestly, it’s not just him. It’s the industry. It’s always like this.”

“Yeah, but it’s weird how everyone just accepts it and nothing changes.” She lets out a dramatic groan. “You know what the problem is? Men.”

You chuckle at that, it’s her usual response to every issue (not that you would deny it though).

You slump into the chair and press your face against the palm of your hand, when she suddenly pulls out a bottle of red wine from her bag.

You raise an eyebrow.

“You know I’m not that desperate to the point where I need to drink to deal with a bad day, right?”

“This isn’t about your bad day,” she grins. “It’s about celebrating.”

“Celebrating what? My shitty boss?”

“Let me explain!” she says, rushing to the kitchen to grab glasses. “You know my childhood friend, the one with the restaurant in Osaka?”

“The twin who isn’t an ungrateful bastard?”

“Yes, but his name is Osamu, I already told you. Anyway, a shop next to his restaurant just closed, and the landlady is looking to sell. Osamu knows her and I mentioned you’re looking for a place to open your bakery.”

You open your mouth to correct her (it’s a pâtisserie not a bakery!) but decide to you let her finish instead.

“He said he could arrange a meeting for you. Interested?”

Osaka. You’ve never been there, but the idea intrigues you. People from Kansai are known for their warmth and humour—so different from the quiet of your hometown in Miyagi. Change might be good, you find yourself thinking.

“Sure, I’d be interested,” you say cautiously (in case it doesn't work, don't get your hopes up).

“Great! Osaka is the best, and I know people there who can help you settle in. I’d recommend looking at apartments in—”

“Umi, I haven’t even seen the place yet.”

“Don’t worry,” she says confidently. “Just make them try your strawberry and cream tart. No one can say no to that!”

You laugh. “You mean the fraisier?”

“Gods, yes. Just use that sexy French accent of yours, and they’ll agree in no time.”

“Whatever you say,” you can’t help but laugh a little. “The wine is French, huh?”

She pours a generous amount into your glass, “of course. Last time I brought Californian you almost killed me.”

You take a look at the bottle to check if she’s telling the truth. You nod proudly and she smiles back.

“To your bakery!” She raises her glass and so do you.

A few days later, after pretending to be bedridden by a sudden and debilitating cold to take a fews days off from work (to which your boss complains), you find yourself standing at the station ready to leave for Osaka.

Umi had given you everything you needed: Miya Osamu's number, his address, and an enthusiastic list of typical Kansai expressions.

When you arrive there, you immediately search for “Onigiri Miya” on your phone. When you check it you are nothing but impressed by the 5 stars behind the name and the hundred and hundred of good comments.

Will you also get that someday?

Will your pâtisserie gather many people and be a place of happiness?

You try not to think too much about it, because with the flicker of hope comes fear, and you don’t have time to be negative. You have to move forward and put on a brave face, that’s what you’ve been taught.

As you step off the train and start to look for the right bus, a voice calls out behind you.

“Yer Umi’s roommate, right?”

You turn around to see a man with short brown hair. There’s a relaxed air about him that makes you feel comfortable.

“Miya-san?” you assume.

“The good one, yeah,” he replies with a boyish smile. You think his Kansai accent adds an easy charm to his voice.

“I wasn’t expecting you to come. I could have taken the bus, I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Nah, yer not. Follow me.”

He offers to carry your bag and leads you to his car, parked just outside the station.

The ride is mostly food-related, he tells you about his business. How he started as the employee of an old man who had a ramen restaurant, which eventually became his. How he transformed it into an onigiri restaurant before opening a second shop recently in Tokyo.

“Why onigiri?” you ask, genuinely curious.

He thinks for a moment. “I guess… it reminds me of home. My Ma’ used to make ’em all the time when we were kids. And I love makin’ ’em myself. Like, physically usin’ my hands. Does that make sense?”

“It does,” you say with a small smile. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about your mother’s cooking.”

“It’s the best,” he says, and his tone turns soft. “Though, she didn’t really teach me much about baking. That’s why I’m impressed by what ya do.”

His compliment takes you by surprise, you restrain yourself from smiling with all your teeth.

You meet the landlady the minute you step out of the car. She listens to you carefully and even though you try not to overthink it, she seems more than happy at the idea of opening a French pâtisserie in the neighbourhood.

Osamu mentions after the meeting how you definitely “won her over with how detailed and motivated ya were.”

You don’t tell him that it only makes sense because you’ve dreamed of owning a place for years. You’ve imagined everything, thought about it during sleepless nights and overworked days. It is the lighthouse that guided you through heartbreaks and homesickness. So when the opportunity presents itself, there’s no way you wouldn’t give your all.

“I hope she’ll accept my project,” you simply answer.

“D’ya want onigiri?” The man offers.

You obviously accept (Umi dragged about how delicious they were, you need to find out whether that is true or not) and thank him again. He brushes it off with a “Umi’s friends are my friends and I’m always happy to feed people.”

His shop is warm and welcoming, and his food is delightful. You might yourself add a five-star review on Google.

“I never thought a rice ball could be that good,” you say with a mouth full of food.

“Rice balls? Ya don’t know how much time it took me to master that.”

Right, you don’t know, but you can only imagine. The culinary world isn’t only competitive and cruel. It’s sweat and tears, years of making to perfect a simple recipe. It’s giving your entire being into your crafts only to hear people say “well, that mustn’t be too difficult to make.”

But it’s also pride and art. Not a day goes by when you aren’t excited to try a new combination: replace wheat flour with almond flour for the brioches, add a spoonful of orange blossom to your cream puffs, and the list is long. And if you make someone happy, if they ask to have a second piece of your cake, that’s when you know the sweat and the tears aren’t that important.

You crave to build your pâtisserie, the same way Osamu built his restaurant (with warmth and love), and taste what it’s like to pour your heart into something tangible and undeniably yours.

Things move faster than you’d anticipated. The landlady approves your proposal, the bank grants your loan, and within the span of a week, you exchange your resignation letter with a lease and a pair of keys.

You’re sad to leave Umi, she is too.

“I’ll come whenever I can.” She says with a sad smile.

“I’ll sneak pastries for you,” you wink in return and when you hug, she congratulates you and tells you (for the tenth time) that you deserve it. You think a tear escapes your eyes.

Your newfound property is empty and cold. And when you open the door for the first time you realise that it might require a lot of work.

But Osamu is there every step of the way. He kindly offers advice and helps you with renovations. You’re a bit embarrassed by how much he’s done so far and at the same time, you know you have to take everything there is to make that place great. So it becomes a routine for him to cross the road from his shop to yours at the end of his shift to give you a hand.

“Yer makin’ the right choice,” he says one evening as you both sit outside Onigiri Miya, sharing a quick meal after a day of painting walls and changing seals. “That place is gonna bring in plenty of tourists and locals.”

You glance at him, there are nerves swirling in your chest. “I hope so.”

“Ya are. Trust me. Yer gonna have queues and queues of people.”

You hide your nerves with sarcasm, “And if they’re tired of waiting, I’ll tell them that there's a not-too-bad onigiri restaurant in front of my shop. Just so you know, time passes faster.”

He sneers at that, “’Not too bad’, ya sound like my brother.”

“Don’t know the guy but that didn’t seem to be a compliment.”

“That wasn’t.”

You roll your eyes and he laughs in return.

The hardest part of the renovation happens to be the most important one: the kitchen. You’re knee-deep in setting up the oven when you realise that maybe, you might need more people to assemble to equipment.

“I can find two or three more biceps to help,” Osamu tells you when he finds you trying to lift the 250-pound fridge by yourself.

“Yeah, I guess that would be useful,” you say breathlessly.

The next morning, you arrive early. Not as early as Osamu it seems since you see him standing outside your shop, hands in his pockets and wearing a sports suit (the clothes are unusual on him, you think). The closer you get, the blonder his hair looks. The sun has barely rise, and you blame the light for it.

You immediately call out, “Miya-san?”

He turns around, “Oh, hey!”

“You could have come later, you know. I was planning on cleaning a little bit before you arrived.”

“Don’t worry," he shakes his head, “’Samu would have killed me if I had been late.”

“Samu?”

And then, just as quickly, Osamu (the real one) shows up and for a second, you’re confused.

“Good morning,” he says before pointing to the other man, “seems like ya just met my brother.”

“I’m Atsumu.” The blond guy extends his hand to you and your knitted brows probably gives away your confusion. “Don’t tell me ya thought I was ‘Samu?”

Of course that’s his brother, you idiot. You curse yourself.

“Sorry. You guys look similar,” you say, but it’s not quite an excuse for your mistake.

They both share a glance before laughing and you think you just sounded stupid because obviously, they look alike, they’re fucking twins. You reason yourself by thinking that it’s very much early and that you’re not fully awake.

“We’re very different. I mean, our bodies aren’t built the same since I’m a professional athlete and ‘Samu’s not. I’ve always been the smartest one too.” He crosses his arms to his chest.

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Don’t listen to him. You’ll learn the difference soon enough. I’m the serious one.” He gestures to his brother. “He’s the disaster.”

Atsumu shrugs dramatically. “Hey, the world needs a little chaos, ya shithead!”

You can’t help but laugh despite the tension between them.

“Where’s the fridge?”

“I think we should wait for him; it will be easier if we’re four,” Osamu tells his brother. You didn’t know another person would come, you want to ask about them but Atsumu interferes before you can open your mouth.

“I’m pretty sure I can manage on my own, I’m a-”

“Professional athlete. I think we got it ‘Tsumu so can ya shut the fuck up now?”

You fear Atsumu will jump his brother if you don’t stop them.

“What sport?” You ask hurriedly before he can take a step towards Osamu.

“Volleyball. I’m the starting setter of the National Team.”

“Thought Tobio-kun was.”

The older twin glowers at the younger one.

“I’m impressed Atsumu-san, I actually know a professional setter.”

“Who?” The man’s eyes widen, and you decipher not only curiosity but competition on his face (typical man behaviour).

“He’s not in Japan though. But maybe you’ve heard of him, his name is Oika-”

“My bad Sam-sam, I walked past that place.”

A man enters the room. He is a bit sweaty and his hair, grey and raven, is falling on his forehead.

“Did ya run to come here?” Osamu raises an eyebrow at him.

He grins and scratches the back of his neck nervously, “I took the wrong street.”

“But it’s the same as Onigiri Miya.”

“But it’s always Omi-Omi who guides us here. I never came on my own,” he pouts.

“Thank you for coming,” you hear yourself say and that’s when he finally sees you. His pout immediately disappears.

You think he is handsome. He and his golden eyes. But it’s only a sample of his beauty because when he replies “of course,” with his smile all bright and warm, you’re mesmerised.

It’s almost instinctive, the way you can’t look away. It’s like an effortless intake of air. Like your eyes seem to be glued to his features, and soon enough, to his arms and the way the muscles contract slightly when he offers his hand for you to shake it.

“I'm Bokuto,” he grins. “Nice to meet you.”

“Bokkun, yer hands are all dirty. She’s a lady.”

“Oops, Tsum-Tsum is right. Where can I wash them?” He asks you and hides his hands behind his back.

You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out. The room is filled with silence for a very long minute before Osamu finally decides to show him the way.

Why are you disappointed? Why did you want so badly to shake his hand?

Perhaps because it’s too early for your mind to function properly.

Your brain tries to go for that answer (your beating heart whispers something else).

“Should we start workin’”? Atsumu proposes and you nod.

Well, it seems like you’re stuck with two bickering brothers and this god-like man named Bokuto.

(This is going to be a good day, you think discretely).

author notes: okay so this was supposed to be a one-shot but it will be a 3 or 4 chapters story haha

(writing this made me very hungry btw)

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kjack89 · 9 months ago

Text

Dial Drunk

5 times Enjolras bailed Grantaire out of jail, and one time, well...

The door of the holding cell clanked open and as one, the nine men sitting inside glanced up. “Alright,” the booking officer said in a bored tone, glancing down at his clipboard. “Bail’s been posted for arrestees Bahorel, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Feuilly, Joly, Lesgle and Prouvaire. You’re free to leave after you sign out at the front desk.”

There were a few grumbles as the men started to get to their feet, but Enjolras remained resolutely seated, his brow furrowed with a frown. “What about Grantaire?”

The man in question chuckled darkly, tilting his head back to rest it against the wall of the holding cell. “Is that actual concern for me that I hear, Apollo? I could die happy.”

Enjolras ignored him. “Pontmercy was supposed to post bail for all of us,” he said instead, aiming his words at Courfeyrac as if the man was somehow still responsible for the actions of his former roommate some five years after they had stopped living together.

Courfeyrac just shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I mean, we all know Marius is a bit of an idiot, maybe he miscounted.”

Combeferre shook his head. “I’m probably wrong and should defer to the lawyers amongst us but I thought I remembered reading something in one of the articles about reforming pre-trial detention that an individual can only post bail for 8 detainees at a time.”

“And so I must’ve drawn the short straw,” Grantaire sighed. “Story of my fucking life.”

Bossuet clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder. “On the other hand, you could take it as a compliment that Marius thinks you’re the one most likely to survive an extended stay behind bars.”

Bahorel snorted so loudly the bars of the cell almost rattled. “Sorry but literally not a single one of us would survive an extended stay behind bars.”

“Speak for yourself,” Feuilly said. “I know how to whittle.” At the blank looks he received, he huffed a sigh and added, “So I can make a shank. No wonder none of you would survive in jail.”

“This is making our goal of prison abolition seem oddly self-serving,” Joly murmured in an undertone to Jehan, who stifled a laugh.

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Not that I’m not sympathetic to Grantaire having to be stuck in here, but I’d just like to remind everyone that since Marius posted bail, we’re technically now here voluntarily.”

“Yeah so GTFO,” Grantaire said with a grimace masquerading as a smile. “Let me rot in peace, etcetera.”

Enjolras looked like he wanted to argue more, but Combeferre muttered something in his ear and he made a face before filing out of the cell. “Serious miscalculation on Marius’s part with this one,” Courfeyrac said brightly as he followed everyone else out. “Because God knows you’re going to complain about this for the rest of all time.”

Grantaire gave him the finger and Courfeyrac winked as the officer closed the cell door behind him.

Sighing again, Grantaire sat upright, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck before settling back against the bench. “You need anything?” the booking officer asked.

Grantaire shook his head. “Nah,” he said dismissively. “Not my first rodeo. Hopefully I won’t be stuck overnight, but I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Oh, yeah?” the officer said with mild interest.

Grantaire nodded. “Central booking at the 16th Precinct is a piece of shit,” he said brightly.

The officer barked a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He gave Grantaire a long look. “Should I ask what you were picked up for previously?”

Considering the answer to that question was a vast litany of misdemeanors (and felonies reduced to misdemeanors) that the boys in blue tended not to appreciate, Grantaire hesitated. Thankfully, he was saved from having to answer at all by the crackle of the officer’s walkie-talkie. “Just a moment,” the officer told him, heading out of the booking area and Grantaire let out a sigh of relief as he slumped on the bench.

“You’re free to go,” the officer said upon returning, and Grantaire looked up, surprised.

“Really?”

The officer nodded, opening the door to the holding cell. “Bail was posted. So I guess you’ll have to save your rap sheet for the next time you’re in here.”

Grantaire snorted a laugh. “I’d say there won’t be a next time, but…”

He ducked out before the officer could respond to that, making his way to the front desk, stopping in his tracks when he saw Enjolras leaning against the desk, clearly waiting for him. “What’re you doing here?”

Enjolras straightened. “It didn’t feel right leaving you in there,” he said with a shrug that didn’t quite come across as nonchalant as he’d probably intended. “And I happened to have some cash on me, so…”

“Between this and being worried about my welfare, you’re gonna give me the wrong impression,” Grantaire said.

“Guess that depends on what impression you’re getting,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire’s eyes flickered to his and away again, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. Enjolras cleared his throat, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “Anyway, we should get to the Musain to debrief.” He glanced at Grantaire. “Unless you’ve got something better to do.”

Grantaire just shook his head, and gestured for Enjolras to lead the way. “After you,” he said, his voice low, and together they walked out of the precinct, their arms just brushing against each other as they headed to meet their friends at the Musain.

— — — — —

“Jesus Christ,” Enjolras muttered as the booking officer removed the handcuffs from a sheepish-looking Grantaire. Well, as sheepish as a man sporting the beginnings of a pretty impressive black eye could look, anyway. “Here,” Enjolras said roughly, holding an ice pack out to Grantaire. “I posted your bail as well.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire muttered, taking the ice pack and wincing as he pressed it against his eye.

Enjolras pursed his lips as he gave him a once-over. “Any other injuries I need to worry about?” he asked.

Grantaire just shrugged. “Nothing that won’t heal on its own.”

“Because that’s reassuring,” Enjolras sighed, rubbing his forehead, but when he looked at Grantaire again, there was something almost soft in his expression. “You didn’t need to do that.”

What he could see of Grantaire’s expression tightened, just slightly. “You didn’t hear what that guy called you.”

He said it calmly, evenly, but his hand automatically balled into a fist at the memory. Enjolras reached out automatically to rest his hand on Grantaire’s fist until it relaxed. “It doesn’t matter what he called me,” he said, his voice low. “I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can,” Grantaire scoffed. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Enjolras just shook his head, running his thumb across Grantaire’s bruised knuckles, a testament to the fact that despite the black eye, he’d emerged from the fight victorious. “I should’ve brought another ice pack,” he murmured.

Grantaire just half-smiled, twisting his hand so that he could lace his fingers with Enjolras’s. “It’s fine,” he said softly. “It doesn’t really hurt at the moment anyway.”

Enjolras cleared his throat and looked away, but he didn’t try to untangle his fingers from Grantaire’s. “Well,” he said, “we should, uh, get out of here.”

“Before they realize you have about a half dozen outstanding warrants for your arrest?” Grantaire asked with a smirk, his voice quiet enough that only Enjolras could hear.

“You’d be amazed what having a multi-million dollar settlement pending against the city will do to the police’s willingness to bring you in,” Enjolras said with a smirk. “Not that I want to test that, of course.”

“Liar,” Grantaire said, grinning. “But better safe than sorry, I suppose.”

He started toward the door, pausing when Enjolras didn’t immediately follow. “Thank you, by the way,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire glanced back at him.

“Anytime,” he said simply. “Thanks for bailing me out.”

Enjolras gave him a look that was half-amused, half-exasperated. “Just don’t go making a habit of it,” he warned. “One day I won’t be here to bail you out.”

“Only because you’ll probably be locked up with me,” Grantaire said.

“Well,” Enjolras murmured, not quite able to stop his smile, “you’re not wrong.”

— — — — —

Grantaire rested his elbows against the bars of the holding cell, his arms dangling into what was technically freedom on the other side. The booking officer, some new guy he didn’t recognize, gave him a look but didn’t say anything, which he took as a small victory, and he allowed himself a small smirk.

A smirk that faded as soon as he saw Enjolras, escorted by another officer. “No dice on bail?” Grantaire asked, seeing the look on Enjolras’s face.

Enjolras shook his head. “No, they’re going to go through the whole arraignment rigamarole. I’ve already let Pontmercy know.” He made a face, casting an irritated look at the booking officer who was pretending not to listen to their conversation. “Apparently they take battery of a police officer pretty seriously these days.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Grantaire muttered. Enjolras sighed and Grantaire gave him a look. “Don’t even start,” he warned. “This wasn’t about you not being able to take care of yourself—”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” Enjolras interrupted, his voice tight. “I’m well aware that cop would’ve bashed my head in if you hadn’t intervened.” He shook his head and sighed again. “I was going to say thank you.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, managing a tight smile. “You’re welcome.”

Enjolras just shook his head again. “You still shouldn’t have done it,” he continued, “because honestly, I’m not worth all that—”

“You are, though,” Grantaire said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Enjolras scowled and Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Fine, then why don’t we make a deal?” he said. “I’ll stop defending you when you stop bailing me out.”

“At the rate you’re going, I won’t be able to anyway,” Enjolras said sourly. “Not without putting up some major collateral.”

Grantaire shook his head. “And I’m definitely not worth that,” he said.

Enjolras’s eyes met his. “You are, though.”

For a moment, it looked like Grantaire might argue. Instead, he reached for Enjolras’s hand, bringing it up to kiss his knuckles through the bars of the holding cell. “No touching,” the booking officer barked, and Grantaire rolled his eyes as he reluctantly let go of Enjolras’s hand.

“Will you be at my arraignment?” he asked.

Enjolras shrugged. “Someone’s got to post whatever bail amount the judge decides,” he said.

Grantaire half-smiled. “In that case, I’ll be the one in the front.”

“Pretty sure that’ll be the judge,” Enjolras murmured, grinning when Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise.”

“It’ll be the only thing that gets me through spending the night in here,” Grantaire told him, and it was Enjolras’s turn to roll his eyes, though there was obvious affection in the motion.

“Pretty sure Bahorel was right,” he said. “You definitely wouldn’t survive in jail.”

Grantaire just shrugged. “Only if you were in there with me.”

Enjolras shook his head, reluctantly backing away toward the door. “Still time,” he said, and Grantaire’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t you dare do anything stupid while I’m locked up in here.”

Enjolras just smirked. “See you tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder as he left, and Grantaire sighed, though there something strangely content in the noise, despite, or maybe because of, the circumstances.

— — — — —

Grantaire didn’t meet Enjolras’s eyes as he rapped his fingers impatiently against the front desk at the precinct, waiting for them to bring him his personal effects. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Enjolras asked, his voice tight. Grantaire looked pointedly at the conspicuous clock on the wall and Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “Exactly, it’s 2 in the fucking morning. I have a 7 o’clock meeting, which you knew damn well, so why you had to go pick a bar fight with some guy twice your fucking size—”

“So sorry to be an inconvenience to you,” Grantaire drawled, slurring his words just slightly. “Can’t imagine what it must be like to have made plans that get interfered with by someone else’s priorities.”

Enjolras ground his teeth together. “Are we really doing this here and now?” he asked.

Grantaire just jerked a shrug, not meeting his eyes. “Do you have something better to do?”

Enjolras sighed and scrubbed a tired hand across his face. “I’m sorry that I had to cancel tonight,” he said, with as much patience as he could seemingly muster, considering the circumstances. “But I needed to get this proposal done ahead of the meeting tomorrow, and I don’t really see what the big deal—”

“You never do,” Grantaire interrupted, still not looking at him. “That’s the problem.”

“You knew going into this—”

“Just like you knew going into this that I’m a drunk and a disaster,” Grantaire interrupted, finally looking at Enjolras, his expression hard. “Well, congratulations, Apollo, it looks like we both knew what we were getting into and yet somehow, we’re both still disappointed.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “I’m not,” he said tiredly. “I’m not disappointed, Grantaire, because that would require me to actually expect better from you, and I learned my lesson on that a long time ago.”

Grantaire just grinned, a horrible, twisted grin. “Right back atcha.”

The officer returned with Grantaire’s belongings, and Grantaire grabbed his phone, wallet and keys, returning them to his pockets. Enjolras took a deep breath, but whatever he clearly wanted to say seemed to stick in his throat, and he looked away. “C’mon,” he said instead. “Let’s go home.”

Grantaire nodded once, shoving his hands in his pockets as he slumped after Enjolras, neither man touching the other.

— — — — —

“He’s not technically under arrest,” the cop told Enjolras as he led him back to the holding cell. “But that’s because we couldn’t really mirandize him when he was passed out.”

Enjolras eyed Grantaire, sprawled across the bench in the holding cell, and sighed. “So once he’s coherent, he’ll be charged with, what, drunk and disorderly?”

The officer nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced at Enjolras. “Look, it’s not my place, but, uh, maybe look into getting your friend some help?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras murmured, his expression drawn. “Maybe.” He sighed and turned. “Guess I’ll go preemtively pay his bail—”

“Apollo?” Grantaire croaked, and Enjolras sighed again.

“Give us a moment?” he asked the officer, who just shrugged.

Enjolras crossed to the bars of the holding cell, his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. “Tell me,” he said, his tone clipped, “were you trying to get hit by a car by passing out in the street, or would have just been a fun little side effect of this spectacular attempt at blowing up your life?”

Grantaire groaned as he forced himself into a sitting position. “Honestly don’t remember if it was deliberate or not,” he muttered, swaying slightly as he blinked unfocusedly at Enjolras.

“There are easier ways of killing yourself,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire managed a small, sharp smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve considered those as well.”

Enjolras’s expression tightened and he looked away. “You used your one phone call for me,” he said.

Grantaire shrugged. “Didn’t know who else to call.”

“Probably anyone besides your ex.” Grantaire flinched and Enjolras sighed before telling him, as firmly as he could manage, “This is the last time. Do you understand?”

Grantaire barked a dry, humorless laugh. “If there’s one thing I can promise, Apollo, it’s that this won’t be the last time.”

“Maybe not for you,” Enjolras said. “But I’m done. So the next time you get picked up for a bar fight or public intoxication or whatever suicidal shit you decide to get yourself into next time, call someone else.”

He didn’t wait for Grantaire to answer, just turning on heel to leave him in the holding cell while he went to go pay his bail.

One last time.

— — — — —

The phone rang, and rang again, and Grantaire’s grip on the phone tightened. “Come on,” he muttered to himself. “Come on, pick up, pick up.”

But the phone just rang until the tinny, robotic voice informed him that no voicemail had been set up for this phone number, and he heaved a sigh as he hung up, a headache blooming in his temples that had absolutely nothing to the better part of a handle of whiskey that he’d worked his way through that evening.

“Nothing?” the booking officer asked, and Grantaire ground his teeth together at the fake sympathetic tone.

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’, and he scrubbed a hand across his face before heading back to the holding cell.

The booking officer trailed after him. “Do you, uh, want to try calling someone else?”

Grantaire just shook his head. “No,” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest as the officer opened the door of the cell for him. “I’ll try again later. He’s probably asleep.”

The officer glanced up at the clock that showed it was barely 10pm, and he shook his head as he closed the door after Grantaire. “Your choice,” he said with a shrug.

Grantaire sighed heavily as he slumped down onto the hard metal bench, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach for an absent glass or bottle of beer, or else for a hand that used to be his to hold. His throat felt tight and he swallowed hard, tilting his head back to rest it against the wall of the holding cell.

He closed his eyes against the tears that he could feel prick in the corners of his eyes, though he honestly didn’t know if he was crying because Enjolras hadn’t picked up, or because there was a part of him that still thought that maybe, in the morning, he would. One more time.

#ExR #Enjolras x Grantaire #Enjoltaire #Enjolras #Grantaire #Les Amis #fanfiction #Les Miserables #modern AU #5+1 things #developing relationship #established relationship #and because it's me #former relationship #mild angst

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maximoffgxrl · 11 months ago

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hi i’m not sure if you still take requests but would if you ever have time a yelena belova x reader (platonic) with lots of cuddling and kisses? just a whole ton of fluff and it doesn’t need to be too long? if you can’t/don’t want to do it that’s totally fine but i have such a soft spot for sweet yelena <3

Home {Yelena Belova}

Pairing: Yelena x gn!reader (platonic)

Summary: Yelena arrives from a mission and all she really wants is you

Note: yelena is the best i swear <3 hope you like it! this request has been sitting on my drafts for months, but now it’s finally here!!! so, enjoy 💕

You sighed as you flipped another page on your book, a pink highlighter on your hand and a bunch of loose pages resting in your lap. Were you studying on a friday night again? Yes. Sure, you had promised to yourself that this kind of nerdy behaviour would be left behind in high school, but who could blame you? It's not like you had anything else to do and you actually enjoyed studying.

- Oh, absolutely not. - a familiar voice with a thick accent sounded behing you and you smiled.

- Hey, Yelena. - you turned your head towards the voice, seeing the blonde girl climbing out the window. - Nice to see you're home again. And still unable to use the door.

- I already told you, sometimes I need to climb the window so I can make sure that no one else can climb the window. It is science. Just like your book. - she said, taking off her shoes and coat, her cheeks red from the cold weather. - Now, what are you doing reading a book? When I left, a whole week ago, you were doing that exact same thing.

- Well, I have to. It’s called studying. And if it helps, it was a different book last week. - you answered, watching as the blonde went straight for the kitchen. - But I wanna know about you. Your super secret mission went well? Where were you, after all? Now you can tell me, right?

- Bolivia. And yes, it went well. No one blew me up and it was not for lack of trying. - she said, frowning at the refrigerator. - Now, tell me, Y/N, this studying of yours does not require eating? There’s nothing in here.

- I was planning on ordering something later and I didn’t know you were coming home today. - you said, finally closing the book and resting your head against the armchair. - What do you mean they were trying to blow you up? Are you okay?

- Peachy. - Yelena said, sitting on the sofa. - I wasn’t even shot this time. It’s a big win.

- I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this. - you glanced at her with your eyes a little widened. You still remembered when, a year ago, Yelena showed up holding your announcement and asking if you were the one looking for a roommate. At the time, you didn’t knew you were getting a best friend and a giant headache all in one person. - You know, every time you leave I get worried sick.

- That is very sweet, Y/N Y/L/N, but you don’t have to worry. I am the best, so yeah, no danger here. - she smiled and you held back a laugh. Yelena could be so unintentionally conceited sometimes. - Now, will you please stop with the books, order some pizza and watch a movie with me? I missed you a lot.

- Own, Lena, I missed you too! - your heart melted at the russian’s words, smiling at her. - I’ll just bring this stuff to my room and then we can watch anything you’d like, okay?

She agreed with her head and you piled up all your books, papers and pens and carried them to your room, leaving it all on your desk. Fishing a blanket out of your closet, you picked up your phone and went back to the living room, sitting comfortably in the armchair again as you dialed the number of the pizza place you guys always ordered from.

- The pizza will be here in 40 minutes! - you yelled to make sure Yelena would hear you and went back to your phone, waiting for the girl to come back.

A few minutes later, she showed up in sweatpants and a My Little Pony white t-shirt, her hair wet and carrying a sweet lavender smell. She used your shampoo, but you didn’t really care, just watching as she practically fell onto the couch, resting her head against the pillows.

- So, what are we watching? - you asked, toying with the remote.

- Can we watch the one with the sirens again? You know, the one with the song that was stuck in my head for like a month? - she asked with big puppy eyes.

- Barbie A Mermaid Tale? - you asked with a laugh. Yelena was a big Barbie fan, but she specifically loved this one. - I think we’ve seen this at least five times.

- Please? It’s my favorite! - she pleaded, holding her hands together. - I love the evil fish.

- Okay, okay. But I’ll choose the next one.

- YES! - she exclaimed in pure delight, making you laugh again. If there was something you loved about Yelena, was her almost childlike joy about the little things in life. It was adorable.

You were about to press play when she cleared her throat, making you look in her direction only to find her already staring at you, brows furrowed.

- What? - you asked, a little confused.

- Aren’t you forgetting something? - she asked, rolling her eyes at your absolutely lack of perception. - Cuddling, Y/N Y/L/N, you’re forgetting the most important part of a movie marathon. Get your ass on this couch right now.

You couldn’t help but smile as you got up, laying beside the blonde on the couch and throwing your blanket over the two of you. It wasn’t long until Yelena’s arm was around your waist and the russian’s cheek was resting against your head. You hummed in contentment, feeling relaxed and warm and safe, like you always were with her.

- Now you can start. - she said simply as she placed a kiss against your forehead, making your heart melt all over again.

- It’s nice to have you home. - you said softly, grabbing the blonde’s hand and kissing her knuckles. - You know I love you, right?

- Yeah, you big softie, I love you too. - she said rolling her eyes as she kissed your cheek. - Now shush, my movie is starting.

You just smiled, too enthralled in the feeling of being in Yelena’s arms. She was home now, and it was all that mattered. After all, she was your home.

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bluemirrorangel · 3 months ago

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the DPS book & characterisation

so I'm reading the Dead Poets Society book and while I don't particularly like it all that much it has made some bold choices when it comes to the characters, some I really dislike and others I really love. I'm going to go over that in this post :)

Todd Anderson:

Todd is so much angrier than he is in the movie and honestly he’s so real for that. He and Neil actually don’t get along as much as they do in the movie, they don’t really get each other because they are in opposite situations, Neil’s father has too many expectations for him and controls his every move giving his son little to no agency whereas Todd's parents actively neglect him, they both want what the other one has to a certain degree; Todd wants someone to care about him and Neil wants freedom.

The book also gets rid of the flying desk set scene and we instead get a more sombre scene

“Todd?” He called, walking over to get a better look. Todd sat shivering in the dark about a coat. “What's going on there?” Neil asked his roommate, Todd didn't answer. “Todd, what's the matter?” Neil sat next to him on the wall. “It's freezing out here.” “It's my birthday.” Todd said flatly. “It is?” Neil said. “Why didn't you tell me? happy birthday, You get anything?” Except for his chattering teeth Todd was silent and still. He pointed to a box. Neil opened it to find the same monogram desk set Todd had.In their room.”This is your desk set.” Neil said. “I don't get it.” “They gave me the exact same thing as last year” Todd cried. “They didn't even remember.” “Oh” Neil said in a hushed tone. “Oh.” Todd mocked. “Well, maybe they thought you needed another one, a new one” Neil suggested after a long, awkward pause. “maybe they don't think at all. Unless it's about my brother” Todd said angrily. “His birthday is always a big to do” He looked at the deskset and laughed. The stupid thing is, I didn't even like it the first time.” “Look Todd you’re obviously underestimating the value of this desk set” Neil said flippantly trying to change the mood. “What?” “I mean” Neil said and tried to smile. “This is one special gift. Who would want a football or a baseball bat or a car when they could have a desk set as Wonderful as this one?” “Yeah.” Todd laughed, infected by nose humour.”And just look at this ruler” they both laughed. They both looked at the desk set. By now it was pitch dark and cold Neil shivered.“You know what my dad would call me when i was growing up? Five ninety-eight. That’s what all the chemicals in the human body will be worth if you bottled them raw and sold them, he told me. That was all I'd ever be worth unless I worked every day to improve myself. Five ninety-eight.” Neil sighed and shook his head in disbelief. No wonder Todd was so screwed up, he thought. “When I was little” todd continued, “I thought all parents automatically love their kids. That's what my teachers told me. That's what I read in the books they gave me. That's what I believed, well, my parents rather have my brother, but they did not love me.Todd took a deep anguished breath and walked into the dorm. Neil sat motionless on the freezing Stonewall, groping for something to say. “Todd,” he called lamely. As he ran after his roommate.

Todd is less shy and nervous in the book and more quiet and brooding which changes his dynamic with most of the characters specifically Neil.

Neil Perry:

Neil is meaner in the book, not flat-out mean just meaner, this makes him feel more like a real teenager. His dynamic with Todd is still a friendship and they still mean a lot to each other but there’s more depth.

“So what do you think of my father?” He asked blankly. “I'll take him over mine,” Todd said softly, almost to himself. “What?” Neil asked “Nothing” “Todd, If you're gonna make it around here, you've gotta speak up. The meek might inherit the earth but they don't get into Harvard know what I mean?” Todd nodded, holding a white button-down Oxford cloth shirt. Neil held the achievement pin in his hand as he spoke. “ The Bastard!” He shouted suddenly, jabbing his thumb with the metal pointed pin and drawing blood. Todd winced, but Neil just stared at the blood intently. He pulled the pin out. And hurled it against the wall.

He also calls Cameron a jerk to Todd instead of saying ‘he was born with his foot in his mouth.’ like he does in the movie this paired with his comment about Todd being ‘messed up’ shows that Neil can be judgmental of his friends and peers, this being said Neil still cares deeply for his friends especially Todd; talking to him gently and trying to figure him out.

“By the way, there's a meeting this afternoon.” Neil said, “Are you coming?” I guess, Todd said as he grimaced. Neil put down the play and looked over at his roommate. “None of what Mr Keating Has to say means anything to you, does it?” He asked, incredulous. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Todd was defensive “Being in the club means being stirred up by things. You look about as turn up as a cesspool” “You want me out? Is that what you're saying?” Todd said angrily. “No,” Neil, said softly. “I want you in, but it means you gotta do something. Not just say you're in.” Todd said angrily “Listen, Neil, I appreciate your interest in me, but I'm not like you,” he insisted. “ “When you say things people pay attention, people follow you. I'm not like that.” “Why not? Do you think you could be?” Neil Pressed. “No!” Todd shouted. “Oh, I don't know. I'll probably never know. The point is, there's nothing you can do about it. So, butt out, all right? I can take care of myself just fine, alright” “No” Neil said “No?” Todd asked astonished. “What do you mean no,” Neil shrugged matter of factly and repeated “No, I'm not going to butt out” Neil opened his play and began to read again. Todd just sat and stared at him. “OK”, todd said defeated “I’ll go.” “Good” Neil smiled and continued reading the play.

Charlie Dalton:

Charlie is more emotionally open in the book, he’s also a lot more annoyed by Knox’s Infatuation (obsession) on Chris.

“I feel like I've never been alive,” Charlie said sadly as he watched Neil go. “For years I've been risking nothing. I have no idea what I am.Or what I want to do. Neil knows he wants to act. Knox knows he wants Chris” “Needs Chris? must have Chris” Knox groaned “Meeks,” Charlie said, “you're the brain here or did the dead poets say about somebody like me?” “The romantics were passionate experiment as Charles. They dabbled in many things before settling. If ever,” Meeks said. Cameron made a face. “There aren't too many places to be an experimenter at, Welton Meeks.” Charlie paces as the boys considered Cameron’s observation. He stopped and his face lit up. “I hereby declare this the Charles Dalton cave for passion experimentation.” He smiled. “In the future, anyone wishing entry must have permission from me.” “Wait a minute, Charlie” Pitts objected. “This should belong to The club” “it should, but I found it now I claim it. Carpe cavem boys seize The Cave.” Charlie

countered with a grin. “Good thing there’s only one of you around here Charles” Meeks said philosophically.

Meeks & Pitts: they mainly stayed the same, however they gave Meeks’ poem about the Congo to Pitts and cut out Pitts’ poem about the man that killed his wife, they also have Meeks call Charlie Charles and I think that’s kind of cute.

Knox Overstreet:

Knox has no personality outside of his infatuation (obsession) with Chris, which is disappointing because they could have done more with his storyline, he’s the most athletic of the poets and has an awkward friendship with Ginny Danburry, his reason for not joining the society was that he didn’t really get it and I think they could have made him into a more interesting character by giving him more moments with Ginny and having him do more at the party than assault Chris, he could have brought all the poets and that would have been such an interesting plot point, having all the boys interact with public school students.

“Might as well sit down until dinner,” Ginny suggested in an awkward moment of silence followed. “Chet only Wanted the Buick so they can go parking.” She confided with a blush, not being able to think about anything to say.

Richard Cameron:

Cameron’s betrayal in the book hits so much harder than in the film because he’s a real friend to the other poets, he’s the first and only one to ask where Todd is at their first study meeting, he calls a club meeting when Charlie asks him too, and he’s the most invested in Knox and Chris. Book Cameron also takes more indicative with the club, he reads from the poetry book something he doesn’t do in the movie.

“Say what happened to Todd?” Cameron asked as they gathered up their books.” Said he wanted to do history,” Neil said. “Come on, Knox”, Cameron said. “You’ll survive this chick. Maybe you'll think of something to win her love. Remember, seize the day,” Knox smiled. Got up from the couch and followed the boys to their rooms.

Cameron took the book. “This is serious,” he said and began to read.

“You know what the dead poets would say” Cameron laughed, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…”

Cameron was still well-behaved and overly nervous but he felt like he genuinely cared about the others, kind of like Claire from Derry Girls.

leave a ship or fandom suggestions for headcanons, fics or just questions in general and I'll do them if you want :)

#richard cameron #dead poets society #charlie dalton #gerard pitts #knox overstreet #neil perry #anderperry #steven meeks #chameron #todd anderson

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shieldofiron · 9 months ago

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Vibe Check Part 3: Quid Pro Bro

The Frat Boy Au, Part 3

Read Previous on Ao3 or tumblr.

Steve wakes almost falling out of a chair.

He blinks, looking around the empty lecture hall and then finally looking up at the girl who’s still shaking him.

“Hey, yo, I’m up, I’m awake!” He wriggled out of her iron grip.

“You have to leave.”

“When did I pass out?”

The girl scoffs rolling her eyes hard, “Like halfway through the lecture, dingus. You snore, by the way.”

“I do not!” He snapped. Billy’s never said anything, and they’d roomed together all of last year.

“Oh yeah,” she nodded, crossing her arms. “Drool too.”

Steve just began to gather his books, “Why are you even here? Just let me drool.”

“I’m the TA,” She smirked. “And I didn’t want to be caught grading your absolutely half baked paper.”

“Yeah,” he smirked right back, giving her a little of the patented Harrington sparkle. “A likely excuse.”

She just huffs, heading back to the front of the room and gathering some papers, “you try to help a guy.”

“Want me to walk you home?” He glanced at his watch. “Kinda late.”

“I live off campus.”

“Your car, then.”

She blinks at him, “you’re not getting in my pants.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m gay.”

“And I’m just offering a walk home,” Steve shook his head, “you try to help a girl.”

She pauses, “you’re serious. You don’t have to do that.”

He nods, “yeah I am, dude, it’s like 9 pm. I’m not gonna let you walk home alone.”

She’s pretty, short hair sort of messy around her freckled face, which morphs slowly from a scowl into a more confused expression.

“Okay, I guess.”

“You thought I would just leave you in the lurch?”

“Not-“ She just laughs and shakes her head. “Fine, dingus. Prove to me that frat boys aren’t all the same.”

“We’re not!”

“Your taking a nap during the lecture non withstanding. Like it wasn’t even during a film day.”

Steve massaged the back of his neck, “My neighbor at the house has this girlfriend, she’s like a banshee. We didn’t sleep at all last night.”

She swung a multicolored patchwork tote bag onto her shoulder, “Can’t you just outbang him? Fight fire with fire?”

Steve’s brows rose as he scrambled to shove his notes into his backpack. “Whoah, I didn’t expect you to say that!”

She giggles, “I’m a TA not a nun.”

“Fair enough. How do you get to be a TA anyway?” He holds open the heavy metal door as she sails past, her tote bag hitting him hard in the solar plexus as she did.

“Sorry,” She says. “You take enough of Herman’s classes that he starts to remember your face. It’s a blessing and a curse, I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. And the pay is dismal.”

“You get paid too?” He followed her down the hallway and out into the brisk fall air.

“I thought frat boys had all the money for keg parties and togas and house dues and lawsuits…”

“Not all of us,” He scoffs, as if he isn’t absolutely the exact type of guy she’s talking about. “It’s always good to let the brothers know about stuff like this.”

She rolls her eyes, “I can’t believe you actually talk like that.”

“What? Brothers?”

“Yeah,” she raises one shoulder. “Isn’t your boyfriend one of your brothers? Isn’t that a bit creepy?”

At first he thinks it’s the fall wind. That whooshing sound.

“What?” He realizes he’s frozen, locked to the spot in his adidas slides, staring at a tree rather than her.

“Oh,” She falters in her skipping. “Did you two break up?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Uh, I don’t really know his name but he used to walk you to class last semester for Women in Film? Blonde guy with the curls? He has an embarrassing and frankly dated 80s thing going on?” She blinks at him. “God, you did break up. I’m so sorry, Steve.”

“How… wh… we’re not boyfriends,” he finally manages to stutter after a few seconds of autumn-chilled silence.

“Oh,” Her expression morphs into pity and it’s fucking awful. “I get it.”

“No, no I… we’re not like that at all. Billy and I are roommates. We’re…” he couldn’t bring himself to say brothers, his mind still scrambled. “Friends.”

“Oh.” She tips her chin down. “Sorry. My mistake.”

After another stilted second, they start to walk again with purpose towards the parking garage.

But she keeps sort of glancing over at him. Like she’s checking.

“We’re just friends,” He repeats after a moment.

“Got it.”

“Nothing going on there.”

“Okay.”

“And we’re straight.”

“Interesting how that came up last.”

“I’m fucking serious. We’re just friends.”

“Got it. Broken gaydar. It happens,” She shrugs, and he tries to do it too. Just like… no big deal.

But he can’t seem to stop wanting to say it. They’re just friends. How could anyone read them as anything else.

The more he thinks about it the funnier it seems. Of course nothing is going on, it’s so crazy that she thought so. He’ll have to tell Billy, even though the idea makes him feel like he has a nest of angry scorpions in his stomach.

Finally, they turn sharply for the nearest dorm, just past the garage near the theatre building.

“I thought you said you lived off campus.”

“I thought you might be a serial killer. I don’t know which one of us is more disappointed.”

He laughed through his choked throat. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

“I know. You’re Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington. You’re the party chair for Theta House and you’re like,” she puts on a silly high voice, “so cute.”

“And straight.”

“And straight, that too,” she giggles a little nervously. “I’m Robin Buckley. We’ve had classes together for two years.”

He rocks back on his heels, “you did the John Waters short for Dr Casey’s class. That shit was legit.”

“That’s me,” She smiled, “sorry about confusing you and you’re friend earlier. You’re just so… anyway. See you next time.”

“See you next time, Robin,” He says.

The whole way back to the house he can’t shake the feeling. Like a leaf blowing on the back of his leg he’s jumpy, sure he’s feeling spiders and skeletons.

He whips out his phone and dials the first number he can think of. Surely it will all just seem like a joke tomorrow. A harmless mistake.

“Hey,” Billy picks up on the second ring.

And it’s like all the words in the world have dried up in his throat and he can’t speak for the corpses. He just makes a little aborted wheeze.

“Stevie? What’s up?” Billy asks.

“D-do… do I snore?” He asks, not even sure where that came from.

“A little. But it’s cute. Why, is some girl giving you grief?”

Steve is so nervous he just up and disconnects the call. The wind blows at the name of his neck and his whole body breaks out in goosebumps.

#billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #shieldofiron #harringrove #Harringrove #Billy Hargrove #Steve Harrington #Billy x Steve #Steve x Billy #my writing #frat boy au #vibe check au harringrove

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twilightmalachite · 5 months ago

Text

Yuuta Aoi - Someday in the Future

Writer: Yuumasu

Characters: Yuuta, Hajime

Translator: Mika Enstars

I hope by then… I’ll have grown even more and have become proud of who I am, as “Aoi Yuuta”.

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Season: Winter

Location: Yumenosaki Library

Yuuta: ……

…Huh? Only about five minutes have passed…

I’m looking at the clock too often, actually. I’ve completely lost my concentration.

I’ll take a break from studying.

Maybe I’ll read some books, since I’m in the library. And that even I can enjoy are…

Hmm. I don’t know which books are on what shelf. At bookstores, I only go to the manga section…

Oh well. I’ll take a look outside the window for a change of pace, then.

Ooh, the glass is so squeaky clean I can see my reflection clearly! Was it wiped down not long ago?

…My hair sure has grown long.

(It’s nothing compared to my roommate, Ran-senpai, but… For someone who hasn’t ever grown their hair out before, it’s a big venture.)

(I wonder how long I can grow it… Maybe as long as Hakaze-senpai’s?)

(I could also tie it like Shiina-senpai, couldn’t I? It would be a bit of a show just by letting it down during a performance.)

(It’d be nice to be able to arrange my hair intensively like Hibiki-senpai too… Like with braids, or buns…)

Hajime: —Yuuta-kun?

Yuuta: Whoa!?

Hajime: Eek!? I-I’m sorry if I surprised you! I didn’t mean to, I was just wondering why you were staring at the window’s glass so blankly.

I thought I wiped it down well, but did I maybe miss a spot…?

Yuuta: Oh, so you’re why the windows are wiped down squeaky clean, Hajime-kun! Oh no, it looks really nice!

I wasn’t looking at the window, but my reflection in it… Wait, that makes me sound like a narcissist.

I got distracted by my hair all of a sudden. “It sure has gotten long~”, you know?

Hajime: Ahh, now that you mention it, it has grown quite a lot, huh?

Isn’t bathing and such quite the chore now, with how much time it takes to wash and dry it?

Yuuta: Hmm…? It’s not like it grew out suddenly. I don’t mind it all too much at the moment.

I feel those are the things that you’d notice once you get a haircut. Come to think of it, actually, aren’t you not allowed to cut your hair due to unit policy or something, Hajime-kun?

Hajime: You remember that~? Yes, that is right.

I would like to get something economical like a crew cut, but I’d rather not make it any shorter than it is now.

Yuuta: Ahaha, the opposite of myself, who’s intentionally growing their hair out.

Hajime: Fufu, for sure. ♪

Oh, wait, I apologize. You’d been wanting to grow your hair long, and here I am complaining…

Yuuta: Don’t worry about that~. I’m just happy to hear experiences from someone who has had long hair longer than I have!

Yuuta: Given you want to shave it all off, you don’t seem to be all too particular about your hair, but… When you started growing your hair out, what was it like? Was it weird?

Hajime: Umm… It’s been quite a long time since I’ve had a crew cut, so my memory’s a bit hazy, but…

It came with a little bit of discomfort. It felt like I was becoming less of who I used to be, little by little.

Everyone around me kept saying, “your hair has gotten so long!” But being told that just made me feel uneasy.

Gradually, that discomfort faded, and people stopped bringing up my hair…

And now, this hair has become the new “normal” for me. Earlier, I had mentioned something along the lines that everyone wouldn’t let me, but…

Even if I were told I could cut it, I don’t think I would. Growing it out takes time, but haircuts are instantaneous. You have to be prepared for it.

And I’ve found myself liking my hair like this, too…♪

Yuuta: It does suit you~! ♪

I hope that maybe someday… Myself, and those who support me won’t care so much about my long hair, either.

To accept it as part of my individuality, with no more discomfort.

I hope by then… I’ll have grown even more and have become proud of who I am, as “Aoi Yuuta”.

Hajime: I’m sure of it. You’re great enough as you are now.

Yuuta: Oh you~, aren’t you a smooth talker, you~!

Hajime: I’m not kidding, you know! I’m serious. Can’t you see it in my eyes? *staaaares*

Yuuta: I don’t need to bring my face close to yours to know that. Thank you, Hajime-kun.

…Even if it’s a pain for you, your hair is gorgeous, Hajime-kun. You’re taking care of it well, it’s impressive~.

Hajime: Fufu, I haven’t done all that much, really.

I bumped into Narukami-senpai in the shower room once, and she recommended that I choose a shampoo suited for my hair type.

Yuuta: Really? I suppose I should try doing that too.

Hajime: Yes, I can’t recommend it enough! ♪ Just changing your shampoo can make such a huge difference!

Would you perhaps like to go shopping with me, sometime? I’m running low on the shampoo that I’m using, so…

I’d love to help you find something while I’m out refreshing my supply. ♪

Yuuta: For real? That’d be great! What would make a good time…

Yuuta: Oh, I know! Rather than sometime, how about now? I’ll just study for my test tomorrow!

Hajime: Hmm… But procrastinating with your studying now will just encourage bad habits later on, you know…?

So, how about you study hard, and I’ll work hard at my library duties. And at the end of the day…

We can go shopping together. How’s that?

Yuuta: I’m in favor! ♪ I’ll work hard, then!

Let’s go out for dinner together while we’re at it, too! I know a good place!

Hajime: Wow, sounds like a fun plan! Good luck with your studies, alright?

Yuuta: Will do! Good luck to you as well, Hajime-kun.

Yuuta: …I’m all motivated now, thanks to Hajime-kun. Having a reward sure is a game changer~!

Aaalright, let’s get this out of the way! ♪

[ ☆ ]

story directory

#yuuta aoi #hajime shino #idol story #translation

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love-kurdt · 8 months ago

Text

Swooping, Sloping, Cursive Letters: 31

word count: 447

PLEASE READ THIS IS ME TRYING FIRST, AS THIS STORY RELIES HEAVILY UPON THE CONTEXT OF TIMT

October 11, 1989

Dear Will,

Let me catch you up on what’s been going on. I’m writing a book! I’m calling it The Wanderer for now, but I’m planning to change the title once an official manuscript is completed and I have more of an idea as to where the series is gonna go (I intend to make it a trilogy). I should probably mention that I made the protagonist a gay male, and I hope that it’ll end up turning into something for young queer fantasy readers to connect and relate to.

Since I write better at night and can’t really fall asleep before five in the morning anymore, I’m practically nocturnal. I can’t tell yet if it’s a good or bad thing, because on one hand, my writing is flourishing like you wouldn’t believe, but on the other, I’m not really going to many of my classes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m doing well with all my coursework, but the attendance policy is three absences per semester for a three day a week class. I’ve already exceeded most of those limits within the first month, but I’m hoping maybe my professors will understand, because I’m doing what’s otherwise being asked of me.

On another note, I’m officially a party person! Craziness. Remember the time when I actually judged you for drinking? That was funny. Because I’ve discovered that I have a particular affinity for tequila and whiskey. “Particular affinity”-- who the fuck am I? God, I sound awfully pretentious.

I’ve gone to a pretty high number of parties since I got here (enough that I lost count). I am a fucking party animal. For example, last month, I stood at the counter during a random frat house party and tried every single type of alcohol available until I couldn’t feel my face! I was wasted. So wasted that the next morning, I woke up and— noticing our naked forms in the same bed, curled up into each other— realized that Elvis and I slept together. Elvis as in my roommate. I lost my virginity to Elvis Presley. Well, Kuiken. Same thing. I want to laugh, but I’m actually kind of crying right now, because I’d always thought I’d give my virginity to you. And I don’t even remember how it happened or how it felt, and I just want to disappear.

Lucas said you guys talk regularly, and that you’re doing well… with whatever you’re doing. He still won’t tell me much at all. But I take the slightest bit of comfort in knowing you’re okay, even if I’m not in your life anymore. I still love you. I hope you know that.

Love,

Mike

previous letter | next letter

homepage

#byler #byler fanfic #byler fic #byler tumblr #mike wheeler #will byers #will x mike #mike x will #stranger things #stranger things fic

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ultralightpoe · 13 hours ago

Text

Dumb And Poetic - Art Donaldson

Authors Note: Ayyyyy, posting this draft to get it out of my way.

Warnings: Terrible Written? Yes

Word Count: 2341

Requests: OPEN

Main Masterlist

[Thank You For The Gif @roranicuspond ]

Enjoy!

“You're so dumb and poetic

It's just what I fall for, I like the aesthetic

Every self-help book, you've already read it

Cherry-pick lines like they're words you invented”

“It’s kind of your fault, you know.” Your roommate mumbles one morning while she gets ready for school, looking up from the awkward dorm mirror her parents had given her once she complained how much she hated the shared bathrooms. Ever since it had been lit up every morning at god knows what hour.

This morning it had been lit up at 6 am by the looks of your alarm clock, and you were just now getting home after a long night of partying.

“If you are about to complain about the leftover spaghetti that stunk up the dorm last week-” You start, staggering to your bed to kick off your heels and jump up into the cozy sheets.

“We all warned you about him.” The second the words leave her mouth your spine tightens, anger filling you as you whirl to glare at her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You scoff, trying to play nonchalant as your roommate gives you a knowing look which was a little funny considering the fact that she only has one eyebrow.

“He stopped by the dorm today, he who shall not be named. Wanted to know why you haven’t been answering his calls.” She explains, turning back to work on her makeup while she talks. “And then I realized that he was the reason you had been moping all week and why you decided to waste your time tonight… or well last night.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining when you were inviting your boyfriend over to spend the night.”

“I’m not complaining.” She laughs, giving you a look through the mirror. “I’m just checking to make sure you are okay.”

“I’m okay.” You lie. “I just realized what a fake fucking phony Art Donaldson is.”

“And why is that?”

“Ugh he’s the worst.” And suddenly you find yourself sitting up, almost excited to finally be able to get to rant about this. “He’s Mr. Perfect, right? He’s been in all those stupid photoshoots, and interviews. He reads those self help books and talks about ways he wants to make his life better?”

“Uh huh….” Your roommate starts, turning to you with excitement on her features, ready for you to shittalk the guy she’s been warning you about for months.

“But you know what I caught Mr. Perfect doing?”

“Oh please make this juicy gossip that I can go to my grave happily with.”

“I caught him jerking it to Ms. Perfect Fucking Duncans photoshoot.” The gasp that tears from her is sharp, she stands so quickly that her desk chair flips to the floor as she clamors to climb onto your bed with you.

“You can’t be serious!”

“I’m being so serious.” You nod back, sliding to give her some room. “He had invited me over for a dinner date that night, right?”

“Yeah, I remember when you were telling me. It was one of the first he had asked you to since you guys came up with that silly friends with benefits situation.”

“Yup. Well I got dressed up and went to meet him at the restaurant.” You explain. “And I waited. And waited. And waited.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. 40 minutes and now I’m feeling like a fool so I march my sorry ass over to his dorm and the asshat couldn’t even bother to lock the door.” You snipe and she gasps even louder than the first time.

“God I HATE her!” She groans.

“Me too!” You groan back before shaking your head. “But I actually don’t because she’s-”

“Tashi Duncan. Girl I get it.”

“Well anyways, Mr. Asshat can stay far away from me.”

“I have been WAITING FOR THIS DAY!” She cheers and kisses your cheek before hopping off the bed and grabbing her bag. “Celebratory cheap dinner tonight! You and me!”

With that she leaves the room, allowing you to sit in silence for a moment before leaning over to open your nightstand drawer and pull out the nike shoe box you had shoved in there.

The lid had stickers and nail polish all over it that you had decorated since the start of the friends with benefits situation you had agreed to with Art.

Inside held a framed photo of the two of you that you had taken on one of the best evenings with him, when you both snuck onto the tennis court for him to teach you a midnight game of his sport.

And something pinches in your chest as you see the smile you once had before you slam the cover back down and shove it back in the drawer, taking a peak at the phone you had locked up for the past few days.

‘20 Missed Calls From Art’

The phone gets locked back into the drawer, slammed shut before you turn to close your eyes after a long night.

“Gold star for highbrow manipulation

And "love everyone" is your favorite quotation

Try to come off like you're soft and well-spoken

Jack off to lyrics by Leonard Cohen”

It’s ironic the way he could so easily smile for a camera, how easily he could talk to people and make it look like he was straight from a Captain America comic. Watching him surrounded by all his fans could make you vomit.

You ponder what would happen if you outed his little secret, if you told the sponsor agent that Art Donaldson had been strung up on his best friends girlfriend, so strung up that he would rub one out to her stupid magazine shoot of her playing tennis. You could imagine his face as they all laughed at him.

Maybe then he would feel the same embarrassment you felt when you realized that he had just been using you.

Honestly if you didn’t have to walk by the sports campus to get to the dorms you’d probably never have to see him, but unless you wanted to sleep on a bench outside of your lit class you needed to go home. And that meant passing by Arts' never ending parade of niceties and fakeness.

As if he could feel your presence he looks up from the reporter he had just been talking to and spots where you stood at the top of the stairs. For a second you are trapped by his classic red shirt and backwards cap, but then that image shatters when you see Tashi warming up on the second court and you remember your anger.

The second you move to walk away you hear him yell your name, yelling for you to wait so you risk a look back to see him hopping over the net on the court with ease before dashing for the gate. You speed up your walk as he takes the stares two at a time just to reach you.

“Wait, please just-” He starts, moving to walk in front of you with his hands in front of you to try and get you to stop, like he was easing a wounded deer. “Can you just give me a minute here?”

“Just a minute? You got plans in your dorm later or something?” You scoff, moving to walk past him but he slides to stay in front of you.

“What’s going on here? I’ve called and called, your roommate always answers your door saying you’re out. Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Oh nothing really.” You start, watching his face relax with a little relief. “I just figured out that you were hopelessly in love with Tashi Duncan.”

And just like that his look of relief falls into one of pure shock.

“Don't think you understand

Just 'cause you talk like one doesn't make you a man”

You take his surprise as an escape, shoving past him to keep walking as he struggles to put together a full sentence, it doesn’t take him long before he manages to catch up. His hand grabs at the arm of your backpack as he lets out a small ‘Wait’ before you whirl on him with a sneer.

“I feel so stupid. Don’t you realize that?”

“Why would you feel stupid?”

“Because all I could think when you offered up that stupid friends with benefits thing was ‘The guy I like is paying attention to me’ and ‘I can make this work because at least he’s paying attention to me’. I thought it would be so easy.” You rant, stepping into his bubble which makes him step back. “And after MONTHS of his stupid rules he invited me out on a date and I thought I had a chance. Only to get stood up and find him-”

“Oh my god.” He mumbles, hand coming up to cover his eyes as he finally realizes what had happened. “Oh my god.”

“Jesus, I had this image of you in my head as some cool guy. A man, really.” You snap. “But you’re just a lying boy.”

And even after that entire rant you still feel like a fool when you walk away.

“You're so sad there's no communication

But, baby, you put us in this situation

You're running so fast from the hearts that you're breakin'

Save all your breath for your floor meditation”

It’s the knock on the door at 2 pm that you know the fight is coming.

It was the regular time that you and Art had decided on, between his practice and class schedule mixed with your own hectic schedule. So when you walk to the door to swing it open you’re not at all shocked to see him standing there, what you are surprised about is the puppy dog look of relief that crosses his face when you do answer it.

“Please don’t slam the door in my face.” He starts, folding his hands together in a begging motion as you roll your eyes, opening the door a little wider so you can turn yout back to him and go sit at your desk once more.

“Oh don’t be so freaking dramatic.” You snap out, opening your textbook so you can start doing the homework due in class rather than look at his fake mopey face.

“I just feel like there is no communication here.” He starts, flinching a little when you whirl to sneer at him. “I just think that you haven’t given me any room to defend myself here. Okay?”

“Defend yourself?” You ask, blinking at him as you process what he just said. “Defend yourself?! You stood me up and then-”

“I know what I did! Okay I am aware, it’s not my best and shining moment but in my defense you went completely awol on me!”

“You’re going to blame this ON ME?! Are you kidding me?!”

“No, that’s not what I am saying! You’re twisting my words! You can’t do that!”

“YOU ARE BEING RIDICULOUS! DO YOU HEAR YOURSELF?!”

“I CAME HERE TO FIX THE COMMUNICATION BUT YOU OBVIOUSLY DON’T WANT TO FIX THIS!” He yells back, throwing his hands up in a ‘I give up’ gesture before storming to the door and slamming it on his way out.

“FINE!” You yell back, kicking the nightstand before yelping from the pain of it.

“You're so empathetic, you'd make a great wife

And I promise the mushrooms aren't changing your life

Well, you crashed the car and abandoned the wreckage

Fuck with my head like it's some kind of fetish”

“Don’t do this.” You snap, slamming the college newspaper on the table in front of him as he sets down his pencil he had been using for his work with a heavy sigh as if he was just waiting for this reaction. “This pity parade to make me look bad-”

“That wasn’t my intention,” He starts, moving to stand up. “Let me just explain.”

“This is completely ridiculous, you realize that right? You barely pay me any attention besides our agreed meet up for months, and all that time you were pining after your best-”

“SHHHH!” He grunts out, slapping his hand over your mouth as he looks around the room and that’s when you realize that sitting four tables down was the very same couple you were about to speak on. “Please-”

You roll your eyes, slapping his hand away to drag him out of the study hall.

“Don't think you understand

Just 'cause you act like one doesn't make you a man

Don't think you understand

Just 'cause you leave like one doesn't make you a man”

“You obviously don’t understand” You start as soon as you exit the building, making him follow behind you as you talk. “Figuring out that you had been being used for months hurts. And I’ve been unfair because I haven’t thought about your situation with Tashi, that must suck. But I can’t keep getting used to make someone jealous.”

“That isn’t what it all was.”

“And I think it’s better that we both walk away.”

“No.” He snaps out making you turn to look at him in shock. “No, because it might have started that way but that’s not what the entire thing was. And if I have to prove it to you then I will.”

“Art-”

“And what you caught is not only embarrassing for me but it was inevitable since I have been in love with her for awhile now. But I can’t lie when I say that I’ve been falling for you.”

“Funny way of showing it.” You mock, even though your skin was hot with the blush.

“I know. But I’m learning. And I’ll work on it.”

You watch him for a moment, shaking your head before turning it to a nod slowly.

“We’ll see about that.”

“I always love a good challenge,” He smiles, nodding his head. “Match, set, go.”

And you can’t help but smile as you roll your eyes, turning to walk away from the dumb and poetic hero.

#art donaldson imagine #art donaldson smut #art donaldson angst #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson #art donalson x reader #art donaldson fanfic #challengers imagine #challengers x reader #challengers 2024 #challengers smut #challengers movie

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pedroshotwifey · 1 year ago

Text

Topped With a Bow

Pairing: Frankie Morales x afab!reader x Santi Garcia

Word Count: 4.5k

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, oral sex m&f receiving, PIV sex, ass eating what who said that, anal sex, double penetration, blowjobs, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink but only like once, vaginal fingering, wifey thinks she's hilarious with her titles, i'm probably forgetting stuff but oh well

Summary: On your birthday, you expect for Santiago to have something waiting at home for you. What you don't expect, however, is for that something to be Frankie Morales.

A/N: So, funny story, this was actually supposed to be written in time to post on my birthday, which was October 3rd. Obviously, that didn't work out, but it's proof that wifey can get her shit together every now and again, (although apparently not her birthday) so we'll take what we can get. Anyway, please enjoy! Likes, comments, and reposts are veryyy much appreciated! <3

***

“Good morning, birthday girl!”

You jump, almost spilling your coffee as you walk into the door of your office, only to be ambushed by one of your co-worker’s cheery greetings. Kira, who is always somehow completely awake in the mornings, seems to be more energetic than ever today. Not that you mind, of course, this dull office needs her morale.

“Thank you, girly,” you say with a smile before going in for a hug. You’d never tell, but she’s by far your favorite person to work with. It makes you feel warm inside to know that she bothered to remember your birthday in the first place, so when she separates from you to shove a gift bag into your free hand, you feel like you might cry.

“Aw, Kira, you really didn’t have to do that!” You already know that she is going to insist, but you tell her anyway. You roll your eyes playfully as she immediately tells you that ‘Of course, she had to!’

“Okay, hold on, lemme just set my things down,” you tell her, jerking your head for her to follow you. You smile and shake your head at her in disbelief as you pass through the heavily decorated office. Everywhere you look, you see balloons and streamers of your favorite colors.

Almost all of your co-workers peek their heads up to tell you happy birthday, and it makes you feel special, even though you’re not really one to make the day a big deal.

Once you get to your desk, you place your coffee and purse in their respective places before peaking inside the gift bag. Taking the tissue paper out, you find two books that you’ve been wanting to read for a while, as well as a starbucks gift card.

“Girl!” You grin brightly at Kira. “You spoil me, really.” You take a step forward to pull her into a hug one more time, which she gladly reciprocates. “Thank you,” you say, giving her a small squeeze.

“You’re welcome, babe,” she says as she steps back. “I’ve got to go ahead and get back to work before the boss chops my head off, but I hope you have an amazing day, hottie,” she sends you a friendly wink at the nickname.

You playfully roll your eyes and tell her to do the same before plopping down in your office chair to boot up your laptop. It doesn’t look like you have too much work to do, which means you might be able to get out of here early. Perfect.

***

You skip your lunch break and get your work done by 2:30. Surprisingly, your boss gives you permission to go home, which is perfect because you had told Santi this morning that you were hoping to be back by 3:30 at the latest. You’re eager to get back to your apartment to your roommate–and on occasion, fuckbuddy.

You don’t remember exactly when it started. One day both of you just kind of realized you missed intimacy, but neither of you wanted another commitment. Santi’s attractive, you’re attractive, and this way, neither of you have to worry about the stress of a relationship. Thankfully, it hasn’t messed with your dynamic, and now it’s just a normal thing.

Both of you are allowed to see other people, and if one of you wants to stop hooking up at some point, there’s no offense to be taken. It’s honestly the best arrangement you could ask for at the moment. Anyway, whatever Santi is, You kind of figure that he’ll have a certain “surprise” waiting for you for your birthday. Your panties are slick just thinking about it.

Wasting no more time, you pack your stuff and say a quick good-bye to Kira before rushing out to your car. You immediately call Santi to let him know you’re on your way.

“Hey, baby!” You say as soon as he picks up.

“Hey, babydoll. On your way?”

“Yup, should be there in like twenty minutes or so.”

“Okay, baby, I’ll be waiting.”

Smirking, you hang up. He sounds awfully cheeky to not have a surprise. You’re glad you decided to wear your nice matching panty and bra set today, you have a feeling Santi will want to get right to it once you walk in the door. You hope so, anyway. Your thighs clench as you begin to think of scenarios you hope to find yourself in when you get home.

***

With traffic, it takes you about 22 minutes to get to your complex. As soon as you park, you jump out of your car and bee-line to your door. You don’t even have a chance to put your keys in the door before it’s being pulled open by your roommate.

He immediately grabs you and pulls you to him, pressing his lips against yours. You giggle as you drop your purse and kick the door shut behind you.

“Wow, someone’s enthusiastic,” you say, pulling away just enough to get the words out.

Santi looks for a second like he might want to say something, but obviously changes his mind as he pushes you back to pin your against the door. His plush lips crash into yours once again, and you let yourself melt into the kiss. As it gets more heated, you can feel his dick hardening against you, and you subconsciously begin to grind into it, making him moan into your mouth.

Suddenly, he pushes off of you.

“Santi, wha-”

“I know, honey,” he says, his eyes pleading. “As much as I want to stand here and devour you, I want you to see your gift just a little bit more.”

“A gift?” You ask, your own eyes lighting up. “Santi! You really didn’t have to!”

“Oh,” he says, mischief suddenly appearing in his gaze. “But I did.”

You eye him suspiciously as he pulls you toward your room, stopping once he reaches the hallway. You’re about to open it when he begins talking, signaling for you to wait.

“You remember that thing we talked about last time we were out with the guys?” He sounds sheepish yet excited at the same time, the tone making you raise an eyebrow in suspicion. When he doesn’t elaborate, you try to wrack your brain for the memory.

The entire group had met up at a bar, and you had gotten pretty drunk, to be honest. You begin to shake your head, but then something clears up. That can’t be what he’s talking about, right?

You recall making a comment about Frankie. You aren’t sure exactly what it was, but Santi had caught you looking him over. Sure, you’ve always found Frankie extremely attractive–I mean, who wouldn’t? But you never meant to make it known, especially to Santi. You were too scared of him telling Frankie, and you wouldn’t be able to handle getting turned down by such a goddamn hunk. Though, if you remember correctly, you had been thoroughly surprised by what Santi had to say.

Apparently, he and Frankie had their fair share of hook-ups throughout the years, though they stayed completely platonic other than that. Santi had asked you if you would hook up with Frankie if you had the chance, and, because you were drunk off your ass, you told the truth–yes. Santi had smiled with an amused look in his eye, and that was that. Or so you thought.

“You don’t mean that thing about Frankie, right?” you ask, your cheeks beginning to redden with embarrassment. Santi just smiles wider.

“What are you trying to get from this, Santi?” you question, suspicion lacing your voice.

“Nothing at all, baby,” he assures you. He pulls at your wrist before you have a chance to ask anything else, immediately setting a path for the bedroom. You struggle to keep up as he tugs you down the hall to the cracked door.

When he opens it, your jaw drops. You had expected Santi to have a certain ‘surprise’, but you hadn’t expected him to bring in an extra.

Sitting on your bed, completely naked except for a red bow tied loosely around his hardened cock, is none other than Frankie Morales.

“Happy birthday, carino,” Frankie says, a knowing smirk plastered on his handsome face.

You can’t think of a single thing to say in response to that, but that's okay, considering your throat is too dry for you to make a noise anyway. Luckily, Santiago saves you when he gives you a small push toward Frankie. Through the shock, you had almost forgotten he was behind you.

“Go on, honey, open your present,” he says as if all of this is completely normal. “Though I guess there’s not much left to unwrap,” he adds with a chuckle, which Frankie joins in on.

Jaw still wide open, you slowly turn to Santi as if to make sure this isn’t some kind of trick. When you face him, however, you find that he’s already working at the zipper on his jeans. Clearly he’s just as eager as you are for you to ‘open your present’.

As the situation really starts to set in, you feel a tug of excitement in your chest, and then another from in between your legs. Once he has his jeans on a heap on the floor, Santi looks at you, and you can feel the smile that slowly creeps onto your face. You’re about to fuck both of these drop-dead-gorgeous men. Holy fucking shit.

He smiles back and nods at you as if to say ‘go on, baby’. You don’t have to be told twice. You quickly flip back around to watch Frankie place his hand around his thick cock, slowly starting to jerk off in front of you. He keeps dark eyes on you while he touches himself, daring you to come toward him. You reciprocate his lusty gaze with one of your own as you walk toward the bed. You can feel Santi trailing right behind you.

“You want to suck Frankie’s cock, baby?” Santi asks as he gently gathers your hair and lets it fall down your back. “We both know how much you love having a good dick in your mouth,” he continues. “So good at it, always make me feel so fucking good.”

A small moan slips from your lips as you nod, keeping your eyes on Frankie. The way his tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip for a brief second makes your knees buckle. With Santi’s help, you slowly sink down to your knees so that you’re eye level with Frankies cock.

His hand is still moving in slow strokes, rustling the ribbon tied around him with every pass. A bead of precome dribbles from his slit and runs down his shaft, making you whine at the sight.

“C-can I?” you ask him once you find your voice. He chuckles quietly and uses his other hand to smooth down your hair, before he drops it down to your shoulder to place it over Santiago’s.

“Of course, hermosa, it’s all for you, go ahead and take it,” Frankie tells you as he brings his hand back up to rest on your head. You’re still a bit hesitant, but you know it’s what you really want.

With shaky hands, you reach up and untie the bow around his cock. Frankie removes his own hand as you get to work, setting it down on the bed beside him. You look up through your lashes to find Frankie staring hungrily down at you. The look gives you a sudden boost of confidence, and you smirk as you slowly tug the ribbon off of him, letting the silk slither around the base of him.

He groans quietly and bucks his hips at the feeling. As you get more comfortable, Santi leaves your side to strip the rest of the way, keeping an eye on the two of you as he does so. The whole situation has your panties absolutely drenched, and you want nothing more than to take them off, but Frankie’s cock is right there. Okay, maybe there’s one thing you want more.

You lick your palm and begin to stroke him off as Santi resumes his position, commenting on how good you look on your knees. You don’t waste another minute before you’re taking Frankie’s tip into the heat of your mouth. He groans but keeps his palm steady on your head, not pushing you down, but not letting you up, either.

“God, baby, fucking mouth feels so damn good.”

You smirk around him as he praises you and begin to take him deeper, increasing your suction as you go. When you’re at the base, he bucks his hips again, making you choke slightly. You try to pull your head back out of pure reflex, but his hand holds you where you’re at. The action somehow makes you even wetter.

You’re quickly distracted from the tears that well up in your eyes, however, when you feel your dress being flipped up behind you, exposing your ass to Santi, who delivers a sharp slap to one of your cheeks.

“Such a pretty ass, babydoll.”

At that, Frankie lets you off his dick just enough for you to take in a gulp of air and say a quick ‘thank you’ to Santiago. Before you can put your eager mouth back on Frankie, Santi swats your behind for a second time.

“Thank you, what?” God, that fucking tone, you could never resist it.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you half moan. Frankie moans right along with you as you say it. Apparently both of the boys have a thing for that. You don’t hate it.

You don’t wait long before taking Frankie back into your mouth and starting to bob your head up and down at a brutal pace. You choose to listen to the whimpers and moans that tumble from his mouth as Santi begins to pull your panties down your legs. As your clit is exposed to the cool air of the bedroom, it twitches, making you whine yourself.

“I know, baby, I’m gonna take care of you,” Santi says as he brings a hand to your dripping cunt.

“Damn, carino, so fucking wet already,” he says, slipping two fingers into your pussy. “Such a desperate whore for us.” Based on the sounds coming from behind you, you can guess that Santi has his other hand wrapped around his cock.

“D-damn fuckin’ right,” Frankie grunts out as he rocks his hips up to your mouth. “Can’t believe you’ve been keeping her all to yourself, Santi.”

“Hey, I’m sharing now, aren’t I?” Santi begins to pump his fingers in and out of you, crooking them into just the right spot. You can feel your orgasm approaching already.

The way the two engage in what sounds like a casual conversation only serves to turn you on even more, which is made clear in the vigorous way you continue to blow Frankie. You and Frankie are pushed over the edge at the same time, and you find it extremely difficult to swallow his cum while your eyes are in the back of your head, but you manage.

The sounds that Frankie let out are absolutely delicious, and you find yourself already craving more. The hand he has in your hair pushes you down and pulls at the strands at the same time as he whines and groans above you.

You try not to gag as his dick finishes pulsing in your throat. Once he’s sure he’s done, he loosens his grip on your hair and lets your head back up. He notices a rogue tear falling down your cheek and smiles at you as he swipes it away with his thumb.

“Good fucking job, hermosa,” he praises before locking eyes with Santi, who is busy sucking your cum off of his fingers. “Santi’s been training you well, huh?”

“Tastes fucking delicous, too,” Santi says after he pulls his fingers out of his mouth. You feel his hand return to your cunt shortly after. You shiver as he dips his digits into your pussy to collect more of your spend before offering it to Frankie, who takes Santi’s fingers in his mouth.

“Fuck, he’s right, sweetheart,” Frankie says after Santi pulls his fingers away. “Wanna eat that sweet pussy out all day, but I think Santi here deserves to get a turn to get his dick wet, don’t you?”

Still hazy from your orgasm, you simply nod up at him, letting him pet your hair back as you do so. Frankie’s eyes soften as he takes in your disheveled appearance, his gaze holding a sense of both pride and passion.

“Good girl,” Frankie says as Santi walks around to your other side, now fully undressed.

“Why don’t you hop on the bed for us, baby?” Santi says it like it’s an option, but you know better than that–not like you’d deny him anyway.

“Yes, Sir,” you say as you pull yourself onto the bed, getting ready to settle on your hands and knees. Suddenly, you’re stopped by Santi’s hand on your hip.

“Y’know what, Frank?” Santi asks thoughtfully, making you look over at him. As you glance at Frankie, you can tell he is just as confused.

"What's that, santi?”

“I think she could actually use a bit more assistance before I stuff my cock into her.” His smile widens as he grabs the back of Frankie’s neck, pulling him toward you.

“Why don’t you go ahead and have a taste to help her out?”

Before you know it, you’re positioned on your back, your ass almost hanging off the bed, and Frankie is between your legs, groaning into your cunt. He eats you out like a starved man as you grope at his curls, your screams letting him know how good he’s making you feel.

He alternates between sucking harshly on your clit and dipping his tongue into your weeping core, the combination absolutely blinding all senses but touch. Just as you’re about to come, you feel the devastating loss as Santi grips Frankie’s neck and pulls him away from you, making you and Frankie let out equally pitiful whines.

“Aww, I’m sorry, baby.” He says, a shit eating grin adorning his features as he looks down at the two of you. “Had a better idea. Scootch up on the bed a bit. Frank, you take her place.”

You’re not sure what Santi has planned, but with the way Frankie’s eyes widen with recognition, you can guess it will be good. You obey him almost immediately, Frankie right on your tail, pushing you until your head lands on the plush pillows near the headboard. He wastes no time in wrapping his arms underneath your thighs and delving back into your pussy.

“Ass up, Frank,” Santi’s tone leaves no room for argument, but Frankie definitely doesn’t want to fight it. His compliance is evident in the way he pushes his knees under his torso, presenting himself for the other man.

You can tell the exact moment Santi shoves his tongue into Frankie’s ass by the way he groans and picks up his efforts on your cunt. After a moment, Frankie begins to falter as his body shakes with pleasure, and Santi delivers a slap to his ass, making Frankie whine and buck up into him.

“C’mon, Frankie,” Santi scolds him. “Gotta treat the lady right if I’m gonna make you feel good.”

Frankie nods between your legs, but clearly it’s not enough to satisfy the other man, because Santi suddenly has his fist in Frankie’s hair, pulling him away from you. You feel tears brim your eyes from being denied again, but you can hardly complain with the scene that’s unfolding in front of you.

Both you and Frankie whine simultaneously, Frankie from the stress on his hair as Santi clenches his fist, and you from the way the man submits so easily.

“Words, sweet boy,” Santi says, pulling Frankie close enough for him to say it face-to-face. “Say ‘thank you, Santi’.”

“T-thank you, Santi,” Frankie pants, obviously appeasing Santi as he’s allowed to come back to you.

“That’s a good boy,” Santi says, smoothing down Frankie’s messed curls. “Don’t get distracted again.”

As fast as he left, Santi’s back to eating Frankie’s ass, and Frankie’s back to devouring your cunt, whining and whimpering like a mad-man. He must have looped an arm around to grab Frankie’s weeping cock as well because you can feel Frankie grinding up against something. If you weren’t so consumed with bliss, you would wish you could watch the two men get eachother off.

The entire time, you hear Santi telling you both how well you’re doing for him. He scatters in promises of fucking Frankie in the ass if he does good by you. You never thought that’s something you might want to see, but right now, you’re half tempted to stop everything in favor of the suggestion.

Before you know it, you’re at the edge of release once again. It takes maybe one or two more flicks of Frankie’s tongue and then you’re cumming in his mouth. The hot pleasure courses through every fiber of your being, the feeling easily warming you.

As soon as your high is over, You feel Frankie being pulled off of you once again, only to be replaced by Santi, who quickly lines himself up with your entrance before sinking in with one thrust. Frankie, who is now to your side, covers your scream with his mouth as it spills from your lips.

“God damn, baby, feel so fucking good,” Santi grunts down at you. “Warmed her up nicely, Frankie, good job.”

At the sound of his name, Frankie pulls himself away from you, opting instead to lean up against the headboard. He looks genuinely tired, panting heavily, but if his cock is anything to go by, he’ll be ready to go again if you just said the word.

Your body is physically pushed up the bed with the force that Santi is thrusting into you with. He hits that spongy spot inside you with every thrust, causing you to gasp and moan with every punch. It’s almost too much, but when Frankie moves one hand to rub at your clit, you don’t dare think of pushing him away.

“Look at you, both so f-fucking good,” Santi continues to praise you and Frankie as he somehow picks up his pace. “Think you both deserve a reward.”

You perk up slightly at that. What the hell more could you want right now. You’re in bliss as you get pounded into, Frankie’s fingers rubbing circles on your clit, Santi’s cock in your deepest parts. When you look over at Frankie to find that he’s pumping himself with his free hand, you almost come from the sight alone. But somehow, Santi always finds a way to make things better.

“You want Frankie to take your ass, angel?” Santi asks.

Your moan is enough of an answer to have Frankie shuffling to sit you up and get behind you before lifting you slightly to line himself up. With all the slick that's traveled back toward your other hole, you are more than prepared to have him sink in.

Santi slows down to let Frankie slide in with ease, and all three of you groan at the sensation. Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the same time your mouth drops open, a bit of drool escaping as you do so.

You’ve never felt so full in your life. You’ve tried both holes on different occasions with Santi, but you’ve never had both your ass and your cunt being used at the same time. You feel Frankie and Santi shift around you, sandwiching you closer as each of them grabs the back of the other’s neck.

You feel Frankie thrust into you, and then Santi follows. It takes them a moment to find a good rhythm, but once they do, it's absolute nirvana. You can feel the way they both rub up against your middle wall, sliding against each other and creating an intense pressure.

“Oh-h mph… Ah!”

You’re well aware you’re trying to say something, but the words simply can’t form. Every single thought in your head is focused on the men on either side of you. Their grunts and grasps get harsher each time they up their pace, making you bounce on both of their cocks.

“I know, b-baby,” Santi says, using his free hand to grope at your ass the best he can. “Words are hard when you’re getting fucked good, aren’t they?”

You clench around them both at his condescending tone, making Frankie whine and Santi hiss through his teeth. Frankie’s hand comes around to tweak at a nipple, and you’re quickly blinded by the pleasure, your orgasm taking over.

You scream as you gush around Santi, and before long, you feel both of their dicks pulsing inside of you, splattering your walls with hot, thick cum. You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel one of them wipes away a tear. The three of you collapse onto each other, each of you trying to catch your breath as you steal sloppy kisses through your orgasms.

Everything sounds like it’s underwater as you feel your body get moved off of the guys and laid flat on the bed. Both of the men are showering you with praise as they move to get you cleaned up. They take turns bending down to plant a kiss to your lips, and you use all of your effort to reciprocate.

You watch them smile at each other as they walk into the bathroom, and then you close your eyes.

***

When you open them again, you find yourself lodged–once again–between Frankie and Santi. You feel significantly much cleaner, happy not to wake up covered in dried cum. Though you really probably wouldn’t have minded that much.

As you take in your surroundings, you see both of the guys lounging in their briefs, watching some movie on the T.V at low volume. You’ve been covered in a light blanket, but you feel much warmer with the way either man has an arm wrapped around you.

“Hey, sweetheart, welcome back to the land of the living,” Santi jokes once he notices you’re awake.

“Hey,” you say, smiling between a yawn. It feels good to stretch out. You look over to Frankie only to find him dozing off. You have to stifle a giggle at the sight. Typical Frankie Fashion.

“He looks tired,” You whisper quietly.

“Yeah, he really does,” Santi says, his voice laced with humor. “Fuckin’ deserves the sleep, though, we tired him out.”

“We really did, He was practically in the middle the entire time.”

You both laugh quietly as Santi pulls you closer into his side. He gives you the slowest kiss you’ve received the whole night.

“Did you have a good birthday, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Of course, baby, it was perfect,” you say. And you mean it, even if you might not be able to walk for a week. Frankie will definitely be back.

#pedro pascal #oscar isaac #fan fiction #ao3 #smut #pedro pascal smut #frankie morales #santiago garcia #triple frontier #oscar issac smut

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