#you think this is how he pictures himself | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lovieku · 11 hours ago

Text

TRUE LOVE ⋆ 정국

when you and jeon jeongguk's paths cross again, you question if having a crush on the school's emo and alternative boy was really just a phase, or if it was true love after all.

⋆⁺₊❅. 5/6 from christmas & chill

pairing tattoo artist!jk x fem reader

genre fluff, smut, grumpy & sunshine, somewhat f2l

warnings jk 24 | oc 24, jk thinks he’s too cool for love, oc suffers from a chronic case of “i can fix him”, she eventually does, oc simps HARDDD and jk only pretends to be unaffected, yea he’s a bit of a dick sometimes but he’s also Very funny, brief description of panic attacks, male masturbation, kissing, idk what else to add i just rly rly love them and will think of them for the entirety of xmas season

word count 10.2k

author’s note hi lovies 🩷 it’s my last time with c&c 🙁 i’m kinda emotional omg… it’s been such a fun, warm and lovely week, and i love each one of you for showing endless support to this project <33 i’ll keep trying to not disappoint… please tell me if you like this!!! thank u always and always 🩷 luv u <3

banner by the gorgeous @awrkive ⊹₊⟡⋆

On the first day of December, your path crosses with thee Jeon Jeongguk’s after enough years for your brain to trip slightly before recognising him. But it would have been impossible not to—there’s likely a whole, well-preserved section of your thinking organ dedicated to that mortifying phase of high school, when your hormones turned life into an endless internal tug-of-war.

The moment your eyes widen at having him stand in front of you, you’re yanked unceremoniously into the past, brought back to buried, locked and left to gather dust feelings that have your teenage self’s screams echoing within you in a chorus of delight and cringe.

Jeongguk, on the other hand, is simply following his duties as a tattoo artist. When he catches sight of you next to his appointed client on such a breezy day, the cold December air starting to find its space even in the confines of his studio, he only nods his chin upward at you in slow recognition.

It’s awkward, at first. Only because you make it.

You’d volunteered to accompany Eunbi, your best friend, to get her first tattoo as an early Christmas self-gift. Your mission was clear: support her, hold her hand if the pain became unbearable (though you’re probably the least dependable person when it comes to making clarity in situations of panic, as seen right now), and be the first to bask in her excitement as she finally sees what she’s always pictured to be inked on the skin of her forearm. A blue whale tattoo, large enough to make you wince just thinking about the needlework.

You’d never go through something like that. Never.

And that’s exactly what’s showing on your face when you’re met with Jeongguk’s full sleeve of tattoos, leaving you rooted to the spot.

You’d always known him to be the different kid, the quiet one with forced sharp eyes that canonically listened to alternative rock and glared at anyone who dared approach, whether to tease him or befriend him. He’d convinced himself that no one could ever understand him.

See, you’d instead fooled yourself into thinking you were the exception. That you did understand him.

Fourteen-year-old you had gone through some weird phases, and the one that resurfaces now at the vision of his adult self is the one centered entirely around him. You unashamedly had the biggest crush on Jeongguk. To you, he was mysterious and edgy—in an effortlessly cool way.

You’d tried everything. Offered him your lunch more times than you were left with any for yourself. Even cut your bangs to have them fall over your eyes to mimic his fringe, dyed a strand in blue, overhauled your wardrobe to align with his back-and-grey one. None of it worked. He never noticed.

But, thinking of it now, there’s no way he didn't. He definitely did. How could any boy turn a blind eye to a lovesick girl’s heartfelt Valentine’s letter, a hopeless romantic girl who almost cried on the spot when she got rejected? Jeongguk just chose to willingly ignore it.

These are all valid reasons as to why your functions seem to slow down in his unexpected presence. And you’re not going to deny nor fake that his calm, almost detached demeanor doesn’t flow through your body and right to your left eye, making it twitch with a slight tremor.

Yet, you must also admit that your teenage self was onto something. Jeongguk has changed drastically but he’s also stayed the same. You think fourteen-year-old him would be proud of where he is right now. Two piercings on his lower lip and one on his eyebrow, intricate ink tracing up his muscled arm, his… muscled arms. Wow. And then, his studio. His own studio, a place for him and his passion, one that he made into his job. That’s undeniably cool.

Maybe just not cool enough for you to be gaping like an idiot as he moves with purpose, adjusting your friend’s arm to position the stencil he had prepared, perfectly fitting in the space she had chosen. His muscles flex with every shift, and it’s impossible for you to go past that with the way the black beater he’s wearing is loose on his torso, but still clinging on his chest.

Eunbi notices, of course. You don’t have time to feel embarrassed and in return she doesn’t even try to hide her amusement when your usual chatter dries up entirely, only gulping obnoxiously noisily and alternating that with nervous silences. Jeongguk, too, catches on.

He’d always known you as obnoxious and noisy. In, huh, a good way. Or whatever.

Jeongguk just agrees that you were (and probably still are, if the pastel yellow skirt softly flowing down your legs paired with a cozy cream sweater and the full toothed grin you shoot at your friend are any indicators) the pinpoint embodiment of his opposite. You’ve always been talkative, smiley, and friendly, eager to help and to receive help, not in the slightest ever turning down the opportunity to blabber on, and on, and on.

Honestly, Jeongguk doesn’t think he ever truly listened to a single word of your rambling back in the day, especially during those times when you’d bounce up to him and launch into enthusiastic rants about obscure alternative bands he himself hadn’t even heard of. He respected the hustle, though. He’d always wondered where you found the time and energy to immerse yourself in music like that.

He much preferred when you were less trying so hard to be him and mirror his tastes, more when you gave up on impressing him and simply stayed true to yourself, the girl whose heart belonged to Justin Bieber and One Direction. Truthfully, he fucked with them. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. His quiet, brooding image wouldn’t survive that revelation.

What he respected the most was your resilience. After all the times he rejected you and your awkward blurts of confessions, you still didn’t think it was enough of a reason for your villain origin story to take off, and instead remained the same frustratingly positive ray of sunshine you’d always been.

Now, as Jeongguk works on the tattoo in front of him, the very design that caused all these long-buried memories to rise back, his dark eyes flick toward you sitting on a stool in a near corner every now and then, a hint of confusion in his expression each time you take more than five seconds to reply to his small talk.

It’s just, you’re a bit taken aback. Since when does he do small talk? The foreign smoothness with which Jeongguk handles interactions is so far removed from the sullen boy you used to know. You’re not prepared for this version of him. It’s disarming, to say the least.

Enough time has passed for you to settle into the odd scenario, your current best friend and your long-standing high school crush in the same room. Slowly but surely, your curiosity sparkles again, and the signature tendency to let thoughts tumble out of your mouth unchecked returns to you naturally.

“Ouch, that looks painful.”

Jeongguk snorts, eyes trained on Eunbi’s arm as he glides the tattoo needle with precise strokes that have his brows pinching and the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his lips, a habit you remember from the past but one you’ve never found quite so distracting before.

Still, he multitasks and responds without missing a beat, “Wanna try?”

Wow. This is, like, the longest conversation you’ve ever had with him. It spurs you on to do anything it takes to hear more of his voice, the sound of it definitely deeper than the shy tones you struggled to coax out of him ten years ago.

That is probably why you literally lie, “Hm. Maybe. I was thinking of getting one actually. In the future.”

Eunbi chokes on her spit, her chest coughing with the sudden, blatantly fake revelation, and Jeongguk promptly pauses, lifting the needle from her skin as his tattooist reflexes kick in. While your friend apologizes between a clearing of her throat and sinks back into the chair, she doesn’t keep from glaring at you, her expression screaming What the hell are you doing?

You deadpan. You’ll explain everything later and it’ll all make sense. And you know this will inevitably end up being added to the list of the many embarrassing facts she knows about you and threatens you with when she wants to go clubbing and you don’t.

Jeongguk uses the brief interruption to glance up at where you’re perched in the corner of his peripheral vision, just to square you up and down with a skeptical arch of his brow, “Really?”

You scoff, smoothing out the creases on your skirt as if the fabric is somehow responsible for the lie you just told, “Is that shocking?”

He hums, returning to his work with the buzz of the needle filling the studio again, his voice padded the more he gets closer to Eunbi’s forearm, “I just find it hard to believe such a princess like you could handle any pain.”

You gulp.

What you’re getting from this conversation is that Jeongguk has always had an idea of who you are in his mind all along. That he’s always perceived you in some way. As much as your inner fourteen-year-old is swooning at the attention, gobbling up each of the tiny crumbles he’s giving you, it doesn’t sit right with you. What exactly does he think of you?

“Test me.”

He shrugs, eyes fixated on the shade he’s perfectioning with black ink, “Busy now.”

“I’ll go pay for mine. I saw you have one last free spot today,” you announce, the words tumbling out with more confidence than you feel. You’re already on your feet before the sentence is fully formed, betraying the fact that your nosy tendencies had gotten the better of you earlier. You’d discreetly glanced at his appointment book when Jeongguk and Eunbi were finalizing her tattoo details and negotiating the final price at the desk.

He hums, head tilting slightly, “And I wanted to spend it bumming around.”

“Too bad. You’ll have to postpone that.”

You walked into this studio swearing you’d never let a needle even brush you.

Now you’re stretched out on a leather bench, Jeongguk leaning over you with a stencil in hand, gloved fingers moving with careful precision.

The design you’d chosen came from his portfolio—a delicate illustration of two butterflies in motion, their soft threads intertwining. You’d flipped through countless pages of bold skulls and intricate linework before settling on this.

The spot you’d chosen for the tattoo was the flat, firm plane between your breasts. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just a place you’d always liked. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that nature hadn’t exactly blessed you in the cleavage department. Subconsciously, perhaps, you thought that adding something there might give the illusion of more.

“Tehe,” you can’t stop the breathy giggle that escapes as the cool paper brushes against your skin. Your hand is pressed to your bra, holding it in place as best you can, though the situation feels so surreal it’s hard to focus on anything but the ridiculousness of it all.

Jeongguk glances up at you with a glare that’s more exasperated than angry before returning to the delicate task at hand, “What’s funny?”

Your voice wobbles, “I just— I tend to laugh during serious moments.”

“Oh. Weird.”

“Sorry.”

With a small sigh, he smooths the stencil, and once it’s transferred he hands you a square mirror, waiting for your approval. You nod, the butterflies now perfectly poised in their eternal dance, and Jeongguk doesn’t waste a moment.

The buzz of the needle fills the room as he leans closer, one gloved hand resting on the upper part of your chest to steady himself. He’s mere seconds from beginning the inking process when another laugh bubbles out of you.

Jeongguk sits back abruptly, dropping his pen onto the metal tray with an audible clink. Tilting his head, he levels you with a look of thinly veiled irritation. “I really can’t work if your chest keeps moving.”

“Sorry,” you blurt again, turning your head to face the wall. You clamp your lips together tightly, mentally scrolling through every sad memory you can conjure. Think of something awful. Your childhood dog dying. Okay, maybe not that sad—

“You haven’t changed a bit since high school. Always smiling like you live surrounded by flowers and rainbows,” Jeongguk’s mutter vibrates against your chest, warm breath fanning over the cold skin, distracting you from your no-giggling mission.

The unexpected observation has your brows furrowing in a mildly offended frown, and banter is ready on your tongue. “You’re just the same too, Gguk. The emo boy who thinks he’s too cool for a smile.”

“I’m not an emo boy. The fuck,” he scoffs, kissing his teeth and murmuring more of his indignation under his breath.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I can teach you.”

The whirring needle glides across your skin with a slightly firmer touch, making you hiss softly under your breath. He seems unbothered by the reaction, and instead bothered by your words, “Teach me what.”

“How to smile a bit more,” you reply, your voice laced with mockery as you keep your gaze firmly fixed on the wall. The smirk playing on your lips is triumphant; he walked right into your little jab, hehe.

Your mind is already racing, piecing together the beginning of a sarcastic rant about how his perpetual scowl probably contributed to his mysterious high school persona. For the sake of his ego, you won’t add how it worked in his favor, how more than one girl (your own self) found his untouchable vibe completely irresistible.

Even though, thinking back, he looked ridiculous. His big, round, slightly scared-of-the-world eyes truly didn’t belong with the heavy black eyeliner.

But before you can get a single word out, Jeongguk straightens his posture, pulling away from your chest. With a practiced motion, he tosses one of his gloves onto the counter behind him, his expression cool and indifferent. “It’s done.”

“Done?!” you exclaim, tilting your chin down to look at your chest. You go slightly cross-eyed trying to catch a glimpse of the design now inked onto your skin. Forever.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t even feel it.”

Jeongguk seems equally done with small talk, transitioning into a professional explanation of the tattoo’s aftercare step. His tone is calm but clipped, and you can’t tell if it’s his usual demeanor or just reserved for you. He also hands you a small tube of cream of which you’re not sure the use of, too enthralled by the vision of his colored sleeve this up close.

And still laying on the leather bed, you almost reach to trace one of the many lines with your finger before he interrupts, “You can pay with Yoongi at the entrance.”

Clearing your throat, you sit up, brushing imaginary dust off your skirt as Jeongguk turns his back to you, his focus already back on cleaning his tools. You still are not over, “Thank you, Jeongguk. Can I— huh. Can I get your number?”

He pauses mid-motion, just long enough for the silence to stretch thin and taut. Turning around to study your features, he stares you up and down with knitted brows and a hostile kind of confusion painting his expression. “… For what exactly?”

“In case anything happens with the tattoo.”

Jeongguk stills for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, then turns back to what’s keeping him so occupied with a noncommittal grunt, “Huh. Sure. Yoongi has my business cards at the desk. You can ask him. Have a good day.”

With Eunbi practically dragging you out of the room, you don’t have the chance to say anything more, though your chest burns with indignation. It’s not that you expect him to fall over himself at the chance to catch up, but the sheer indifference is maddening.

Should you pretend you don’t care either? You could. But really, who are you fooling? You still have those old diaries buried somewhere in your closet, their pages crammed with his name written in looping, lovesick cursive. That little girl in you never truly died.

On the fourth day of December, you finally text him. It’s about your tattoo, of course. There’s not much else to say to him, but when his only reply to your picture of the healing process is a yellow thumbs up, you find your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Words start forming before you’ve fully processed them, and before you know it, you hit send.

You [3:39 p.m]: btw u still friends with kim tae?

jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: Yes

jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: He’s my best friend

You [3:43 p.m.]: ohhh, cool

jeongguk [3:45 p.m.]: You want his number?

You [3:46 p.m.]: no… i’m good with yours ☺️

You can’t help but giggle at how his typing bubbles appear and then fade for a whole minute, biting your lower lip with a sheepish grin, savoring the silent victory. You’re doing this for your fourteen-year-old self, who would’ve squealed at the thought of making Jeon Jeongguk flustered. But you’re a different girl now. You’ve changed. No man could ever reject—

jeongguk [3:48 p.m.]: If there’s nothing else about the tattoo then 👋

“Hmph,” your frown is so pronounced that you feel your chin aching and your wrinkles prematurely deepening. Well, this is not the first time you come face first with his sour antics. Only now, you’re prepared.

You [3:48 p.m.]: yall hanging out soon? let me join

jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: Why lol

jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: He barely even remembers you probs

You [3:50 p.m.]: who would not remember me

jeongguk [3:50 p.m.]: The only thing i’m now remembering about you is how I couldn’t stand your ass

You gasp, hand coming up to brush against your parted lips. With a huff, you hastily click at your keyboard, “Mean. Sent. Ugh.”

On the sixth day of December, your persistence pays off, and you find yourself at a random bar you’d never been to before, seated with both Jeongguk and Taehyung.

Between Jeongguk’s cigarette breaks—forcing the three of you to brave the cold outside—and brief moments in corners of the cramped place where the music feels muffled against the walls, you manage to catch up with Taehyung. The rest of the time though, the noise inside is so deafening that it makes any kind of meaningful conversation impossible.

Even more when a random girl slides into the booth next to him, capturing his attention entirely, leaving you and Jeongguk in paradoxical silence.

The tattoo artist has been glued to his phone with his head down for the last 20 minutes, and now you alternate between observing his side profile, roughened by the piercings and a more defined jawline, and analysing the weird dynamic that is beginning to form between Taehyung and the girl, sitting in front of you.

Alone with your thoughts and, well, the pulsating music, you feel yourself getting unreasonably closer to symptoms you know all too well, that threaten to have you spiraling. You shake your head, forcing it to stop. There’s no reason for anxiety to visit you at such an inconvenient time.

But of course, the little voice in your head starts listing all the totally valid motives why this is indeed the perfect time for it to visit you.

The bar feels suffocating on your skin.

Your dress clings too tightly.

The couple facing you is shamelessly close to making out.

Jeongguk sighs in visible boredom.

You shouldn’t have come. Hell, you shouldn't have suggested it in the first place. A smarter version of yourself would have brought Eunbi for balance, for comfort. But in your foolishness, you thought this could be an opportunity for you and Jeongguk to catch up. Instead, you feel foreign to him, foreign to this pub booth, and the air begins to feel foreign to your lungs. You’ve never liked bars, clubs, or places with loud music.

You sniffle, looking down at your lap. Then up at the ceiling. Then around the room. It keeps spinning and booming with volume that only adds to the feeling of helplessness. Quick, quick, quick.

What are five things that you can see?

Five. Your gaze falls on Taehyung and the girl, their lips and tongues clumsily entangled as they laugh between sloppy kisses. No help there. The air catches harder in your throat.

Four. Your empty glass, its smudged rim a reminder of the single drink you had, now sitting uncomfortably in your stomach.

Three. Your scuffed heels, their tips worn to the nub despite your best efforts to hide it with a marker.

Two. The swirling lights above the bar, dizzying as they flash brighter and brighter.

One. Jeongguk’s tattooed hand on your thigh.

His fingers dig into the skin, shaking you alarmedly, with a force you’ve never known from him, not even when it came to stopping your shaking stomach as you were laying on the studio’s leather bed.

Head snapping up to face him, you’re met with a perfect resemblance of how you must look right now. Wide eyes, knitted brows, nose flaring and exhaling, and you try to follow the movements of his mouth, but they jumble together annoyingly in your brain. You lean closer, narrowed orbs still fixated on his lips to try and read them. Are… you… ok—

“___, you’re scaring me. Hey, hello? Are you okay?”

Jeongguk moves from your thigh to your shoulders, jolting you gently but firmly from the fog that is threatening to cloud up your brain. The sudden clarity hits you, but you still stumble forward, your weight toppling over his chest. With it, your head dips rapidly, hurtling toward the sharp edge of the table, and before Jeongguk knows it his instinct snaps and he catches you promptly.

The next steps blur together. You vaguely register the boy next to you standing up and pulling you along with him, his broad shoulders supporting one of your arms while his inked one secures around the small of your waist, holding you firmly against him.

Then, it’s nothing but brief flashes. Jeongguk pressing a water bottle to your lips. Sitting you down on the stairs outside the pub. Holding your hair back as you double over, emptying the contents of your stomach onto the pavement. Cracking a smile to make you laugh, showing off his tattoos in exaggerated detail like it’s the grandest tour of your life. Opening the door to his car and gently easing you into the passenger seat, ensuring the seatbelt clicks into place.

Inside his car, you slowly feel your senses come back to you.

At a redlight that you recognise as the one near your apartment complex, you muster a small and hoarse thank you. Jeongguk only hums low, eyes fixated on the road and fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.

Before a sheepish smile can make its way on your lips and spread across your face, your head twitches back as your brows furrow. Your thoughts suddenly catch up with you, “Hey, how do you know the way to my flat?”

His gaze briefly flicks toward you in annoyance, then back to the road. “You literally just told me.”

“Oh.” A beat passes before you giggle softly. “Don’t remember.”

Jeongguk mutters something intelligible under his breath, and next thing you know he’s turning down your street and slowing in front of the building that matches the number you gave him. Given your current state, he begins to question if that is even the right one.

“This one!” You point at the tall front gate with an almost childlike excitement, back shifting slightly from the seat as your grin stretches wide. Jeongguk grimaces. Why the fuck do you look like you’ve been reuinted with your home after years apart, as if you weren’t there just a couple hours ago?

“Right. Huh, you good with going back on your own?”

“Yes. I’d hate to bother you further. I’m sorry for this, I… was getting better, I guess.”

The sad confession doesn’t land with the weight it should, softened by the smile painted on your lips and the chuckle you let out as if it were nothing. Jeongguk’s eyelid twitches, unsettled by the unnecessary happiness that always seems to drip from you, even when it doesn’t belong.

“‘S okay. Have a good night,” he awkwardly bows his head, waiting for you to exit the car. When you stay still, he clears his throat, adding just to fill the silence, and perhaps because he means it, “Huh, and make sure to rest a lot.”

You take a moment, maybe longer than you should, to study his features up this close. You particularly fixate on the way his eyes dart everywhere but never land on yours. Then, with your signature toothy grin, you bow back and open the car door, leaving with a string of thank yous, and get home safe, and I’ll text you, and please, reply to me, and bye.

Jeongguk has to fight a smile of his own.

On the tenth day of December, you realise you want him. Even more badly than your fourteen-year-old self ever did. Which is frankly insane.

You don’t know if it was the natural way he looked after you during your episode, or his dry sarcasm as he actually started replying to your random updates throughout the day.

But no, it was definitely the selfie he sent you after what he said was a long day. Messy hair, tired eyes, a hint of a smile. You’d struggled to even gulp down your saliva when the picture popped up in your chat, and maniacally stared at it with eyes glued to the bright screen before sending one of your own. He had replied with Cute. followed by Your hair pin is cute.

That is why you find yourself facing… Yoongi? If you remember correctly. The guy at the front desk of Jeongguk’s studio.

You beam at him, and what you’re met with instead is a confused stare. You inhale, “Hi. Is Jeongguk in?”

Yoongi scratches his head, muttering, “He’s busy with a client.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” you wave off his concern. “Can I wait here?”

The boy hesitates, looks unsure the more your interaction develops, and he glances between you and the empty waiting area. He relents with furrowed brows, “Sure… Huh, It’s a back tattoo, so it’ll take him a while.”

You shrug and plop yourself onto the leather sofa, seemingly unfazed, “I like waiting.”

Crossing your legs, you take in the studio’s atmosphere, eyes drifting to the dark walls lined with framed artwork and certificates. You spot Jeongguk’s name on many of those.

For the next fifteen minutes, you try distracting yourself by flipping through the stack of tattoo magazines on the coffee table. You wince at inked heads, faces, butts, and even… more private parts. Deciding this world is definitely not for you, you slam the book shut.

By the time an hour passes, you’re fighting a battle with your lack of sleep. The third yawn you manage to stifle, but the fourth escapes before you can stop it. Yoongi, seated at the desk, doesn’t bother hiding his unimpressed stare. Still, he’s polite enough to offer you a glass of water, a coffee, or even a chance to join him for a cigarette break.

You decline all of it, though your throat does feel dry.

Maybe you should have planned this with a bit of rationality. Or at least gotten more sleep. Now, your every blink is slower, eyelids batting to shut and taking longer to flutter open again. Hm, this feels nice. You’ll just let them rest for a bit longer. And longer. And a bit more.

The next time you open your eyes, Jeongguk’s face is inches away, his warm hand resting firmly on your arm. You jolt upright with a startled yelp.

“Jeongguk.”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an unmistakably mocking smirk. “Hey. You don’t have a bed?”

You sit up, forcing Jeongguk to step back and straighten to his full height. Your neck cranes upward to glare at him, brows furrowed in what you hope is an intimidating glare, though you sport a pout that is all but menacing, “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue, turning back to round the desk and fiddle with the appointment book, clearly unbothered. You take the moment to rub your eyes—only to remember, too late, that you’d worn makeup. A quick glance around reveals how much has changed since you last let your eyelids flutter open. The lights in the studio are dim, the hallway is dark, and every door is shut. Yoongi is nowhere in sight. It’s just the two of you in the deathly quiet space.

You gasp, pressing a hand to your parted lips, “Did I fall asleep? I'm so sorry. I was probably really tired from yesterday.”

Jeongguk hums, focus still locked on the book in front of him, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t ask why you came here in the first place, and doesn’t acknowledge your apology. Ugh. This is humiliating.

Before you can stand, you feel something heavy draped over your body. It’s a jacket. Definitely not yours, since you never took it off. At least not consciously. No, this is a worn black leather one on which his scent lingers. You tug it closer, puzzled, and then look up at him, holding it out. “Did I steal this in my sleep?”

Jeongguk scrunches his nose, “Ew, are you a sleepwalker?” Locking the till, he strolls over to you and plucks the jacket from you, casually slipping it on. “No, I put it on you. Wanted to see how long someone could feel safe enough to pass out in my studio. Thinking of turning this place into a daycare. I’ll have you play in the morning, get some lunch, nap time...”

There’s a beat of silence in which his sarcasm lingers in the air, and you stare at him, unamused. He shrugs, smirk unwavering.

You huff, “I regret coming here.”

“Yeah, why did you come here?”

Smoothing down your pink wool sweater, you stand up to stretch with zero shame. Then, fluttering your lashes at him, you assert with a smile, “You’re coming with me to the Christmas markets. This Sunday.”

Jeongguk groans like the idea physically pains him, “Oh, I would fucking hate that.”

Ignoring him, you zip up your puffer jacket and rock on your toes, “Pick me up at seven, okay?”

He glares, unimpressed at your excitement, before heading toward the entrance and pulling a hefty set of keys from his pocket, “I don’t even remember where you live.”

You hurry after him, following him outside and shuffling closer in your coat at the cold air hitting you. Watching as he locks the door and pulls down the rolling shutter with its red-and-black skull graffiti, you chirp, “You’ll have to text me for that.”

Jeongguk rises up again, giving you a slow once-over. He seems distracted by your hair before snorting, “You’re talking like I’m the one who spent their afternoon napping in my studio just to drop this bomb and leave. Couldn’t you just text me this?”

You shrug innocently. He sighs, reaching out for you, “Do you need a ride hom—”

“Bye!”

You spin on your heel and skip off in the opposite direction before he can let his own greeting out, waving a gloved hand behind you. Jeongguk stays where he is, arm still held out.

Do you even have a car? He hopes so—it’s freezing out.

With another sigh, he shakes his head and tugs his jacket tighter around himself. Why are you so fucking weird?

On the fourteenth day of December, your arm is looped tightly through Jeongguk’s as you stroll through the Christmas markets, burying your face further in your scarf to shield against the icy air, and with each few step you gasp at things that the boy next to you finds utterly unimpressive.

You stop at nearly every stand, eyes glowing with the warm Christmas fairy lights strung all around, effortlessly picking up conversations with the vendors and melting even the most stoic faces with the scrunching of your nose at every grin and the exaggerated nods following descriptions of their crafts.

Through all of it, Jeongguk remains put at your side, his arm linked with yours and a subtle pout on his lips. When you tease him about it, he simply shrugs, and you figure it’s just his natural expression. You find that oddly endearing.

He still humors your enthusiasm, offering low hums or murmured praise whenever you exclaim you’ve finally found what you’ve been searching for everywhere, and he offers to pay every time, the gesture so casual that he doesn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest.

When you bow to the nth seller, clutching yet another bag of sweet treats tightly to your chest, Jeongguk exhales and resumes slow walking beside you, “I don't like these places.”

You glance up at him, fluffy hat almost slipping off before he promptly secures it back on your head with a gesture so smooth you hardly notice it. You instead wonder, “Then why are we here now?”

He slips his hand into his pocket, “Because you threatened me.”

“With a really good time.”

“If this is your version of a good time, you might as well kick me in the balls. That probably feels better.”

You gasp, halting in your tracks to glare at him. When he lets a small chuckle topple out of him, you think you might forgive him. No, you’re more than sure with the way his smile lingers. You sheepishly look away, muttering, “Don’t tempt me, emo boy.”

“I’m not—”

“Oh yes, you are,” you interrupt, snapping your face back to his. Clearing your throat, you prepare your best imitation of him, exaggerating a frown and lowering your voice, “I’m so different, I hate Christmas.”

Jeongguk scoffs, pulling you tighter to him when a scooter unexpectedly zips past you. You yelp, instinctively shuffling closer to his arm. He continues the conversation casually, unaffected, “That’s the worst impression of me I’ve ever heard. And also, I never said that.”

Releasing the breath you held for a moment too long, you uncertainly keep your slow stroll going, only narrowing your orbs at him, “It’s written all over your face.”

“I love Christmas.”

The admission is small, his voice soft and almost reluctant, like it pains him to reveal something so simple and obvious as loving Christmas. When you lean your chin on the puffed arm of his jacket, he doesn’t look down at you, his gaze fixed ahead, guiding the two of you through the chaos of the busy street.

You chirp, your steps stumbling, “Really?

Only then he shifts his attention to you, steadying you with his other arm wrapping around your figure in what seems like a hug, before he lifts you up by the neck of your coat and retreats just enough to face you. His lips press into a straight line as he nods, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes the more he stares in yours, “Yeah, really. I just don’t like… crowded spaces.”

You can’t help but think back to what happened just a week ago. The exact reason why the spirals in your brain wouldn’t stop twisting and tangling is now slipping from his lips in a voice that quietens as he seems to grasp the delicacy of his own confession.

He doesn’t like the way you’re looking at him. Drawn-up brows over wide and sparkling eyes—the only part of your face visible beneath your scarf—stare at him with something too tender, too focused, that makes him uneasy. He turns his head to the side, the tips of his ears red not only from the cold, and pulls you along toward another stand, an almost nervous distraction.

It’s your turn to frown. Maybe the one that’s permanently plastered on his face tonight isn’t just a reflection of his usual sullen demeanor. With a knot tightening in your chest, you can’t help but feel like you dragged him into something he truly hated, and that he wasn’t just pretending to.

What if this isn’t just your evil inner voice talking? What if this isn’t just overthinking, but the factual truth of your current reality? He’s hating every second of this but still enduring it because— you catch your breath with a long and strained inhale, because—

“Hey, dimples. You okay?”

Jeongguk moves to stand in front of you, his hands settling gently on your shoulders, a stance eerily reminiscent of that night you were just thinking back to. He nods at you, “Breathe with me, hm?”

You find yourself quickly adjusting to his comforting aura, drawn in by the reassurance in his eyes trained on you, never wavering, watching closely as you begin to mirror the measured rise and fall of his chest, your breathing gradually syncing with his until the tightness in your chest starts to ease.

When you feel your feet touching the ground again, you offer a small, apologetic smile. “I’m okay. Sorry. Just…” You quickly scan your surroundings, eyes landing on a colorful stand, “Wait here a second, okay?”

Jeongguk lets you slip away, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He takes a few hesitant steps closer, careful not to crowd you but unable to tear his eyes away from your next actions, how your grin comes back on your lips with unpracticed ease, lighting up your face as easy talk flows between you and the seller. A few coins trade hands, and soon you’re holding two churros, their chocolate-dipped ends threatening to drip onto the ground.

You don’t hesitate, biting into one of them before it has the chance to make a mess, and with a quick nod of your head you motion for Jeongguk to follow. He does so, only after taking the churros from your hands, and letting you seek his warmth again with an arm snaking under his. He’s only letting you do this because it’s fucking cold, no other reason.

You walk, and walk, guiding him along until you find a quieter corner, away from the bustle, where you two stand isolated from the rest. The dim lighting casts a softer glow, and the distant hum of chatter and music fades into a gentle background noise.

Glancing up at him, you flash a playful smile before leaning in to bite another chunk of the churro he’s holding, your laughter spilling out as he grimaces in exaggerated disgust and pulls the sweet out of your reach. You settle onto a nearby bench, patting the empty spot beside you invitingly.

Jeongguk is unsure of what this means. He takes slow steps towards you, handing you your churro—which you take eagerly, already chewing on it—before tilting his head back in mild confusion, “But… you wanted to visit the markets.”

You shake your head, your bug eyes meeting his as you speak around a mouthful of sugar and chocolate, “There’s no point if you’re not going to enjoy it.”

The look you’re giving him is one he’s seen countless times before—familiar, and annoyingly reminiscent of ten years ago. It’s the same look that, he’s convinced, is solely responsible for making his knees weak and his fingers jittery, no longer something he can blame on the cold. You’re unbelievably frustrating.

He clicks his tongue, looking away, “You’re fucking weird.”

You giggle, humming, “If weird is a synonym for whipped, then sure.”

He has to fight the twitch of his lips. Fakes a gag instead. You chuckle louder. Only then, he hints at a smile, “C’mon. Let’s go check out some other stuff.”

“But—”

He interrupts, pulling you up by your forearm, “I’m hungry.”

The next hour you spend wandering around is made of Jeongguk’s small, imperceptible ways of cracking: his pout less prominent, more replaced by lips pulled into a tight line or in a mildly pursued scowl as you ask him which beanie looks better—the pink or purple one; his so evident sarcasm as he comments on how the old vendor was totally flirting with you, or when he mockingly adds to your over-the-top excitement every time you spot a dog. All in all, he’s more relaxed. More himself.

You then find yourself standing in front of the churros stall from earlier, the warm scent tugging you closer. Without hesitation, you ask the lady behind the counter for another four churros—this time with extra sugar. You add two thank yous.

To fill the waiting, you pick up casual conversation with the woman, until she pauses mid-sentence, wrinkled hand coming to rest over her heart as her gaze flits between you and Jeongguk, her crinkled eyes lighting with a sudden fondness and a quiet, content smile finds its space on her chapped lips, “You two look perfect together.”

Jeongguk snorts, “Oh, we’re not—”

“Thank you, auntie!” You chirp, and your grin is so wide it squeezes your eyes into crescents. You accept the first churro she hands over, biting into it and talking through it, “These are delicious. Is the recipe a secret or can you share it with me?”

The woman laughs, clearly flustered by your energy, and leans in with a conspiratorial expression, though she gives in pretty soon, “It is a secret, but… Oh, c’mon. A pretty lady like you deserves to know.”

You burst into chuckles, joined by auntie’s own rolling and carrying a contrasting warmth to the cold air. Jeongguk, for his part, stands slightly to the side, observing. You still cling to his arm, even as the vendor reaches over to gently smooth her fingers through your curls, complimenting the way they frame your face. You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation, but there’s a dimpled smile stretching on your cheeks that gives you away.

Before you leave, the lady points to Jeongguk, voice growing earnest, “You, handsome. I can see you’re a good guy, so you probably don’t need my advice. But treat her right, yes?”

Jeongguk stills for a second and stumbles over an awkward nod, managing to force a smile that has you stifling a laugh under your scarf. You tug him away with a cheerful wave to your new friend, promising her you’ll come visit again before Christmas.

Once you’re at a safe distance, he mutters, “Why did you not tell her that we’re not together?”

You tilt your head considering his question, “It’s not like she knows us. She looked like she adored you. I didn’t want to ruin that for her. Maybe seeing a young couple like us really means a lot to her.”

Jeongguk observes how the more you explain, the more you’re convincing yourself as much as him, eventually solidifying your reasoning as you nod, muttering some more under your breath. He scoffs, looking away to hide his lips twitching.

When he turns back he’s frowning, though it doesn’t quite match the way he lets you hook arms again, your pastel pink bag hanging from his shoulders. Still, he sulks as though the mere thought of your observation has him shivering, and not with the cold, “We’re not a couple.”

Jeongguk barely gets to let his unnecessarily petty comment out before you drag him with an unusual strength over to another stand, his voice not even touching your ears, “Oh, let’s go over there, Gguk!”

On the twenty-first day or December, you send him a picture of your tattoo.

You had been talking non-stop ever since your… date? Or was it just a hangout? Whatever it was, it’s been a week, and Jeongguk finds himself smiling at a fucking screen too many times a day for his linking. It’s irritating. Even brings his phone with him to the bathroom in case you text him. Not because he cares. No, it’s practical. What if you ever had an emergency and he was the only one who could help?

Most of the time it’s just you sending TikToks, but he clicks on the links with the same urgency he’d reply to a genuine plea for help. He doesn’t really want to think of the reason why.

Now, this picture—it catches Jeongguk off guard.

It doesn’t even look like it’s about the tattoo. Not really. It feels like an excuse, a flimsy pretext for you to show yourself to him. The tattoo—the one he himself inked—is there, yes. But it’s not at all the main focus of the photo that tightens his grip on his phone.

You’re wearing a thin, pink tank top with delicate lace trim, the straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Your fingers hook under the neckline, tugging it down just enough to expose the tattoo nestled between the soft curve of your breasts. The angle of the shot is deliberate, he can tell. Your back arches slightly off what he assumes is your bed, and your face is cropped out, save for your glossed lips, full and slightly parted, catching the dim light.

Jeongguk blinks, hard. Then again. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, the low light of his phone screen doing little to soften the image burning itself into his mind. His eyes dart upward, scanning his surroundings, just to make sure everything is in place. The shop is empty, the door is closed, the hum of quiet settles over the space.

Looking down, the picture still stares back at him paired with a single message.

Annoying [11:39 p.m.]: do you think it’s healed? idk about this stuff, need your help 🥺

He’s not stupid. He knows exactly what this is. He alternates between the photo and your words, jaw ticking and tightening more with the seconds flowing.

It’s almost cruel, the way you’re testing him like this. He tries to push the feeling down, to reject the buzz of heat pooling low in his stomach. You know him well enough to be aware that he won’t reply to something like this. A stupid, unnecessary message. The tattoo is healed—he told you that a week ago, clear as day. There’s no reason for you to ask again.

What’s the purpose of this?

He gets a distorted idea when he shifts uncomfortably in place, the dull ache tightening his pants almost unbearable now.

Jeongguk groans and locks his phone, tossing it onto the counter as if that will put an end to this. He tries to refocus on his tasks, the last ones before he clocks off. Cleaning needles, tossing used stencils.

But his heavy balls keep sending desperate, silent prayers to his brain, to please let them have this. Just this once.

It’s been a bad day. Two of his appointments canceled last minute, leaving him to sit around bored. The last client showed up drunk and wouldn’t stop trying to flirt with him. His coworkers were loud and distracting, and to top it all off, the heater broke, leaving the studio freezing cold.

It’s been such a bad day.

So, would there be any harm? It’s not like anyone will know. Not you, not his friends. He’s the only one that will. And he’s far more willing to live with this dirty secret rather than with his hard dick straining achingly in its confines.

Jeongguk abruptly snatches up his phone again, unlocking it to the same picture that caused him to brush the device aside just minutes ago. He lets out a shaky breath, thumb hovering over the screen. You won’t get no reply to him. But if you knew what he was up to right now, you would probably geek. Tease him, with your warm smile that digs dimples in your cheek, hopping on your toes to poke at his chest playfully, with those perfectly manicured hands of yours.

“Shit,” his free hand is already pushing the jeans down along with his boxers, and he drops his weight onto the nearest stool as he grips at the base of his thick cock, eyes devouring the image of you in the empty chat.

He doesn’t zoom in. That would feel too shameless. But he finds it oddly better like this. Is it weird that your text, so innocently worded, is turning him on? That the simple idea of you needing his help is enough to have his hips jerking?

What could you possibly need his help for? Fuck. The different ideas that pool his mind have him squeezing harder at his stinging tip.

Jeongguk focuses on your dainty hand, slim pointer finger snaking under the collar of your flimsy shirt to show yourself to him, and your small boobs spill from the sides with a delicious, soft swell. He hisses when he pictures that same hand working on him instead, his warm mouth stuffed with your stiff nipples, visible through the sheer material.

He can’t help the loud groan leaving his lips, wrist flickering up and down in a motion that feels sloppy way too soon, hips jutting up to fuck into his tight fist. Throwing his head back, he sees you even behind closed eyelids.

He pictures your delicate figure sprawled on his bed, long lashes batting up at him as you sheepishly hide with your cheek to your shoulder. Can clearly make out how you’d sit on his lap instead, unsteady breath fanning over his lips, using his long shaft to make yourself cum. The whole time, he sees the tattoo on your chest, the one that is forever on you, eternally a reminder of him.

When he lets his head topple forward again, his bright screen still stares at him, only because a new message pops up in the chat. He startles, and his cock throbs in his hand.

Annoying [11:52 p.m.]: oh, and i miss you.

“Oh, fuck,” the curse is strained through a loud whine, and only followed by more of his full moans filling the room. His brows knit as his hand moves rapidly, palm collecting the precum spreading embarrassingly fast on his tip and rolling it down his length.

He focuses on your parted lips, the soft curve of your breast, your hard nipples begging to be sucked and spit on. Your last text has flashes of your bug-like eyes staring up at him seizing his mind.

That’s what undoes him. He’s delirious as he lets out his every sound, freely, unchecked, not caring about how loud he is, whimpering as he gets closer to his climax. When he thinks of those eyes locking with his, kneeling before him, eager and willing to swallow his every drop, he cums. Hard.

Jeongguk pumps everything he can out of him, and it’s messy—spilling over his hand, staining his clothes, pooling on the floor. His chest heaves with the effort, and the sensation of abandon he feels is so pleasurable, energy drained but leaving him with a lightness that threatens to make his cock hard again.

Fuck. He can’t afford that happening if you’re not the one attending his needs. This won’t be enough, not until it’s you. He’s insatiable.

Jeongguk needs to hear your voice.

It’s an instinct, and he bends to it. He’s careful, making sure not to tap on the FaceTime option, because if you were to see him right now it’d be glaringly obvious.

When he looks to the side, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror, and he visibly grimaces at the way his cheeks are flushed, the pearls of sweat coating his forehead causing his bangs to stick uncomfortably to the skin.

Guilty doesn’t even begin to cover it.

With the phone to his ear beeping to eternity, he hesitates, contemplates ending the call before you can answer. But just then, you do.

“Jeongguk! Is everything okay?”

Your voice is familiarly soft, but there’s a trace of concern. Blinking, he brings the device closer again and gulps thickly when he can make out your panting breaths. He clears his throat and puts on his best nonchalant act, “Huh— Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know… You just never call. Or text first. This is weird. You sure you’re okay?”

Oh. Is that really what it is like?

Jeongguk never realized this was how he came across—so detached that a simple phone call feels out of character. Your naive honesty hits him square in the chest. God, he needs to get better at this. The irony stings: he just fucking jerked off to your picture and the simple thought of you, while you’re on the other side thinking he’s just a careless piece of shit who doesn’t even know how to call.

The long stretch of silence registers in his brain, and he coughs to buy time, “Yes, I’m sure. I— huh,” he thinks of stuff you usually ask to keep the conversation flowing. Not out of courtesy, but out of genuine interest, the curiosity that makes people want to open up. He’s still not used to that. Still finds it weird.

“How… How was your day?”

It must be equally weird for you because it takes you a longer beat to reply. In that quiet moment, he clenches his eyes shut and feels his jaw tick with shame. And embarrassment. And this icky feeling that makes him feel too mushy for his liking. Hell, what is he doing? He’s never been like this, he’s not supposed to be like this.

But you recover quickly, as you always do, and you smooth over the moment. Fix it all for him like you were born to be just that. Make him feel like he fits in ways that have him exhaling shakily.

Jeongguk senses a foreign drumming in his stomach, and it’s warm but odd, and he loves it but he doesn’t want to.

On the twenty-fifth day of December, cheekily under a mistletoe, Jeongguk realizes he wants you. There’s parts of him that probably knew way sooner. But the parts of him that didn’t, fighting tooth and nail to suppress the mere thought, are just now finally surrendering.

Jeongguk has always found you admirable, back in high school. You had this determination to you. Not only when it came to him. It shone particularly when you catered to others, always finding ways to help, to mend, to offer yourself with nothing less than a fully toothed smile.

But he’s also always thought you two were—and still are—too different to work. He can’t be what you want, let alone what you deserve: someone who can match your enthusiasm and unwavering smiles, your frustrating positivity; someone who sees the world the way you do. No black, no grey, no shades in between. Just bright, hopeful white. Blinding white.

It’s the white making him dizzy, shifting his perspective, having him believing the opposite of what he’s always known. Pushing to be a little more egoistical, deceiving himself that he’s right for you. Because he wants to be. He oh, so selfishly wants people to know he’s the one who finally gets to have you, the one gifted with such a light, unfairly deserving of all the love you carry into every room you walk into.

Just a few days ago, during another one of your increasingly frequent phone calls, you asked him what he was doing for Christmas. He could have lied, come up with something on the spot.

But with how you so easily, and always coax the truth out of him, he let it slip. He told you he’d be alone, words subtly heavy. But they didn’t have the chance to even drop their weight before you were already inviting him to your friend’s party, insisting that he would be the most welcome.

And he’s here, and he sits beside you, and every time you laugh you lean your weight over him, and the room vibrates with the energy you fill it with, and each one of your friends is so enamoured with you, and for reasons he can’t fully understand it fills him with a sense of pride that shouldn’t belong to him. But it does, and it comes with so many other feelings.

You don’t push him to talk. You never force him into the spotlight when he takes a step back, quietly observing, choosing to stay in the background. Because you read him like it’s in your nature to do so, your soul seems to intuitively melt with his, and it intertwines in such a tight knot that he feels it constrict his throat. He knows he’s still alive because his heart is beating, just a little faster with each time you flash your dimples at him.

“Dimples. What are you doing, hm?”

Now, he’s in front of you, a small smile on his lips as you stand on your tiptoes, trying to dangle the mistletoe over both your heads. You’re struggling just a little, your hand unable to reach high enough, and the fake plant awkwardly brushes his hair, the tickling sensation causing his nose to scrunch. You laugh.

Looking up at your swinging movements, you lose your balance for the slightest second. Jeongguk’s hands move instinctively, catching you promptly by the waist to steady your body. But even after that, he doesn’t shift, his warm palms stilling. And when you face him, he’s closer and his chest brushes against yours. From this proximity, he witnesses the Christmas lights painting a galaxy of their own in your orbs.

You beam, “What does it look like? We have to kiss now.”

Jeongguk stares in your expectant eyes, brows wiggling and all. The more his mouth keeps in a straight line, the more the wiggling slows. You eventually come down from your tiptoes, letting the mistletoe fall to the side, tilting your head.

He snorts, looking away briefly to hide an embarrassingly wide grin behind his hand. When he turns back to you, your pout is enough to have him scrambling to meet your gaze.

“On one condition, though.”

You chirp, “Yeah?”

He licks his teeth, reserving you with a smug look, “Admit that you were scared to get your tattoo.”

Your smile vanishes in an instant, your expression falling into mock offense. With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you turn on your heel, pretending to walk away from him. Pretending, only because you know he won’t let you. And you’re proven right when his fingers wrap around your arm, tugging you back with enough force to spin you into him. Suddenly, you’re pressed so close you can feel the heat radiating from him. Your chin nearly touches his chest as you glare up at him, narrowed eyes meeting the mischievous glint in his.

He bites a smile, lips twitching, “C’mon, princess. You wanted to act all tough and shit, but I could feel you shaking.”

Your scoff is loud and incredulous, “You’re such a bitch.”

He only shrugs, “You want my kiss, no?”

“Oh my god,” groaning, it’s your turn to face the side to hide a grin, “Are you always this cocky?”

His chin tilts upward slightly, and you can tell he’s enjoying this, “Say it.”

You whip back around to meet him with a seriousness he hardly ever sees on you, and you even clear your throat, channeling every ounce of the determination he knows you for, every drop of resolve that makes you you. “Yes. I was scared shitless, Jeongguk.”

Foreign excitement brims out of him, not before his eyes widen just a fraction, and his nose scrunches the more he leans closer to you, inches from you, swinging side to side with exaggerated mockery and a grin splitting his face, “See! I knew—hmph.”

There’s no other second to waste.

The condition has been met, and now all the requirements for you to claim what you were promised, your reward, are there. Even more when kissing him means catching him mid-taunt and silencing whatever teasing remark he had ready.

Your lips touch his in effortless ease, breaking the air as they press together. It’s tentative at first, almost uncertain as you feel Jeongguk remain still.

But it doesn’t take him longer to move, mouth molding against yours in a sickeningly sweet hug, tasting each other with quiet curiosity, taking your time to adjust and melt, instructing your bodies to imitate the dance.

Your arms lock around his neck, his stronger and tattooed ones circle your waist, and the way you click together feels so right, almost too perfect, so perfect it scares you. When you arch yourself further into him, even the non-existent space between you unbearable, he accompanies the motion with his wide palms gliding along your back, squeezing you into him, feeling the curve of your hips.

The soft whine that scratches your throat and vibrates against his lips betrays you, along with the useless effort to contain the intensity of what you’re feeling. The emotion disarms you, the sound gasping in your chest, but in Jeongguk’s arms it feels safe to let go.

On Christmas day, you crown a youthful fantasy, the kind you’ll look back to even when you’re older. Jeongguk feels like he’d be the right person to stand by you to do so.

When he reluctantly detaches from you, his face keeps at a safe distance that’d allow him to go back and taste you, not before resting his forehead on yours and whispering, “Merry Christmas.”

You giggle. “Merry Christmas, Gguk.”

365 notes · View notes

t-horn-n · 3 days ago

Text

— cucumber cool

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x reader (female)

genre: fluff

summary: simon carries a picture of you in his wallet from your school days.

word count: 1 106

On the day you graduated from secondary school, you lightly punched Simon Riley on the shoulder and said, “Don’t be a stranger.”

He remembers how you looked then. Your hair was down and curled, for once, and you had on a dusting of makeup because you promised your grandmother a nice photo from the event. It was a rather temperate June late morning and now, when he thinks back to that day, he remarks upon how young you both were.

You were going out to lunch with your parents to celebrate going to uni and he was taking his kid brother out to grab a greasy slice of pizza somewhere before he went off to basic training.

He knew that it was more likely than not that he’d never see you again. All he really wanted to do was to be a grunt in the military and fade away. He was sure that you would get your degree and do something meaningful. Or if not meaningful, interesting, at least.

The two of you started off as friends of circumstance: you were in the same film photography class because he needed another art credit to graduate and you needed a class to fill up your schedule. He liked the soft ratcheting sound the camera made as it moved the roll of film, too.

“Hey, nice boots,” you told him on the first day of the class and the rest is history.

Now, he has a picture of you in his wallet that he’s been carrying for at least a decade. Its edges are frayed and discolored from years of rubbing against loose bills and coins. You’re a little awkward looking in it. You still had your baby face.

The only reason why he has the silly thing is because you goaded him into putting one of the extra prints you had from a portrait assignment into his wallet thinking there was absolutely no way he would follow through. What kind of sixteen-year-old boy walks around carrying a photo of his friend next to his student card?

He just shrugged in that way he often did—a kid of action rather than words—and slid your photo into his uncle’s hand-me-down wallet. Done and done, cool as a cucumber.

You laughed to conceal your surprise. Whatever you felt in that moment was wedged between embarrassment and excitement. What person doesn’t delight in being liked? It made something in your chest puff up.

By now, though, whatever has kept your image with him all these years later is between Simon and his own affections. Every time he opens his wallet to retrieve cash, he almost surprises himself. On some occasions, usually after particularly punishing missions, he’ll pull the picture out and look at the way your lips stretched into a smile. He’ll follow the lines of your facial features and wonder how much they’ve changed since then.

On a snowy Tuesday in December, you meet by chance at a deli. He’s off duty for the next two weeks and you’re on your lunch break picking up sandwiches for yourself and a friend at work. You approach him first, from behind, but he knows you’re there even before you greet him. The air around you smells the same way it did in school. Now, it feels like walking nostalgia.

“Simon!” you say happily.

He knows that he isn’t all that similar looking to his sixteen-year-old self, so he wonders how you recognize him. Funnily enough, you were actually planning to go down the street for takeaway salads, but you spotted him in the deli’s front window. Well, you saw his back and found a persistent sense of familiarity in the curve of his shoulders. It was awkward really: you stopped in the middle of the path and waited until you figured out who was standing on the other side of the glass.

Time is very strange. A long time has passed since he last saw you. He knows that. Everything that has happened in the past decades has moved him consistently further from his adolescent self. That, and he can see the ways you’ve changed. You look older, certainly. But there’s also evidence of the passage of time that’s intangible. Maturity. Experience.

“Hello,” he replies. Then, “How are you?”

You’ve grown out of your awkwardness, he notices. You chat with him easily as if you hadn’t realized that it’s been years since you last saw him, not just a weekend. You’ve heeded your own advice: “Don’t be a stranger.” And he tries his best, too, but you don’t mind that he struggles to make eye contact or that he’s slow to respond with as much enthusiasm that you seem to have. After you’ve both received your sandwiches, you part ways with your cell number in his phone and a promise to meet up for lunch late next week.

He has a vague sense of whiplash as he chews his lunch. It feels sort of like the time that’s passed has been condensed.

You find the picture when you two meet up the next week at this restaurant that has you hooked on its dipping sauces. You’re sitting by the window and he’s sitting next to you in the booth. It reminds you of how you used to sit in the cafeteria. He was already rather large for his age back then so he would sit at the end of the bench so he could angle his knees out from under the table.

You trick him into letting you out to pay by claiming you have to use the restroom. But when he catches on to your plans, he throws his wallet at you.

“You’re trusting me with this?” you joke. “I could take it and run.”

“You’ve had too many fries to make it very far,” he quips softly.

Laughing, you say, “Well, thank you for lunch.”

Your laugh hasn’t changed a bit.

At first, you think that the little white card tucked in the pocket of his wallet is a coupon or a picture of a cat or something.

“Oh my God,” you say as you make your way back to the table where Simon is picking the rest of your fries off the plate. “You still have it.”

“Hm?” he grunts.

You wave the little rectangular photo between your fingers.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, a little shyly. “Never had a reason to take it out, I guess.”

“Damn, I don’t think I have any of my old photos from that class anymore,” you lament while leaning over to grab a fry.

“Hey, you’re getting grease all over it,” he grumbles.

— tags

@thecursebreaker

— m. list

#x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon riley #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 x reader #141 x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader

327 notes · View notes

senigami-yltsom · 2 days ago

Text

Miss July, you’ve done it again

To start, I love how you catch the reader up with the vibe of the day we’ve been having in such simple yet effective ways. The tedious interruptions and misfortunes piling up minute by minute, leading us to really being right there with reader, curled up on the couch and exhausted.

The readers actions/thoughts also feel very real. Her wanting to throw her phone but not because it wouldn’t be worth the damage, leaving the phone on the ground when it got to be too much effort to get it…

This fic also does a really nice job establishing where in the relationship the two are without saying it too directly. Hinting at it with their dialogue and tone towards each other went a long way.

Jason’s “…not even me?” broke my heart omg. I can picture that so clearly coming from him and also hearing it from the readers side.

“It’s one hour after your phone call, and at the first knock, you know who it is. Who else could it be? With that soft, somewhat hesitant, one-knuckle rap on the door. Only one person knocks on your door like that.”

I’m having trouble verbalizing why I love this but I do. That’s so—that’s so jason. That paragraph shows a deep understanding of your characters and their relationship, not only within just the context of the two of them, but their relationship with others as well.

“”I think—” he cuts himself off, free hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. Then he drops his hand and sighs. “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea. You told me not to come here and I ignored you, but I thought…” he trails off, probably hoping you’ll say something so he can gauge your reaction.”

He’s so awkward and scared to be in love I love him. The way you wrote him is so sweet and thoughtful, I think it’s a very accurate take on what jason would be like in love. Not to mention, I can see all of it playing out like in a movie—you do that really well.

Ugh he’s such a loverboy deep down and you did an amazing job representing that side of him here.

dark chocolate cherry

i want to bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. i want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

or; your boyfriend shows up when you just want some alone time [3.2k]

jason todd x fem!reader; reader gets her period and describes painful symptoms; just fluff; jason "words don't come easy so here's acts of service" todd this is supposed to be earlier in the relationship which is why he's still a little shy but i think she knows he's red hood? idk man. i was just going with it; can you guess what inspired this? (everything is awful)

The day started at 2 AM when you woke to shooting pains in your abdomen and blood everywhere. It continued until 2:45 while you cleaned yourself, changed clothes, put on a fresh pad, took some painkillers, and changed the sheets. It paused for about an hour until you woke up again at 4:00, courtesy of Gotham’s patented night-life that had taught you to completely tune out the sound of police sirens. Tonight, however, they weren’t tuning out.

The sirens quieted at 4:10, by which angry tears collected in the corners of your eyes as you flopped around in bed in an attempt to get comfortable. No matter what you did, there was always something wrong; the pillow was too hard, the blanket was too scratchy, the position hurt your arm.

From 4:11 to 4:12, you screamed into your pillow.

By 4:15 you had settled in front of the TV with a bowl of dry cereal (it took everything in you not to cry over the lack of milk in your fridge), a heating pad, and your favorite comfort show queued up.

At 8 AM you managed to drag yourself to work, where you half-assed the day’s tasks, took a 15-minute break to cry in your car, then dipped out a half-hour early.

Now, at 5 PM on a Friday evening, you’re curled into the fetal position in front of your TV with your comfort show resumed and your trusty heating pad cranked to the highest setting. Prepared to spend the entire night here, you already changed into pajamas and kept a couple blankets within reach. Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, and you stretch to reach it, careful not to lose your comfortable position or roll off the couch.

Jason About to leave Be there in 20

You groan out loud. You want to throw your phone across the room, but decide against it because no amount of hormones from hell are worth six hundred dollars. You’re still angry, though, for being so stupid as to forget about the date you had planned for tonight. Scrolling up to earlier messages, you see another text from today wishing you a good morning and telling you he was excited to see you tonight. But, too down to bother checking any messages today, you had missed it.

You I can’t tonight anymore I’m sorry I don’t feel great

After hitting send, you place your phone on the ground, not even having the energy to reach for the coffee table again. Or the energy to lift your arm back up, apparently, given how it hangs limply over the edge of the couch. You feel guilty about cancelling, but you are in no state to go out tonight. You’re used to the symptoms of your period hitting so hard. As much as you and Jason care about each other, you’re not sure you’re ready for him to see you like this. You’ve managed to plan your relationship around your hormone cycle so far, but today it came early.

Your phone’s buzzing is muffled by the rug, and you almost don’t hear it. Jason’s photo is displayed on the screen.

Your hanging hand clicks ‘answer’ and puts it on speaker so you can take the call without moving from how you're curled up.

“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine, I just don’t feel up for going out tonight. I’d rather stay home.”

“Did something happen?”

“No, I just got my period so I’m not really in the mood.”

“Okay, we can stay in tonight. What do you feel like eating? I can pick something up.”

“No, Jason…I want to stay home alone tonight.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line.

“Okay…did I do something?” His voice comes out a little smaller.

“No, you’re fine, I promise. I just don’t feel like seeing anyone right now.”

“…Not even me?”

Your hand presses against your temples to soothe the building tension headache. The self-doubt in his tone brings the anguish of the entire day bubbling up your throat. You feel like the worst person in the world. Exactly how you don’t want him to see you.

“Jason…it’s not you. I just…I feel like shit right now, honestly. Everything hurts, I’m miserable and sad and angry at everything, I’m breaking out all over.” You feel yourself welling up at all these little stresses coming out. “I’m craving everything but feel too sick to eat anything…I feel pretty disgusting right now, and frankly, I don’t want you to see me like this.” You finish your rant with a sniffle. You wipe your nose, trying to hold back the sob that’s threatening to break through. But at his silence, your worst, most improbable fears claw their way to the surface: he hates you now. You scared him away. You exhale heavily into your sleeve as more tears spill.

The phone is quiet for a long moment. Then; “I could never find you disgusting,” he says, gently. “But if that’s what you want, then we’ll reschedule.”

“Thank you. And sorry.”

He speaks with a tone you can’t quite parse. “Don’t apologize. Just feel better.”

It’s one hour after your phone call, and at the first knock, you know who it is. Who else could it be? With that soft, somewhat hesitant, one-knuckle rap on the door. Only one person knocks on your door like that.

“Jason, I told you not to come here,” you say a little more cutting than you intend to, but your back and shoulders feel like they’re about to snap under a phantom pressure and the frustration of your request being outright ignored leaves a burning bitterness that channels itself into a violent wrenching open of the door.

He jumps a little at the abruptness of your greeting. One look at your face and he visibly deflates.

“I’m sorry…I know you said not to come, but…” his gaze casts downward to his hands. You follow; he’s clutching a reusable grocery bag. Peeking out of the top is a gallon of Neapolitan ice cream. The ice cream carton’s condensation seeped through a small patch of the cloth bag and dripped onto the other items; a bushel of greens, among some other fruits and vegetables, as well as a parcel of brown paper that was fastened closed with a twine string. You return your gaze to his face.

“I think—” he cuts himself off, free hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. Then he drops his hand and sighs. “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea. You told me not to come here and I ignored you, but I thought…” he trails off, probably hoping you’ll say something so he can gauge your reaction.

You just stare at him.

He shifts his weight back and forth. His hand twitches.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll—”

Then, you burst into tears.

Jason’s eyes widen. He reaches out to touch you, then stops himself. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, this was stupid. Please stop crying, I’m so sorry—” He’s panicked, trying to calm you down with apologies and soothing assurances that he will leave immediately and never go against your wishes again. All the while you stand in the doorway, blubbering like a toddler with a skinned knee, new tears forming faster than you can wipe the old ones away.

He once again raises a hand towards you, before it stutters, then clenches into a fist as if it takes all his strength to fight against the instinct to be close to you, fighting against the string that tethers him to you. He drags his hand down his face, then it falls back to his side.

“Okay, I—I’m leaving now. I’m leaving. Do you…want this?” He holds the bag out to you.

With it now in front of you, its further contents are visible. You manage to tamp down your tears enough to get a few words out.

“Did you—hic—buy me groceries?”

“Yeah…” There’s a wince in his tone, as if he’s only now realizing that his gesture is not translating as he intended.

You look back up at him with pursed lips and knitted brows, sniffling. Sure, the ice cream you can understand, but…you have no idea what to make of the rest.

The bag drops back to his side. “I figured…it’s just— it’s the stuff that you’re supposed to—” He strokes his palm over his mouth, eyes screwing shut for a moment. He huffs at himself, then continues. “I mean I’m sure you already know all of this, so maybe you already have all these things, and now I’m realizing how unnecessary all this was, and I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“Jason,” you say. Your upset has since been overshadowed by something else, though you can’t tell what it is. And your crying has stopped, but its lingering effects have you feeling congested and a little foggy. You’re half expecting this to be a fever dream that you’re moments away from waking up from in a cold sweat.

“—because obviously you know what helps you feel better much more than I do—”

“Jason.”

“And you— yeah?” His eyes are a little harried when they find yours again. But off your tired and still-confused look, he gets the message and collects himself.

“Right, yeah, I just thought that…maybe I could bring you some of the stuff with all those minerals that are supposed to help women when they’re…menstruating.” He briefly breaks eye contact at the end of his sentence, red rouge creeping up his neck.

You can’t help it; you start to giggle. You can’t remember the last time you heard a man use the term ‘menstruating’ in a non-medical context. And the fact that he’s so shy about it— upset as you may be (though not at him), there’s no denying how adorable your boyfriend is. His head shoots back to you as your laughter intensifies. He blushes harder.

“It’s not that funny,” he mutters.

You step away from the door, finally closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around his torso. Your head nestles into his chest. He gently drops the grocery bag on the ground and reciprocates your hug. He rests his chin on your head, which fits perfectly under his. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. You breathe him in.

“Sorry I’m such a mess,” you murmur into his shirt.

He breathes into your hair. “You have nothing to apologize for. And you’re not a mess.”

You look up, chin resting in the space between his collarbones. He looks down at you with a small smile, but some wariness is still etched into his features. Fear of unwittingly upsetting you again. He brings up a hand to push some hair out of your face and tuck it behind your ear. His hand remains there, toying with the hair that falls below your shoulder.

"Thank you for the food,” you whisper. The moment feels too intimate to speak any other way.

“I’m sorry for not listening to you. I just…” He imitates your quietness, like his admission is also too vulnerable to say loudly. “I really wanted to see you. And I hated the idea of you feeling bad about yourself, or being in pain. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Your eyes feel wet again. The first instinct is to hide your face, maybe press it to his chest once more. But, for some reason, you don’t. You want him to see you like this, messy and emotional and upset. You want him to see every part of you, and you want to see every part of him, the good and the bad.

“You didn’t.” A tear slips past the effort to keep it at bay. He shows no reaction to it, eyes never leaving yours, other than a quick swiping away with his thumb. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before. That’s why I was crying. Not because you showed up.”

“That doesn’t seem right. This is nothing. You deserve even more.”

With no words to fully, adequately communicate the blooming in your chest, you stand on your toes, reaching up to him for a kiss. But given his stature, your lips only reach his chin and brush over its underside.

At your quiet whine, he chuckles and leans down to meet you in the middle. The kiss is soft; filled with the innocence of fresh blossoms in the spring, and the sweetness of its borne fruit.

You pull away when a vicious cramp roots you back to the present. Your limps tighten around Jason with a groan.

“I need to go back inside. I’ve been away from my heating pad for too long.”

His shoulders sag when you step away from him. “Oh, um…do you still…want me to leave?”

With a simple exhale of humorous disbelief, you grasp his hand in yours and tug him to your front door. He’s like an excited puppy, eyes brightened and perking up as he grabs the grocery bag and happily trails after you.

He goes straight to the kitchen, pulling out a chair at the counter for you to settle into, then sets the bag on the counter. The ice cream carton has dampened most of the cloth by now, and likely the rest of its contents, but rather than attending to the groceries, his first action is retrieving your heating pad from where it rests on the couch. He unplugs it from the wall outlet and brings it to you. You curl up on the chair with it pressed flat against your lower stomach. It only takes a minute for the pressure in your hips to abate.

Then he moves to the groceries. The ice cream immediately goes in the freezer, and he unloads what’s remaining onto the counter, one by one, and you take note of each item. There’s spinach, carrots, apples, oranges, dark chocolate, some kind of meat wrapped in brown paper, and, strangely enough, an entire block of cheese.

You give him a quizzical look, picking it up to read the label. “You got me…cheddar cheese?”

He retrieves a cutting board and knife from its spot next to the sink, then takes the cheese from you. “Good for certain symptoms.” He slices open the plastic wrapping and cuts out some cubes with skilled efficiency. He does the same with an apple. “They all are,” he says, referring to his entire haul. He completes the makeshift charcuterie board with a couple squares of dark chocolate and slides it across the counter.

You look down at the cutting board, thinking about everything he’s done for you; everything you never even had to ask for. The words sit on your tongue, encaged by your clenched teeth; an admission that coils itself around your spine and squeezes tight, restricts your breathing and pumps your heart at thrice its speed. But you feel yourself welling up again, and the first bout of tears already exhausted you so much that all you can manage is, “I don’t know what to do with all this. I don’t have the energy to make anything good.”

But he just smiles and says, “That’s what I’m here for, honey. Can I make you something?”

You nod. He gets to work. The immediacy of his actions, how he takes no time to decide on a dish or find a recipe, makes you think his previously stated intentions of ‘just dropping this off’ were less genuine than he lead you to believe. Nevertheless, you munch on the snacks he laid out for you and watch him work. The cheese and apples are a surprisingly cohesive combination, the meshing of sweet crispiness and savory creaminess eliciting a contented sigh from you. You try to ignore the way Jason smirks in the corner of your periphery. The chocolate is incredible, yet unfamiliar. You read the label on the packaging: 80% Dark Chocolate with Cherry and Almond Filling. Even if you hadn’t tasted it yet, the quality of the packaging itself would have been enough to let you know that this chocolate is extremely high-quality. Like, special-order-from-Europe quality. Not stop-at-the-grocery-store-on-the-way-home quality.

“Where is this from? Did you buy this today?” You ask him through a mouthful of the rich, melting chocolate.

He doesn’t look up from the carrots he’s dicing. “Uh…no.”

Anyone else would attribute his avoidance of eye-contact to standard kitchen-knife caution. You are not anyone else. You could blindfold him, spin him around ten times, put a sharp knife in his hand, and he could still pull off a perfect julienne. You look closer. His cheeks are dusted with pink.

You let out a laugh. “Jason, you’re not embarrassed about liking fancy chocolate, are you?”

“No! Not at all,” he says, ceasing his chopping. He looks up, but not quite at you.

“Then?”

“‘Then’ what?” He asks.

“Then why are you being so shifty right now?” You try to catch his gaze.

“I’m not!” He defends. “It’s just chocolate! Do you like it? I’ll bring you more.” He’s stealthy with the way he avoids your eyes; you almost can’t notice how hard he’s trying not to make eye contact.

“Jason!” You reach across the counter, having to rise off the chair slightly, and take his face in your hands, making him look at you. When he does, he wears a sheepish smile.

“It’s…” His removes your hands from his face, holding them in his. He mumbles something, turning his head to the side. But you catch the tail end of it, a goading grin already creeping up your face.

“What was that?” You tilt your ear towards him, exaggerating the action.

“It’s Bruce’s.” He, in turn, exaggerates the enunciation, rolling his eyes at your simpering. “I…found it. In his pantry one day. And I liked it, so I took it. And then I…kept taking it. Every time I visited.”

You pout teasingly. “And you’re ashamed to admit that you think he has good taste in something?”

He doesn’t say anything, only hiding his face in his shoulder. You pull on your intertwined hands and he gets the message, skirting around the kitchen counter to come closer.

“You are so adorable, you know that?” You say. You reach up and pinch his cheeks. He swats your hands away, but there’s no mistaking his broad, childish grin for anything but affection.

He breaks off another square from the chocolate bar and holds it to your lips. You bite off a small portion, then push it back to him. He takes the remaining piece in his mouth and his eyes close for a brief moment as he savors the sweet, tart, and nutty flavors. You simply watch, entranced by him. Then, he kisses you. You lean into it, hands sliding up his shirt to grip the fabric and bring him even closer. His hold finds your waist.

He tastes like cherries and dark chocolate.

He breaks the kiss to rest his forehead on yours, and you want to tell him that. That, and so much more. But from the look on his face, the way his eyes find yours and the tips of his ears have a similar heat to the one in your chest, you can tell he already knows.

when it comes to jason's post-pit-repressed-teenager characterization (aka despite being older he's still as inexperienced and confused and insecure about the world outside of vigilantism and w/ women as a 15 y/o would be) (aka my favorite characterization tee hee), i think that he's mature about periods, knows they're normal and not gross or shameful etc, but still gets shy about saying the actual word, for no other reason than the 'shy around women' part always makes me giggle

also bruce is keeping the chocolate stocked specifically because he knows jason likes it and will keep taking it because he loves his son even if his son doesn't love him (he does he's just in his angsty teen 'i hate this family you don't understand me' phase rn)

divider is from here

quote at the beginning is pablo neruda <3

#also love the bit about bruce and the chocolate #such a great moment of characterization #jason ❤️

1K notes · View notes

covenofagatha · 2 days ago

Text

A dance with death (and her wife) (Part 2)

A look into Agatha and Rio's home life, and you are reeling from having The Witch and Lady Death in your motel room

Word count: 4200

Warnings: mentions of murder, manipulativeness, light gaslighting

The same morning you get called to Westview, Agatha Harkness wakes up to find her wife, Rio Vidal, staring at her.

“If you were going to kill me, how would you do it?” Rio asks, and Agatha raises an eyebrow.

“Good morning to you, too,” she groans, propping herself up on her elbows to get a better look at Rio, who is lounging in the chair in the corner. “How long have you been watching me sleep?”

Rio shrugs. “You make it sound like I’m some serial killer who’s about to murder you.” Her eyes widen conspiratorially and Agatha snorts before plopping back down.

“She’s getting here today, you know,” Agatha says and she can hear Rio’s breath hitch.

She leans forward in the chair. “When do you think she’ll come see me?” The eagerness is evident in her voice, and Agatha knows how she feels.

“Once we pull off our little ‘Welcome to Westview’ stunt tonight? I bet no time at all,” Agatha answers.

Rio grins, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and picks up the skeleton mask sitting on the dresser. She fiddles with the strings and holds it up to her face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that Miami director books the appointment himself. Do police detectives usually include a business card to their wife’s therapy practice in their information file to the FBI?”

“Better hope he doesn’t just pull her off the case,” Agatha remarks, ignoring the question, and finally gets up out of bed and walks past the bouquet of purple azaleas on the vanity. “He’s pretty serious when it comes to protecting her. Especially after…”

“No,” Rio cuts her off and Agatha looks at her wife in surprise. Rio puts her mask down, stands up, and walks over so she’s face-to-face with the older woman. She reaches a hand out to put it gently around Agatha’s throat, who doesn’t even flinch. Rio smirks and drags her hand downward so it’s resting over her heart. “We’re finally getting what we want. Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for this? For her? I’m not letting her go.”

Agatha tilts her head to the side, thinking for a second. “If I were going to kill you, I’d fill a syringe with air and inject it into your bloodstream under your toenail. The death would mimic a heart attack and the track mark would be almost impossible to find. I’d tell the authorities that you were under so much stress as a therapist that it eventually took a toll on your body,” she says slowly, clinically even, watching Rio’s hazel eyes get dark.

She hums and looks down at Agatha’s lips. “You really know how to make a lady swoon.” Rio gives her a quick peck and leaves the room so her wife can get ready for work.

On her way to the kitchen, Rio steps into the spare room in the hallway and takes a deep breath, feeling the tension seeping from her muscles. The table in the middle of the room is covered in vials, all Agatha’s doing. They don’t call her The Witch for nothing, Rio thinks. She picks up her own dagger and twirls it between her practiced fingers while she admires the handiwork on the left side of the room.

From ceiling to floor, the wall is completely covered with you. Every single case file you’ve profiled for, pictures of you from now all the way back to your childhood, transcripts from Quantico and college. Rio’s favorite photo hangs front and center, the one of the scar you got from dealing with the Scarlet Killer, all rough and jagged.

Rio would’ve made it prettier.

Patience, she reminds herself.

The trap has been laid. All that’s left to do is wait.

***

You turn the entire motel room upside down, scourging for anything else the killers may have left behind: a camera or a listening device, or maybe even a clue.

Nothing.

And then you kick yourself for touching everything because now you can’t even test for prints. Plus, it’s a motel room so you’re not sure you’d be able to narrow it down.

The phone is in your hand dialing Tony back before you can think. He doesn’t answer and you slam it down on the bed in frustration.

They were here. The Witch and Lady Death were in your room.

You draw the blinds and deadbolt the door, making a mental note to ask the front desk to change the locks. How did they get in? How did they know you were going to get food?

A cold feeling sinks into your bones. They must be watching you.

And what’s to stop them from coming back? This time though, when you’re in the room?

Anyone could be next. Agatha’s words echo around in your head and you didn’t realize just how true they are until now.

You don’t realize you’re hyperventilating until you feel dizzy and gag. Then you run to the bathroom and puke into the toilet. Wiping a hand across your sweaty forehead, your mind spins with what to do.

You could call the police, but you don’t think they would do any good, especially after you’ve tampered with evidence. There were no cameras in this motel, you had already checked.

Pacing back and forth, head in your hands, you try and try and try to think of what to do.

And finally you think of something.

You punch in the number and hold the phone up to your ear.

It rings three times and then there’s a click.

“Dr. Rio Vidal’s office, if this is an emergency please hang up the phone and call 911. If not, this is Dr. Vidal, how can I help you?”

You take a shaky breath and press your fingers to your forehead to stave off the incoming headache. “Um, yes, hi, I was calling to see if I could make an appointment? The sooner, the better.”

There’s shuffling and then tapping of keys on a computer. “What’s your name?” When you say it, you hear a sharp inhale and then a cough. “Sorry about that. How does 1 pm tomorrow sound?”

You blink. You didn’t realize you’d be able to get in that fast, but you suppose in a small town like Westview, not many people are going to therapy. “Yeah, that would be great. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Thank you.”

“Bye, Agent Y/L/N,” she says. You frown. You never told her you were an agent. But you figure it’s been announced that you’re coming, so you brush it off.

You take a quick shower and then get into bed, trying to relax and maybe get some sleep. You promised Tony you’d get five hours a night, but you’ll be lucky if you even get one.

At every groan and creak, you jump and grab your gun, sitting up completely alert. It’s always the wind or a tree branch or the building settling.

You lay under the sheets, hand gripped around your weapon, and you don’t sleep a wink.

When you get to the station the next morning, the first person you see is Agatha. She looks up at you, takes in your new outfit, and smiles brightly.

The killers replaced all your clothes so you had no choice but to wear the new ones until you’re able to go shopping. You wouldn’t be surprised if they laced the fabric with something and you end up dead before lunch, but it’s snowing today and you had nothing else to wear.

“Have a good first night in Westview?” She asks and you cautiously glance around the room.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” You ask urgently, voice low. Concern flits onto her face and she nods and stands up. She pulls you into the evidence locker. “They were at my motel last night,” you hiss.

Agatha’s hand flies to her mouth. “The killers? Are you sure?”

You nod furiously. “I had left to get food and when I came back, the door was open and they had packed my suitcase with all new stuff—” You motion down at your body and she checks you out again. “—and perfume and then they circled ‘lovers’ on a sticky note I had to tell me their relationship and they left the flower on my table!”

“Slow down,” Agatha says and you realize you’ve been talking so fast that you haven’t taken a breath. She puts her hands on your shoulders. “Did you see them? Did they come back?”

“No, not yet at least. I don’t understand, if they wanted to kill me, why not just wait until I was there? Or asleep?”

“Maybe they didn’t want to kill you,” Agatha suggests. “Maybe they just wanted to send you a message or something. It’s pretty big news that we have a profiler from the FBI here to help stop them.”

You frown. “So they wanted to let me know they’re not scared of me?”

She shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. Who knows what they’re thinking. But the most important thing is that you’re okay. We can send over some officers later to test for evidence, if you want.”

“It’s no use, I tore the place apart last night,” you say, shaking your head at your own stupidity. She squeezes your shoulders.

“Hey, don’t worry. Like you said, if they wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Let’s go out there and work on catching them so you and everyone else in Westview can sleep easy, yeah?”

You nod, feeling a little better but then you pause. “Agatha, are you afraid?”

Something flickers in her eyes before it's quickly replaced by humor. “I think they know better than to break into the home of a decorated detective such as myself,” she says haughtily and you can’t help but to laugh. She chuckles too, but then something in her face changes.

Before you can ask what’s wrong, she leans in and sniffs up your neck. You freeze and find all the air in your lungs gone.

“New perfume?” She mutters.

You had put it on this morning without even thinking about it as your usual had also been taken. Thanatos. The Greek personification of death.

Or as Freud defined it, a person’s urge to die.

“Yeah,” you stutter. Agatha finally pulls back and her blue eyes are dilated. You find your gaze dropping down to her mouth again and you want to feel her lips on yours.

“You said they packed your suitcase with all new stuff,” she says in a hushed voice and your heartbeat picks up. “Did they give you that too?”

“Yes,” you whisper, and instead of looking disgusted, like you thought she would, she looks excited.

She leans back in and presses her face into your neck and are you imagining her lips ghosting against your skin or is that really happening? It feels like your entire body is on fire.

They trail up, light as a feather against your jugular vein, and she’s at your chin when the door slams open and you jump back. She winks and then she’s turning on her heel and walking out. It’s an officer, trying to book evidence, looking very confused.

“Making friends, Miami?” He jokes and your face flushes before you quickly leave the room before finding Agatha and the rest of the detectives back in the room with the case information.

You tirelessly pour over every single detail for the next few hours to no avail. You toss out theories but Agatha always finds something that doesn’t add up and you’re always back to square one.

But then it’s time for your therapy appointment, so you drop your pen down to the table and gather the pages of your chicken scratch to throw in your bag.

“I have to head out,” you say hastily and Agatha glances up.

“Hot date, superstar?” She teases and the memory of her mouth on your neck burns through you.

You shake your head. “Just uh, going to the doctor.”

She raises an eyebrow daringly and smirks. “Have fun.”

You give her a tight smile and then you’re in your car driving to the office. There’s people walking on the street on your route and you can’t help but wonder which of them might be the next victim.

It’s always been hard to not get too attached to the people in the towns you work at. Looking at them, knowing tomorrow they might not be alive, it takes a toll on you.

That’s part of the reason you get so attached. The waiting, the not knowing. It eats away at you.

Dr. Vidal’s office is tucked away in the corner of a string of workspaces in a building, and you feel something weird in your stomach as you walk up the steps. For the third time in the past 24 hours, your scar sears with a pain you haven’t felt since right after. You have to stop and breathe deeply before opening the door.

A woman sits at the front desk typing on her computer. She barely even looks at you and you stand at the desk for a moment before clearing your throat.

“Um, hi, I have an appointment for one? I’m Y/N,” you say and it’s like she’s finally realized someone’s standing there.

She hums in acknowledgement and scrolls until she finds your name and clicks. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”

You tap the desk and go sit down, wiping your palms on your pants. It’s only a few minutes before a door opens and your name is called.

Walking into the room, the first thing you notice is the thick smell of nature. And then you see plants everywhere. Bookshelves line the walls, full with books and pots of every type of plant and flower you’ve ever seen. Your eyes narrow, but you don’t see anything purple.

And then you see Dr. Vidal sitting behind a large desk. You tentatively take a seat in one of the chairs across from her, squirming under her intense gaze. She’s an attractive woman, hair pulled back into a tight bun and brown eyes that seem to stare into your soul. There’s not a hair out of place on her desk; everything is meticulously organized and right where she needs it.

You clear your throat. “Big plant lover?” You say, and it’s an incredibly awkward way to make a first impression. You’ve never been good at therapy, or with uncomfortable silences.

But she doesn’t seem to care, finds it almost amusing. Her tongue pushes against the inside of her cheek and she settles forward. “So, what brings you to therapy?”

You don’t even know where to start. “I just got to town, and um, oh – I’m a profiler, by the way, for the FBI. I’m here working on the case with The Witch and Lady Death.”

“Lady Death?” Dr. Vidal asks, giving you an intrigued look.

“Oh, we figured out that there’s actually two killers. That’s what I nicknamed the other one, because apparently she’s been seen with the bottom half of a skeleton mask on her face. Wait, this is all confidential right?”

“Of course,” she assures you, voice smooth as honey. “Anything you say here doesn’t leave this room unless you threaten to hurt yourself or someone else. So, you’re here about the case?”

You nod, playing with the hem of your sweater. “Yeah, you could say that. I sort of have some obsessive tendencies when it comes to cases like these, and I just wanted to get ahead of them before I spiraled again.”

“What does a spiral look like for you?”

Chewing on your nail, your gut twists and you can feel Wanda’s knife jabbing into you. “I stop eating, stop sleeping. The work consumes me, I can’t take a break. I don’t want to take a break. There’s just this overwhelming need to catch the killer and I won’t stop – I can’t stop – until I find them. It can be dangerous.”

She nods and writes something down in her notebook. “Why did you become a profiler?”

“To help people,” you answer immediately. “I like reading the killers, figuring out what they’re thinking, getting inside their heads and beating them at their own game.”

“When did you start knowing you wanted to do this? Why not just become a detective or something?”

This one takes a bit longer to think about. “I don’t know, I just remember being a kid and wanting to…” You trail off, suddenly feeling confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what I was going to say.” Something is weird, wrong even. What were you thinking of?

“No, don’t apologize,” Dr. Vidal says, laying her hands on the desk with wide eyes. “You wanted to what as a kid? What happened that made you want to think like a killer?”

A dull ache starts to throb against your skull the harder you try and think about it. “I don’t know,” you repeat, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m not thinking like a killer, I’m figuring out the way their brain works. So I can catch them.”

She leans back and crosses her arms. “What do you feel when you think like them?”

“What does this have to do with–” But you’re cut off by a blinding burst of pain and then glimpses of something you can’t quite explain flash through your mind.

Snow.

Trees.

A clearing in the woods.

Red birds flutter from the branches, startled by something.

You hear your name and the images are gone. Dr. Vidal is watching you closely, breathing heavily. “What was that?”

Shaking your head, you try to make sense of what just happened. Memories or hallucinations? “Um, sorry, I don’t know. What was the question?”

Her eyes are dark and they remind you of Agatha’s in the evidence locker. How she had leaned down and smelled the perfume you were wearing. You shift in your chair.

“I was asking what your coping mechanisms are for when you start to feel yourself spiraling,” she says, and you’re still a little foggy, but you’re pretty sure that’s not what she asked.

You think you might be going crazy. “My boss back in Miami was pretty good about recognizing when I needed to take a step back. I’m trying to not get too involved and make sure I’m eating and staying hydrated and sleeping enough. And I’m here, so I think this should help.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Dr. Vidal says with a smile. “If you ever start to feel too drawn in, take three deep breaths and then do the 5-4-3-2-1 technique. Are you familiar?”

You almost roll your eyes. That’s exactly what they told you to do during your mandated therapy. Name five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. It was meant to ground you and reduce your anxiety.

“Yeah, I’ve tried it a few times, but it didn’t really work for me,” you admit and she waves dismissively.

She quickly scribbles something down and rips out a chunk of paper, sliding it across to you. “This is my cell,” she says. “Call me anytime, day or night, if you ever need to talk. Sometimes that’s the best way to calm down. I know you’re new here, but do you have anyone else, maybe someone you’ve been working with that you could talk to if you need to?”

“There’s this one woman I work with that’s pretty nice. She’s the main detective on the case, so I think I could reach out if I really needed to,” you say and she looks pleased.

“Detective Harkness?” Dr. Vidal asks.

In a small town, people are bound to be familiar with each other. “Um, yeah, do you know her?”

She smirks. “Very well. She’s quite attractive, don’t you think?”

The question catches you off-guard. Is everyone in this place weird? “I mean, sure, of course. Are you allowed to say that?”

“Well, she’s my wife so I would hope so.”

Your mouth drops open. Her lips on your skin, ghosting along your neck, filling you with heat and a need for more. “Oh, I’m so sorry for saying that, I had no idea, obviously. We just work together.”

“Don’t be, doll. I’m sure the two of you would make quite the pair,” Dr. Vidal says, and you ignore the possible unprofessionalism at the pet name. She doesn’t seem offended at all, only fascinated.

You shift in your seat again while trying to figure out what to say. “Well–” you start, but she cuts you off.

“Let me guess, she’s been flirting?”

Fuck. What do you even say? Is Dr. Vidal going to be mad, say she can’t treat you anymore? It’s not your fault, you hadn’t done anything.

She scoffs. “You’re such a pretty young thing, I can’t blame her. You’ll have to come over for dinner with us some night.”

“Um, is that allowed?” You ask, blinking slowly. You have absolutely no idea what is going on. Is your therapist suggesting a threesome with you and her wife and woman you’re working with?

“Getting a meal with your support system? Why wouldn’t it be?” When she phrases it like that, it’s hard to find an error with her logic.

You shrug. It would be nice to be able to talk freely about things. And you’re sure Agatha has told her about the case already. “Yeah, okay.”

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

The question weighs on your mind as you chew on your lip and debate whether or not to tell her about the images you just saw. You don’t remember ever being in those woods. “Do patients ever, I don’t know, see things while they talk to you? Like false memories or something?”

This gets her attention. “What did you see?”

“Snow, and woods, and a flock of birds. I don’t know, it felt familiar but I’ve never…” You try to put it into words, but you don’t know how.

“What happens when you try to follow that memory?” She asks and you close your eyes, but there’s nothing.

“I–I can’t. There was like a pain in my head when you asked about what made me want to think like a killer, and then I saw it, but it’s not happening now.” You sound defeated, a testament to your frustration.

Dr. Vidal frowns. “Do you know what repressed memories are? And I never asked you that.”

It’s like the floor tilts under you and you stare blankly at her. You can only focus on the latter part. “No, you did, I remember…” You start to breathe heavily, panic rising in your chest, and she comes over to rub at your back. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s possible you’re feeling a little overwhelmed by all this. I think you need to go home and get some rest. Did you sleep last night?”

It makes sense to you now. You didn’t sleep at all, your brain is just playing tricks on you. “No.”

She nods. “Go home. Take a nap. Let’s book a follow up, though. See if we can get to the bottom of those images.”

You choose to come back in three days in the afternoon again and then you drive back to the motel. Your exhaustion suddenly weighs a ton and all you have to do is stumble in your room, collapse on the bed, and you pass out.

The snow crunches underneath your boots as you trode through it. Branches claw at your legs through your pants and the wind whips your cheeks.

It’s cold, but you can’t feel it.

Where are you going? You don’t know, but your legs do. They take you through the woods into the clearing.

You stand alone for a few minutes and then you hear someone – something? – approaching.

A purple wolf.

You crouch down to your knees and it saunters up to you. One eye is a piercing blue, the other is hazel.

So familiar, yet otherworldly. You don’t understand.

It opens its mouth to say something, and you’re leaning in to make sure you hear it, when –

Your phone rings and it jolts you awake in a cold sweat. You roll over in bed to find you’ve been asleep for hours. You reach for your phone when you realize that you’re completely naked.

How did that happen?

When you were younger, you know you had problems with sleep-walking, but you would always keep your clothes on. You file that away to talk to Dr. Vidal about next time.

“Hello?” You say groggily, not even checking who’s on the other line.

“It’s Agatha,” the voice says and it’s like a bucket of cold water gets thrown on you. “There’s been another murder.”

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha x reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha all along #agatha x rio #agathario x reader #agathario #rio vidal x agatha harkness #rio vidal x reader #rio x reader

246 notes · View notes

cliosunshine · 2 days ago

Text

𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐯𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐭 🐾

or how the first time your boyfriend meets your cat doesn't go as planned (he survives don't worry)

Jason Todd x gn!reader

Warnings: none, reader is a doctor and Norbert is a chunky boi

After successfully taking down another trafficking ring, Jason was ready to head back home.

As he helped the last person out of their restraints, shots got fired from behind him, causing him to promptly duck by the nearest car. He went to take his guns into his hands, but quickly realized he must've threw them earlier when approaching the little girls kept in the warehouse, trying to appear as little intimitanding as possible.

"Shit," he muttered, searching for a way out. Without thinking, he grabbed the body of one of the men he had shot and used it as his shield until he got to the other side of the street, where he could see one of the men's rifles.

Quickly discarding of the corpse, he took the weapon into his hands, muscle memory kicking in as he fired at the sniper perched by the window of an abandoned building.

Retrieving his guns, he managed to run a few blocks towards his bike before more shots were being fired at him, certainly from Black Mask's goons.

As he fired back, one of the bullets from the aggressors pierced throught his left thigh, making him grunt in pain.

The adrenaline in his body was too high for him to fully comprehend the situation. Ultimately he managed to kill some of the goons before storming off on his bike.

While skimming trought the desolated streets of Gotham, Jason knew he needed medical attention asap, but his apartment was too far away and in no way in hell was he going to the manor, so he opted for the only other option he had.

Your place.

Now, you and him had been dating for quite some time, but he had never been to your apartment before. It was mainly to keep you out of harm's way, were someone to see a vigilante coming every night to your window and associating you with him.

The other reason was your cat, Norbert.

He had seen pictures and videos of him, but had been warned by every single one of your friends and apparently Dick as well, that he despised men.

Dick had learned it the hard way when he was passing throught your neighbourhood and saw you desperately trying to coax Norbert back into you apartment, since he somehow got himself on the fire escape and had no intention of budging.

Imagine your horror upon seeing Nighwing picking up your cat and trying to pet him and coo at him.

"Aw, what a cutie, what's his name-"

"Nighwing, no!-"

But it was too late: your cat had already scratched the man's cheek. Dick screamed as he let the cat go and almost tumbled over the fire escape. Now everytime somebody brought Norbert up in conversation, you could alway hear him cussing out your cat under his breath.

But Jason's mind was too far gone to fully underatnd what was happening, all he was thinking of was to get to shelter, to find a way not to bleed to death in the middle of the road, so up your building's fire escape he went.

He had made it to your window and knocked on it lighlty, knowing you'd be up reading a book before going to bed.

As if on cue, you arrived jogging with a toothbrush in your mouth, hastily sliding up your window upon seeing your boyfriend's doubled over figure.

"Oh my God, love, are you okay?" You hadn't spotted the gunshot yet, too preoccupied to bring his massive frame into your home.

"Hey, sweetheart," He said, taking his helmet off. Sweat made his hair cling to his forehead, a groan leaving his lips as he tried his best not to put his weight on the injured leg, "Sorry if this is the way I visit your place for the first time."

You gave him a worried look as you assessed the wound before running to the bathroom, getting rid of your toothbrush and pulling out the first aid kit. You thanked every entity in this universe for making you choose to go to medical school as you quickly returned to the living room, where you found Jason slumped against your coffee table.

You quickly began working on his leg, giving him a gauze to bite into.

"Tahnh yuh babh"

You tried to suppress a chuckle as you finished wrapping up his leg and gave him a glass of water and osme painkillers. You kissed his cheek, "No problem, love, I'm literally doing my job"

Jason gave you a lopsided grin both from pure exhaustion and sleepiness, and he felt his eyes begin to droop.

You shook him lightly, afraid to injure him further but definitely not wanting him to worsen his conditions.

"Hey, baby, you need to stay awake for me for a bit, yeah?"

"Mh-I knoww...I just-"

"Meow."

You stared at your boyfriedn with an horrified expression, eyes wide as your fingers grazed his bandages.

Jason seemed to have lost every single ounce of sleep in his body, matching your expression.

"Meow."

Uh oh.

"Don't move," you pleaded with him, taking his hands in yours, "I'll bring him here, just- holy cow!"

Just as you begun to turn, you spotted Norbert, your cat, in all his chunky orange glory, staring the two of you down - or better, zeroing in his amber eye on Jason, who for the first time that night, felt true fear.

"What do I do?" he whispered to you as he held eye contact with your cat, both of his hands tensing up under your grip.

You sighed, standing up, "Just stay there," then you went over Norbert and picked him up.

The feline instantly melted in your hold, purring slightly and nuzzling into you, but you could tell he wasn't fully calming down. He was still looking at Jason and his tail was swaying from side to side.

You just hoped you wouldn't have to stich Jason up again tonight.

You made your way over, taking small steps towards your boyfriend, who was still laying on the ground with a cautious look on his face.

"I made him smell some of your clothes the last few months," you started to explain, "and he even cuddled up to me in bed while i was wearing your hoodie, you know, the black Metallica one..." you took a few more steps, now directly in front of him.

You kneeled down, your arms tightening slightly around Norbert, "I really hope that did the trick,"

The cat sensed your nervousness and thinking it was due to Jason presence, hissed at him, swatting a clawed paw in his direction.

You closed your eyes, taking a big breath and trying to calm your nerves. This was a big deal for you and you cared bout both of them just as deeply, so you really hoped Norbert learned to accept Jason.

"Outstretch one of you hands towards him," you instructed Jason, "let him sniff you."

You loosened your grip on your cat and he jumped out of your arms, cautiosly making his way to Jason's hand. He let a low grumble as a warning, but upon sniffing his hand, he took a few momwnts to assess the situation. Nornert looked at you and you muttered a good boy to him, stroking his back in praise. He meowed and turned back to Jason, looking at him and then, and only then, he softly bumped his head on his hand, his fluffy tail up as Jason run his hand over his back. You both let out a relieved breath in unison, your shoulders visibly relaxing.

You watched the scene in awe, you eyes starting to well up with tears.

Jason sensed the mood switch and turned his head towards you. He was still smiling for not being smacked or bitten by your cat yet, so he scooted over, daring to do the impossible: hugging you in front of Norbert.

He had heard the stories: your guy friends and most importantly your ex boyfriend had tried to do so and had eneded up being chased around the house by a raging murderous orange ball of fur. They lived to tell the tale, but had since refused to step foot into your home ever again.

He hoped it would go differently for him.

Taking a leap of faith, he swung his arm around your shoulders, you thighs barely touching as his other hand cradled your chin.

"Hey," he looked into your eyes with worry, "you okay?"

You nodded with wide eyes, your left hand cupping his cheek with a relieved smile.

"Yeah, I'm happy he didn't attack you, it's all," you said but then your expression faltered as you heard another meow and saw Norbert staring menacingly at Jason's hand on your chin, then at Jason and then at the hand again.

He quickly dropped his hand and chuckled in apology, but you decided to see just how far you could push your luck and decided to pick Norbert up and place him onto your lap so he'd be between you two.

He unsurprisingly loafed up on you immediately and rested his chin on your right knree, staring up at the two of you.

"Try again, love," you said to Jason, who didn't need to be told twice as he eagerly tilted you chin up and leaned down for a searing kiss, his lips moulding against your own. You melted at the way his slightly chapped lips seemed to slot perfectly against yours, sighing in contemptment as your fingers twiddled witht the damp strands of hair that were stuck to his nape. You slightly tugged them and that earned you a mewl from Jason, the sound vibrating in your own mouth and making you smile in satisfaction.

Eventually pulling away to catch your breath, Jason chased your lips again but you playfully swatted his chest chuckling, "Don't push your luck, Jay. Norbert's patience runs out very quickly," you whispered as you looked down, petting the cat on your lap, "Aren't you a good boy, uh? Letting me kiss my boyfriend without drawing blood,"

Jason let out a whine, glaring at the cat and then making puppy eyes at you, "Wasn't I your good boy?"

"Jason, oh my god-"

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #red hood x reader #dc x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd x gn!reader

221 notes · View notes

ikeuki · 3 days ago

Text

mama a riki behind you ! / 니키

✷ pairing. nishimura riki x fem!reader ; grumpy x sunshine 🤳 tw. none ! && 811wc. — fluff ★ author’s notes: fake emo alert ‼️ we all saw you giggling through the mirror…

#1 — haiii this is my first post teehee ; i will post a proper introduction later on !!

i think i’ll make a small collection of grumpy!riki x sunshine!reader so look out for it :)

picture day.

the most useless day, riki liked to call it. he would’ve ditched today but his friends agreed to just take the pictures in the morning and skip afterwards. now he was stuck, standing in this stupidly long line for a two second picture that would be going nowhere except the yearbook. if only he could prevent that from happening too.

riki just slouched against the gym wall, counting the minutes in his head before the period was over. the gym was filled with mindless chatter and camera shutters from every corner.

with common last names, all his friends texted him that they finished hours ago. they had already jumped the school fences and we’re hanging out, leaving riki to be stuck in this humid gym alone.

alas, he closed his eyes in an attempt to at least catch a couple minutes of sleep in these boring moments.

click. clack. click.

his eyes shot open. ‘what the hell is that sound?’ he thought to himself and searched for the maker of the sound.

he looked straight ahead to see you continuously tapping your shoe while holding a compact mirror. you applied a thin layer of lip gloss while trying to arrange your delicate curls in the perfect formation.

riki watched from behind as you panicked when a single strand went the other way. you then pulled out a comb and started fixing your part in a hurry as if this line wasn’t going to take another two hours.

then you began practicing smiles—a toothy grin, no teeth, eye smile, and so on! riki couldn’t help but laugh a little when he saw how seriously you were taking this.

he could tell you worked extra hard this morning to look your absolute best. even though he didn’t really know why you would for a school picture?

he had spotted you around school before, your sweet vanilla scent catching his attention when you walked past him. your curls bounced when you practically skipped to class, clutching your pastel notebooks to your chest and that charming smile you always had when talking and laughing to your friends.

wait. why did riki know that? he shouldn’t didn’t care about some random girl in his grade that smelled like sweet syrup!

nope! it’s just the sleep deprivation.

while posing into your small mirror, you caught the glare of riki, locking eyes through the compact. embarrassed, you shut the mirror and shoved it into your pocket. you refused to look behind you and kept your eyes on some random girl’s head in front of you.

you knew riki. more like you knew of him.

he always hung out with such a questionable collection of people—lee heeseung, park jongseong, park sunghoon, and sim jaeyun. always getting caught ditching class or smoking behind the bleachers. you knew better to steer clear of any of their ways. they weren’t even at school half of the time. spending it all in detentions if they decided to come once in a while.

but weirdly enough, you had a soft spot for riki.

only because you remembered him in elementary school, when he was a smaller, sweeter kid who was known as a ‘dance prodigy.’ your friend had attended the same dance studio as him, so you would always see him when visiting to watch your friend.

you had admired his skill and confidence back then, even developing a small crush on the boy.

but your dreams were soon crushed when you overheard him liking some girl in his dance class. therefore, you hadn’t interacted with him since, only a few lingering glances of acknowledging each others’ presences but avoiding anything more.

you think it may because you’re the only person that remembers him from childhood and who he truly is.

but you could just be thinking too much into it.

luckily, your name was called the next second and you quickly walk away from that awkward interaction. you sighed, fixing your hair for one last time and trying a couple more smiles.

“just smile like you always do.” riki whispered as he walked past you towards the exit.

your body tensed up as his shoulder brushed past yours and he turned slightly to look at you one last time before leaving the gym.

for a second, you thought you were imagining him saying anything but knew you were not hallucinating when he looked back. you stood there thinking of what he meant by ‘always do’ before the photographer snapped you out of your trance.

“ms. y/l/n, please sit in the chair.”

hurriedly, you sat on the little black stool and aligned your feet with the markers taped on the gym floor. you moved a couple strands to frame your face how you wanted it and looked straight at the camera.

“okay…now smile.”

and you did. like you always do.

342 notes · View notes

sheep-from-rad · 11 hours ago

Text

Photograph (Platonic Batman x reader) (second half inched on the yan territory)

Notes: I made a joke that I wasn’t held enough as a child. Well, jokes on me because it was apparently not a joke. I'm still shit at making endings, help Merry Christmas folks <3

Masterlist

dividers by: @strangergraphics

“Isn’t this for newborns?”

Bruce sat shirtless on the room’s armchair. The room didn’t exist until this week, back then it was just another one of the big guest rooms inside the mansion. From formal, vintage patterned, dark green wallpapers it changed into a soft pudding yellow (Jason’s suggestion) and the corners are filled with soft plushies. He looked down on his shirtless self again as Alfred stood by the crib to prepare the four month old infant. Years of fighting rogues but it was the thought of holding a baby that made him nervous.

He takes a silent pride on his body, from his back muscles to his strong arms, from bruises and scars, he wears them like an intangible medal. He thought that the media would question how a businessman like him would have such build but he was easy to conceal it with his ditzy public persona. Ladies did love it but then again holding a lady and holding a baby are two different things.

“You might have missed their newborn days but bonding as father-baby is not too late”, Alfred explained. “Ah, skittish like your father when it was his first time holding you”

Bruce’s hands protectively closed around the sleeping babe. He reclines as Alfred helps lay the baby on his chest, one hand on the head and neck and the other under their bottom. Skin to skin and warm. Warm. He didn’t know an infant could produce such warmth. Is this how his father felt the first time he held him? The feeling of happiness like a small glowing bubble melting in his soul, a warm innocent light in the gloom.

He tensed again when he felt his little baby moved, their tiny arms stretching with all their might. “Alfred I think they are —” Before he could finish his words, he found himself staring at a pair of (eye color) eyes with their little lips curled in a curious ‘o’. They can barely lift their head for a long time but keep doing so to keep the little staring contest going. “What are you doing? Are you memorizing me?” He cringed a little especially knowing that he just butchered the movie quote. The little cringing turned to a small panic when the baby’s little trembled. He braced himself for a wail but instead he was greeted by a gummy smile and a giggle.

A giggle! Sure he missed the days of them being a newborn but they were here to witness the giggle milestone. “You think dad is stupid for quoting it wrong?” As if understanding his words, their giggles turned louder. “Master Bruce, language please.” The master of the house didn’t hear the older man nor the sound of the camera going off, capturing the moment. A picture, one of the many to cherish in the later years.

✮⋆˙(alternate ending here because I can’t make up my mind) ✮⋆˙

Bruce found himself in the room that he hasn’t been in for years. Each step that he took was heavy as his heart, echoing regrets and apologies that needed to be said not just in words but also in actions.

The room was empty with the exception of the barebone furnitures and thin sheet of dust. The only sign that someone once lived in the now lifeless room was a picture frame that was left behind and placed facing down. It was left behind as if mirroring how they had abandoned you. “Where has time gone?” he asked, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. He is envious of his younger self in the picture. He wished he could turn back time, hold you close and hold you tight, and reclaim the promises he had forgotten to do. Forgotten like the pictures and the memories and the wallpapers in the room. All yellowed on the edges and faded.

The small sound from his phone snapped him from his trance, he had to compose himself before picking it up.

“Dick?”

“B, we found them”

“Bring them home”

242 notes · View notes

heelix1r · 3 days ago

Text

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 DON’T BE SHY … COME CLOSER 🌾

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ don’t be shy, jungwon just wants to take some pictures with you. won’t you join him?

bela is typing . . . oh to be in forced proximity with yang jungwon…

jungwon x f!reader | drabble | romance | no established au

masterlist | guidelines | requests OPEN !

like this order? check out my recently opened coffee lounge to make your own order to-go ;)

jungwon + romance + forced proximity + “are you blushing?”

you heard distinct chattering from inside the photobooth you were passing by on your way to the claw machines. by the time you turned the corner, you were startled to see jungwon standing on the side, crossing his arms lightly as he rolled his eyes at the commotion coming from the inside. he laid eyes on you, and his expression softened.

“so that’s where you guys were headed off to,” you retorted with a chuckle. “i was wondering how i could’ve lost all seven of you.”

“it was jake’s idea,” he said, tapping on the photobooth with his hands. “but i lost rock-paper-scissors with jay since we both entered the booth last. so now i just have to wait here.”

you heard a muffled “almost done!” from sunoo inside the booth.

“but never mind that,” jungwon said, pushing himself from the photobooth, placing his hands in his pockets. “where were you headed? or were you just looking for us?”

“oh no.” you shook your head. “i gave up five minutes ago, i was going to leave you guys for dead. i wanted to check out the claw machines.”

jungwon shook his head as he saw heeseung’s foot step outside of the booth, presumably preventing himself from falling out. the both of you could hear fragmented bickering about who got to be in the front, faces being smushed in, and an onslaught of swearing, laughing, and yelling that seemed to have no end. you gave each other a knowing look—jungwon definitely was the lucky one by staying out of there.

“well, i’ll come join you,” he mused, nudging his head over to the claw machines. “i bet what you’re doing is a lot more productive than whatever they’re doing.”

“good idea.” you had resigned yourself to taking the lead, and jungwon was more than happy to follow suit. by the time you two had your backs to the photobooth, everything that happened next was too quick for you to process.

in a flash of whirring movements, you yelped at the feeling of your arms being grasped—jungwon’s grunt mirrored your surprise as you watched the other boys chase the two of you down, forcibly pushing you into the photobooth. you and jungwon stared at each other amidst processing their unfiltered laughter. you could hear an employee scolding them to keep it down.

“what are you guys doing?” jungwon asked, his face showing more concern over everything else.

“take some pictures!” riki called out from the outside. “you two are the only ones who didn’t get to, so jay threw in a few more won for you guys to do. see you later!”

it was hard to miss their parading footsteps fade into the distance. you turned to the bright, inviting screen, giving you the option of the standard 4-picture portrait mode.

then it hit you.

you were alone in a close space with yang jungwon.

your body tensed up immediately at the realization, taking in the subtlety in the way his shoulder was pressed against yours. you could smell his cologne—it was faint, but you knew it was his. the only sound that filled your shared silence was the automated voice coming from the booth, inviting the both of you to choose some filters.

you were startled at the sound of jungwon clearing his throat. both of you turned towards one another slowly, your eye contact with him moving back towards the screen.

“we could just take some normal photos,” he offered nonchalantly. he even slouched ever so slightly after he tinkered with the options. “or some silly ones. have any ideas in mind?”

think, think, think.

jungwon, jungwon, jungwon.

“we could,” you mumbled quietly, very intentionally avoiding his gaze. you stared straight in front of you, as if the screen magnetized your vision. or rather, jungwon was repelling it.

repelling it would be far from the truth.

“y/n, that was not an answer.” you pressed your lips together as you heard his voice contort with confusion. “nonchalant or silly? or a mix of both?”

“silly,” you blurted out, your eyes still glued to the screen. “yeah, that would be a good idea.”

jungwon didn’t respond. as a matter of fact, you realized he didn’t reach out for the screen either. he sat there in silence.

“y/n,” he said after a few moments. “look at me.”

you obliged. to your horror, you saw a glint of a smirk stretch across his lips, watching intently as his body leaned in closer to yours, closing the distance between the two of you ever so slightly.

you were in complete shock. jungwon’s stare had you pinned, frozen like a deer in headlights. and as he approached your face even closer with his, you knew you were completely busted. his face was so close, you felt him breathing on your skin. your noses were nearly touching.

he broke the silence once more. “are you blushing?” he hums, that foxy grin appearing without remorse.

you whip around in an attempt to distance yourself from him, as if it would save your dignity. “no,” you answered (a little too forcefully). “i am not. it’s just the screen. there’s… there’s strawberries all over the filters.”

there were no strawberries on the screen. dork.

jungwon chuckled softly. you watched his hand approach the booth screen, starting the countdown abruptly.

“if you’re not blushing, then,” he mused, “then we can move on to being silly, right?”

as if directly on cue, you felt fingers pinching your cheeks in, turning your face towards him. he had a knowing smirk on his face as he gently squished the skin of your cheeks. you knew that he knew that your face was abnormally hot.

before you could protest, the first shutter went off.

you pushed his fingers away, “that was uncalled for!” you exclaimed, wailing your arms. “how dare—”

click. there goes the second picture.

you turned to the camera in horror, and jungwon bursted out into a fit of laughter as you realized how little time you had left.

the camera caught your horrified stare. click.

there was no fighting this. jungwon was playing with you and getting a laugh out of it. mustering what courage you had, you turned back to jungwon within the few seconds you hand, cupped his face, and pressed a firm kiss to his cheek. you heard him gasp as the final click went off.

at last, the photo booth was wishing the two of you farewell. you hardly processed that you had just willingly kissed jungwon’s cheek for the sake of the photos, and by the looks of it, jungwon wasn’t really processing it, either.

“two can play at that game,” you muttered, reaching out for the curtain to leave.

but before you could, jungwon nearly pounced on your hands, shooing them away from the curtain, and briskly moving themselves down to cradle your hips. your head whipped around and your eyes met jungwon’s, your faces inches apart.

“was that you being silly?” he asked, his voice low.

that crimson heat forced its way back up to the skin of your cheeks, much to your dismay. “what would you do if i said no?” you whispered.

he narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, his fingers tightening around your waist. he pulled you closer, your bodies now pressed against once another.

“i wouldn’t let you leave this booth,” he replied.

as a sharp inhale entered your mouth, both of you were startled out of your trances as a loud banging could be heard from the door.

“are you done yet?” sunghoon asked from the outside. “we’re hungry and out of tickets. hurry up!”

“coming!” you yelled out quickly, composing yourself enough to hastily push the curtain to the booth to the side, allowing the light to display your close proximity with jungwon.

sunghoon had turned around and walked to the rest of the group as you slowly made your way out. but before you could step completely out of the booth and back into the arcade, jungwon grasped your wrist.

you whirled around and saw his facial expression in full view. you felt your breath hitch at how intensely he stared at you, his eyes observing you closely.

this isn’t over, he mouthed to you.

with a huff, you exited the photobooth completely, taking the two sets of photos. when jungwon got out, you gave him his.

he looked at the set of four photos, smiling knowingly as he pressed a soft kiss to it.

“we’ll get back to this later,” he said to you. and by the looks on his face, you knew he was telling you the truth.

the two of you met up with the group before walking out. you couldn’t help but keep peering at the photos you two took together.

you were definitely blushing now.

#bela’s coffee lounge ☕️#heelix1r #jungwon x reader #jungwon #yang jungwon #enhypen #enhypen oneshots #enhypen fluff #enhypen jungwon #yang jungwon x reader #enhypen x reader #jungwon fluff #enhypen romance #enhypen drabbles #jungwon drabbles #jungwon oneshots #jungwon x you #jungwon x y/n #jungwon x female reader

265 notes · View notes

catmaraudersfan · 2 days ago

Text

*Danny, just waking up:*

*Groggily asks what happened*

*John, feeling nice given that the Ghost King doesn't seem to want to be here anymore than they WANT him here:*

A cult was attempting to summon the Ghost King.

*Danny:*

😨🥱

Good thing I put him back in the sarcophagus of sleep, then.

😮‍💨

*John, having intelligence and putting SEVERAL things together:*

😨😱

You FOUGHT the Ghost King?!

*Danny:*

Yep.

*John:*

*Looking at the Crown on his head and ring on his finger*

By yourself? Like in singe combat?

*Danny:*

Uh-huh. Though I did have help shoving him back in by my Rouges.

*John:*

😰

*Now pondering on JUST HOW BADLY they messed up*

What about other heroes?

*Danny:*

😳

There are other heroes?

*With the other listening heroes*

*Tony Stark:* (I'm making this a triple crossover)

*WAY ahead of everyone and having Jarvis hunt down Amity Park to see if it's back*

*Back with John and Danny*

*Danny:*

I've been doing this by myself since I half-died via electrocution. *Thor flinches in the other room. Loki pats his back, assuring him that he's sure the kid knows he wouldn't hurt him*

The only help I've gotten are my friends and sister. *Tony brings up a picture of a group of kids, making everyone's guilt and horror worse*

*John, sensing the horror of the other heroes:*

Well, kid, you and Amity Park are about to get more help than you know what to do with.

*Danny, still out of it from the fight:*

💖

Just don't tell my parents.

*EVERYONE tenses at that, PRAYING it's a "I don't wanna get in trouble" type of situation*

*John:*

... Why?

😟🥶

*Danny:*

They don't know I'm half ghost and keep threatening to rip my ghost-half apart "molecule by molecule" and I'm afraid they still will even if they knew it was me. You see, they HATE ghosts. They and the Guys in White *Tony quickly finds them and everyone is outraged at the hidden "law"* don't believe ghosts feel pain or have emotions. *Frantic* BUT WE DO! They want to tear ghosts apart and experiment on them in horrible ways. *Bruce Banner taking deep calming breathes*

*John, equally as pissed:*

I have a feeling that won't be an issue much longer. *Firm agreement from the heroes* 'You and your sister MAY wind up moving, though,' John thinks to himself. *Martian Manhunter, and everyone else once he shares John's thoughts, agrees firmly with John's thoughts.*

*Loki and Thor vow to help the new Prince on how to run a kingdom. Other heroes with similar kingdoms agree.*

Danny Phantom just defeated Pariah Dark. Like he is still in that suit his father made in Pariahs keep. He doesn't know the ghost rules. It hasn't even been a year since he died and became a halfa, so no one has explained to him that if you defeat the king you become the king. In another dimension John Constantine is panicking because because the JL failed to stop a cult from completing the summoning ceremony that will summon the ghost king. They are all expecting Pariah Dark, but what they get instead is a ghost child. The summoning pulled him out of the suit that Jack made.

Danny looks around, confused with his vision blurring exhausted from fighting Pariah Dark. "Where am I?" Danny asks. Danny has no idea that he now has a floating crown above his head. He finally passes out right in front of the JL, and he transforms back into Danny Fenton.

The JL decides to take Danny to the watchtower in space and put him in a cell until he wakes up. None of them trust Danny, especially not John Constantine. When Danny wakes up, he is very confused, and sitting right outside his cell is John Constantine.

#dp x dc au #danny phantom #ghost king danny #danny fenton #justice league #john constantine #pariah dark #cults #summoning #Ghost Prince Danny #dpxmarvel #Dpxmcu #Tony Stark #Bruce Banner #Thor #Loki

584 notes · View notes

deonsx · 1 day ago

Note

Can u do one abt Sae Itoshi being a girl dad?🥹

AYAYYYA when I saw that I had to make this request immediately + Nagi and Rin are with you!

Bllk Boys If they become a girl father

Sae Itoshi

Sae wakes up early in the morning to help his daughter get ready for kindergarten. Normally calm and reserved, Sae doesn’t complain when his daughter insists on putting a “princess crown” on his head while he’s combing her hair. Seeing himself in the mirror wearing a pink crown, he smirks slightly and says:

“Doesn’t this make me too cool?” His daughter, with a serious expression responds “No Papa, it’s just perfect!”

On the way to school, his daughter bombards him with questions like, “What’s your favorite color, Papa?” Sae, instead of his usual short answers, takes a moment to think and says, “Maybe blue… but your favorite colors might be better”

Sweet Details:

Sae’s daughter proudly tells her friends, “My dad is the best football player in the world!” Even though Sae tries to stay composed, her admiration secretly makes him incredibly happy

While teaching his daughter how to play football, she somehow manages to dribble past him and score a goal. Sae quietly mumbles “Must be the genes” but deep down, he feels proud beyond words

His daughter loves drawing pictures for him. One day, Sae takes one of her drawings and puts it in his sports bag. Before an important match, he looks at it for motivation.

At night, Sae softly hums a traditional Japanese lullaby to his daughter as she falls asleep. It’s one of the few moments where his stoic exterior melts into pure warmth and love

Nagi Seishiro

Nagi plans to spend his weekend morning sleeping in, but he wakes up to his daughter poking his cheek with her tiny hands

“Daaaad! Wake up! We need to have breakfast and play!” she says with boundless energy. Nagi groans and mutters “Ugh… five more minutes…”

But when his daughter furrows her brows and sternly replies, “Five minutes? No way, now!” he can’t help but smile. “Alright, alright you win” he says, picking her up and carrying her on his shoulder as they head to the kitchen

Despite Nagi’s lazy tendencies, his daughter’s energy and demands always win him over. Sometimes, he even finds himself unexpectedly having fun while playing with her

Sweet Details:

Nagi’s daughter might be hyperactive, curious, and constantly looking for things to do. Although it clashes with his laid-back personality, Nagi learns to adapt and becomes more active because of her

Nagi’s idea of a “daddy-daughter day” often includes binge-watching cartoons, ordering pizza, and him trying (and failing) to braid her hair. While he’s not the best at hairstyling, he’ll do anything to make her laugh

Nagi easily gets drawn into her imaginative world. Whether it’s pretending to be a king, a monster, or a hero saving her, he goes along with it. Afterward, though, he’ll collapse on the couch and say “That was exhausting…”

His daughter loves to challenge her dad, saying things like “Let’s race! If I win, you have to buy me ice cream!” Nagi reluctantly agrees and usually lets her win. But sometimes, his competitive side sneaks in, and he plays seriously

Despite his lazy nature, Nagi is fiercely protective of his daughter. Just the thought of her getting hurt makes him unexpectedly serious and determined to keep her safe

Rin Itoshi

One evening, Rin comes home from training, exhausted. As he opens the door, he hears a small voice shout

“Daddyyyy!”

His daughter runs up to him with bright eyes and says, “Let’s play soccer Daddy!” Rin looks at her, a bit startled, and replies

“At this hour? You have school tomorrow, young lady.” But when she pouts, he sighs and gives in, saying “Fine, but only for five minutes”

Before he knows it, they’re out in the yard playing. She manages to dribble the ball and score between his legs. As she jumps and cheers, Rin smirks slightly and says,

“I guess we shouldn’t tell your mom we played this late”

Sweet Details:

Rin tries to be the “perfect dad” and takes everything very seriously. He wants to provide the best environment for his daughter. However, whenever she hugs him and says “You’re the best dad ever!” his stern exterior softens

Rin teaches his daughter how to play soccer but never pressures her. Instead, he encourages her to enjoy the game at her own pace. One day, when she pulls off a tricky move, he mutters to himself

“Must be the genes”

Rin is extremely protective of his daughter. If someone bothers her at school or hurts her feelings, Rin steps in immediately—though he tries to handle things calmly and rationally

At night, Rin often tells his daughter bedtime stories about famous soccer players. At the end of every story, she snuggles up to him and says “But you’re the best one Daddy” For Rin, it’s the highlight of his day

Princess not: Rin affectionately calls her “My Little Lion” because she’s just as determined and stubborn as he is

Enjoy!

304 notes · View notes

rafeyscurtainbangs · 2 days ago

Text

𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼

𝙽𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕋𝕨𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕪-𝕋𝕨𝕠: 𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕝𝕪 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤

𝙼𝚘𝚋𝙱𝚘𝚜𝚜!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙶𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

warnings: swearing, pet names, & kissing

📖 This is based on an ask by oceandriveab. Thank you for your ask, love! Rafe is always very private about his job and business dealings. After being gone on a trip, he wants nothing more than to spend the night with you. The two of you go on a date, looking at Christmas lights and discussing the future.

Masterlist

Reader’s POV:

You hang around the lobby of your apartment building, pacing slightly, your heels clicking along the marble floor. Your gaze shifts between the large picture window, looking out onto the beautiful downtown, and your phone as you wait for him.

It’s almost eight o’clock. Rafe said he would be here. Your pulse quickens in anticipation of the night. You run your hands over the taut fabric—your black dress clinging to your curves—wearing something he would love.

The December chill bleeds into the lobby every time the revolving door whirls, bringing in the cool night air. Your phone buzzes in your clutch, and you quickly pull it out, seeing a text from Rafe.

Rafe: Pulling up Princess

You take a moment to catch your breath. There’s something about seeing his name on your phone, knowing he’s close by and not far away, off on some business trip or in a place that ‘he’ll tell you about later, sweetheart.’

Rafe is an enigma… He’s gone for weeks without any explanation at all, surrounded by people who looked at him with respect and fear. And with that, you’d be naive to think he was a simple businessman…

Every night, he calls, no matter how far away he is or how busy his day is. Flowers, gifts, and dinner were delivered for no particular reason, but when he sensed you needed them, he always seemed to be right.

Your heart swells with anticipation as headlights wash over the lobby floor. You look out through the windows, watching a sleek limousine roll to a stop.

The driver steps out, walking to the back, opening the door for you. Butterflies swirl in your stomach as you see your handsome boyfriend—his broad shoulders framed by the subtle glow of the limo's interior lights.

Warmth spreads over your body as you catch his eye, the heat in your cheeks battling the winter air as you step out onto the street. The driver gives you a nod, and right before you can reach the curb, Rafe steps out, wanting to help you into the limo himself.

You bite back your bright smile, looking up at the gorgeous man before you. He looks devastatingly beautiful: his black suit, tailored to perfection, showing off his muscular frame. His button-down shirt’s opened slightly, giving you a glimpse of his tanned chest and gold chain.

Rafe extends his hand for you, his gold Rolex shimmering in the city lights. His hair is brushed back slightly; some loose strands of his toffee-colored hair hang tousled on his forehead. His lips curve into a confident, almost predatory smile, yet they soften warmly when his baby-blue eyes meet yours.

“Princess,” he mumbles, stepping forward. His voice is low, faintly husky, his attention on you like you’re the only girl in the world.

"Hey, baby," you manage as your muscles start to unwind. Any tension you felt before fading away in a single glance.

He slips his strong arm around your waist, kissing your lips for the first time in days; a tender kiss—deep and anything but chaste.

Your body tingles as he deepens it, wrapping you up in his arms, making it impossible to think about anything other than Rafe. Rafe. Rafe. You take in the softness of his lips, his taste, and the subtle sweetness you missed more than you could have ever imagined you would.

He pulls away slightly, his eyes gliding over you in approval. “You look amazing, pretty girl,” he says softly, for your ears only, as he draws you closer. He gently kisses your forehead, lingering for a few more moments, letting you know just how much he missed you.

You rest your hand on his muscular chest, fixing his suit before tapping the material above his heart. “You’re not looking too bad yourself, baby,” you answer back, your words still a little breathless from your kiss. A low laugh rumbles in the back of his throat, his hands finding your ass, giving you a little squeeze, making you giggle.

Rafe takes your hand, pulling you inside the vehicle. It’s dark and romantic, with leather seats and tinted windows for privacy, just enough glow to see your boyfriend’s handsome features.

The driver shuts the door behind you, and you settle inside, snuggling up like no time has passed. Rafe drapes his arm around your shoulders, nuzzling in before pressing a soft kiss against your hair. You look around the interior: a bouquet of white roses, champagne on ice with two glasses, and your favorite chocolates.

“I’ve got the whole night planned for you, princess. I want you to relax,” he sighs, his low tone vibrating in your ear, just above a whisper.

Rafe reaches over, popping a bottle of bubbly before pouring it in two flutes. He hands you one and smiles, the two of you clinking glasses before sipping slowly. Tiny bubbles dance on your tongue as Rafe leans in for another kiss, catching the champagne lingering on your lips. “This is perfect, Rafe,” you breathe between gentle kisses.

"Good," Rafe rasps before sucking off your bottom lip, making your whole body buzz. “I wanted tonight to be perfect for you.”

The limo rolls through downtown; every lamppost and storefront, dressed up with lights and bows for the holidays. You leave the crowded city behind, limo barrelling down the freeway toward the suburbs; bustling streets exchanged for tree-lined avenues.

The houses grow in size, each one bigger than the last; stately manors, a show of lights gleaming on each one. Rafe leans over, refilling your glass with a smile before tending to his. "Pretty out here, huh?" He asks, catching a glimpse of your bright smile.

"How'd you know this was exactly what I wanted tonight?” You ask sweetly as you bask in the winter wonderland around you. He smirks and shrugs. “Because you pay attention,” you coo, answering for him.

“I’d like to think I do, princess,” he answers. “You mentioned missing the Christmas lights when you moved to the city.”

“I did,” you smile as you lace your fingers in his, resting your head on his shoulder.

You admire the light displays, and the topic shifts from holiday traditions to how fast time has flown, the things you’ve been doing since he left, and Rafe’s travels. Of course, he doesn't elaborate on what he does when he’s away, but you don’t push… It’s easier that way—accepting that some parts of his life will always be carefully guarded. But it’s a strange thing, too… to trust someone with your heart when you know they’re keeping secrets.

“You okay, baby?” He asks sweetly.

“Mhmm…”

He chuckles weakly, seeing right through you in an instant. “C’mon, sweetheart. Lay it on me.”

"I don't know.”

“You do, baby. Please…” He sighs.

“I just—I worry about you, Rafe," you confess as you fidget with the ring on his finger. "You disappear, and I know you’re ‘handling business’… I try not to ask questions, but I can’t help but worry about you. Wondering where you are and if you’re safe…”

Rafe lifts your hand, bringing it to his lips with his striking blue eyes on yours as he kisses your hand. “I know… But I promise I’ll be careful. I’m always thinking about you. I got shit to lose now… And I’m always coming back, I promise,” he assures.

Your chest tightens with relief and apprehension, but that relief wasn’t there a moment before, and for now, that’s enough.

“That’s all I needed to hear,” you whisper.

You turn down the next street, even more opulent than the last. Trees line the streets, with lights spiraling up to the sky. Giant snowflakes dangle from houses; holiday displays meticulously placed on the lawn, far more impressive than the neighborhoods you remember growing up. Still, you get that same warm feeling in your heart nonetheless.

“Wow,” you sigh as you take in the grandeur of it all. “This has been the best night, Rafe.” He hangs his head slightly, nodding as he holds back his cheesy smile. This is all he wanted.

The limo makes a wide turn in the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. You look past the home, seeing the open water shining behind it. Rafe strokes the back of your hand with his thumb, turning it over before resting something cool on your palm.

You look down at your hand, seeing a gold glimmering key with a red bow tied at the top. You look up at Rafe, then back at the key, and back at Rafe again. “What’s this?” You ask gently, coming up with a few ideas, but the thought is too good to be true.

"I bought it," Rafe says quietly, the confident man sounding slightly nervous as he waits for your reaction.

Your heart flutters in your chest, eyes widening before you clutch it in your hand, looking back toward the mansion again. “Rafe…”

“Yeah, baby?” He chuckles, hearing the joy in your voice.

“You bought that?” You ask as you point at the house, voice breaking with emotion.

"I've wanted to tell you but was just waiting for the right time. This place… This place is safe, gated, right on the water… I've arranged things so you'd be comfortable and have space. I thought maybe you'd want to move in with me.” Your body trembles with adrenaline, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind as the night takes another turn. “It doesn’t need to be our forever home, princess, but I need to know you’re safe when I’m gone. You’ll be safe here.”

“Rafe, I don’t know what to say…” You whimper as emotion wells in your eyes at the sentiment.

"Say ‘yes’," he whispers, his perfect lips curling into a slight, vulnerable smile. “Or, say ‘you’ll at least think about it.’”

“Baby, no,” you laugh through tears. “That’s not what I’m saying. Yes. Yes, of course. I’m—I’m just trying to think of the right way to say ‘thank you,’" you whisper, voice trembling. "Of course."

Your lips connect again in a kiss that feels like sealing a promise. He breathes a resounding sigh of relief, and you chuckle lightly, cupping his cheeks in your hands and peppering little kisses against his lips.

“Did you think I was gonna say ‘no’?” You whisper teasingly.

“Had me worried there for a second, princess?”

“You never need to worry about me when it comes to you,” you smile, feeling the big, tough man melt at your words, leaning into your touch.

”I love you, sweethearr.”

“Mmm…” You hum as you lean in, closing the gap between you. “I love you more.”

The limo purrs up the cobblestone drive, pulling up to the entrance. Even from the car, you can see the Christmas tree peeking through the window, twinkling radiantly with a rainbow of lights.

Rafe grabs your hand, leading you out of the vehicle. He wraps his big arm around your waist as your heart beats faster with each step closer.

“Got it?” He asks as he smiles down at you, biting his lip. You show Rafe the key, flashing a smile before pressing it into the lock.

You gasp as you push through the front door—warmth wrapping around you like a hug. You look across the open area, taking it all in: a large living room with a roaring fire and big bay windows that look out of the Atlantic. It’s impossibly dark, but you can’t help but think about how beautiful it’ll be when the sun rises, sipping your morning coffee with Rafe as you take in the candy-colored sky.

Stepping a little further into the home, you look to the right, following the large staircase as it spirals to the second floor, the railings dressed with garland. And in the middle stands the most perfect Christmas tree you’ve ever seen, twinkling with lights, glossy ornaments, and a shimmering star perched at the top. You swallow thickly, fluttering your lashes, holding back the tears threatening to break through.

“Did you do all this?” You ask through a smile, taking one of the decorations in your palm.

Rafe chuckles warmly, shaking his head no as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels slightly. “Uh no, baby… Would have looked like shit,” he chuckles as he comes up behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder, his arms hugging around your waist. ”Paid someone to do it, but I told ‘em what I wanted… May have gone a little overboard,” he hums. "I wanted it to feel like Christmas when you walked in, pretty.”

You scrunch your nose, holding back more tears. “I can’t believe you did all this for me,” you whisper.

"For us," he hums in your ear. “It's officially ours now that you said ‘yes.’ But, you gotta know I’d do anything for you."

“I know you would,” you whisper as you turn toward him.

Before you can wrap your hand around his neck, he smiles and holds out another gift. “Rafe,” you scold with a playful huff. “Another gift? Are you kidding me? The house wasn't enough?"

“Good luck beatin’ that, right?” He smirks and winks jokingly. “This one's smaller.”

You slide off the ribbon, revealing a gold necklace with a glittery R. "Rafe,” you sigh blissfully. “It’s beautiful…” Rafe reaches into his shirt and pulls out his chain as well, showing off his matching pendant with your initial, making the gift that much sweeter. “I feel so spoiled,” you giggle as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing his lips.

“That’s exactly how I want you to feel, baby…” He whispers. “I’m gonna always take care of you, alright?”

“I know you will-”

“Keep you safe… You know I worry about you too when I'm gone.”

“I know you do,” you assure as your fingers skim into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“This is a forever kind of thing… You know that, right?” He drawls, voices low and gravelly, sending shivers down your spine.

“Mhmm…” You hum against his lips. “Forever. I love you, Rafe-” He kisses you, soft and sweet, stealing the words off your lip. Your breath catches in your chest as Rafe’s hand traces down your spine, the other working in your hair.

He tilts your head, his lips moving against yours more urgently—the hunger in his kiss making your knees weak. You melt into him, letting your hands drift to his muscular chest, resting on top. His heart bangs under your palms, matching yours.

When your breathing finally turns shallow, he reaches for a breath against your lips, smiling sweetly, before resting his forehead against yours. "I love you too, princess," he whispers, his voice raw and hoarse with emotion that only you get to see from him.

Rafe holds you in his arms, rocking back and forth with the music that plays through your house. The crackling of the fireplace adds to the warmth all around you. "You said you wanted forever," he murmurs. “I’m not proposing right now,” he whispers. “But I got plans for when that day comes…”

”You do?” You smile.

“‘Course I do…” Rafe kisses your forehead. “Soon. I hate waitin’… Especially when it comes to you.” A faint smile plays on his lips as he looks down at you—pure adoration. “You know how much I love Valentine’s Day, princess.”

tags: @starkeyvhs @rafesthroatbaby @littlelamy @kisses4angels @watchmerora @buckybarnessweetheart @anamiad00msday @namelesslosers @cades-outsider @romaescapes @starkeysprincess @oxpogues4lifexo @unrealmirrorball @sleepiibunniiii @gri959 @rafesgiirl @daryldixon83 @akobx @hyperfixationgirl @lhhlver @rrafeswhore @slut-4-gojo @blair-bears-blog @loveesiren @cameronwillow @rafegf-real @alphabetically-deranged @ariana2saucyy

227 notes · View notes