#cube is so fucking shitty
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it is genuinely so shitty how cube continues to take shots at their non-idle non-nowadays artists as if the company isn’t responsible for sabotaging them and continually downplaying all their hard work and achievements. as if 3 ptg members and lightsum aren’t still under the company meaning the company continues to be responsible for them. they signed contracts with you to represent and promote them and year after year you fail to do them justice and then have the audacity to blame them for not magically making more money despite the company putting NOTHING into them
#and the audacity of ppl who praise the designated golden child for overcoming cube’s shitty management#not that they haven’t had to work hard at all but categorically cube does not treat their groups the same.#they have never started from a level playing field and then cube acts surprised when it shows#on some level they must know that they have/had huge talents in btob ptg lightsum#they are so fucking lucky. they are so lucky and they can’t even appreciate it
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i need to seriously rearrange my room or something i have no space for any of my new dolls TT_TT FUCK
#draculauras in a drawer..... i have one rainbow high doll still in a box and 2 more coming in the mail today (thank you macys sale)#and then im gonna haveto find a spot for barbie and her rc car when i get a chance to buy her godddd ddamnnit#i have those shitty walmart cube organizer shelves rn and i fucking hate them bc theyre not right for book cases#and theyre not big enough for my dolls either#inwant actual shelves so bad
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Designage is happening again
In my head they have like a spectrum from fully visible to fully invisible (which is definitely not soley for drawing purposes)
like this
#wilbur soot art#phantombur#osmp wilbur#osmp fanart#osmp shubble#shubbleyt#shubble fanart#mcyt fanart#while typing hthis I bumped my fucking elbow on my loose ass desk im so mad#My desk is a plank of wood on top of two cube shelves and the wood isnt even bolted down so it just slides#so when it slides forward I run the risk of hitting my elbow directly on the edge of the shelves AND ALSO THE WOODS EDGES ARE#UNPAINTED SHITTY IKEA WOOD MADE FROM WOOD CHIPS AND I JUST SCRAPE MYSELF CONSTANTLY#anyways!#art to shit your pants to#origins mod smp
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bnha is bad but all the time i spent on it was worth it for that time in residential when one of the staff who was really into it was telling me about the Big Reveal in the latest chapter and i was like oh yeah i knew that. and he was like what. and i was like yeah dabi is a todoroki also
#was especially funny bc hed asked me if i was caught up and i was like how the hell would i be caught up. hey staff member can i borrow your#phone oh its for uh. shitty manga.#like do you think im getting the fucking weekly shounen jump shipped to utah every fucking week?#in his defense he was new but it was still a really stupid question. ive been here for a year obviously i am not caught up.#and he was like oh…… well can i tell you spoilers#i was like yes i dont care. but then he just told me shit i already knew and i was the one telling him spoilers instead. despite not having#thought abt bnha in years.#the look on his face was fantastic#also i was messing with a rubiks cube and like. solving it during this conversation so i think he just thought i had mind powers#autism is basically mind powers.#mine
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Gojo-Sensei has a husband?!
★ - drabble s part of m' first Satoru oneshot !!૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა
☆ - Gojo Satoru x Househusband! Reader
♡ - f m' manga readers, how we feelin' 'bout nurse kenny ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡ (she's m wife m callin' it rn!!)
Gojo [Name], the loved and unknown husband of The Strongest, Gojo Satoru.
Satoru was at work, most likely teaching the first years he loved to talk about. You were at home. Cleaning the house and making preparations for dinner when Satoru got home like the good husband you were.
You brought out a chicken broth cube from the cupboard, brushing the slight dust on your pretty light-blue apron that Satoru brought for you (then ended up fucking you in but that's on days when you're being a brat).
Your eyes scan the countertop, looking for the knife holder until they land on a sage-green bag dusted with flowers that you hand-painted. It was Satoru's lunch bag that he had forgotten.
You weren't a sorcerer, but you're able to see curses. Ironically, that's how you and Satoru met. A younger you (who just got unemployed) was walking home when something you couldn't describe stopped you in the alleyway you took sometimes as a shortcut.
It was tall, with eyes running along its skinny, dark-red arm. You were only twenty-two at the time and have only ever seen things like that in shitty horror-flicks. You never thought they were real.
As if you were in a cliché love story, a patch of white hair stands in front of you. He has sunglasses on despite the sun being nowhere in sight.
Due to you being (obviously) weaker than the average sorcerer, Satoru always discouraged you from going to Jujutsu High unless it was an emergency.
You huff diligently, grabbing the lunch bag and putting your shoes on. You'll make sure Satoru gets his lunch. What kind of husband would you be if you didn't?
Turns out, the people at Jujutsu High are either scary or odd. There's absolutely no in-between.
You've only been at Jujutsu High a handful of times. More times than not, it was to help Megumi.
You make your way to the main school building, holding the bag close to your chest for safekeeping. You didn't bust your ass making cute shapes out of food just for Satoru to go eat fast food instead.
Reaching the door of Satoru's class, you knock softly. It’s quiet, and you guess Satoru must be out training with his students. You turned around to try and find just where the training grounds could be on this huge campus.
All of a sudden, the door opens and there he is. Your beautiful husband, wearing his black blindfold and Jujutsu uniform. “Baby? What are you doing here?”
Baby. That’s right, you’re his baby. No one else's. “You left your lunch, so I…” Your voice trails off as you gesture toward the bag in your hands. Satoru smiles, opening the door wider and pulling you in.
He keeps your hands intertwined, softly pushing you against a chair. “You’re so nice, baby. Going out of your way to bring me my lunch?” His hands are on your cheeks now, still smiling sweetly even with a saccharine voice.
Your face flushes and your hands are stiff. You don’t know where his students are, but you’re sure they’ll be back soon. This is risky— irresponsible even.
“Satoru, ‘s risky..” You mutter under your breath, your hands cupping his. They’re warm like they always are when you two are close. You wish you could see what his eyes looked like, but they’re for his comfortability, you’re aware.
“You know I love you, right baby?” He leans closer, to the point you can smell the cologne on him. It’s the one you bought him a few weeks ago because it smelt like home.
Satoru smells like home.
Shakily you nod. “Are you sure this is safe…? I don’t want you—”
“Shh… let me worry about all that.”
And with that, he closes the space between your lips. Satoru’s strong– dominant even; and no matter what he does, it always manages to show through his actions.
His tongue breaches past your lips, slotting perfectly against yours. You can hear the clicking of teeth as Satoru sits across your lap. It’s hot and you can feel your cock start to rise in your pants.
“Wore this cute fuckin’ apron all f’me–” He plants a kiss on your cheek, your face flushed and breathing heaved.
“Satoru– sir, I need—”
“But baby…” He whines.
He fucking whines.
His face is pouty and it looks like he’s getting off your lap. Is he denying you? You haven’t done anythin’ wrong– did he give you instructions and you didn’t see them?
“I’m at work, and as much as I want to fuck you ‘till you can’t think– you can’t have my students seein’ you all messed up like that, can you?”
Satoru’s words bring your attention to your appearance. Your apron is messed up and so is your hair (most likely from Satoru gripping on it). Your lips are slightly swollen and your cock is half-hard.
Embarrassment brings you back to your senses, your arms covering what's between your thighs. If you stood up, your apron would cover it (hopefully), but your pants weren’t going to do you any justice. “‘M sorry ‘toru…”
Satoru cocks his head, sitting on his desk and crossing his legs. “It’s okay baby, I know you just can’t help yourself when I’m around.” His tone sounds mean like he’s mocking you. It’s condescending.
“But that’s what makes you my good boy, isn’t it?” His foot brings the chair closer to the point where your body is sandwiched between his legs. “Always so plaint f’me to fuck you, right?”
God. You can’t do this, and it isn’t helping your slowly growing problem go down.
Satoru must sense your nervousness (he knows you and your emotions like the back of your hand) because his expression turns soft again. “Just wait till I get home, okay baby? Relax for me.”
His fingers caress your cheek gently. It’s lulling you, pulling you in. Like he’s a siren, and you’re a plaint, very easy sailor.
You nod because you’re his good boy and you want it to stay that way.
Satoru smiles before pulling you in again for a kiss.
It’s gentler this time. There’s less kiss and more gentleness behind it. It feels like the kiss you shared at the altar. It makes you calmer, it makes you happy.
All of a sudden, the door slams open. Revealing three, very surprised teenagers.
“Gojo-sensei!?”
“Gojo-san?”
Satoru breaks the kiss, briefly smiling coyly at you before looking at his students. “Hello, my favorite first-years! I didn’t know lunch had already ended…”
A boy with pink hair and what seems to be two sets of eyes stares at you, then back at Satoru. “Lunch ended five minutes ago. Nobara stayed to eat more watermelon.”
The girl, who is shorter than all of them and who you assume is Nobara, kicks the boy in the knee. “Shut it Yuuji! Not my fault somebody decided to eat all my food while I was gone!”
“Gojo-san, I thought you’d be at home.”Megumi looks at you with a confused expression. Your heart tugs in fondness when he says ‘home’ like all three of you share it together (legally, you do but Megumi would never admit that).
“Why would Gojo-sensei be at home? He has to teach us, stupid.” Nobara rolls her eyes, before pointing at you accusingly.
“All I wanna know is why this random man and Gojo-sensei were kissing!”
Satoru steps off the desk, grabs your arm, and pulls you up as well. He slings his arm around your shoulder, slightly leaning on you with a bright smile on his face. “Yuuji, Nobara, this is my husband, [Name]!”
“Husband?!” Yuuji and Nobara parrot, staring at each other before staring back at you.
Nobara notices it first, the sleek ring on your finger. There’s an initial that she can’t make out but can only assume it’s the one that belongs to her teacher.
“Why would anyone date you?” She says suddenly, causing Yuuji to laugh.
Megumi rolls his eyes. “I thought that at first too. Gojo-san is too good for him.”
Satoru gasps. “Rude! You cried during our wedding, or do I have to ask [Name] to pull up the photos?”
“Wedding?! Why wasn’t I invited?” Nobara looks at Satoru like he committed a war crime.
You don’t notice it, but somehow Yuuji is right in front of you. “Hello! I’m super glad Gojo-sensei has someone to love!! He’s always saying something about how he misses his ‘hubby’ randomly during class but we never thought he was being serious!”
You smile bashfully. You never thought Satoru would think of you during work, and for him to call you his “hubby”?
Megumi stands beside him, handing you a book. “That’s because Gojo-sensei can’t shut up. They’re so lovey-dovey behind closed doors it makes me sick.”
Yuuji smiles. “That’s ‘cause they’re in love Megumi! Shouldn’t it be sweet that your dads love each other?”
Megumi frowns. “They aren’t my dads.”
“They totally are! You called Gojo-sensei dad one time during a mission, don’t think I’d ever forget that!” Nobara teases, holding Satoru’s ring in her other hand to presumably examine it.
Satoru claps his hands. “Okkayy! I appreciate that you two love my husband, not as much as me of course, but he’s got stuff to do! And we have to learn about the boring sorcerer families. Ew.”
His students groan but make their way to their seats. Satoru walks you to the door of the classroom, a small apologetic smile on his face. “I can’t walk you all the way to the door, Yaga would kill me, but I’ll see you at home?”
You nod with a soft smile on your face.
Satoru kisses you one last time. It’s more of a peck than anything, then leans into your ear. “Prep yourself for me before I get home okay? I have to reward you for being so good today.”
Blush rises up to your cheeks as you nod again. Pushing your hands down to your lap and turning away from his classroom door. The blush gets harder when you hear a loud “See you at home baby!” from the door.
Satoru watches you until he can’t anymore. A relieved sigh leaves his face as he closes the door and sits on his desk. Legs crossed and a ring adorning his finger, with your initials on them.
“Ask away, and I’ll show you any pictures you want.”
Yuuji and Nobara visibly light up and begin asking questions about where he met you, how long you’ve been together, and how long you’ve been married, plus the pictures of Megumi crying.
He shows them every photo and answers every question without hesitation.
After all, they’re all questions about you, his husband.
And he knows you’ll be home waiting for him with dinner, and dessert.
Your ass (that he loves to watch jiggle every time he fucks you), and ice cream.
He loves you, and he’s glad his students (and son) love you too.
#ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 — ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴ' ᴍᴀɴɢᴀ#jjk x male reader#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#gojo x male reader#satoru x male reader#jjk fluff#gojo#gojo satoru#male reader#x male reader#megumi fushiguro#itadori yuuji#nobara kugisaki#gojo satoru x male reader
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i cared
MDNI
simon "ghost" riley x f!reader
summary: three and a half years ago and an ocean away, he tore you apart. now he's turned up at your door.
wordcount: 4.1k
warnings: smut (fingering), drinking, AFAB reader, possible past dub-con (reader was in a bad mental state and simon knew), simon is a shitty guy in this, talk of hypothetical suicide, talk of past bad mental state (depression), mentioned PTSD, heartbreak on both sides, death mention (MW:III canon)
a/n: hey remember when i said that my next fic would be joel and i posted a little insert. that was a lie! instead of working on that (12k word, currently) monster, i wrote something else. if you couldn't tell, i started this before the holidays and then forgot about it.
ao3
The house is much nicer than Simon anticipated. When he saw the New York City address, he had expected you to be crammed into a shitty 6th-floor walk-up. But no, not you. Instead, you have an honest-to-God three-story home with red brick delicately dusted with snow. You certainly couldn’t afford it on the 141 salary. He always suspected you came from means. This just confirms it. It just makes him wonder why the hell you decided to slum it in the services for so long.
It reminds Simon that he shouldn’t be there. You weren't made for that life and left for a reason. Who is he to ruin your peace?
He’s not alone on the street. Well-to-do families of strangers pass by, all watching the masked man observe their neighbor’s home. He can still turn around and leave you to the life you so clearly want.
Something shifts in one of the windows, the curtain being tousled by something. A dog. You got a dog– a golden retriever with sharp eyes and, evidently, an even sharper bark. The canine goes berserk, barking and howling and growling at Simon through the window. It’s Simon’s cue to leave, to leave you be with your semi-rabid, semi-domestic canine.
But before he can move, the curtain shifts again– pulled this time –and you’re there. You squint for a moment, surely wondering what masked freak is standing in your walkway like he owns the damn place. He lets you scrutinize him. It’s now or never. Either you’ll tell him to fuck off once you realize who he is or you’ll call the police on him, though it’s not like they would do anything after he calls Kate.
Instead, you disappear behind the curtain, your loyal steed of a dog following hot on your heels. In a moment’s notice, the large front door, with a gilded knocker and door knob open. You beckon him in. He follows, eyes trailing up and down your body once you’re facing away from him. You’re dressed casually but smartly in a short denim skirt and cashmere sweater. Simon’s never seen you in that getup before, even when going out to the pub.
“Shoes off,” you order, motioning towards the neat shoe rack next to the door. They’re all women's shoes of the same size. Simon’s shoulders relax, and he slips off his boots. It was for the best, he figures. His old boots would have just dragged dirt into your space. He takes off his mask too, hanging it up with his jacket. It’s nothing you haven't seen before.
Simon follows you into the sitting room– at least, that’s what Simon guesses the room is. It’s too neat for your taste, or his memory of what your taste is exactly. The couch and single chair seem untouched, the air still, like Simon’s presence is cutting through some sacred stillness.
You point to a couch and Simon obeys, sitting with his hands on his knees. Your eyes lock with his without granting him any semblance of your thoughts. Simon keeps his gaze soft, neutral. You can scrutinize him all you need.
You sigh, straightening your posture. A smile pulls at your lips. Your smile lines crease deeper than he remembered. Or maybe they always creased that deep.
“Tea?”
***
“He’s quite protective,” you drop two sugar cubes into a cup of tea. The spoon in your hand lets out a delicate tink as it hits the porcelain cup. You hand Simon the teacup, it’s just how he likes it. “Always has his haunches raised, even when he’s not working.”
Ah. A service animal. He’s surprised to not have put that together sooner. Always loyal, the pooch plants himself at your feet, gaze burning into Simon. If looks could kill…
“Your home?” Simon asks. He lifts the teacup to his lips and sips. Simon places the teacup on its saucer impossibly slowly. Simon can’t believe you’d trust him with something so delicate.
“I inherited it.”
A smile creeps on Simon’s face. Teacups and generational wealth. He always knew you were posh. Or whatever Americans call posh.
“You’re on holiday?” You ask.
“‘Tis the season.”
You hum. Your house is the only one on the block without some sort of holiday decor. Simon wonders if it was a pointed decision.
“And you came here.” Why?
He can’t tell you the truth. The fact is that every day since you left– all one thousand two hundred ninety-eight of them since John uttered to his fuming lieutenant that you just weren’t fit to serve any more –he’s ached. One thousand two hundred ninety-eight days of no contact. Of his only proof that you ever existed being a photo and a tear-stained note with one sentence scribbled in ink: John has contact info– emergencies only.
“I wanted to wish you a happy holidays.”
You laugh dryly, though it sends a pang of pain through Simon. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. “Usually people send a card for that.”
You observe Simon with precision, like you never left the force, though the way you scratch Yogi’s belly unconsciously betrays the hardened exterior. It’s a glimpse into the last three and a half years. Of the woman you’ve become– so foreign to Simon. Foreign to your past self. Or not. Maybe this is who you’ve been all along, just hidden behind fatigues. Maybe the woman Simon thought he knew was just a farce. Rich girl playing army for a few years.
Maybe you joined the force just to fuck around for a bit. After a few years, you’d have stories to tell your socialite friends back home. Except, you didn’t get what you wanted, didn’t you? Simon knows well and good that serving, the 141, and him, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, destroyed something in you.
You tap the porcelain of your teacup. It makes a pleasant ding. “Did John tell you where to find me?”
“No. Well–” Simon tries to tell you the truth without throwing his comrade under the bus. The truth was, John had indulged in one too many drinks at the pub one night and hadn’t locked his quarters. An envelope addressed to you sat front in center on his desk. “Not intentionally.”
It’s a satisfying enough answer. Only a small twinge of annoyance crosses your face before you hum. “This isn’t a guilt thing, right Simon?” You ask, “I didn’t do what I did because of what happened.”
“What we did back then, on the field,” Simon traps you under his gaze. His stare is aggressive, but he hopes it conveys the intense feelings he’s struggling with. “I can’t just leave it. That’s why I came.”
Simon doesn’t dare speak. He doesn’t dare breathe while he watches you process his words. It’s a load of crap, he knows it, and he knows you know it. It’s just a matter of whether or not you want to kick him out.
You smize, teeth coming out to tug at your bottom lip. “Have you ever had New York pizza?”
***
You order two pies, hushing Simon when he insists it’s too much. You were right. Two isn’t enough. Simon scarfs down one pie without coming up for air. It’s delicious. It isn’t until he’s four slices deep that he realizes that you, smiling widely at him, haven’t yet picked up your first.
You’re a gracious host– a natural, really. You perch yourself on the kitchen island, legs crossed in a way that makes your skirt ride so sinfully up your thighs. Simon doesn’t look of course, he’s a gentleman. At least, he is for the first bottle of the ungodly expensive red wine you procure. It’s then that you perch your leg on the counter opposite your spot on the island, right next to Simon. Old habits die hard– especially when inebriated –and Simon places a hand on your leg, massaging the skin of your ankle.
You pay no mind to Simon’s ministrations, though, lost in the domestic bliss and mindless conversations you’ve probably been drowning yourself in for the last few years. You wave the glass of wine wildly about, like you wouldn’t give a damn if it spilled all over your expensive clothes. It seems so natural for you. Simon wonders what you were ever doing with the 141 when posh city living fits you like a second skin.
Simon inches his hand higher up your leg as you speak. He doesn’t get very far, but it’s enough so that he can trace patterns into the soft skin of your thigh. It’s too much, though, because your eyes lock onto his. But you’re not mad. You don’t tell him to stop. Rather, you examine him, and in your eyes Simon sees what looks like mirth.
“I missed this,” Simon says. He cringes at the words leaving his mouth. He’s succumbing to the domestic bliss you’ve created, looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses.
You reach for a third bottle of wine and a corkscrew, furrowing your brow in thought while twisting the screw. “I didn't want to abandon you,” you say. Simon, watching you pop the cork off with ease, almost forgets that you’re talking to him until you lock eyes. He watches you sniff the cork, pause, then sniff it again before topping off your glass. You take a heaping swig, like that Pinot Noir worth more than Simon’s monthly pay is unremarkable. “I left for a reason, you know.”
Oh, Simon certainly knows. The rumors had been inescapable in the first weeks of your absence. All around base every soldier had entertained the question of what happened to the American chick in the 141. Simon had only so many threatening looks to give privates before curiosity got the better of him. He abated the desire to ask John for so long, but there was only so much longing he could handle coupled with the cacophony of voices asking the same thing he desperately wanted to know.
John didn’t flounder when Simon finally came to him, demanding to know why you left.
She was discharged.
Why?
For… mental reasons.
Simon lost his shit in Price’s office that morning. He collapsed onto the couch with a gasp, a hand grasping and squeezing his heart. His breath left him, but Simon was too bloody stupid to understand what the hell was going on until Price was handing him a brown paper bag.
Breathe, son.
“Simon,” you breathe, your saccharine voice the most tantalizing sound Simon has ever heard. You lean forward, your finger tracing the scar parallel to the cut of his jaw. You were there for it, saw the knife slice through his mask and the skin underneath. You bandaged it in the helicopter after, making Simon promise to go to medical afterwards. He promised he would. That night he closed the wound with superglue. “Why did you really come?”
Because you disappeared. Because Price said you were on the brink of becoming a statistic. Because I fucked up. Because I said things I didn’t mean and I thought that it killed you.
“Johnny’s dead,” he lies. But it isn’t a lie. It’s true, sure, Johnny’s been reduced to ashes and scattered in the Scottish highlands. But that isn't why he came.
“I know.” You sniffle. Christ, Simon’s made you cry. Nausea washes over him. A voice in his head screams, fix it, idiot! But emotions were never Simon’s strong suit. Instead, Simon reaches for the bottle and tops off your glass of wine, probably a bit more than he should have, but it seems like you need it.
You mutter a thank you and down a bit more than half of the glass. You come up for air and hiccup. “John told me.”
“Price?” He asks, as though there was any other John. Anything to get you talking rather than crying.
You nod. “He dropped by around Thanksgiving. Asked if I wanted to be there when you all…” You wave your hand in the air, “You know.”
Something ugly festers in his chest. Maybe if he actually went to a therapist, Simon could recognize what it is.
“You said no?” He asks.
“I didn’t think I could.”
Simon nods, holding your gaze in a way that he hopes conveys his sense of understanding.
“How’d it happen?” You croak. Your eyes are glassy, a reminder of the ever-looming threat that you could fall apart again. Simon reminds himself that you wouldn’t be crying if he had just kept his distance.
“Bullet in the head.”
You tense, your head flying to Simon. Your eyes are frantic, searching for something in his face. “He…he…?”
Christ.
“No, no,” Simon scrambles to get his next words out, “Makarov. It was-” His voice cracks. Unusual. “-was too fast to stop it. To save himself.”
You hum, slumping down like it’s comforting to you that Johnny had his life torn from his arms. Like it’s comforting that Johnny couldn’t go on his own terms, but on the terms of a Russian terrorist.
“You know,” you say like you know he knows, “Johnny’s the reason I got out.”
Simon shifts. Johnny never talked about your discharge, always responding to speculation like he was none the wiser. “He is?”
“Yeah,” you laugh. It’s deep and watery. “Things were…bad one night. He found me. Talked me through the night. Listened to me.” You throw your head back, eyes tracing imaginary patterns on the ceiling.
“He told Price?”
You nod.
“That was after we…”
You nod again. Simon feels sick.
“It had nothing to do with you, Simon.”
“I never thought it did.”
“Then why,” you ask, “did you bring it up?”
Simon shifts. “Thought it was relevant.”
You smile, though your eyes are still lined with tears. “Guilty conscience?”
“Of course not, love,” Simon laughs, hoping you buy it. It works, he thinks. You seem to deflate, slumping a bit. You take some time to think. Simon, panicking at the thought that your self-reflection could send him out the door, pulls out the one trick he has over you.
He lets your legs fall. They bang against the cabinets with a soft umph from your lips. Simon slides off of the counter and stalks your way. You watch him and put up no fight as he slots his wide body between your knees. You don't even complain as the parting of your legs forces your skirt to ride even higher.
Fingers card through Simon’s hair. He hums.
“Why did you do it?” You ask.
Simon tilts his head, and with the wine in his veins and your hand in his hair, the world spins. Your other hand slips under the hem of Simon’s shirt. Warm fingers graze the skin of his stomach and then side, before your hand settles on his back, palm splaying across scarred flesh.
“I–” Simon croaks, “–I felt something for you.”
You snort. Simon’s chest burns and he takes some deep breaths to calm himself. He imagines Price’s paper bag, inflating and crinkling over and over.
“You knew I would leave. That’s it, isn’t it?” You accuse with a gleam in your eyes. “I was in a bad place and was leaving so it didn’t matter if you hit it and quit it.” You laugh. “You got what you wanted without risking your position.”
“That’s not true.”
Your thighs bracket his legs, trapping him against you. Your words curl around your wine-stained tongue. “‘I don’t love you’. Isn’t that what you said Simon?”
“Love–”
You tense, thighs squeezing him like a vice. “Love,” you coo, the imitation of Simon’s long vowels curtles unnaturally on your tongue. “Love, love, love. You know Simon,” you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and lean into the crook of his neck. Your lips brush against his skin as you speak, “You say it, but you’ve never meant it.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon utters, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your skirt.
“You’re not.”
He’s not. He doesn’t argue. He could– should, rather –but he can’t think straight with you this close to him. The scent of your perfume itches the deepest part of his brain. You never wore perfume when on duty, rather, always coated in the aroma of base-issued shampoo and sweat.
“I really cared for you, you know,” you whisper, your lips millimeters from his, them parting when his fingers rub you through the fabric of your underwear.
“I know,” Simon closes the distance, capturing your lips with his.
He pushes you back onto the counter, you let him, lets Simon cage your body like he has the right to. You groan into his mouth when he traps your bottom lip between his teeth and melt when his fingers slip past the hem of your panties, his fingers plunging through the wetness into your cunt.
It’s obscene— the noises you make as he thrusts his fingers into you. With his free hand, Simon pushes your skirt up over your hips so he can watch your cunt squeeze around him.
He slides his thumb up to your clit and you gasp. “Simon,” you moan. He nearly stops. It’s been years since he’s heard you say his name, let alone moan it. Fuck, Simon can’t help but grind his cock against the island counter, groaning.
It doesn’t take much to work you into an orgasm. Before he knows it, your moans become softer, higher pitched, and you’re coming apart, clenching hard on Simon’s fingers.
He works you through your orgasm, whispering praise into your ears. Simon gives you no time before pouncing, fisting his hands in your hair and devouring you. You wiggle underneath his weight, uttering something, but the words are lost into Simon’s mouth. He pulls away, his eyes meeting your expectant ones.
“What?”
“Upstairs,” you say, chest heaving. “My room is upstairs.”
***
Simon wakes before dawn. He’s lying on top of you, your strong breath rocking him up and down. Your limbs are impossibly tangled. He’s reminded of an identical morning, years ago, of what he did then, and what that choice led him to. But that was years ago. You were different then, broken. How was he supposed to know that his choice would make you shatter?
He untangles himself slowly. It feels like the process takes hours, though the sun fails to make an appearance by the time he slips out of bed. The clock reads four in the morning. That explains it. It also explains the way the room around him is spinning slightly. He’s still drunk– or at least buzzed –from the night before.
His pants are an easy find, discarded by the door. His shirt though… Simon spins around the room, eyes glazing over the space. He tries not to take anything in too deeply, too personal for this morning.
He spots his shirt on your vanity. Simon yanks it off, but something hard and heavy comes with it. It nearly drops to the floor, but Simon catches it before it can hit and wake you up.
It’s a perfume bottle, heavy and half-filled. Simon can’t suppress the urge of his half-drunk brain to sniff it. The scent— the scent of you —explodes in his synapses. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, ensuring you’re still asleep, before pocketing the bottle.
The dog follows Simon as he walks through the house. Luckily, as he slips on his shoes, the dog disappears into the rest of the house.
Simon lingers with a hand wrapped around the door knob. It warms under his touch.
“Are we doing this again?”
He flinches at the sound of your voice, “I ‘ave to.” Simon stays facing the door, though he doesn’t make a move to turn around. He knows how he must look to you, too cowardly to face you. He’s reminded of the last time he spent the night with you. He got out scot-free. What would have happened if you found him then? Simon can’t say for certain whether or not he would have left then, if you called out for him in the same delicate voice.
“Stay.”
“What?”
“In New York,” you say, voice dry with sleep. “With me. Get out of the SAS, the 141, all that bullshit.”
“‘S not that easy.”
“It is. I left. You can leave. Or you can stay and end up like Johnny–”
“What do you know about Johnny,’ Simon growls, turning on his heels. He straightens his spine, puffing his chest up like you’re a threat. Your dog buys it, growling and worming himself between you and Simon. You don't take the bait though. You honest to God laugh in Simon’s face.
“I know enough.” You step closer to Simon. The pooch gets the memo, clearing the way for you. Simon almost does the same, he wants to. Some instinctual part of his brain needs to cave to you. “You mean something, Simon,” you flick your eyebrows up, letting them drop immediately. It feels like a challenge, like you were asking Simon the silent question. Do you matter?
“You’re more than a soldier– more than a body on a field, waiting to drop.” There are tears in your eyes. You don't let them fall. Simon hopes you’ve finally realized that he isn’t worth your heartbreak. He’s never been, but at least your realization would stop his cruel cycle of him chewing you up and spitting you right back out.
“Come to New York, Simon, please. There– there’s a butcher shop up the block, they’re always looking for help. You said you used to do that stuff, right?”
Fucking hell. He had said it to you, years ago after a mission. Simon went drink for drink with Johnny and Gaz and got positively wasted. It was the night he first set his sight on you, when your tenderness sunk its claws into his heart and refused to let go. You didn’t know then what it would lead to. Simon did. Every love Simon had wilted in his claws. Why would you be different?
“Come here,” you plead, “Take the job with them. I can help you find an apartment or you can live with me but–” You grab Simon’s shoulders, tugging. It isn’t strong enough to turn him around, but he does. Your cheeks are wet and eyes glassy as you stare up at him. “Simon, it’s too late for us, but don’t let it be too late for you.”
Simon lifts his hand to your cheek, fingers grazing the plump skin. It slides to the back of your head and tugs– yanks you into his embrace as he crashes your lips against his own. The morning makes you soft though, as Simon nips your lips with his teeth, you melt, softening and slowing your movements.
It’s you that pulls away first, staring at Simon. You let him swipe his finger across your cheek, caressing you.
“Please,” you beg, kissing the palm of his hand.
Simon lets his hand fall from you. It sits achingly cold at his side.
It would be cowardly to leave you without a goodbye after forcing himself back into your life, even if it was for one night. Simon considers himself to be many things, but never a coward. Yet, standing in front of you, staring into your expectant eyes, words don’t come easy.
You step towards him. Simon steps back. The door knob presses into his back. His heart is pounding, the blood in his eyes deafening him. Your scent wafts his way, your perfume. The one whose bottle he knocked over, nearly let slip through his fingers and shatter. The one which you never got to wear in the 141. The one weighing down his back pocket.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Simon says.
He doesn’t look back. Not when you gasp his name. Not when he opens the door. Not when he walks down the snowy street.
Price and Gaz will ask about his holiday. They’re kind like that. In the cab to the airport, passing the bottle of perfume between his hands, Simon considers his answer. Single word answers are his forté, but won’t suffice with the prying curiosities of his captain and sergeant.
The answer comes to him when he sniffs the perfume once more.
In the coming week, when Gaz claps him on the back, he will ask, “How was the holiday, Ghost?”
Simon will answer, “I had a meal with an old friend.”
#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley fanfiction#ghost fanfiction#cod fanfic#ghost x female reader
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♱ ˖ ࣪࿐𝒮𝒦𝐼𝒩𝒞𝒜𝑅𝐸 ؛ 𝓀𝒶𝓉𝓈𝓊𝓀𝒾 𝒷𝒶𝓀𝓊𝑔𝑜𝓊
𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 ؛ fluff ﾉ profanity
“What the fuck are you doing.”
You jump when you hear the gruff voice from behind you, pivoting your head from the porcelain bowl to look at the stoic blonde leant against the doorway, his arms crossed as if he had caught you in the act of something mischievous. You smile at him through the drippy glaze of the face mask you were messily applying.
“Nothing..” you hum, turning back to face the mirror with a lacklustre giggle, now realising how silly you must look to him at the moment.
He steps forward, the small bathroom creaking wearily beneath his weight, “What are you doing to your face…” he asks with knitted brows and pursed lips, his eyes darting from the ominously sticky packet sat on the rim of the sink to your face, covered in a milky jelly-like sheen.
“Face-mask!” you hold the package up to his face with a bubbly grin, pinching it by the corner between your forefingers to avoid any more mess.
He snorts at your adorably simple answer, before allowing his eyes to scan over the mauled wreck of the packet.
“Rice milk face mask.. f’ dehydrated and rough.. baby girl, you don’t need this shit.” He slips the plastic from your fingers, slapping it back down into the sink dramatically in near disgust. “Your skin’s as soft as a baby’s ass-cheek.”
You titter at his descriptive wording, still inspecting the painted glaze across your face in the mirror.
“But it’s fun!” You stare at him with a light-heartedly blank expression, standing comedically stiff like a lego character to avoid the milky slime dripping onto your clothes. He scoffs and shakes his head, smiling down at the floor before tilting his head back up at you.
“It look’s like somebody’s just jizzed all over your face babe.”
“Hey! don’t say that, you’ll put me off.” He busies himself behind you, chuckling as you squeak like an angry mouse at his crude observation.
“Good, I hope I do. I’m tired of walking in ‘nd finding you doing weird shit to yourself all the time.”
He hears you sigh dramatically as he situates himself against your rear, raising his hands to cup the sides of your head to comb through your soft baby hairs.
“You just wouldn’t understand..”
He pinches the doughy flesh of your butt and scolds you when he sees you roll your eyes in the mirror.
“Understand what? wipin’ your face in shitty face masks and tryna’ water board yourself with ice cubes? Yeah, sounds like a fuckin’ party.”
You turn to him with vigour, clapping your palms onto his stubbly cheeks and rolling the flesh like play-doh “No, because your skin is literally perfect..” He grumbles as you stretch and pinch his face with your soft fingers, trailing your fingertips over his smooth forehead and inspecting his spotless skin. He huffs before taking your delicate wrists in his hands, tugging them away and holding them down by his sides.
“It doesn’t matter. ‘s just skin baby girl.” He tells you, smoothing a hand over the back of your skull gently. You’re so cute, he thinks to himself. He wants to kiss you so badly in the moment but would rather not have your face mask stuck to his chin. He unhands you and turns away, preferring not to torture himself any longer with the overwhelming need to have his tongue in your mouth. “Dinner’s ready by the way. Wash that shit off your face before you come downstairs, can’t be looking at you like that while i’m eating.”
He smiles when he hears you giggle from around the corner, padding downstairs with his phone in his hand as he orders you 10 more packs of the the same face mask.
#bnha#mha#my hero academia#boku no hero academia#katsuki bakugou#bakugou fluff#bakugou katsuki#bakugou katsuki x reader#bakugou x reader#katsuki bakugou fluff
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Amethyst | Leon Kennedy x bartender!fem!reader
☾ summary ➼ Your favorite customer finally returns after a mission. Your car broke down on the way into work, so he drives you home in the dead of night (morning?).
☾ content/warnings ➼ fluff, canon world, alcohol, alcohol consumption, cigarettes/smoking, fem!Reader
☾ wc ➼ 3.4k
Being late for work was par for the course for you. Your car breaking down just fifteen minutes from your destination was purely coincidence. But the cold, bone-chilling rain that drenched you from head to toe was entirely your shitty luck.
The time read half an hour past your scheduled shift by the time you burst through the door that led from the back alley into the fluorescent lit employee office of the bar you worked at. Muffled laughter and music weaves from under the heavy bar door into the office. With a frustrated sigh, you shake the water from your hair. As you’re in the middle of pulling off your soaked through sweater, your name is called from behind.
“Where the fuck have you been?” The voice belongs to your manager, someone who has not missed a cigarette a day in her life. Before turning around, you roll your eyes then force a smile to hide your annoyance.
“I tried calling to warn you, but no one answered.” You retort, straightening out the moist tank top that ruffled up from taking off the extra layer. You glance over your shoulder at your unamused manager once settled.
“I was busy manning the bar that you should be behind right now.” She says back as she plops down into her desk chair with a huff. The sound of a metal scratching reverberates off the walls as they light a cigarette, the white paper tucked tightly between pinched lips. After taking a long drag, her eyes meet yours before demanding, “Get out there before I fire your ass.”
“You know you can’t, this place would fall apart without me.” You say sarcastically as you tie your apron around your waist. On your way out, you pass the mirror that you had propped up against a shelf so long ago. Tired eyes stare back at you, your hair practically dripping water down to your shoulders and chest. With a soft sigh, you push the heavy metal door and enter the busy bar.
As with most busy shifts, time flew by quickly. Your mind went into autopilot as you poured drinks, took food orders, and made small talk. The heated stares and flirty comments unfazed you because you knew they would lead to big tips. You aren't a stranger to using your body and kind smile for extra cash, being in this job for as long as you have.
About an hour before closing, the front door swings open followed by a pair of heavy boot steps and the door shutting closed. With your back turned, you’re in the middle of drying off some glasses to be set back on the rack. The bar has slowed to a crawl at this point with only a few patrons in the back talking quietly. The sound of a barstool sliding on the hardwood floor makes your ears twitch slightly.
“I’ll be with you in a moment.” You say over your shoulder, picking up another glass to dry.
“Is that how you greet your favorite customer?” Someone says. The gruff voice makes you pause, a wide smile slowly forming on your face.
“Well, I’ll be. I figured you skipped town considering how long it’s been, Kennedy.” You tease before turning around.
Leon Kennedy sits on the stool directly in front of you, dirty blond hair swept back from fingers and held there by rain. His icy blue eyes look up at you in amusement, the smile underneath them reflecting the same. A few day-old scratches mar his pretty skin.
“And what, leave the only bar that carries my drink of choice?” He crosses his arms over his broad chest and leans back into the chair with a smirk.
“You can get that shit anywhere, don’t even.” You laugh as you reach below the bar to grab a small glass. In no time, a few ice cubes mixed with a dark, amber liquid is placed in front of him.
“So. Where’d you go this time?” You lean an elbow on the hardwood, propping your chin up to watch Leon. He takes the glass with nimble fingers and pulls it to his lips, opting to take a tentative sip before speaking.
“Spain.” His lips pursed before taking another sip.
“Bring me anything good?”
His eyes glance at you over the rim of his glass. There’s a sparkle in them that you know all too well.
Leon, being a long-time patron of yours, meant getting to know him well. You knew everything from what he does in his spare time to what he had for dinner the night before. All except for his line of work.
He was an expert at dodging questions that related to it, so you learned to stop asking about it. All you knew was that he traveled and would sometimes come back looking like he got the shit beaten out of him.
“Unfortunately, the plane crashed on the way here. Lost everything.” He shrugs, his lips twitching at the corners. “I was the only survivor.”
“Shame, would’ve been cooler had you lost a limb at least.”
“Ouch.”
You place a hand out expectantly, staring at him. About 9 months into being a regular, he started bringing you little gifts he saw during his travels. There’s even a shelf in your apartment dedicated to the weird and niche trinkets he gave you. In return, you gave him company and a few drinks on the house.
Leon rolls his eyes before setting his glass down and shifting so he can reach into his back pocket. Without effort, he pulls out something small and places it into your outreached hand.
At first glance, you notice the sparkle that reflects off the smooth surface. The dim lighting from the bar doesn’t offer much, but it was enough. You pinch the item, slightly bigger than a thimble, between your thumb and forefinger before putting it up towards the light and closer to your face to get a better look.
It’s a purple stone of some sort, imperfected by scratches and pock marks. No, not just any stone. It’s a gem. And it’s gorgeous.
“Leon, where did you go to find this?” You whisper with wonder. Your fingers twist the gem so that the light reflects off the surfaces radiantly.
“Found it in a small village.” Leon replies nonchalantly as he picks up his glass and takes another sip.
You tuck the gemstone in your palm and close your hand tightly, feeling the edges of it dig into your skin.
“This is wonderful, thank you!”
“Yeah, yeah. I knew you’d kick me if I didn’t bring you something back.”
Little did you know that every mission Leon goes on, he always has you on his mind. Even with the hell he goes through, he is always on high alert for something you might like. So far, he hasn’t failed.
“Damn right, I would have. That’s why you’re my favorite customer.” You laugh as you carefully slip it into your coin purse for safe keeping.
The last few patrons wave at you as they head out into the night, their jackets pulled over their heads to hide from the torrential downpour. As the front door shuts behind them, you hear the angry roar of the wind and rain as it slams down.
At this point, your manager had left you to close up for the night, so it's just you and Leon. The whole place is quiet now, bar for the classic rock playing on the speakers above.
“Are you planning on staying for another round or…?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at your blonde-haired patron.
“If you don't plan on kicking me out, sure. Can I buy you a drink?” Leon smirks again before tipping back the rest of his drink. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“If you're actually paying, sure.” You roll your eyes with a smile. You set your towel you were using to dry glasses onto the countertop then make your way to the front door.
Like every night, you lock the door, pull down the door blinds, and unplug the open sign. It's so dark outside that you can see your reflection clear as day. Without thinking, you find yourself grooming your hair out and straightening up your clothes.
“You were gone for a while. Any idea when you're heading back out?” You ask as you make your way back behind the bar. You busy your hands with two drinks this time, one for him and one for you.
“Hopefully not for a while. The last business trip was a… big one for lack of a better word. My superiors told me they needed time to get things in order, but I think it's just their way of telling me to take a vacation.” Leon grumbles, mindlessly playing with his cocktail straw. Despite the size of his hands, his fingers move with careful intent.
You can't help the way your heart jumps in excitement to hear he'd be staying longer than a few days this time. One time, he was gone for a few months and you thought he moved away. You didn’t expect him to come just to say goodbye to you, but you were disappointed nonetheless.
“Well, that's good. You could use a vacation. You're practically growing gray hairs already.” You tease. The drinks you made for the two of you are ones you've made plenty of times, so it takes you no time to finish up. You slide Leon his glass before taking your own and sipping on it. The alcohol burns down your throat and warms your insides.
“You would like that, wouldn't you? By the way, where's your car? I didn't think you were in tonight when I saw it missing from the parking lot.”
“Were you looking for me specifically? I'm flattered, Leon.” A small laugh escapes you before settling back down, wincing at the memory of seeing your old beaten car stranded on the side of the road. “She died on me on the way here. I had to walk in the rain for this shift.” It was your turn to fiddle with your cocktail straw.
You were so busy talking up strangers all night to even think about how you'd get home. By this hour, you don't expect any of the cab companies to be open.
As if reading your mind, Leon raises an eyebrow and asks, “How do you plan on getting home?” His voice has dropped its teasing tone, now full of concern.
“Eh, I'll figure it out. It's nothing you need to worry yourself over.” You swat your hand in the air in a dismissive manner, smiling at his thoughtfulness.
“It's almost 3 A.M.” He states, as if that would change anything.
“I know! I'm sure if I call my manager or someone…” You trail off, thinking.
“I’ll take you home.”
There's a pause as your eyes glance over to him to see if he's joking. His face is emotionless from what you could tell, and his voice did sound genuine.
“I couldn't do that to you. It's really out of the city, and besides you've had 3 drinks.” You point at the empty glasses off to the side, now filled with light amber liquid from the ice melting into the remnants of alcohol.
“Nonsense. This is just a quarter of the amount needed to get me even buzzed. I'm fine.” His eyes meet your skeptical ones. “But, if it makes you feel better, we can hang out here for an hour or so and then I'll take you home. Who would I be if I left you with some weird stranger or walking home in this weather?” Leon leans back in his chair, the old wood underneath him groaning at the shift in weight.
You stand with your arms crossed, pursing your lips in thought. You really did not want to inconvenience him this way, and making him wait even longer seemed like too much to ask for.
Your eyes scan his face for any regret for what he said, but you don't find any. Instead, you find worry etched into his forehead creases and downturned eyes.
“Fine. But I'm giving you money for gas.” You say, pointing at him.
“Deal.”
.
As promised, Leon stayed with you for an hour. About half an hour in, you realized he really was okay to drive, but he insisted on staying just in case.
You both spent that time chatting, more from your side than him. He had asked what you've been up to while he was gone and at one point probed to see if you had started dating anyone, to which you scoffed at. Even if there was someone interested in you, they would never hold a candle to Leon. You didn't know that he’s held the same thought for a while now.
On your way out of the office after changing back into your now damp sweater and gathering the bar keys, you catch yourself in the mirror again. Compared to hours before when you were disheveled and wet, you're now content – no doubt because of the company you've had for the past few hours. With a soft sigh, you flip off the lights and close the door shut behind you. Leon stands at the front with his hands in his pockets, waiting for you.
“Got everything?” He asks.
“I think so. I made out like a bandit tonight with tips.” You joke as you brush past him to the front door, unlocking it so you can both leave.
“What, really? You mean, other people like you?”
“Oh ha ha, very funny. I’m a very likeable person.”
Leon follows you out and waits for you to close up behind yourself. Everything locks with a click. When you turn around, you're faced with a mostly barren parking lot being completely wrecked with rain. It seems the heavy clouds haven't let up yet. Leon's little classic car sits at the edge of the lot closest to the road.
“Wait here, I'll swing by to get you.” Leon says as digs for his car keys.
“It’s just rain, I will live.” You roll your eyes, meeting his gaze. The hazy streetlight casts a soft glow against his face as he gives you a lopsided grin.
“Absolutely not. Stay.” He orders before ducking and running straight for his car.
You don't know why, but you find yourself obeying and planting your feet into the concrete. Under the small awning, you're safe from the rain, but not the cold. A cold wind blows through, sending shivers throughout your whole body as you wait. Leon's headlights flicker on and before you know it, he's pulling up, the passenger side door facing you.
You tighten your jacket around your shoulders and make quick work of getting into the car, throwing open the door and sliding into the leather seat before shutting it quickly. The rain patters on the roof, muffled from the metal barrier. Despite the old look of Leon's car, the interior is quite nice and clean.
“Is this one of your projects?” You ask in wonder, trailing your fingers along the dashboard. Your eyes cut to Leon's face and instantly your face gets warm.
His swept hair now darkened from the rain hangs in his face, water dripping onto his soaked clothes. He’s dismissed his leather jacket, now only wearing a black shirt that sat flush against his skin due to the wet material. Even in the dim lighting of the center console, you can see his well-toned muscles in his chest and stomach. And his arms, oh man.
You force your eyes away once you realize how long you must have been staring. Leon looks away as well and you can't see, but his face flushes as well. He’s quick to put the gear in drive and start for the main road.
“It is, yeah. I've spent the most time on this one. What do you think?” he asks.
“I'm not a car person, but it's nice. It's very… you.” You say softly, looking out the passenger window. You don't elaborate further as you're not entirely sure what you mean by that, it just sounded right.
Leon huffs in amusement, smiling to himself. He reaches over to the volume dial of his radio and turns it up, allowing the sound of classic rock to fill the comfortable space. As the drive goes, you give Leon step by step directions to your house.
“I didn’t realize you lived so far away.” Leon says after a bit, slowing down at a stop sign. It had been almost an hour since the car left your place of employment. He waits a few seconds before pulling forward, no traffic in sight at such a late hour.
“Yeah, it’s quite a drive. My car was on its last leg when I got it off the lot, so it makes sense to have died on me. I just wish it waited for a sunny day or something.” You grumble into your palm which you had pressed up against your face, propping you up as you watched the streetlights flash by.
The nice suburban homes slowly transitioned into older family style homes. Many houses were dark, their lawns peppered with decorative trinkets or kids’ toys left behind to be played with on another day.
“Ah, the one on the right just after this intersection.” You sit up and point to the one you’re talking about. Leon effortlessly pulls into the one car driveway, the headlights reflecting bright off the light blue paneling.
“Cute home.” Leon says, leaning back in his seat. He flexes his fingers as if they were sore. It makes you wonder again what he does for work.
“Thanks. It was uh, my grandmother’s. Before she passed.” You say softly, unbuckling your seatbelt. You meet Leon’s blue gaze once again and smile at him appreciatively. “Thanks for taking me home.”
Finally, it seems the worst of the rain had passed. A light drizzle now takes its place, much softer and less angry. You pop open the heavy door and start to slide out before stopping yourself.
“Hey, uh. I mean, I know we’re not strangers or anything, but I understand it’ll be weird to ask since we’ve only talked at the bar… but would you like to come in maybe? I’d hate for you to drive back home on so little rest.” You don’t look at him as you say these words, feeling the heat flush into your face.
It was forward to even suggest such a thing, but you truly felt bad for dragging his night out longer than planned. And you would feel even worse if he got into a car accident because of his exhaustion.
“Oh, uh. I mean, I don’t want to put you out or an-“ he starts but you cut him off abruptly, finally able to sneak a glance. His eyes are wide, but more in surprise and less of disgust, which is what you were expecting to find.
“No!” You clear your throat before continuing, “No, it’s not a problem. It’s the least I can do since you drove all this way. It’s almost five in the morning, and I have a couch.” You say quickly.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. U-unless you don’t want to or can’t or whatever.” You say, suddenly shy and appalled at your audacious suggestion. The thought that he might have had a partner hadn’t crossed your mind until now, and your heart hurts at it.
“It’s really kind of you, and I think I will take you up on that. I’m more exhausted than I thought.” He groans as he stretches a little in his seat, but suddenly stops as he whips his head in your direction. “Not saying I regret spending my time with you, of course. It’s been nice to catch up. I just-“
“It’s okay, Kennedy, I know it’s because of work. Did you just get back into town or something?”
“Yeah, came straight to the bar as soon as the plane landed.”
“Damn, you must have really missed those drinks.” You laugh softly. The leather seat squeaks as you push yourself out of the car finally, facing the cool mist that hits your face. You take a moment to stretch, your body creaking from the long drive, before shutting the passenger door with a gentle slam.
Leon chuckles to himself softly before shutting off the ignition and unbuckling himself.
“Yeah, the drinks.” He whispers.
please do not copy, repost, or translate. everything but the characters and world belong to me, @spicerackofblorbos. if you liked it, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!
#might do a part two to this actually#with smut#sky.writes#sky.re#leon kennedy#leon s kennedy#resident evil#resident evil 4#leon s kennedy x reader#leon kennedy x reader#x reader#cw alcohol#cw smoking#leon posting#resident evil fluff#re4#re4r leon#re4r#re4 remake#re4 leon#re4make
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Part 5 - Catfish Steddie
You can also read it on AO3!
Eddie isn’t sure how many doubles he pulled in the past week, but he’s not too interested in counting, anyway. He just needs to keep himself busy. Just busy enough.
He’s also trying to stay out of the house as much as he can because he can’t seem to find it in him to face Gareth. Not right now.
Not when Gareth was fucking right.
He didn’t say it to be mean, Edie knows it, but in all the time they’ve known each other, nerdy, weird Eddie was never the one to get the attention of guys built like a Greek god and Gareth had been wary of it from the beginning.
Eddie couldn’t even get himself to tell him about the catfish because, in the end, he managed to get a date with Steve, and what Gareth didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right?
But the joke’s on Eddie because he’s the one who ended up hurt.
So yeah, maybe he’s been doing that avoidance thing that annoyed Gareth ever since middle school when Eddie would pretend to not be interested in playing with Max Steel anymore just because he had broken Gareth’s favorite figure and couldn’t find a way to tell him.
Eddie can be a real piece of work sometimes and he knows that all too well. Gareth knows it too and it is beyond Eddie to understand why does he still put up with his shit after so many years, but after some nasty fights where Gareth had to yell at Eddie to believe he fucking likes him and is definitely sticking around and that Eddie needs to drop that shitty way of acting, Eddie prefers not to say anything.
He’s also aware Gareth can tell something is up and that he’s on borrowed time but that’s for future Eddie to worry about.
The good thing is that the bar keeps him busy. He's always making a drink or another, cleaning something up and when there are no clients, Eddie can just let the music take over. Let his brain swim in the blissfulness of loud, angry music.
"Can I get a vodka soda?" Eddie is nodding before he even looks at the person, his body moving with the familiarity of the bar work.
He grabs the vodka with one hand and twists it around just to show off. His other hand is already filling a glass with ice cubes. Then it's alcohol, measured to be sure, soda, and a half lime wedge at the rim of the glass.
It's as easy as breathing and it feels good to do something that doesn't involve thinking.
"Here you go," he slides the glass in front of his customer and it's the first time he looks at her. She has short, brown hair and is looking straight at Eddie, not moving to get her drink.
"Thanks, Eddie."
He frowns for a second. Doesn't remember telling her his name. Doesn't remember seeing her before, but at the same time, her face looks familiar.
"Did you need anything else?"
Maybe she asked for another drink and Eddie didn't hear. His mind isn't the most reliable lately, hence why he can't quite place where he knows her from. Maybe she's a regular at the bar and Eddie has just forgotten about it?
"When's your break?" she asks and oh. Oh, no. Can't she tell Eddie would prefer to suck face with any one of the other patrons that aren't a woman?
"Sorry. I don't, uh, mess around with paying customers," he says even though he followed a few cute boys out through the back door for sloppy hand-jobs and messy kisses.
Her frown deepens and Eddie thinks maybe he offended her. He tried letting her down easy but maybe-
"Uh, first of all, gross. Second of all, I just want to talk. Please."
Something isn't adding up. "Do I know you?"
She offers her hand as if she's in an indie movie and she's the edgy main character. Eddie doesn't take it but it doesn't seem to bother her.
"I thought you knew. I'm Robin Buckley. Steve's roommate."
Oh, fuck.
x
Eddie feels like he needs a cigarette even though he hasn't smoked in ages. He tends to stay with just weed for most of the time, but this situation right now is so fucked up it calls for one.
He wonders if he should tell her he's going to 7/11 to get one but he realizes he's just stalling. He doesn't particularly want to hear what she has to say but he couldn't find it in himself to say no.
Steve tried calling a few times but he gave up once it was clear Eddie wasn't picking up the phone. He wonders if Steve sent her.
"I have 15 minutes and I was really counting on a nap during my break so make this quick," his voice comes out harsher than usual and Eddie's not mad about it. Maybe if he can put on a hard front she and Steve will leave him alone.
Eddie's brain has been trying to trick him into believing Steve really didn't have anything to do with the catfish thing, but it just doesn't add up. He spent way too many nights awake thinking about Steve laughing at his expense, at how dumb he was for falling for the thing not once but twice.
He just wants to move on, forget all about Steve and about how stupid he was to fall for his game.
"You're bitchier than I remember," she shakes her head as if she can't believe it and Eddie frowns again. He really doesn't remember her. "Guess you're just not that bitchy when it comes to pretty boys, huh."
It takes a second for Eddie's brain to get the message but then…
"You."
She nods and even though she sounds playful as if all of this is nothing more than a joke her face is pinched up.
"Guilty. Sorry about that, by the way."
Now Eddie is sure Steve sent her and he really doesn't want to hear whatever excuse he has for this. He doesn't even understand what's their goal here. Do they want Eddie to forgive them just so they can feel better about themselves?
"Tell Steve I don't need any apologies. You both can just forget it and leave me alone."
He hopes he doesn't sound too pathetic because he sure feels like it. But Robin doesn't move, she just blinks at him.
"Steve doesn't know I'm here."
Eddie huffs out a breath. He's getting annoyed at this conversation really fast.
"Will you just say what it is that you want to say and leave me alone, then? I really need a nap."
"Steve doesn't know I'm here and he didn't know I was, uh, using his face to-"
"Catfish people."
"Is it considered catfishing if I had no intention of dating anyone?"
Eddie frowns. What the fuck is wrong with this girl?
"Yes."
She closes her eyes and presses her hands to her face. "Shit. I'm fucking this up even more, aren't I? I'm not good at this."
Eddie is honestly so fucking done with her. He's confused and honestly a little angry at this person he doesn't know but thought it was ok to mess with his life for apparently no good reason.
"Well, I'm gonna go."
Eddie pushes himself off the wall he was leaning on and is walking back to the bar when she calls for him.
"Wait. Please. I'm sorry… I have this tendency to joke around whenever I'm feeling bad or uncomfortable. It's just a shitty defense mechanism that I kind of can't control."
He honestly wants to tell her to fuck off but at the same time… He gets it. He is the same, after all, and Gareth would probably call him out on his bullshit if he ever complained about it. He can hear what she has to say, at least.
"Ok. Go on, but I desperately need a Slurpee and you're buying."
Slurpees beat cigarettes every day of the week, no doubt.
x
Robin's story was… Kind of crazy if Eddie was being honest. He was still confused about some things because how the hell did her professor support that idea?
"I knew it was a crazy thing I was doing. I thought it would be harmless but once I realized it wasn't it was a little too late to back down and he was all over my case."
Eddie clicks his tongue. "You should report him, you know."
She looks completely terrified. "I thought about it but it's probably going to spill all over me."
Eddie shrugged. "Maybe you deserve it."
Robin worried her lower lip in between her teeth. "Maybe I do."
"I'm not saying that to be an asshole, it's just the way things are. When I fuck up at work I have to deal with the consequences and it fucking sucks so maybe you just need to deal with yours. It's not going to be the end of the world."
Robin sighs loudly. She's clutching her blue Slurpee as if her life depends on it and Eddie wants to warn her that it's going to melt. They are both sitting on a bench outside the store and Eddie is probably already running late to get back to his shift but he thinks he needs to be here right now.
Robin's explanation was not what he was expecting. She swore Steve had absolutely nothing to do with that and proceeded to tell him Steve wasn't even speaking to her anymore.
He still can't wrap his head around the whys. Robin doesn't seem like a psychopath so it makes no sense that she would do something like this. It's an asshole move, especially given she and Steve weren't even friends. But Eddie had been an asshole before. He has fucked up with people he loves and he doesn't think that makes him a bad person.
He doesn't think it makes Robin a bad person. She at least looks really ashamed.
"Are you going to throw that Slurpee at me?" Robin asks when the silence gets too long. Eddie looks at her and she's joking. Or at least he thinks she is.
"Would it make you feel better if I did?"
"Honestly? Maybe. I can deal with screaming and fighting and saying dumb shit to each other. It's harder when all he gives me is silence and blank stares. It's like I'm not even there anymore."
Yeah, Eddie has been there. It fucking sucks.
"Sorry," she says. "I didn't come here to make you feel bad for me. I know I fucked up and you have no obligation in forgiving me but I thought you should know what happened. Steve…"
Eddie has no idea if he can afford thinking about Steve right now. He misses the hell out of him and if he's being honest he misses Robin, too.
"I know. He didn't know about any of that but I think maybe… Maybe he won't want to hear from me after I shut him out, you know? Maybe he'll be better off forgetting this whole thing."
Robin finally drinks her Slurpee. It's probably all water now, Eddie thinks. She looks at him and there's a glint in her eyes.
"I think I've never seen him that happy. When he was talking to you, I mean. He was always glued to his phone, a dumb smile on his face. It was kind of adorable, if you like cute puppies."
Eddie did have a soft spot for puppies.
"It doesn't matter anyway. Like I said, I don't think he will want to hear from me. I think I offended him, too."
"But would you want to? Talk to him again?"
He thinks for a second but he nods before his brain even registers the question. There's this ache in his chest that tells him he's probably going to miss Steve forever if he never talk to him again.
"Ok, good. Because I might have a plan."
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#steve harrington#Eddie Munson#Coffee Shop AU#AU#Alternate Universe#Stranger Things#Fanfic#Stranger Things fanfic#Steddie#Steddie Fanfic#Catfish AU#Steddie ficlet
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steve being absolutely whipped for steve is my favorite thing ever. like ok what if they were friends and billy likes steve, and steve's oblivious to it but billy will drop whatever he's doing to make steve's like a the tiniest bit easier and it's so cute
It all starts with homework.
Homework Steve dropped on the floor in the hallway, to be more specific.
He fucking tripped and his shit went everywhere, and he was scrambling to pick it all up, when he noticed another pair of hands shuffling with his papers.
“Thanks, Hargrove,” he muttered.
“Most of these are wrong.” Steve snatched the math worksheet out of his hands, his face hot as he stuffed it in his backpack.
He tried to push past the absolutely solid wall that was Billy Hargrove, but the other boy kept blocking him.
“C’mon, I’ll help you.”
“I don’t need any help.”
It was a fucking lie. He knew he’d gotten most of the problems wrong. They were working on some weird formula that had to do with area, or volume, or something like that. And Steve really didn’t understand it.
But he didn’t want any help from fucking Hargrove, who would just spread it around the school that Steve Harrington is in remedial geometry as a senior.
But Hargrove had reached into Steve's backpack, and yanked out the assignment, using the pencil he had stored behind his ear to erase Steve’s shitty work.
“All you have to do is multiply the length by the width by the height. And that’s volume.”
Steve had added those three values and then cubed them. It had taken him hours.
“I know.”
Billy gave him a scathing look.
“Meet me in the library at lunch, and we’ll fix it.”
-
Steve wasn’t actually expecting Billy to be there, but he was. And they fixed Steve’s math.
And he got an A on the homework, his first one all year.
So it became a thing. They’d do Steve’s math homework at lunch together. And Billy would walk him through the tough problems, and clap him on the back when he got something by himself.
His teacher noticed his progress, and congratulated him on it.
“I got a tutor,” he told her.
They were studying on some random Thursday together, Billy with his nose in some worn-out novel, periodically peeking over the pages to take a look at Steve's math homework.
He was doing much better, and now Billy only had to silently point to an incorrect answer for Steve to go back and fix it.
Steve's stomach rumbled, breaking the silence,
"Jesus, Harrington. I think your stomach is trying to eat itself."
Steve rolled his eyes, but he smiled at Billy.
"Seriously, just eat lunch."
There technically was a rule against food in the library, but the librarian liked Billy, and tended to turn a blind eye to whatever he was doing at his usual back table.
Steve checked his watch.
"I'll just grab something later. I need to finish this."
He kept working on his math. His stomach growled again.
Billy sighed.
He dug into his bag, pulling out the crumpled brown paper bag Susan has passed him in the morning. She always made him lunch after a rough night with his dad.
Consolation prize, he guesses.
He pulled out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, placing one half on Steve's open textbook.
Steve looked at him with round eyes.
"Nah dude, that's your lunch. I can get something after school."
"Like hell. Just eat the sandwich, Harrington."
Steve scarfed the first half like a small animal, and Billy glared at him until he had the second half.
He'll be okay, he can just sneak some food at home before his dad gets back from work.
-
"Harrington! How many times," Coach yelled from the sidelines. "You're leaving yourself too open!"
Steve was breathing hard, sprinting down the court after being bowled over by one of the guys on the other team.
It was deafening in the gym, the stands packed full.
Steve was playing like shit. The other team was dogging him, stealing the ball from him, blocking his every move.
He was point guard to Billy's shooting guard.
Billy yanked him by the back of the jersey, pulling him back to mutter in his ear.
Steve nodded once.
It was a good play, a simple pick and roll.
The other team scored, and Billy nodded at Steve.
They brought it down the court, and Billy made eye contact with Steve as he moved to set a pick on the asshole guard that kept knocking Steve down.
Steve moved, sprinting to the basket to finally make a fucking shot.
As he moved, the guard followed, but there was Billy.
They collided hard, and Billy got knocked flat on his ass.
His head cracked against the wooden floor, and he saw stars for a second.
He was fucking pleased as punch to see the other guard flat on his back, too. Looking as dazed as Billy felt.
There was a hand in front of his face, and he took it, allowing Steve to bring him to his feet, a look of concern in his big eyes.
"You okay, dude?"
"You score?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'm fine." He clapped Steve on the shoulder, jogging back to get in the game, shaking off the dizzy spell.
-
Billy paid no mind to the phone ringing.
He was sat at the kitchen table, finishing up his chemistry homework.
Sometimes he and Max did homework at the kitchen table together. Neil would give approving looks when he walked by if he saw Billy helping her with something she pretended not to understand.
"Hargrove residence." Neil was the only one who answered the phone that way. The rest of them said Hargrove-Mayfield.
Billy tightened his grip on his pencil.
He could feel his dad's eyes on the back of his head, standing straight against the wall where the phone was mounted.
"Yes, he is here."
Fuck.
What could Billy have done now? He's been a model fucking citizen for the past week.
And no one can trace that fucking fire under the bleachers back to him. Besides, he put it out before anything could really get burned.
"Billy, the phone's for you."
At least if he was in trouble, the person wouldn't be asking to speak with him.
Billy stood up, ignoring Max's questioning look.
Billy took the phone, not making eye contact with his dad.
"Hey! Sorry, I know this is weird, but I got your phone number from Max a little while ago, and I know usually we just study during school, but I am so fucking confused on this assignment. And I'll pay you! I'll even order food if you want to come over to help me. Oh! This is Steve by the way."
As if Billy wouldn't recognize his rambling.
"Um, sure. I can help you." He looked at his dad. "And no need to pay me."
"Just try to get out of here without any money. I dare you. So, can you come over? Tonight? This is due tomorrow."
Billy wasn't supposed to leave on school nights.
"Can you give me a second? Please?" He didn't wait for Steve to respond, he just lowered the phone.
"Dad," he started.
"How long have you been tutoring that Harrington boy?" Neil's voice was unreadable.
"A few weeks. Mostly at school. He needs some help tonight, and uh, offered to pay me if I come by his place."
"And you said you didn't want to be paid?"
"Yes, sir."
Billy tried his very best not to flinch when his dad patted him on the shoulder.
"That's good. Rubbing elbows with the Harrigntons. I was wondering why they didn't press charges when you beat that boy to a pulp."
Billy fucking hated when Neil brought that shit up.
It wasn't his fault he has a hard time controlling his rage. If anything, it's Neil's fault for slapping him around before sending him on an errand.
Steve just happened to kinda get in the way.
But Billy apologized, and Steve said he got over it, and clearly he did, if he's inviting Billy over to his house to work on his homework.
He raised the phone back up to his ear.
"Sure, I can help you. But I can't be out late. It's a school night."
Neil nodded approvingly, and Billy flipped him the bird the second he turned his back.
"Yeah, whatever. The front door's unlocked, just come upstairs when you're here."
Steve didn't even wait for a reply before he ended the call, and Billy quietly placed the phone back on the receiver.
He cleaned up his own homework, and took his bag with him.
"Billy," his dad said as he was halfway out the back door. "Curfew's at 8:30. And I'll be locking the door."
"Yes, sir."
-
Harrington's house is fuckin' huge.
Billy should've expected it, with Steve's family being as well connected as they were.
He let himself into the house, as Steve had told him to do, and was immediately met with a slight woman, staring at him like he'd just walked uninvited into her home.
"Uh," he said. Why the fuck would Steve tell him to just come in? "I'm Billy? Billy Hargrove. Steve's tutor."
And then her face brightened, and holy shit, Steve looks exactly like his mom.
"He is upstairs, I'll show you." She waved him to follow behind her and she took off up the stairs.
Billy scrambled to kick his boots off and raced after her.
She was lean like Steve, with long legs and insanely thick,dark brown hair that went clear down to her ass.
(Steve even kinda has his mom's perfect ass.)
She knocked on the door to Steve's room, even though it was slightly ajar, and let herself in.
Steve was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands, all curled up and sitting cross-legged on his chair.
"Tesoro, il tuo amico è qui."
Steve turned, and he fucking beamed at Billy.
"Grazie, Mamma." He waved Billy over in the same motion his mother had done downstairs.
Billy felt awkward in the room, and his face felt hot, and his palms were sweaty.
"Avete bisogno di qualcosa?" She asked, and holy shit, how has it taken Billy this long to realize that Steve and his mother were not even speaking fucking English to one another.
He knew he was staring.
"No, grazie."
She smiled again at Billy as she left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
"Damn, your mom's hot," was all Billy could think to say.
Luckily, it worked. Steve rolled his eyes, turning back to his work and shaking his head. But Billy could see a tiny smile on his face.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't start that shit and just help me with this, okay?"
Billy peered over his shoulder.
Steve was working on an English assignment, the same one Billy had completed last week.
It was a questionnaire about the Shakespeare play they had read in class, Othello.
Billy knew it was grueling, fifty multiple choice, ten matching, and three essay questions.
He had the book open text to him, and there had been lines and passages highlighted and annotated.
"This shit was nasty. I did it last week."
Steve scrunched his brows up at Billy.
"You're in English 12? How? You're a junior?"
Billy shrugged.
"That's just what I tested into when I moved here. I was on a fast track in California." Yeah, he would've probably gotten to graduate a semester early, if they had stayed.
"Okay, well, then you can help me. Because I can barely read as it is, and this stupid Shakespeare stuff just doesn't even make sense."
He put his head down on his desk, leaning his forehead against the questionnaire and groaning loudly.
"It's like another language. You have to learn to translate it. I mean, you and your mom were speakin' something, so you know how to do this."
"Yeah, and that's kinda the problem." Steve sat up, looking at Billy. Billy moved to sit on the corner of his desk. "My mom's from Italy, and I didn't even speak English until I was like, six. Regular English has never made sense to me, and then they give us this shit." He flipped the book closed harshly.
Billy had to bite his tongue, because the only thing he could think to say was you sure do talk a lot for someone who allegedly doesn't understand English. But he didn't really wanna be a dick right now.
"Okay. Here's what will do. We'll answer as many questions as you can. Once we get to the ones about specific passages, I'll read them in plain terms, and you'll be fine, okay?"
Steve nodded glumly, but he picked up his pencil.
"Okay, dude. You can definitely answer this first question."
Question one: Who wrote Othello.
Steve circled the correct answer and Billy pat him on the head. Steve glared at him playfully.
They went through the questions.
Some were easy, and clearly all Steve needed was a cheerleader, because he circled the correct ones right away.
But then, some were fucking difficult.
"Okay, question 36: What is the significance of Othello's handkerchief?"
Steve flipped through the book desperately.
"What fucking handkerchief?"
-
It was a little past eight, and Steve was just barely halfway through the packet.
He was clearly trying not to get frustrated, as he came across harder and harder questions, understanding less and less.
"So, in the passage, Iago is basically trying to turn Othello against Desdemona. He's saying that if she deceived her father, she would deceive Othello."
"But, I don't get why she lied to her dad. Like, what was the lie?"
"He didn't want her to get married to Othello, but she did anyway."
Steve just looked desperately at Billy.
"So, she did cheat on Othello? And Iago is telling him about it?"
"No, she didn't Iago is trying to fuck with Othello."
"Wait, so Desdemona did nothing wrong, and then Othello still kills her?" He looked incredulous.
"Yeah, man. It's Shakespeare. In the tragedies, everyone dies. In the comedies, everyone fucks."
"Why?"
"Because it was Elizabethan England, and everyone was fucking and dying, and half of these stories are based on the Greek plays that came before, in which everyone just fucked and died."
"I wish my life was like that. I just wanna fuck. And then die." Steve put his pencil down, leaning back in his chair. "I'm sorry, man. That I dragged you here to help me with this. I'm just fucking dumb."
Billy smacked Steve in the back of the head, and he yelped, glaring at Billy and rubbing the spot where Billy had merely tapped him.
"You're not stupid. This is hard. Now, let's keep going. This isn't gonna finish itself."
-
Billy ended up finally leaving Steve's close to ten.
His mom thanked him for helping Steve, and shoved a wad of cash in his hand that Billy felt too awkward to count until he had parked in his spot behind his house.
Jesus Christ, she gave him fifty bucks.
He put it with the rest of his stash, in the locked glove compartment, and wiggled into the back seat.
He doesn't doubt that his dad had locked the house promptly at curfew. He doesn't doubt that he was gonna get his shit rocked tomorrow after school when he showed up back at home.
But Steve had finished his assignment, and had flung his arms around Billy when it was finally over, and it's okay. Billy can take a few smacks.
-
"Hey!"
Billy turned to see Steve rushing towards him down the hall. His cheeks were pink and he was beaming.
He thrust the assignment from last night into Billy's hands, and there was a big red A- on the top.
"That's my best English grade, like, ever. Thank you! Seriously, Billy. Thank you so much. I'm taking you out for dinner this weekend, okay? To say thank you. I'll buy you a burger and a milkshake, and anything you want."
"Nah, man. Your mom paid me last night, it's okay."
Steve shook his head, his hair flopping onto his forehead, and he pushed it back, still grinning. Fuck, he's so pretty.
"Can it. We're going to the dinner and you're gonna eat fries until you puke, okay? We're going Friday."
Friday.
Billy's supposed to help Susan trim all the hedges on Friday.
Okay, if he wakes up early, he can do the front before school, and if he comes home during his free period, he could-
"Sure, Pretty Boy. Friday."
-
He was up before the sun, cutting hedges.
He had to shower before school, which he fucking hates doing, because he doesn't have enough time to properly do his hair in the mornings.
But he finished them.
He finished them all.
And he told Susan such when she handed him his pity packed lunch that morning.
She thanked him, and his dad narrowed his eyes.
"Why?" He barked.
Billy tried to act casual.
"Couldn't sleep, thought I'd just get it out of the way."
Neil didn't stop staring suspiciously at Billy until he and Max had closed the backdoor behind them.
"Why did you really do all that this morning?" Max asked when they were safe in the car.
"Jus' have plans after school."
She rolled her eyes.
"Oh, that's rich. You're going on a date."
Well, he hopes so.
But that's never gonna happen.
The school day seemed to pass as slowly as fucking possible. He was anxious all day, fidgety and nervous, and a tiny bit sweaty.
Steve was leaning against his car outside when Billy finally stomped away from the school, and he smiled brightly at Billy.
"Should we just meet at the diner?"
"Yeah. I gotta drive Max, so." He gestured lamely.
"Okay. See you in a bit." Steve tapped the hood of the Camaro, and normally Billy would've threatened to bite anyone that knocked into his car like that, but Steve can kinda do whatever he wants as far as Billy is concerned.
Billy made sure to idle in front of the house, making sure Max got inside alright, and making sure his dad watched him drop her off.
He'd be in worse shit if Neil thought Billy made Max walk home by herself.
But he sped back into town the second the screen door slammed closed behind her.
Steve already had a booth when Billy arrived, and he waved Billy down enthusiastically, as if Billy didn't hone in on him the second he walked through the door.
"Hey, man! Glad you could make it," he said, as if he didn't insist that Billy make it.
Billy grunted at him, shuffling into the booth on the other side of Steve.
"Thanks again, dude. My grades have never been so good. My dad even said I've been doing alright, which is, I think, the nicest thing he's ever said to me."
"Yeah. It's no problem."
"Why don't people know you're smart?" Steve's question took Billy off guard a little bit. "You act like you're a dumb jock, like me."
"You're not dumb. And it's just self-preservation, I guess. I don't need every pretty boy in this school to know I'm a good tutor. Already got my hands full."
Steve's cheeks went the faintest bit pink, and if Billy didn't know better, he'd say that Steve's casual shifting of position was more like a little squirm.
"I guess that makes sense," Steve mumbled, picking at the edge of the menu in front of him.
Their waiter came at that moment, and Steve ordered right away, rattling off what he wanted like it was second nature.
"So the usual, then?" The waiter winked at Steve, and Steve flushed a little deeper, looking shyly at Billy.
"I'll have the same." The waiter nodded, and swept off with their menus.
"So, you're here a lot?" Billy didn't want to look too far into it, but he was ravenous for little scraps of information about Steve. A little peek into his life.
"Yeah. I come here for dinner when I'm home alone a lot. Cooking for one person is kinda lame, and I like being somewhere that's not so. Quiet."
"How often you home alone?"
"Every few weeks. My mom travels around with my dad a lot, but she feels bad about leaving me on my own. Doesn't really stop her, thought." And Steve looked positively glum, like a pouty little cat caught outside in the rain.
"Well, next time you're alone let me know. I don't have too much going on. Usually."
Steve brightened, looking at Billy with a tiny mile on his face.
"Yeah? You don't have better friends then some dumbass you tutor?"
"I don't tutor a dumbass. And in case you hadn't noticed, I don't have many friends. Only been in town for a few months."
"I've been here my whole life, and I don't have many friends, either."
"That's their problem, then."
Steve beamed at him.
#Billy just absolutely getting his bell rung but being like 'its ok bc steve scored 🥺' is my love language#I've been working on this for such a long time and idk how to end it so it's jsut kinda......open#yikes writes#steve harrington#billy hargrove#harringrove#i haven't written anything in a million years
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some ticci toby headcanons
consider this a headcanon salad cus these were all randomly thrown together as they came to me
- fragile masculinity up to the NINES with this one
- totally an ice eater what a sicko
- he's double jointed in so many places. also freakishly flexible. likes to freak people out by popping his joints in and out of place lmao
- has the crackiest bones ever. you think you hear sticks breaking in the woods its just toby's crack ass ankles
- weed partaker but stays the freak away from the bottle cus yk he doesn't want to find out if that "like father like son" stuff is true
- plays guitar and makes up shitty 1 minute sad guy with a guitar songs. fingerstyle typa guy
- plays ONLY FOR HIMSELF and gets embarrassed but tries to act like he's not if someone walks in on him. like he'll just hastily stop n scramble to put away his guitar n act all cool like he totally wasn't playing guitar just now and go "whaddyouwant"
- definitely sneaks into concerts and shows. it's easy for him to blend in there. gets suuuper fucking beat up in the pit cus yk he doesn't realize how battered up he's getting in the moment until he gets a glimpse of himself and is like oh hell my lip's busted and my nose is in a different place than it was before
- think he'd have an owen wilson nose on account of how much he's broken it
- also one of his canines is missing
- just a SUUUPER accident prone guy. has no sense of self preservation. like ZERO (cus he was never really taught how to manage his cipa) (well he was yk before The Incident but he doesn't remember much of it)
- has sun spots cus he's outside all day all the time. also tonsss of freckles and moles
- burns his playlists onto cds
- he'd like every music genre but in particular i think he'd listen to late 90s/early 2000s teenage boy music. also 80s music. specifically new wave stuff
- knows a lil bit of asl for his verbal shutdowns
- also i hc him as audhd
- along with his stutter (which i don't consider to be related to his tourettes) he also just has a speech impediment. like sometimes his r's or l's come out as w's and he has trouble pronouncing certain sounds or words and just says them wrong and people correct him consistently he just doesn't really listen or care to correct himself
- not too good at spelling or any of that grammar stuff
- i really want to stress that he's NOT stupid. he hate hate hates how people patronize him and make him out to be some sort of incapable dunce. it makes him feel small and he hates feeling small. he's smart, he's just not good at communicating it. no matter what he tries his words just come out wrong. "i'm lots smarter in my head" is what he'd probably say
- always has a fidget spinner/cube on him
- he kinda just vomits when he gets overwhelmed. like when he has to ride in a car he leans his head out the window like a dog the whole way, partly just cus he likes it and it's fun to play airplane with his hand in the wind but also cus he could spew his guts at any moment
- collects spider-man comics and cool rocks. also unironically looks up to spider-man cus he always gets back up despite all the shit he gets put through. he feels like he could learn from that. he thinks it makes him seem like a kid though which is something he really wants to prove that he's not so he keeps it to himself
- super gross oh my god he's so gross. like doesn't wash his body in the shower cus "the water will get it" picks his nose and eats it kind of gross. will also get all obnoxious and in your face about it if you rightfully tell him he's a sick fuck for that
- honestly that'd be his response every time someone criticizes him
- like you could be like "you fuckin reek" n he'd be like "oh yea?" and grapple you into a headlock with his armpit shoved in your face
- his speech pattern is a little funky. like his sentences just come out like they were sorta haphazardly put together. he doesn't make much sense a lot of the time
- i wanna say he's endearingly dorky but he's just fucking weird. like he probably flirts in a napoleon dynamite-esque fashion. he has a vague idea of what flirting is he just doesn't quite got it but hey he's got the spirit
- he really just has a vague idea of what conversation is in general. he just doesn't have that good of a grasp on how people talk to each other. he feels a major glaring disconnect between himself and every other human in the world and it just makes him feel even smaller
- a lost fucking puppy when it comes to talking to women. just completely and utterly helpless. he stutters a lot more he trips over his words a lot more which just makes him red it's brutal to watch
- my voiceclaim for him is whoever voices bumblebee before he loses his voice box in the michael bay transformers movies (just looked it up it's stiles fucking stilinski)
- his voice cracks all the time ESPECIALLY when he raises his voice. he gets red and embarrassed every time it does and he really badly tries to hide it which just makes it even funnier to everyone else poor guy
- wants so badly to be perceived as a big intimidating muscle man but he just isn't no matter how hard he tries
#just a glimpse inside my twisted sick headspace#ticci toby#toby rogers#ticci toby headcanons#creepypasta#tobyhcs
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Nanami coming home from a particularly big curse exorcism and is just exhausted but you don't realize, so you're energetic and he kinda just snaps at you but realizes he's in the wrong and communicates his issue and you both decide cuddles and a drink is best.
-🌸
We’re just gonna act like what happens in the manga doesn’t happen okay?? We all love him and he’s here mkay?? Slight spoilers ahead!!
The door slams and you’re jolted awake. You knew he would be home late so you tried to stay awake for him. You hear him take off his shoes and coat, placing his curse instruments in their designated place. Your tiredness easily sheds and you bounce up to greet him. Even though you just woke up, your energy has returned at the thought of your love coming home.
“Kento! Welcome home,” you singsong as you walk up to him and hug him tightly. Nanami doesn’t respond to the hug and breathes deeply, waiting for you to finish. You pull away hesitantly and try to cup his face. “Darling? What’s wrong? I don’t see any scratches or blood or…”
“Baby, please.” Nanami pulls your hands off of his face as he walks toward the kitchen. You’re left slightly heartbroken and follow him inside. You see him grab his favorite cocktail glass as he raids the liquor cabinet for his favorite whiskey. The smokiness is something he looks forward to as it elevates any pain or anxiety he has. He carefully places the ice cubes in the glass before pouring the golden brown liquid into the glass. He takes a sip before releasing with a sigh.
“Kento, talk to me sweetie.” You reach out to try and touch his hand but he swats it away. You hiss slightly at the strength in the small gesture. “What is up with you?”
His fingers grab at the bridge of his nose as the other hand places the glasses in the table. “I want to have a calm drink in my home before my fiancé nags me about work.” That causes your eyebrows to furrow instantly as you cross your arms.
“Excuse me? Don’t take your shitty work day out on me.”
Nanami sighs before speaking again. “Gojo was sealed, my students almost died, and another person I was very close to was almost killed. I cannot, can not, have another Haibara. If work is shit and sorcery is shit then what is the fucking point of it all? Why am I doing what I’m doing? And then I come home after the worst battle of my life, expecting to relax when I get the third degree from the woman I love!”
Getting defensive and feeling your own emotions intensifying, you retaliate. “Well excuse me! Sorry for giving a shit about my fiancé when he comes home later than expected! Sorry I wanted to spend Halloween with you but you had ‘work’, and-“
“I will always,” Nanami’s voices booms, “always put you first. But work is work. I can’t put that aside because you want to play dress up for some Western holiday that means nothing to me. I do it for you! Everything I do, the sorcery, it’s all for you! So let me…”
He pauses in his tirade as he spots your tear filled face. Your bottom lip trembles at his words. You start to walk away from him with your shoulders shaking. You pause your steps and look over your shoulder with pleading eyes. “I, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I.. that I…” you started to cry in place before you feel a pair of warm arms wrap around your waist.
“No,” he softly breathes and kisses your neck. “I’m sorry. Tonight was, a lot. My senpai is sealed, the bad guys practically won, and… well you heard. I shouldn’t have taken my frustrations out on you.” He hugs you tightly and begins to sway with you. “I love you so much. I meant it when I said I do everything for you. For us to to have a future,” he kisses your tears away, “I have to do this work. I know the wedding will be far off, but it’s to insure our safety.” You nod and place your hands over his, resting your head back against his chest.
“Let me pour you a glass of wine, and let’s enjoy it in bed okay?” He feels you nod before kissing your cheek. He briefly lets you go and you already miss his warmth. The sound of the wine filling the glass has you turn around to see him, truly see him. The stress that is shown in the creases of his skin, the veins popping from his hands and arms indicating the work he’s done. As he approaches you, you gently massage his arms as you both head toward your bedroom. He places the glasses on the night stand before disrobing haphazardly, unlike him, and meets you in bed. With his back pressed against the headboard, he pulls you into his embrace with his legs on either side of you. You relax against his touch as you both enjoy your drinks, cuddling to the sounds of soft jazz that is playing from your speaker.
This got long 🙈🙈
Elle’s Wine Night!!
#elle’s musical moots#🌸 anon#elle’s wine night#nanami kento#nanami x reader#nanami x you#nanami x y/n#jjk x reader#jjk spoilers
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im an smplive twitterina and i know its my rose colored glasses but i really miss the community, it doesnt matter how shitty they were they were so fucking fun to be around. i miss nie insideotears so bad
nonnie come to liveblr we're just as unhinged but also won't dox you for drawing cubes kissing
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Hi! Pls could you write a Roman fic with the following prompt: 36.“i know i said we couldn’t do this anymore, but i need you. please.”? Thank You!
Scotch and Tears
Summary: Comforting Romey and hurting him at the same time or Roman comes to you needing release and the painful reminder that he'll never be loved because he's broken.
Warnings: MINORS DNI, Hurt, Crying, Jerking off Roman...
A/N: Not edited and written at 2 AM like every other fic of mine. I never ever intend to make this one so sad but.... Romey is just a sad little boy trapped in a dog cage :( GN!reader
You don’t know who you expected on your front door but it wasn’t him. Maybe a DoorDash delivery person or another Amazon package but not Roman Roy. His hands intertwined in front of him, that cocky smirk of his face.
“If it isn’t my favorite whore” he says, a little too boisterous for your liking.
“Welcome in” you say sarcastically as he bulldozes his way inside your apartment despite his small stature.
“God if I thought you dressed shitty… this is a fucking rat-infested dying Victorian orphans type of shitty” he says, his hazel eyes analyzing every single detail of your apartment. You roll your eyes, leaning against the doorframe of your small living room. You’d never have the type of money he had but you were comfortable. More than the dozens of New Yorkers that couldn’t heat their apartments through winter or the ones that had eleven roommates.
“Why are you here Romulus?” You ask in a cool toned manner. His head snapping towards yours, he hadn’t heard that name in a while. Not since… well not since his father died.
“What, not happy to see an old pal?” He grins, taking off his little leather gloves. He makes a face as he uses the sleeve of his jacket to clean your little side table placing the gloves on it.
“Why are you here?” You ask stalking forward.
“Don’t make me ask you again Romulus” you say with a bit more force in your tone. Roman gulps, those big doe eyes looking up at you with a mixture of fear and something else. That underlying swirl of emotion you were all too used to seeing many years ago.
“Don’t-“ he says, trying to act strong but his voice slightly wavers under your watchful gaze. He tried to busy himself by taking his coat off.
“I saw he died” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest standing toe to toe with Roman. He grunts in acknowledgment, afraid of opening his mouth. Afraid that the pent up tears will come crashing down the fragile walls he built. Because truthfully Roman hadn’t been coping. He thought it would get better with time.
Thought a shrink would fix him, but they never did. No matter how expensive, how experienced they didn’t understand Roman, not in the way you do. So he comes crawling back every time. The pain and loss of memory crushing him into a little ball.
Your fingers reach out to him holding his bicep lightly but he shrugs you off almost violently. He hates himself for being back here, for needing you.
“Yeah he’s dead, should’ve gone a danced in his chew toy mausoleum when you had the chance” he tries to joke but it comes out slightly strained, at least to your ears.
You circle him, reaching for the expensive bottle of scotch he gave you as a parting gift all those years ago. Popping in some ice cubes already prepared for his little digs but surprisingly nothing comes out. He gulps it down like he’s hasn’t had a drink in weeks. He quickly pours another glass taking that one back wincing at the burn
“Slow down,” you say sternly
“I’ll- I’ll fucking buy you another one” he immediately fires looking at you with an intensity. You can tell he hates being here. Well, hates that he has to be here again. He’d been okay for the most part but then every single person he loved had died or left him.
You silently take a seat on your couch, sipping on the scotch savoring the complexities on your tongue. Roman grips the glass tightly, hands shaking.
“I-“ his voice wavers, that first sense of vulnerability sinking deep into Roman’s bones and it fucking disgusts him. It rips him to shreds that he can’t keep his voice steady.
“I know I said-” he continues, filling up another glass. Watching the little ice cubes swirl in the amber liquid.
“I couldn’t… we couldn’t… please,” he says looking at you with those big puppy dog eyes, all wet, as he tries to hold back his tears.
“C’mere” you say softly spreading your legs and downing your scotch. You place the empty glass on the side table over his gloves as Roman shuffles towards you like a scolded child.
His heart sinks deep into his gut. The vile thoughts filling up his head, screaming at him not to do it but, he sits on your lap with shaky breath. Your fingers find the familiar path towards his knees.
Just like that the words dim and his breath picks up. The warmth of your palms seeping into his slacks, you knew that if you could see his eyes you’d see the swirl in them. The pink, smokey, tendrils of lust churning in his brain.
It wasn’t that Roman hated you, he didn’t. In some sick twisted Roman way he loved you. You were the only person who could touch him, the only person who could untuck his fresh pressed dress shirt and undo his slacks. The only one who could slide his zipper down without him immediately going into a manic state. But after the comfort always came the guilt. That’s what he hated, he hated the crashing of sadness and despair pulling him down after your touch was over.
Hated that he had to imagine it was your hands on him. That he yearned for you but you never sought him out. Not once, not even after he’d wined and dined you. Not after he let you into his fucked up head.
Of course Roman never knew the truth. It hurt. It hurt seeing him cry, it hurt seeing him broken beyond repair. You take solace in the fact that you were the only one that brought him relief even if it was momentary. So you press your face into the line of his back, fingers taking his leaking cock out. Roman’s practiced spit falling onto his cock, his eyes closed shut not wanting to look at it. Not right now.
He hated you for abandoning him. Hated the way he instantly moans when your warm hand wraps around his cock. The pool of heat burning deep in his gut.
“Fuck” he moans at your slow strokes. You wanted to prolong it. Smell his clean scent a little longer, feel the flex of his thighs on yours, memorize the hitch of his breath but Roman hasn’t been able to get off in a long time.
His breath heavy as more profanities leave this pink lips of his.
“Oh fuck” he groans, fingers digging into his slacks. You swirl your palm over his sensitive head, his toes curling in his dress shoes, jaw slacked.
“Fuck I’m- so fucking disgusting” he swallows his spit. Your other hand working at his balls, rolling the skin in between your fingers matching your strokes.
“Oh fuck oh fuck fuck fuck fuck” he whispers hurriedly, fingers clenching the fabric harder, his head hanging in submission. Giving into the pleasure, his stubbled jaw pressing into the pin-striped light-blue dress shirt.
You missed him. You missed his stupid quips. Missed the way his dumb little grin would show the dimple on his cheek. You missed that stupid idiot even when he was insulting you.
“G-god” he chokes.
“Just me” you chuckle, stroking him faster knowing his telltale signs like the back of your hand. You could feel his thighs clenching under your forearms, his back tightening, and his hips trying desperately to follow your movements.
He finally comes as he heaves for breath. A strangled noise leaving his throat as he ruins his slacks. All the pent up cum spilling on his stomach. You stroke his cock until he’s a whimpering mess. The back of his head tilted back pressing into your shoulder.
You wanted to hug him. You wanted to tell him everything would be okay but you know he’d only push you off. You hold your tongue as he slowly sits up pushing your hands away and tucking himself back into his pants. He swallows hard, trying to busy himself with wiping the cum off with a napkin.
You keep your lips sealed when you see his face. That anguished look in his eyes, another painful reminder of why you didn’t do this anymore but his little ‘please’ broke you down. He leaves mumbling some stupid line about you being a whore. His heart aching as he tries to straighten out his wrinkled slacks.
Your heart hurts, it hurts so much but this is what Roman did. He used and abused because he was broken. You could never fix him not even if you tried but what would happen when you found a partner? When you wouldn’t let him into your apartment again?
The next day another bottle of scotch sits at your doorstep, you tuck it away into the same cupboard, holding his glass as a tear slips down your cheek.
#roman roy#succession#succession roman#succession hbo#succession spoilers#roman roy x reader#roman roy smut#roman roy imagine#roman roy fanfic#roman roy x you#roman roy / you#roman roy / reader#Im sad#gender neutral reader#kinktober#kinktober 2023#smut
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The world would actually be so beautiful and cool if there was no beef between some of the Tubblings and Crows.
Like guys... there are always toxic and shitty people who are uncharitable on both sides. By no means should a handful of people with bad takes about your blorbo define a whole group. I'm so tired of seeing posts about how all Tubblings or all Crows are the worst people to exist. Those groups are literally too big to define like that, especially if that take comes from the opinions of hate anons, like 4 Tumblr blogs or even worse Twitter discourse. Twitter's algorithm is literally designed to feed you strong reactionary takes so you get angry and stay on the site longer.
The core of the issue here: There are Crows who think qPhilza is perfect and he's fucking not and there are Tubblings who think qTubbo is perfect and he's fucking not.
BOTH OF OUR CUBE GUYS ARE FLAWED PEOPLE AND THEY ARE ALSO (PRIMARILY) SINGLE PARENTS JUST TRYING THEIR BEST!!! Both of them often fuck up in social situations, use comedy to cope which is perceived poorly, and will lean towards isolation and self sacrifice as the solution to their problems. There are so many interesting parallels to examine here, but it gets missed by so many!!
I feel like pov bias can hit people in this fandom so hard sometimes. It's like people just forget that there are two sides to every story and its worth it to try to interpret situations charitably. Not every action is malicious, and watching with that preconceived notion will fuck up your interpretations. QPhilza and QTubbo are friends on good terms, and there is tons of evidence for that, yet people act like these characters are purposefully hostile to each other all the time.
I could write a damn essay about the failure of media literacy as a direct result of people getting waaaay too defensive about their cubitos. It happens on both sides, and even I am not immune to it sometimes because I'm human. However, as a mostly neutral party who watches both streamers, it's wild to see the escalation of this discourse.
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the one with jihoon and the gold medal
pairing: lee jihoon x gn!reader
type: drabble | genre: fluff | rating: pg15 | wc: 800
au: best friends to ?
summary: jihoon is the featherweight champion of pining. he’s also pretty adept at getting you home from the bar at the end of the night.
cw: reader is drunk, jihoon is down bad, and the ending is up for debate.
a/n: i wrote this in jihoon’s pov, and i left it very ambiguous about what reader’s feelings are. i’d love to hear your thots 👀
🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.
There are two things that Lee Jihoon knows for sure he can’t do.
He can’t drive, which has no meaningful impact on his day-to-day life. The world doesn’t start or stop turning because he doesn’t have his license, despite what his friends seem to think. The fact that he can’t drink would — theoretically — be a little less shitty if he could drive, though.
Because that’s not the case, he’s always the only sober person on any given night out. Worse, he can’t even get his shitfaced friends home without attempting to wrangle them on public transit. That, for the record, is a nightmare far above his fucking pay grade.
So, more often than not, Jihoon doesn’t stick around for the drinks that always follow dinner. He shows up, eats his weight in white rice, and when there’s nothing left on the table but a mess of empty dishes, he bails. He’s got a routine down, executes it flawlessly every time.
Almost every time.
Tonight may have slipped away from him, but it’s not his fault — it’s yours. If you hadn’t squeezed his forearm while laughing at one of his jokes, Jihoon would be home free by now. But you did, and he’s not, and he’s somehow finding it difficult to categorize this as a failure.
No, the way you get the tiniest bit more affectionate when you’re tipsy feels a hell of a lot like success. Just for a little while, Jihoon can let you tuck yourself under his arm; and he can pretend he’s not trapped in the silent hell that is yearning — and oh, god, does he yearn. You, however, come with a price tag.
For the astronomical cost of the most meaningful friendship he has, he could clue you in on the pining. Check the temperature, see if your heart sounds like a cartoonish, old-timey car horn whenever you see him. That’s a bigger risk than Jihoon’s willing to take, and even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t know where the fuck to start.
“I ah-wooga you”?
Absolutely fucking not.
Jihoon doesn’t realize he’s gazing at you until you toss a crinkled-up chopstick wrapper at him. It bounces off of his unsuspecting chin, drops down into his lap. He blinks while he buffers, then he stares at you with an incredulousness that’s entirely manufactured, mouth hanging open. More than anything, he’s impressed by your aim in this state.
“Since when can you astral project, Jihoonie?” You ask with a laugh that’s likely a lot louder than you realize.
He’s impassive on the outside, but on the inside, he’s a puddle of goo. When you’re buzzed, he’s not oppa anymore — just Jihoonie — and it makes his knees wobble. To distract himself, Jihoon picks up the ball of paper and fires it back at you with shocking precision. Your eyes cross, almost in slow motion, as you watch it hit the tip of your nose.
Bullseye.
Pretending to be chill about any of this, Jihoon shrugs and says, “None of your business,” just to see if you’ll pout — and you do, you do, you do. He’s doomed, he realizes with a smile he can’t fight off. Oh, well.
You pick up your drink and down what little’s left of it before gesturing his way. The ice cubes clink against the glass. Uninhibited, he thinks, just like you. Donning puppy-dog eyes, you announce, “I think I need to go home now.”
There’s no question included because there’s no reality in which you’d ever have to ask. Jihoon is on his feet before you can punctuate that statement, hand held out to haul you up to yours. You squeak — an acceptance of his offer, he dares to presume — and then you take his hand.
You don’t let go once you stand up, which he attributes to your unsteadiness. Still, it doesn’t make him any less grateful for the way your fingers take up residency in the space between his.
Even if it’s all he can be, he’ll be your anchor. If it means physically steering you towards the train station and hovering nearby when you attempt to befriend every living being — human or otherwise — that you encounter along the way, so be it. If he winds up loving you harder with every staggered step you take in the wrong direction, well… What else is new?
“Ready?” He asks with a tilt of his head towards the bar’s front door.
“Set, go!” You shout, and you sure as shit do.
At a rate of speed he could’ve never predicted, no less.
It’s a mad dash to the exit — one he wasn’t ready for, and one that nearly makes him fall over — but he keeps pace with you, like always. His foot crosses the threshold first, as a matter of fact, so he turns his head to brag to you about it. You’re already looking at him, grin beaming like a fucking spotlight, and he doesn’t need to state the obvious.
Jihoon knows he’s the winner.
#re: the one with jihoon and the gold medal#jade writes#jade’s drabbles#ljh#svt#lee jihoon#seventeen#jihoon#woozi#svt drabble#svt fluff#svt imagine#svt scenarios#jihoon drabble#jihoon fluff#jihoon imagine#jihoon scenarios#woozi drabble#woozi fluff#woozi imagine#woozi scenarios#jihoon x reader#jihoon x you#jihoon x y/n#woozi x reader#woozi x you#woozi x y/n
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