#its nice seeing him talk about things like this
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𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄
PAIRING: JACKSON!JOEL MILLER X FEMALE READER
RATING: EXPLICIT (18+ MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 1.5k
SUMMARY | Nowadays, he’s got the look of a man who’s discovered safety after survival, more life in his face, more weight on his bones. His hair has grown out, curling around his neck and more prominent streaks of gray at his temples and in his beard. This thing between the two of you remains undefined, comes and goes like waves crashing on a shore, but you’ll take what you can get because you’ve never been good about avoiding temptation.
AUTHOR’S NOTE | One glimpse of Pedro as Joel in the new season has turned me into a woman possessed. Thank you @undrthelights and @janaispunk for giving this a read for me 💕
ways to help palestine
WARNINGS | explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, porn without plot, mild angst, able bodied reader, no physical reader descriptions or age mentioned, jackson era, mentions of joel's weight (in the context of looking healthier in jackson), emotionally constipated joel, dirty talk, praise, pet names, kitchen sex, oral sex - f receiving (while standing), unprotected p in v, limited aftercare. let me know if i’ve missed any!
A noise breaks through your dreams, a loud banging that startles you from sleep and leaves you blinking at the ceiling. Thoughts still fuzzy, you stumble down the stairs and through your kitchen to the back door that rattles in its frame with each pound of a fist against it. You glance at the neon red numbers of the stove clock and at this hour, there can only be one culprit.
“Joel, what the fuck,” you groan, opening the door. “It’s two in the morning, what is wrong with you?” He doesn’t answer, simply shoulders past you and into your house. “Oh, sure come on in, make yourself—“
Your sarcastic remark is abruptly cut off by his lips crashing against yours, mouth hot and hungry as he skips any semblance of pleasantry and dives straight into carnal desire. His teeth graze your lip, the sting soothed by his tongue before it tangles with yours. Your fingers curl into his jacket sleeves, hanging on for dear life as he backs you into a wall, the two of you hitting one with a dull thump that disturbs the picture frames.
He shoves a knee between your thighs and pins you to the plaster, every sense invaded by him as he continues to consume you. When his mouth leaves yours and begins to leave hot kisses like brands across your neck, you finally find your voice again.
“Joel, what—“
“Shut up,” he grunts. You’re taken aback by the command and you have half a mind to smack him across the head for it, but he’s got his teeth on your earlobe and he adds, “I just, I need this, okay? Please?”
The fight leaves you in one fell swoop because you’d do anything for Joel if he just asks nicely. You nod and he returns to his task of turning you into a puddle with a single minded determination. When you start to rock your hips against his denim clad thigh in a desperate bid for friction, you feel, rather than see, the grin on his face.
“Mm, just as needy for me, ain’t you?” He teases. You frown.
“Don’t push your luck, Miller,” you snap. He laughs, a deep rumble that reminds you of the thunderstorms in the spring. “I can still kick you out of my house.”
“You won’t.” Confident, cocky, a man who knows he has you in the palm of his ridiculously skilled hands. “If you’d been smart, you would have kicked me out the first time. Now I’m just like a stray dog, ain’t gettin’ rid of me now.”
The first time, when he showed up in Jackson with a chip on his shoulder and a frown on his face. His hair had been shorter, his frame a bit smaller, his eyes a lot more vacant. He walked you home one night from the Tipsy Bison and when he kissed you under the glow of your porch light, his mouth tasted like whiskey, not unlike it does tonight.
Nowadays, he’s got the look of a man who’s discovered safety after survival, more life in his face, more weight on his bones. His hair has grown out, curling around his neck and more prominent streaks of gray at his temples and in his beard. This thing between the two of you remains undefined, comes and goes like waves crashing on a shore, but you’ll take what you can get because you’ve never been good about avoiding temptation.
While your thoughts drifted to the past, Joel has dropped to his knees and is curling his fingers into the elastic of your underwear, dragging the fabric down your thighs.
“In the kitchen? Really?” You huff. “There’s a perfectly good bedroom upstairs.”
“Too far,” he says, tossing your underwear aside.
Despite your complaints, there is something undeniably sexy about having Joel kneeling before you, impatient enough that he’ll take you right where you stand. He shuffles closer, lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and lavishes your clit with broad swipes of his tongue.
Your head drops back as you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair as he pulls out every trick in the book of your pleasure, alternating between fast circles and sucking the bundle of nerves between his lips. It’s not long before you’ve reached the precipice of your release, teetering on a razor thin edge before finally falling into oblivion with a gasp of his name. He groans against you as you come, waves of it rolling through you.
“So fuckin’ good,” he says as he pulls away. You look down at him with a half-lidded stare, his chin wet in the low light and his own gaze dark with lust. He stands, slowly, with a bit of a wince because of his bad knee that he tries to hide with a grin. “C’mere.”
You let him pull you away from the wall and into his arms where he kisses you, his lips and tongue drenched in your taste. He walks you back to your little kitchen table, kicking a chair out of the way so that he can turn you to face it, a palm between your shoulder blades urging you down until you’re bent over the wooden surface.
The clink of his belt buckle falling to the linoleum makes your muscles clench in anticipation. Joel’s palm smooths down your back, almost reverently, before reaching your ass and giving it a rough squeeze.
“You’re killin’ me, you know that?” He asks. You turn your head, glancing at him over your shoulder.
“Me? I’m not doing anything, I’m waiting for you to quit teasing.”
“That’s just it,” he says, sliding the head of his cock through your messy pussy before notching himself at your entrance. “You ain’t gotta do anythin’ except exist and you’ll drive me crazy.”
Any response you had dies a swift death as he presses inside of you, filling you in the most tortuous way. The ache of the stretch quickly fades as he bottoms out with a deep groan, his hands gripping your waist tight enough that you know you’ll feel the phantom sting of bruises in the morning. He sets a rough, demanding pace, the sound of skin against skin cacophonous in your little kitchen. You can’t hold back the noises of pleasure he wrings from you as he slams in deep with each thrust and pulls out so far that you’re practically empty before doing it over and over again.
“So fuckin’ gorgeous like this, so tight,” he grunts. You arch your back the slightest bit, changing the angle so that each drive of his cock drags against that spot inside of you that has you seeing stars and whimpering his name. “God, that’s it, sweetheart. Take it so pretty.”
“Joel,” you moan. “Please, please, please.”
“Beggin’ to come again?” He asks. “So greedy, ain’t that right?”
“Yes,” you sob. “Need to come, please, Joel!”
“I gotcha, baby.” His hand slips between your thighs and his fingers pinch your sensitive clit. “Come on, come on my cock so I can fill you up.”
It’s an empty threat, but one that works. Your muscles go tight with your second orgasm, your cunt pulsing around him as his thrusts grow erratic, uncoordinated as he chases his own high. He pulls out just seconds before making good on his word, painting your skin with warm release.
As you catch your breath, his warmth leaves your side. You vaguely register the sound of running water before a cold rag is wiping away the mess on your ass and cleaning up the slick between your thighs, the rough fabric over your sensitive flesh making you jump. Joel shushes you, another pass of his soothing palm down your back as he finishes wiping you clean.
You stand up straight on shaky legs and collapse in the chair that he’d kicked from the table to make room for your bodies. He’s already pulled his pants back up, the only evidence of your tryst in the sheen of sweat on his brow and his hair in disarray. His jaw grows tense as you watch him and he shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot in the awkward aftermath.
“Thanks,” he says. “Needed that.”
“So you said,” you reply. “Did something happen?”
“Just some bullshit with Tommy.”
“Brother bullshit or town bullshit?”
“Bit of both.”
“Oh.”
He nods, glancing at the door. “I should get goin’.”
“Right.”
Joel doesn’t move for the door, though. No, he steps in close, taking your face in his warm hands and kissing you softly, gently, a wild juxtaposition to his earlier attentions. When he pulls away, you can’t help but reach up and smooth a thumb between his eyebrows, trying smooth the line of concern there.
“You don’t have to leave,” you whisper. You’ve said it before. You’ll say it again. You’ll keep saying it, until the ship that passes you in the night returns to your harbor.
“I do,” he replies, stepping back. You give him a tired smile.
Tonight isn’t that night.
Thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging or commenting if you enjoyed! You can find more of my writing below:
Joel Miller masterlist | All character masterlists
#joel miller x reader#joel miller#joel miller fic#joel miller x female reader#joel miller smut#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x you#joel tlou#joel x reader#no use of y/n#jackson era joel#long hair joel
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PostOutbreak!Joel likes reader but he tries to hide it because of the age gap. To try and put us off, he can be a bit standoffish/mean but Ellie can tell it’s a facade and tells him to drop it and the age thing doesn’t matter if you really like each other. Then a fluffy confession omggg
Pairing: PostOutbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader
Warnings: unspecified age gap, joel being a lil insecure and scared, and Ellie being a menace, but its mostly all fluff who am i kidding
a/n: this was the cutest fucking request ever, thank you anon
You know those books or movies where it's painfully clear to everyone but the two main characters that they love each other, and you keep reading or watching thinking "How could anyone not see that he likes her?" as you increasingly get more frustrated and annoyed?
Well, this is a bit like that,
not a bit actually, completely so.
And in this metaphor, you and Joel were the two oblivious main characters, while Ellie, poor Ellie, was the unfortunate witness of your blindness.
It was so incredibly clear to her that she sometimes struggled not to laugh at your interactions.
I mean the first time Joel saw you was the very first time she'd seen him blush and forget how to speak in the span of a second- it was hilarious.
And then when he'd catch him staring at you or pretend not to purposely take the longer route home just to catch a glimpse of you outside the bakery... it was hard to only chuckle underneath her breath, but she managed...
until today
Joel slammed the door as he got it, like really loud, not like his usual slam.
"what's wrong?" Ellie asked, her brows frowning in suspicion as he kicked his boots off his feet before halfheartedly dragging them to the kitchen where she was sitting.
"nothin'" he grumbled,
Now that made Ellie sigh with annoyance,
he was always the one to blab about how she could always confide in him, and if that was the truth, then that meant it went both ways.
"Y'know a grumpy old man once told me that it's good to share how you're feeling" She tilted her head to the side, raising her brow as Joel rolled his eyes, filling a glass with water "Would be real hypocritical of him to not take his own advice..."
Said old man, was now rolling his eyes even harder, drowning the full glass in a second
"'s nothing, don't worry 'bout it"
"Joel" Ellie only glared at him,
and as always when it was her,
he was convinced faster than he liked to admit
He sighed, before speaking "It's stupid" he said
"I don't care" Ellie shrugged, placing her elbows on the kitchen counter where she sat and using her hands to support her head, her whole focus on Joel,
who sighed, again.
"I just-" he placed the glass in the sink before turning back to her "I just saw y/n talking to I guy I-"
"Oh my god you're jealous!" she said it with such enthusiasm and with such a smile pulling at her lips that you would have guessed she'd just won the lottery
"no" Joel frowned, shaking his head "What are you on about? I'm not jealous, I just don't like the guy"
"yeah" Ellie snorted "I'm sure you just "don't like the guy"" she air quoted as she laughed
"Why would I be jealous?" Joel went on pretending,
perhaps lying to himself together with her, the jury was still out.
"I'm just worried for her-" he argued "she's too kind and too fucking nice and Jake's an asshole"
again, Ellie only smiled as she watched him lie so blatantly
"why would you be jealous?" she pondered his question with amusement "well I don't know... maybe 'cause you have the biggest fucking crush on her"
"What!?" he spat "I don't know what's going on with you today, where did you get all these ideas? I-"
"Oh my god please shut up Joel" she groaned, rolling her eyes "That rude asshole act you do around y/n may work with her, but you don't fool me, Miller"
Ellie could swear she saw a hint of panic in his eyes
"I know you like her, just like I know she likes you" She finally said, done with this little act "I honestly don't get why you two don't just declare your love to one another and live happily ever after or some shit"
It was like he froze,
and while Ellie thought it was because he'd just been busted by a 14-year-old, it was for a wholly different reason
"she doesn't like me" he stated
And at that, at that Ellie could just groan as her palm descended dramatically down the length of her face
God, she'd always known he wasn't the brightest, but this? This is a little too much even for him
"Are you blind or something?" she threw her hands out for emphasis "She's definitely better at hiding it than you, I'll give you that, but I mean, still... it's fucking obvious dude!"
"Ellie" Joel only shook his head "you 'don't know whatcha talkin' 'bout"
Ellie was now very close to yelling at him.
"Joel I'm serious, she likes likes you!" she argued, "why do you find that so hard to believe?"
But of course, Ellie couldn't have known what was going on in Joel's mind, how certain he was that it wasn't true,
about how he knew he didn't deserve someone like you, someone so kind and beautiful and smart,
how he had spent months trying to get the thought of you to leave his tainted mind,
how he'd decided to be mean, rough, rude to you in the hopes that you would stop being so nice to him, in the hopes that you would start to avoid him, to hate him, and he'd never have to see you or that gorgeous smile again.
And finally, Ellie didn't know about how he was too incredibly, terribly old for you, for such a pretty young woman.
Half his hair was gray for god's sake, he never had a chance
"I could be her father Ellie" he finally confessed what had been eating up at him for so long "I'm too fuckin' old"
Ellie didn't even need a moment to take that it, she listened, thought about it, and immediately rolled her eyes
"SO WHAT?"
You don't understand how long she had to pretend not to want to give the both of you a good shake,
it was only right for her to finally shout it out
"First of all, you're not that old" she started listing, "second of all, she obviously doesn't care" she continued "and finally Joel, if you really like her, and if she really likes you, then it doesn't matter!"
But Joel was not convinced, he'd spent too long telling himself the opposite, and he couldn't even fathom the possibility of what Ellie was saying
"you just have to tell her"
she said it like it was easy, like the mere thought of it didn't give Joel a minor heart attack, like he hadn't woken up from multiple dreams where he would confess his love and you would laugh at his face, or worse, tell him you felt the same, something Joel knew not to be the truth.
Also, Joel had no idea when exactly throughout this conversation he'd admitted to liking you, but I guess it didn't matter now, it made no sense to keep the farse on.
"I can't Ellie, I-"
"oh my god you're such a chicken" she moaned "You're the one that always tells me to be brave!"
"that's different"
"how!?" she bugged her eyes, holding her palms up in show of her frustration "I get that it's scary, but what's the worst thing that could happen?"
And that, for some reason, stuck with him,
He really had nothing to lose,
It's not like you were friends or you would talk often, it's not like he would be ruining a relationship, there wasn't one,
And yet... yet it still terrified him,
"Ellie... I don't know"
"c'mon man, but your big boy pants on" she groaned "I'm telling you, she fucking likes you"
__ __ __
Joel didn't do it.
He couldn't. He just-
You were perfect, you were perfect in a way that made him feel all the more dirty,
like being close to you, talking to you, touching you... would be like plucking a flower with torn-up hands,
And fuck him, but Joel was scared, like he'd gone back 40 years and become 16 all over again.
He couldn't do it, he couldn't, wouldn't do it, and he'd set his mind to that, made peace with his cowardness and dread.
Until of course, Ellie's twisted mind came up with a way to force his fears to life.
"Howdy"
The kid was smiling so broadly that she looked like a child with a brand-new toy,
but Joel's eyes were somewhere else,
he was looking at you
"Hi Joel" you smiled, punching a knife into his gut
You were at his front door with his kid, who was very clearly plotting something, and Joel wondered for a moment if this was what would finally make his heart give out.
"Hi," he said, his voice sounding distant
Why is she here?
"Aren't you gonna let us in?" Ellie urged,
Us?
"Uhm, I-"
but Ellie had already sneaked inside, dragging you behind
And now the awkward scene was even more awkward, just at the entrance of his home.
"All alright" Ellie clapped her hands, watching Joel stare at you as you tried to avoid his gaze "I'm gonna go to my room," she said, shouldering him not so subtly
"Cool down dude" she mumbled, before disappearing upstairs.
What the fuc-
"I'm sorry to barge in like this" you finally spoke, a gentle smile on your lips "Ellie said you needed to tell me something, so I just... came here I guess" you finished with an awkward laugh
Fuck-fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-
"If it's too much trouble I'll just go-"
"no," Joel said, before he could stop himself, finally realizing he was still holding the door's knob, and in a spur of bravery, deciding to use it to close the door.
"Oh, ok" you mumbled, puzzled by his demeanor "so uhm, what is it you needed to tell me?"
God damn that fucking trick-playing kid of his
"do you- do you want something to drink?"
the question took you aback, but then you did something that stunned Joel even more, you laughed,
you laughed softly, quickly, like you were letting out all this stupid awkwardness in a simple gesture
because that's how you were: Magical
"Sure" you shrugged, grinning "some water would be nice"
If Joel had to watch your face for an instant more he feared he was gonna explode, so he did all he could think of, he walked to the kitchen, only glancing at you again when he handed you your drink,
to his dismay, finding a smile still drawn on your lips.
"thank you" you said, taking a sip
god, even the way your lips wrapped around the rim made him want to drop to his knees.
He needed to get a grip.
"so... are you gonna tell me or do I have to guess?" you joked, your fingers drawing patterns on the glass
Was this really happening?
Was this hell?
"I..." he trailed off, running a hand through his hair as he glanced from the counter to you on repeat "I wanted to tell you that..."
"that?"
"that- the uhm-" he shut his eyes for a second, searching for words "the...bread you gave us this week was real good"
Goddamnit
"oh"
Even you couldn't hide your disappointment
I mean, you certainly didn't expect it. A compliment from Joel Miller? What universe were you in?
Just like you didn't expect any of this... him actually letting you in his house or offering you water...
You had half expected him to shut the door in your face,
The most he had ever given you was a half smile at a joke you told him while he was picking up bread, the rest were all rude grumbles or just a bunch of stoic looks...
and yet... yet a part of you couldn't help but have set expectations a little higher.
What a silly fool you'd been,
hoping for a love confession from a man who has made it very clear he despises you,
but still- a girl can dream, right?
"thank you" you mumbled, as Joel cursed himself over and over in his head "that's very nice of you," you smiled, stalling a second to see if he was gonna say something else, interrupt you at some point,
but he remained silent
"well if that's all, I'm gonna go then, thank you for the water I-"
Until he wasn't
"no-stop- I-"
Ellie was right.
He had to do this, he had to win his fear and try at least, or he was gonna regret it for the rest of his life, and he already had too many of those.
The problem was that you looked really beautiful today, and he'd never been good with words
Fuck it- if he was gonna make a fool of himself so be it,
He had nothing to lose and everything to win,
he had you to win.
"Yes?" you asked, trying to tame your hopes down
Think Joel, think
how the fuck do you tell a woman you like her?
"There's one other thing I've been meaning to tell ya" he cleared his throat, standing up straighter as he took a step closer to you.
"'m not great at doing this type of thing" he admitted, shaking his head slightly "but Ellie... she's right, I'm always tellin' her to be brave and everythin', so... I guess it's my turn now," he said, letting out a short, anxious laugh "I don't even know- I guess what I'm tryna say is that I'm gonna be honest now, but I want you to know that- that I know what you're gonna say and it's ok" he swallowed thickly, preparing himself from your inevitable rejection "I understand, really, I just- I thought I should try at least"
What was going on?
What the fuck was he saying?
"Joel, what are you talking about?"
This was it.
It was now or never.
"Y/n I-"
his heart was beating out of his chest, and his legs felt like jelly, but he had to do it, he had to take a leap of faith-
"Y/n I like you" he breathed like the words longed to be out of his mouth "I like you a lot, I have for a while now"
he watched your mouth part, your whole face filling with shock as you blinked over and over, trying to make sure this was really happening.
"Y-you like me?"
"yes" he nodded "And as I said, I know you don't feel the same, I know I'm old, and I've been an asshole to you all this time, so it's ok, really I-"
"stop talking Joel" you huffed a laugh, stepping closer, and then closer again, until your hand was on his arm "please just-" you bit down a smile, and he was so confused, so fucking confused, "say it again," you asked
"I like you y/n" he murmured, trying to get his mind to start working again,
but you were leaning closer,
and who cared what his name was anyway
"you were rude to me"
"I was, I'm sorry I-"
You pretended to be thinking about it, glancing upwards as you pursed your lips together
But who were you kidding?
"you're forgiven" you smiled, looking up at him as you slowly raised yourself on your tiptoes to gently, oh so gently, press your lips to his.
Joel was certain he had just died.
But then he opened his eyes again, and you were still there, beaming up at him, and he felt such a wave of happiness that he could have started crying right there,
only he took on a different route and grabbed each side of your face with his hands, crashing his lips with yours and kissing you, kissing you like he'd been dreaming of for months
exactly how you imagined he would,
better than you imagined, actually
so much better.
"Ha! I told you, Joel!"
He groaned as he leaned away, shooting Ellie an annoyed glance
"What are you doin' here?"
"just came here to gloat" she shrugged, watching you two with a grin plastered on her face
"I think you've done enough of that" he muttered, but you could only smile
"thank you, Ellie," you grinned "Thank you for doing this"
She raised her brows, looking at Joel as if saying "See, she's thanking me, why aren't you?", but then her expression got more genuine as she shot you a smile
"you're welcome" she smiled "Better having to see you kiss than having to put up with Joel being all sad 'cause you're talking to Jack or any other guy"
You gasped with amusement as Joel shut his eyes in embarrassment, his cheeks tainting with red
"Ellie-" Joel grumbled,
A soft giggle flowed through the room as Ellie turned away and went back up to her room, seemingly satisfied with her work
"You were jealous?" you teased him, your hands on his chest, while he'd moved one of his from your face to your waist.
"maybe I was" he fessed up
You smiled even brighter
"And you like me?" you asked for the thousandth time
"yes, sweetheart, I really fuckin' like you" he smiled too now, his lips finding yours again in a kiss that made time stand still and the world spin around
"I like you too Joel" you finally said, giving the man an actual mini-stroke.
"say it again"
#sorry for not posting lately im not going through the best time at the moment#joel miller#joel miller x reader#joel miller fluff#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#joel miller fanfic#joel miller x fem!reader#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x y/n#joel miller smut#joel miller x you#smut#pedro pascal#pedro pascal x reader#fluff#joel miller imagine#joel miller blurb#joel miller angst#fanfiction#the last of us#tlou#the last of us hbo#tlou hbo#joel miller x f!reader
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Special customer
Redhood
Special customer Redhood who gains the title by beating up some shady guys attempting to break into your bakery and apartment above it, and after the job was done, you begged him to stay around until you got a new security system installed. But even with it installed, he seems to be in the area. One night, you offered him a coffee, and now every night on patrol, he comes for his coffee.
Special customer Redhood, got a pretty sweet drink, not something a vigilante would drink. It was a black coffee with 5 pumps of caramel and a dash of cinnamon sugar. Something about the unlikely order was cute in a way.
Special customer Redhood, doesn't know that you have an alarm set, so you can wake up late enough to catch him and give him his coffee. One day he catches you, though. You come downstairs to check to see if he was there yet, and he sees you in pajamas, your hair up so you can sleep comfortably,
"Wait, were you sleeping?" He looks you up and down.
"Nice pajamas"
Only then does he look up the hours of the bakery, seeing that it closes at 10 p.m., whereas he's coming in between 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. That was when he first realized how considerate you were.
Special customer Redhood finally asks you about your day after two weeks of him coming in for a cup of coffee and a weirdly comfortable silence while he drinks and unwinds from his long patrol.
"How was your day... You look exhausted." He took a long pause, realizing he didn't know your name, but to his surprise, you laughed, and after that one small gesture, he knew he wanted to hear it again.
You and him talked for a few hours until his headset pinged that there was something suspicious going on in the area he was supposed to be patrolling, but here he was flirting with a baker.
He never got your name.
Special customer Redhood, gets the same thing every time, so eventually you give his order a special name. His own secret menu item. special customer, Redhood, who asks
"Did you name this drink after me?" When you say
"One red cup coming up." The name was Corny, and it slipped up before you could stop yourself, and now you cringed as you could hear the smirk in his heavily distorted voice. His question was immediately met with denial.
Special customer Redhood enjoyed talking with you and learning about you. He also liked how you weren't pushy, not asking anything that could put his identity at risk. Here's a list of things he told you.
He liked classic literature.
He had never tried matcha before you made him try your new matcha white chocolate cookies.
He loved animals and always wanted a big dog.
His favorite color was red, which was unrelated to the choice of name.
He never went to college.
New customer Jason Todd, who made you raise an eyebrow when he ordered a "red cup," had a barely noticeable smirk like he was thinking of an inside joke. Your eyebrow raised a bit more when a younger-looking guy asked
"Jason, why this bakery? It's not even a real coffee shop; they just happen to sell three types of coffee and a special lemonade. And its super put of the way."
His words were met with a flick to the back of his head by Jason.
"Because I like it here."
New-ish customer Jason, who came in mornings ordering the same thing every couple of days every so often, had a person or two with him. But while Jason wasn't consistent, but you like him any.
Special customer Redhood, who had been planning on asking you out as Jason for months. It was now winter, and the snow on the ground made him think of you. He knew winter was your favorite season, and it was the first snow of the season today. He knew it had to be today.
Innocent bystanders Dick, Damian, and Tim watched their brother go mad over a baker. A mix of happiness and impending doom lingered amongst the group they had started taking bets on when he would finally ask her out a while ago. And so far, Alfred is the closest to winning.
Regular customer Jason Todd, who had run into the bakery with flowers in hand right before closing, Slightly out of breath, he asked
"Will you go out to dinner with me? Saturday night at 8 p.m.?"
"Sure." You smile happily, accepting his offer and you watch as his eyes light up and he hands you the bouquet of flowers.
Boyfriend Jason Todd, who is surprised when you, after a year of dating, reveal that you've been suspicious since day one, All because of a stupid drink with a corny name.
Boyfriend Jason Todd, who can't help but tease you,.
"So it was named after me?"
Boyfriend and soon-to-be fiancée Jason Todd, who proposes to you on the roof of your apartment and bakery the whole roof was decked out with a vine covered arch and fairy lights.
"So, will you marry me?"
He gets on one knee, opening a gorgeous engagement ring with your favorite precious stone inside. It was your dream ring, and he was your dream guy, and of course you said yes.
Fiancée Jason Todd, who pulls you into a passionate kiss when he hears the words leave your lips, couldn't be more excited to spend the rest of his life with you.
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Chapter 11 of TDIAG ٩(◕‿◕)۶
CW for this one: p in v, semi-public sex, alcohol
WC: 9.4K
PREVIOUS PARTS HERE | WATTPAD EDITION | patreon here
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When Isla crumples into her bed, over sheets tucked tight, edges to corner, her sandals are still on her feet, unshed. They dangle over the edge of the mattress. It entirely slips her mind that she was meant to send Harry a text that she’d gotten home.
You’ll text me when you get home.
Safe and sound. She feels something wedged between her molars — seaweed, maybe, and the bitter tang of unease. A faze that washes over her tongue as she prongs it out from its enamelized prison. She’s safe and sound, sprawled over linen, and somehow the churning behind her ribcage doesn’t simmer away.
She’d been instructed to send a message, actually. It’d been a command. The first time is an accident, but she begins to wonder if she’s breaking some unspoken, unagreed upon rule when she airs Harry Realtor’s Good morning text the next day, sidling out of bed to haphazardly attempt taming her mane of sleep-mussed hair for the workday.
She thinks, it must stipple more into a morally ambiguous territory, rather than a simple sex-rule-disappointment thing, when she notices his Everything okay? message a few hours post her lunch break… and opts to silence his notifications entirely.
She doesn’t know what she’s running from. Seeing his texts surge through the aether and light her LED alive makes a raw panic curdle her bloodstream, but she’s known for weeks that the leather and chains — an alter ego she’d become well accustomed to — was entwined with the seemingly sweet real estate agent, masquerading.
Metathesiophobia. That’s what it’s called on the internet. A long word for a throbbing affliction. Harry doesn’t text again. Dissecting the root of the discomfort feels like discomfort in and of itself.
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There’s a thin partition between girl’s-night-woo and stuffing an empty chasm in your chest with agave tequila. It slides down into a cavity that already burns on its own, incinerated muscle in the vale of her décolletage — her own consequences, skin muggy over the surface even under the flits of the fans hanging overhead. Karmic misfortunes. Isla’s skin would sear if he was here, but how the vug between her ribs seethes without his touch. Pay the dues. It’sa tardy bill tucked under a creaky mattress — there’s a smoldering hole burnt through the center, and springs stick from its charred flesh.
Salut.
She takes a swig, sets the glass down, and thumbs at the salt on the rim. The charms on the bangle sway. Miryea wiggles her eyebrows. The void sizzles. The recipe: one part unrequited longing, one part margarita. Isla misses cherries and scorching kisses.
She’s moping. Probably, she should find a nice guy — kind eyes burnished in bar lights, twinkling, one button undone under his collarbones. The kind of grin that could get her, half-lidded, to forget all about that wallowing hole. She should let him buy her a drink, smooth the pads of her fingers over his warm knuckles when he passes her something citrusy and strong. Kiss him like there’s a mask sealed to his eyes, let him skim her incisors with his tongue. She wouldn’t bite. Good girl. Sir for the night. He’d slot between her thighs, but it wouldn’t mend that rotting lacuna — a bandaid, skin glued to flesh over sweaty bed sheets.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Isla looks. Bandaid isn’t talking to her. He’s tow headed, and leant against the bar, one elbow on the soapstone, wedged in the liminal void between the stools. Miryea does that thing she does, then, that slow, charmingly bemused blink — little old me? She never sleeps with them, but she’ll watch them pull their wallets out and pass cash across the bar, then take their drinks with a friendly curl to her mouth. Miryea doesn’t even bring her card to the bar.
Isla nearly, actually contemplates finally texting him back.
It’s funny, the way liquor bottles melt to orbs, glinting in the light when she focuses on the broad array behind the bartender, traipsing and bantering, and lets her eyes rest, lids open. I’m sorry. Blue Moscato, bleary, is a glowy Neptune. Her eyes gloss salty. I miss sleeping with you. She blinks and cobalt reshapes. I miss you. Blue Moscato. It’s just a bottle.
It’s just sex.
Isla spares another glance. Bandaid’s choice of shirt is eclectic and unbuttoned just enough to showcase the faint dusting of snowy chest hair adorning the space between his swarthy pecs.
She thinks they start talking, then. Lime has never felt so glum. He buys Miryea a drink. Isla thumbs more of the salt off, just until the tip is tacky with simple syrup.
“—Hey.”
She twists her chin. Miryea’s cradling a glass of something green in her palm.
“Let’s head over there.”
Free drinks.
There’s a wall behind the wrought iron staircase — tongue and groove cedar climbs behind the railing, paneling in vertical slats to the ceiling. It splits off a secluded booth.
It’s a Friday night. All she wants is to be bracketed by Harry’s warm, massive biceps. She wants to nip into the sinew of pumped, onyx etched muscle, at the anatomically accurate sketch of the heart there, and she wants to feel the top row of his front teeth latch on the cartilage of her ear in response. She wants to feel the mirthy rumble in his chest against her back before she hears him hum over gristle; this soft, muffled roll grounding with the same energy of bare toes wiggling at the edge of a muddy littoral. Instead, there’s a pending hangover. And anyways, this nightlife does little satiate her nightlife penchants. The gaping hole between her ribs throbs. It’s still sort of burning from the margarita that she holds onto. She imagines it’s unlikely that she’ll find a bandaid big enough to paste over the ache. Probably, she’ll end the night sobbing into her pillow. And maybe Isla needs a good fucking cry.
She always needs a good fucking cry — that’s the entire basis of her membership, of masks and mean hands prodding at her skin, pinching, twisting, smacking, fill the void. Fill the void. Fill the void.
He’d wedged into that gap, curling, pried her ribs apart and stuck his hands in. It’s just empty now because she’s pushed him out.
Isla blinks hopelessly at the little circle of Bandaid’s friends, a plait of lively camaraderie coiled around a steatite tabletop. The stem of the glass nearly splinters in her fist. There’s something pleated into the coterie — it’s got hands the size of baseball mitts with elegant piano fingers and the shading of an anatomical heart on its sleeve. Those colossal hands cushion a lowball glass in a new coat of red.
Harry’s head is turned to the side.
He’s loose. Lax. A trio of buttons in linen undone — which is one more than Blond Bandaid. In good spirits, if the blithe smile cresting his pink mouth — in response to something a friend has said — and the serenely planate state of his brow bone is indicative. At least, just up until the point where her silhouette catches in his peripherals, hanging fire like a stunned deer in the middle of a one lane road with headlights veering from behind a thicket. A clangor echoes in the depths of the cavern, bleedy.
Two weeks is enough, apparently, to forget what it feels to be the focus of those eyes. The revelation is enough to punch breath from her lungs. They’re sizzling.
If her presence is enough to throw him off kilter, he’s absolutely perfected the art of not letting it show. Green roams, but there’s nothing insightful in the breadcrumbs. He regards her in the way a stranger ogles a pretty thing that he’ll never approach from across the room in a fuggy bar — a one-over that loiters on shapely hips from a distance, a piece of patchwork in the quilted night, before the stranger’s eyes retire. It nearly makes her bristle. She’s earned apathy. Her phone is a brick in her pocket.
Harry looks …well. Suspiciously, which spurs the bristling. Unaffected, nearly. Expecting something different feels selfish, but it doesn’t appear that he’s been moping nearly a fraction of the amount Isla has. Is. He takes a slow slip of clear liquor, and the ice bristles in the glass, clinking as it sloshes, in her favor.
Bandaid clears his throat. He’s initiating introductions — motioning past an awestruck Isla Cleery. Her counterpart is much more in the element to milk free drinks.
“Miryea.”
And he lists names, clockwise. Isla doesn’t catch any, doesn’t particularly care to, besides the name she already knows so well. It lives on the tip of her tongue, burning hot, waiting for the opportunity to fly off the muscle at every inconvenient moment when they’re donning masks and fucking.
Miryea teeters on her heels and waves, chin dipping with the acknowledgement of each man, and Isla only recognizes she’s still ogling Harry when Bandaid motions to her. There’s an awkward pause when his tone wears this dubious edge — an implication that he’s in need of her assistance that’s mottled by her inattention.
“Isla,” she supplies, mouth melding into that midway forced, polite variation of a smile. Close-lipped, the kind she’d share as a kid at cocktail parties with a parent’s palm pasted over her shoulder.
Harry’s eyes don’t wander, then. Not even for a second. It’s a peculiar kind of gravity; she to his eyes and his eyes to …her.
“Isla,” Bandaid parrots, like he’s tasting the emphasis of her name.
He sticks a hand out. It dwarfs her own in its grasp — she settles into something firm; habitually professional. And then—
Bandaid raises the back of her palm to his mouth for a chaste kiss.
“Sam. Very pleased to meet you.”
Her eyes skirt. He’s watching, but his features speak nothing. Instead, he brings the glass to his mouth and tips. Seal it with salt. In her peripherals, Harry disengages into conversation. The line rends.
Sam isn’t inherently a heinous looking guy. In fact, most would deem him conventionally attractive. Sharp, chiseled. Symmetrical, and all that. Attractive on the biological scope, where the sake of attraction depends on indicators of good health. He’s got symmetry, she thinks. And he doesn’t fit Sir.
If Isla had anticipated that girls night would involve tucking into a booth with the source of the gnarled cavity in her chest, she’d have opted for wine coolers over Love Island reruns in the safety of her living room.
She doesn’t quite know how it happens — the way Miryea strays from Sam’s arm to opposing eye candy. This one’s more her type, with dark, close set eyes and a perennial brooding to the shape of his features. She curls up in his corner, batting her lashes as precedent to every word out of his mouth, and as consequence, Sam sets his sights on the only other sweet, pretty thing seamed into the booth. Quiet, hands in her lap with this gaze that roams off in what’s nearly a flighty panorama.
He tucks his cheek into his palm, and drums the back of a short nail over his tumbler. It clinks.
“What do you do, Isla?”
She looks up and blinks like the precipitous glare of the spotlight has stunned her back, tethered from floating in the aether.
“I’m a paralegal.”
His eyes crest — almost like intrigue, and sallow lashes sweep when he blinks and stirs, “Paralegal. You’re a …sophisticated woman.”
Sam plays it nonchalantly. He doesn’t stare at her tits — doesn’t linger in the naked flesh that sunders dark fabric, the bare vale that starts at her neckline and peaks above her navel. He doesn’t even try to look. But she can see it in his face. Like he can be the balm to the wound. Let me in.
It only takes a second, a fleeting glance to find a different set of eyes. Jade boring from across the soapstone. They’re sharp, flinty like talc. A hide of green snakeskin and fingers perpetually flexing over an invisible, clandestine whip. Or, maybe, the neoprene padding of a leash handle. He’s practically tugging on the phantom of it across the table.
Isla swallows.
Envy.
He’s jealous.
The tick in his jawline, like a vicious maw waiting to bite — the way his thumb smears over the rim of his glass and his forefinger taps the crystalline body. One, two.
Three.
The way he pastes his gaze to his drink — a crick in his neck like he’s wryly amused.
It dawns on her, then. The searing from across the table dissipates any prior nonchalance so suddenly, Isla wonders if she’d been entirely imagining that Harry was ever distant or carefree. He’s stewing over the flame of this show — Sam toeing at the hedging, an islet that bears the imprint of another man’s teeth. He raises the glass to his lips and rolls a mouthful of something bitter and sharp. Contemplating. Isla can’t tell if the grimace that comes after is the result of liquor heating his taste buds or the sight of Sam, half-lidded in flirtation, anticipating her response.
He spits it like barreled oak turned sour behind his lips, but it’s light. Easy, like jabbing at a friend. A man doesn’t tell a friend not to piss where he pisses with a foaming snarl, after all.
“She doesn’t want to fuck you.”
Sam raises his eyebrows, almost stunned by the insert. It flees quickly, though. Stains over with smarmy indignation. The kind from a friend to a friend. His laughter catches on a scoff.
“Fuck off.”
Harry is the wingman of the century.
She sets her three-quarters nursed marg onto the table, jaw set when her gaze splits to the emphatically apathetic shaping of Top Tier Wingman’s features. He runs the tip of his index over the lip of his glass like he’s smug to cockblock. She hopes his choice of company has no interest in spiking her beverage.
“I’m going to— go. I have to…” Isla settles on nothing, lamely. It sort of miffs her more.
Her face crinkles as she stands and makes a beeline for a hallway where she knows she’ll find a restroom. It’s a single use, and the blessing of her night comes in the form of no line. Two doors parallel each other, and she slips in through the screeching crack of one, doused by borderline desperation.
It’s quieter here. Still loud in her head, but quieter. The same sensual track leaks from covert speakers, bumping with bass. Tinny, like it’s played through the other end of a phone — and the high’s worn off, the depths of her buzz quelled by him. It still spumes through her veins, but Harry always was a sort of sobering experience. Except, he made her float. Her lungs feel like they’re sinking, shrinking into the boundless black hole of the cavity. Isla stares back at the madwoman in the mirror and opens the Calm app.
Breathe. Hold that breath. A knock seeps, stemming from the opposite end of the heavy-set door. Four seconds. She eyes her reflection. There’s a knot of emotion in the pit of her tummy — she thinks her innards are coiling, sloshed with tequila and margarita mix, and it’s a brutally nauseating combination.
“Occupied.”
It might feel strange at first, but it’ll feel more natural with practice. Someone raps their knuckles against steel, more purposeful. She sets her phone onto the sink and screws her eyes shut. The guided meditation is still playing when she sniffs, twists at the knob, and tugs open the door, half-expecting to tell a drunk person off for their lack of patience.
The animation of a sun rocks happily over the LED, riding the blue wave of symbolic inhale, like twisted irony. Hold that breath for four seconds. In her loose-gripped balk at the sight that greets her, Harry slinks through the crack like rain through a gutter.
Words fail. They’re useless, substanceless things that do little to salve over the chasm when he leans back against the door, slipping it shut under his weight. His arm skulks behind, with little subtlety, and clicks the lock back into place.
Hold. Let it go.
Isla scrubs a hand over her face and launches another frantic one in the direction of the smartphone, still blaring the script of a mucked up, guided meditation. Harry blinks, sticks a ring-adorned hand into the pocket of his slacks, and unveils a little pin of a key. His eyes are still serpentine — whetted like the scales of a viridian snake, and somehow, they’re softer than they’d been. They flit from her face to her wrist and back. She’s still cuffed in golden love shapes and emblematic adoration cleaved.
“Do you want this, or are you just opting to get it sawed off?”
That’s— not the conversation started she’d been expecting. Her cheekbones teem with a parabolic warmth. This shame doesn’t feel good.
“Um. Yeah, I’ll take it. Thank you.”
She’s guarded the way acreage is girdled by barbed wire, post to post, its razor sharp teeth spearing to a soft touch. Harry notes it in the way she tenses when he prompts, taking a step, “Let me help you.”
She does stick the joint out in his direction, though, almost hesitantly; at first like a testy child, and then with the energy of a flighty, cornered mammal. Instead of hissing from her corner, there’s silence as her eyes roam everything in the space but his stature.
“Was the date that bad?” Harry tries, eventually, fingers curling over bone.
The pin turns in the keyhole. Clicks. Green flickers up, then back to the bangle as he wrests it apart. A crinkle forms between his brows — the void between her ribs expands and falls, as if making room for something breathing in the depths. Hibernating.
“Because I thought it went well, but if I did anything to offend you and I misunderstood, I’m sorry.”
Her voice would be wet, probably, if she wasn’t still so riled. It comes out quiet, the next thing — under her breath, face tipped down like a kid mid-chastise.
“What the fuck was that?”
Despite the weight of the words, her voice is low, almost like a sinner whispering in a confessional. It’s rage soft spoken — the blistering sear. She does her best to curb the tremble in her fingers; his warm digits brush her skin in a way that she hasn’t felt in weeks, and the small contact feels like the nostalgia of diamorphine. He could pry her ribs apart with his hands, traipse over trails of veins wandering in a two-fingered saunter, and still find home.
Harry pauses. His eyes are sharp again, that bladed edge whittling. He peers up from his handiwork.
“Pardon?”
“The— you know what,” Isla looks at him. Really looks at him. “You pretend you don’t even know me, and then you try to— what? Mark your territory?”
Metamorphose. Something smugly sneering rears, something ugly and viridian, probing out; it starts in the shapes of his brows, crinkling them until they’re reborn in a self-satisfied smoothness. It lingers to his mouth; a flash of teeth. His eyes.
“He wanted to get his dick wet. Did you wanna help with that, sweetheart?”
Inhale. Isla blinks. It dissipates, curdling back like an eel that’s met a wall of halite. His face softens, sours, downturned to quarry tile.
“You stood me up,” Harry reasons, wagging his head in denial, “You did that, not me. Why would I act like we’re anything more when you…”
Hold that breath for four seconds. It’ll feel strange at first—
“You’re playing games,” Isla argues, hands motioning wildly before raking back through her hair — the bracelet is grasped out in his palm, now, and he’s watching her, expressionless, before the features there twist, “You’re— you— blending the lines, into— into—“
The richness of the insult is practically gilded, Harry thinks wryly. He imagines it entrapped in a tomb of gems. “Games? I’ve always been upfront, darling. You wanna talk about games?
Isla sets a hand onto the sink, uncuffed, and watches where the bangle is fisted by knuckles that aren’t quite white. Yet.
“—Like the ones you played — crossing limits with no prior discussion. Kissing me? You want to talk about blending the lines?”
Her face creases.
“Oh, Christ, Harry. Okay,” she feigns placating, hands motioning as if to counteract the seething spitfire of her cadence, “I’m so sorry I broke the contract—“
“Oh for fuck’s sake, this isn’t about the bloody contract—“
“—Without being your good, little pet and asking permission, first.”
Isla’s always been like spitfire — a cannon biding, full of soot and char. It’s always been a welcome development; the burn was always a pleasant warmth radiating. Somehow, he’s always felt like the carbon dioxide to her flame. This, though, feels like kerosene, and Harry’s no idea when her pellets grew fangs.
She watches it in live action — the way his topography alters like colorful emblems sifting through a slot machine. Appalled. Sore. Detached. There’s an impasse in the space between their atoms, slick over the tile like dirty mop water.
He barely looks her way when he outstretches the bangle and its companioned key, and he sounds like defeat personified when he tells her, eerily calm, “Alright. This is yours.”
Isla doesn’t take it. Not at first. Harry doesn’t say a word. The words rot in his throat.
“It’s yours,” she counters, instead.
She’s never seen the man so pacific, not to canon balls kissing his skin, as when he wrenches her loose fist apart with his own fingers. Hands it off like she doesn’t belong in his warm palm. Not any shred of a remnant.
“Pawn it if you want.”
Her lungs crackle. The torrid pit hisses as the tip of the blade twists. She slumps against the wall. The bracelet and the pin dangle in a loose grip crossed over her front. She can’t even manage a flimsy smile, and this feels like a poignantly hysterical margin to their chapter. A last page in a poky bar restroom.
“So. This is it?”
His mouth is a line — straight and unwavering. It parts to parallel. Seams together. There’s the coppice of an all consuming forest fire in his gaze (something left to smolder) when Harry declares (it’s an answer), “…I never treated you like that.”
“…You’re right,” Isla says. She ogles her sandals, dipping her chin in agreement.
Harry rests a hand on the knob. He doesn’t swivel the lock.
“You didn’t. I’m just—“ Isla nods. “You didn’t.”
Harry gnaws into his cheek, nods back all slow-like.
“…It was a good date.”
“I’m glad you had a nice time.” It’s not clipped. Just tired. Impartially …adjusted. The chasm heaves, bleeding over.
The cavity could swallow her whole. She imagines it eating away at her from the inside-out as the door clicks and she peers up to find emptiness as her company; suckling at her marrow and gnawing at soft tissue as the tips of her digits judder over her phone for an uber. Her tongue draws over her lips. Saline mingles with credence.
“I was scared,” Isla blurts. She’s not nodding anymore — she shakes her head down at the toes of her copper leathered shoes.
She searches for the words in the gap — a pregnant pause that stifles his patient palm, curled at the door. Her shoulders heave on the nervous breath that her lungs expel, so much so that the words seep out saturated by the tremor. “I was scared— about. Blurring the lines. I was scared because the club is one thing, Peitho is one thing, and… I’m so different. When there’s no masks, there’s… feelings. And, I don’t know.”
The bare shapes of his face soften; the plush of his mouth, the chisel to his jaw. She misses it, still trembling down at her slip-ons like gearing to wrack with sobs; shedding denial. It wades up her vocal chords. Flees its prison. Every word she’s managed to swallow down for a long duration of two weeks bobs gracelessly from the depths.
“I was wrong. I was so wrong, I’m sorry I did that to you. But I have feelings for you, and I can’t stop thinking about you, and seeing you here—“
He bleeds around her like watercolor smearing through the bounds of predetermined charting — a warm orange weeping into azure; chilled ring bands contouring a warm brush at the crest of her cheekbones. Slinking up her jaw, the pad of a thumb under her eye socket, a forefinger at her scalp, tucking hair.
“—It’s— it—“
“Hey,” Harry croons, “Hey.”
He doesn’t tell her he hates to see her cry.
“I’m—“
“Hey. S’alright. It’s okay,” he laves at the palpable symptoms of the wound; her broken visage where a thumb swipes over a crinkle in her brow bone, a lash line globbed with frantic emotion, smearing makiage.
He scorches her veins with his touch — it spumes through like his warm press is a catalyst for a sweltering wave of dopamine. Words morph as a strawberry mouth ghosts over her cupid’s bow. Okay, it’s alright, hey. She purses her mouth against a thumb sweeping over a wet frown; mouths at it. Chiaroscuro is this — soft pledges, the pad of a thumb grazing a front tooth in the top row. It’s okay. Rolling into the gap until it wrests apart. Hey. Pressing to her taste buds. There's thunder behind her ribcage. He could lick up her pulse point and feel it; probably senses it in the tip of her tongue. A mid-spoken kiss on salt when his thumb meddles out, daubs the edge of her lips, slicks over her cheek with spit.
He could strum her like a guitar, Isla thinks, crawl up her ribs with his fingers, coddle the column of her throat with his hand and she’d sing the prettiest tune. He knows it; a string snaps when her hands roam up the firmness of his torso. Come here, little thing. You’re already marred by my teeth.
They traipse from the wall, each step slotting toe to toe like puzzle pieces sticking into notches and grooves where they fit, mouths meshed with his broad hands splayed over either side of her skull. Those belong, too.
“Are we doing this?” Harry sighs against her mouth, stirred heady like he already knows. There’s fingertips toying at his belt buckle. She nods into his grasp, hedonistic when she stuffs the bangle into his pocket.
And then—
He tells her, “Beg.”
His eyes are sharp again; the swinging tip of braided kangaroo leather. It wags, ominous; talc skates feature to feature, drinking in the falter the way he’d been sipping on Casamigos.
“I—“
“Beg—” Harry parrots, cool fingertips curling over the nape of her neck, thumb smoothing up at the little space of skin under her ear; a minor affection. Her eyes mingle on his mouth. “—Me to fuck you. Beg like you deserve it.”
Isla swallows. Garbles a plea out, riding the rail of a mewl. The fond graze under her ear mutates, a light scrape with the butt of a blunt nail first and then tenebrose squeezing at her jawline. The cup of his hand draws divots into the flesh of her cheeks, makes something burning slosh in the trench of her belly and claw up her chest when her breath catches. Harry tips his head, and despite the stifling firmness of the motion, the polarity of his tone makes her lashes flutter. Lighter, softer.
“Come on, pet. Better than that. Convince me.”
Her mouth parts. She leans into him like his words have given her a headrush, and the brush of his lips to her own will mend and stabilize. He lets her, but he doesn’t meet her in the middle, cocking his head back. The space between them wanes.
“Please fuck me. Please.”
It’s a poor kind of attempt — wouldn’t pass in the Dungeon where his eyes would skirt, in slits, and shapes of muscle would wallow in the jaundiced light of a single lantern overhead. It works well enough, though, here.
In a split second, they’ve rearranged. Spun like cards passed counter-clockwise over a table. Eros meets her in the mirror. Unveiled, he basks in a yellowed glow from the light, chin tucked over her shoulder. Isla watches emerald embers caper from the echoes of their profiles, to the side of her face as he eases hair back behind her ear, and back.
“Look so pretty,” he murmurs, low against her cartilage, and the plume of his breath makes her bones ache. She’s pliant, a marionette in his grip; there’s a rather large hand that fondles over her throat like a meaty collar. The other trails up her torso, skimming at the bare flesh hungry fingertips find. A set of eyes flickers to the mirror. She meshes with them in the reflection. Drowns. “Look at you. All dolled up. Pretty, pretty girl.”
His grip over her windpipe isn’t harsh — not to the extent she’s felt the same grasp linger there before. Despite that, the headrush from it, like oxygen atoms simmering down from her veins on their poor uptake, spurred by his words, feels like he may as well be carrying her by the neck.
“Who’d you wear this for?”
It’s grit out through the cracks of his teeth, a cheek flush to her hair when he smooths his free hand down her tummy and climbs back up to finger at the hem of the plunging vale. “Not for me.”
Her lashes flutter back at her from the mirror on a heavy inhale. He admires the two of them. A perfect match, lit aflame. His fingers slink and dance over a sliver denuded as he wrenches the valley, between fabric, down her diaphragm wider.
“Wanted to look all pretty for someone? Some nameless, walking cock?” Harry murmurs, pleased when he sees the twitch in her brows — disagreement — and feels the jut of her chin all the way from the base of her throat where his hand rests, a minute side-to-side. “Hm? Have them fuck you in the bathroom like a dirty whore?”
Her next swallow catches, cornered by his palm in its esophageal prison.
“Maybe… Sam?”
“No,” Isla spurns.
“No?” It’s soft condescension, glazed in it and unconvinced, “But that’s what you want, isn’t it? You kiss me—“
An achy roll welters up her spine, ridging up through her rib cage when he tweaks a budding nipple poking through polyester and linen.
“—Put your hands all over me, like you’re desperate,” Harry tells her, a smooth baritone of molasses that permeates her eardrum, and his voice grows quieter when he smushes closer, like he’s desperate himself to croon the filth. Nearly grazes the gristle there with his blocky teeth, “Like you’ve wanted to get fucked in the bathroom all along. Did it make you desperate, baby? Missing me?”
His slacks (Italian wool blend) feel grainy against her backside when he shimmies the hem of her dress (bodycon) up and over — just up the side to its lopsided demise, one hip sweltering out bare for a peek of a black thong and the other still clad in a sloping border. Like fibers that shouldn’t coexist with skin, shouldn’t cumber flesh on flesh. He wedges a thumb under the patent string of the thong, tows it back like the digit is a lever, and smooths a plane of four fingers tucked together, bumpy nooks, down the puffy bud of a nipple sticking through fabric. Snaps. Like rubber braced to her wrist, the elastic piece at her hip sends a tremor through her knees. Harry traces the outline of her cunt, over her panties, with a middle finger and wrests back one side of her neckline. Then, the other, to scrape the nail on his thumb over a bare nipple. The reflection that meets her in the mirror is in sordid tatters — partly denuded, a half-dressed doll in his big hands. He toys with its soft skin.
The hand that’d mounted over her throat meanders to her jaw, jams a thumb in to the edge of her mouth, stretching one corner, gripping bone and snaking over wet teeth. She puffs warmth into his palm; his skin tastes like kismet.
“Could’ve spent so much time bouncing on my cock by now,” Harry tuts. Sighs. “Open.”
Then — Good girl. His lips smear over the crest of her cheekbone before he turns to the mirror and sloppily burrows a set of three fingers against her tongue so unceremoniously, she nearly gags posthaste, brows pinching and eyes skirting up to the ceiling. He’s a steady plinth — unwavering nonchalance painting his features — when she rocks back in jarred reflex, neck craning. A sloppy sound crawls from the depths. His eyes flicker, chin pivoting from the mirror to the side profile of pliant acceptance, three fingers deep to the hilt of his rings, a micromosaic goldfinch, a pearl nestled by an aerie of gold. He draws them out, sleek with saliva.
“Good girl,” Harry tells her again, sounding nearly impressed. Almost.
There’s a tang on her tongue — regalia, ornaments coiling his digits, tequila, and a top coat over sanguine lacquer. A nakedly ruddy streak of skin by her mouth, where the foundation has blotched away, catches her eye when she folds over the sink with a hand at her nape, a muck of kohl beneath her eye sockets. Isla wonders what the real aftermath will look like. The hand smooths down the shuddery hills of her spine, then prises her dress to rest over the dimples etched into the small of her back.
The plush of her thighs splays against chilled ceramic. He spreads her apart until she’s practically on display under the flimsy set of strings she’s deemed underwear, nearly everything intimate peeking for its lewd debut, and crushes a handful of flesh until it’s milky under the tips of his (still wet) fingers. Heat flares between her thighs at the bite.
“What did you miss more, sweetheart…” Harry beckons, blunt cerise clawing into her skin as her brows pleat.
He drags the pad of his forefinger down the stream of tenebrose linen, where her littlest hole spasms at the pressure in passing.
“…Having your clit played with—“ he toys at the seam of her gusset, pries it off just enough to feel the bare warmth of the bud pulsing under his singular tap.
She thaws into the sink like tap water spouting when he pulls her panties back over and mingles, prodding a cotton-coated thumb against the rim of her cunt. “Or getting fucked?”
Her arteries thrum with fire.
“Only enough time for one or the other,” he encourages, eyebrows climbing in the mirror — it feels like a ploy.
Isla’s brows crimp when she answers; he’s still fondling in monstrous callous, and she’s sure her skin will be branded with little crescents at the nip of his blunt, carmine-polished fingernails — sharp borders to a warm handprint over flesh.
“Two-for-one?” She rocks forward and back, squinty, “…Package deal?”
Harry hums. It’s mirthy; a paradox to the cruel linger of his touch before he peels off (eyeing the white imprint of bloodrush), and smacks in the same area. Isla tips forward, eyes screwing.
“Package deal…” Harry murmurs under his breath, smoothing over florid skin, sight flickering like a light.
“You can multitask,” Isla reasons, and she muzzles a squeal with the roll of her lips when he pinches.
Nothing’s new, Harry finds. It’s pleasant, like the kiss of cement to the wheels of an aircraft, or the view of blue aether and the plume of its clouds. Your feet will always find the same ground, soles shackled by gravity, and you’ll always rediscover the same sky in the roll of the sun. A pillow pasted to the same spot of a couch when the lock clinks open and you regress from a trip abroad. The pith of familiarity.
“…Getting fucked,” Isla admits, soft like a sinner whispering secrets in a confessional.
He meets her gaze in the reflection. She’s still squirming, a little, but it’s different now; little juts in response to an absent-minded, featherlight rake of his fingertips over the same area he’d tattooed with his palm. Harry wriggles her panties to the side. She chews into her bottom lip, watching the mirror, all the way up until the precipice; he prods, sweeping a fingertip from her entrance to the hood of her clit, and slick tails it.
“Then you’ll get fucked.”
It’s marinated in the pit of her tummy, this sultry ache that teems from her inner thighs to her core and snakes up her midsection, stuffy, and hot. Wanting. Isla watches a backdrop of tile and meaty arms clad by linen work as the teeth of a zipper sunder apart and a button nudges through its slit. She simmers in that familiar broil when his leaky tip probes, slides and aligns.
Harry feeds his cock into her with little warning, stretching the rim taut, and draws a soft sound that sounds nearly lodged back by her tonsils in volume.
It’s a pleasant ache, familiar, emphasized by the poignant emptiness of two weeks; a chasm, bristling at her ribcage, born from that emptiness, starved. It aches enough for her jaw to tense as he eases in, sharply watchful in the mirror. Nirvana crackles up his spine — the bliss of this tight squeeze.
“That’s it, baby,” he soothes, petting at her hip, flickering between watching her sloppy hole split apart over him and her own visage, tension reflecting straight ahead.
And then—
He’s in to the hilt before she knows, a squelching heat that envelops to his base, nuzzled skin to skin. Isla doesn’t have the same view, but it’s lewd, this welcome sting that bores to her marrow, a deep pressure where he’s tunneled and stuffed his fat cock — the sight of his jaw pornographically unhinged on a soundless groan as he retreats a couple of inches, slick, wet, and nudges back in. Isla hangs her head.
“Eyes up, Isla,” Harry demands.
The weight of her name, as his cock bullies into her, prompts her to raise her chin and hone ahead like no other encouragement. Soft dialogue, something with a keen pierce, Isla, Isla, Isla — she’s never heard it before as he’d slotted in between her sticky thighs. She rocks back for more — more, more, more.
He’s already threadbare in composure. Worn out by the blade of sordid impulse pressing at sutures. He’s being nice to her, petting at her hips, easing in like the spongy warmth doesn’t get his cock throbbing and weepy. Like the lustrous claws of temptation don’t curdle up the blood in his veins, coaxing to sink in and pound — it’s expertise in exercising self-restraint, this genial pace he’s set, inch by inch.
And this greedy, greedy little thing grinds back against him, unsatiated and ungrateful.
Then it registers.
She’s still greedy, so he swats at her from behind (revels in her squeak), but smooths up under bunched fabric after to scrape at bare skin with the pads of his fingers.
“Oh, you liked that, did you?” Harry cooes, burrowing in til the globes of her ass kiss the stems of his laurels — her pretty mouth pries open into a nirvanic o. “Hearing your name, stuffed full of my cock?”
He prompts, when there’s no response, “Answer me, Isla,” and drags a few inches out and pummels back into her sopping cunt hard.
“Yes.”
A whisper. A whine. Confession.
He sets a pace when her irises are all loose in their sockets, climbing up behind her lids and a fluttery lash line. Drills in something mean, a cruel tempo that rocks her, skin smacking on skin. A resounding coalescence of flesh meeting flesh and vulgar squelches as Harry batters in, bouncing off the walls of a narrow single use restroom.
She makes little sounds. Little oohs and unphs that he pounds out of her, partly spurred by the laxness of alcohol tiding her blood stream, and partly the way he mercilessly spears her over his shaft.
Harry folds over her, cups a palm to her curved pout and smushes, hissing, “Be fucking quiet.”
And still, he doesn’t stop rocking into her, little nudges that frantically jut up against spongy walls and scrape at the spots, deep inside, that she can’t reach on her own. Isla keens into his fingers.
He stops.
Only for a moment, posturing up behind her and dragging out all the way until only his tip kisses her rim, breaching only a tad, and then plunges in all the way hard. Brutishly, in a way that fosters a blunt kind of pang she feels to the depths of her joins, snaking plica and curves of bone. Grinding away.
“You’re going to apologize,” Harry tells her slowly, nudging out, inch by inch, fraction by fraction, pausing midway to bask in the desperate pulse of her sloppy cunt. Don’t go. It ticks the left corner of his mouth up, has him tipping his face up to the ceiling. Smooths out the way he pets her, a clean slate, composed and sharp when their eyes clash in the mirror.
Harry’s always had it. Lingering in the lull, kissing at the atmosphere between their atoms — a steely character in nonchalant hues. The kind that wordlessly controlled. He pistons in with a jab of his hips, and again, and again.
He prompts, enunciated, with a pink mouth highlighting the syllables, “I’m sorry—“
A pummel forward and fingers curling over her shoulder — a notch for leverage. It’s a welcome pressure, like the hard kind that dispels a knot long ago lodged in muscle.
“I—I’m sorry—“
“I’m sorry for disrespecting your time—“
It’s strained. Vehement and pent. Porcelain digs into her pelvis, and it hurts when he grinds her into it, harder and harder with the momentum of his hips, like rocking forward over a boulder.
“I’m sorry for—“ the breathy reprise melds with a high, soft sound that creaks from the back of her throat.
It doesn’t matter — the vista of her ass bouncing over his cock, or maybe her lashline saturating in the mirror… some part of it all has him gnashing his teeth and doubling down.
“Pardon?”
Her eyes loll.
“I’m sorry for disrespecting your— your time,” Isla manages, bobbing over the empty basin.
“I’m sorry for disrespecting you,“ Harry prompts. It hitches on a soft breath, the kind that’s commonplace when her spongy walls are squeezing, but the flinty snakeskin doesn’t taper. It bores in the mirror, smoldering like viriscent bonfires dancing in his sockets.
Something spalls. Isla hangs her head, pulsing helplessly over his cock when he bottoms out. Her clit throbs. The words catch in this wet limbo at the back of her throat, churning, either to be swallowed or spit back up. A soft sob climbs from the back of her tongue.
In return, the hand that’d clawed into her shoulder melts. It’s still there; a gravity that keeps her fettered to porcelain, and epoxy resin, and slick cock between her thighs.
“Alright?” — something that spills out through pants, strained, and at first, it doesn’t even register that he’s asking a question. He’s checking in. Her fingers scrape over the escutcheon.
It should feel pathetic — it does, when she responds to the sputter, like a slow roll over the brake pedal, in his pace with a low whine and a haphazard roll backwards, if it even counts as that. The nudge doesn’t earn her the same blissful stretch as when he pounds, but it gets him just that much deeper. Just enough to feel him burrow where he belongs. It spumes through every major artery — shame, and it spills into the crest of her cheekbones, ruddy and coated with mascara. He bottoms out— like, really bottoms out. The bleary reflection of a cinch tightens between her brows when he sloppily coils her hair into a makeshift pony over his knuckles, in almost immediate response, and yanks, craning her neck back.
“Stay still,” Harry hisses. It’s dominion through the cracks of his teeth. Augury, promise, something wound tight. Submit. Her scalp tingles with a familiar sting. “I asked you a question.”
There’s still hair wrung over one fist when the other hand cradles her throat. The chill of his rings bites. “…If you don’t answer, I’ll stop.”
“I’m— keep— yes,” she whimpers, agreeing with her chin in juts that makes the throb at the crown of her head radiate.
A fizzle seeps from the unseal of her lips. He lures her head back harder just to sponge a kiss to her temple, another to the wet corner of her eyes. Tastes salt when he pulls off and licks out his mouth. His fingers unweave.
“…I’m sorry for disrespecting you.”
She only meets green in the mirror for a moment before he angles his hips and sets a nasty tempo with his thrusts, like he fucking hates her, bracketing her hips with his meaty palms, tongue tucked to the backs of his teeth.
“Yeah, you fucking are.”
It’s an anchor; this brutality. These fingers sunk into her skin and muscle with iron, the way he spits filth, eyebrows pinched, with little hiccups of breathy grunts and groans splintering his speech. Like clandestine gyves fettering her to the cold press of the sink, his hard grip, her own body.
She does look the part of a proper, dirty whore getting fucked in a public bathroom of some bar, just like he’d earlier suggested. A strand of frizzy hair dangles over her face — stitches gone loose where skin meets a hairline — swaying with every harsh plunge of his hips. Her eyes are watery, glazed by rapture, a conglomeration of chemicals surging through her bloodstream, coaxed by each and every hard pump from behind. What little residue of ink that’d slicked her lashes lingers in clumps and muddles onto the skin beneath, smoked in sullied smudges. Whore stares back in the mirror; clustered, sopping lashes, a ruddy-tipped nose, the shape of a mouth smeared and wide, tethered between holding his gaze and seeping back behind her skull. A doll that makes noise at the brush of a button when he folds over and his fingers slip between her legs to bully her clit.
Someone knocks.
“Be a good girl,” Harry huffs, face creased with fervor as his hips snap and his digits roll frantically sloppy circles over the bud, “and tell them that we’re occupied.”
All Isla can manage, as he pinches between her legs and pummels in, is a wordless hum through a sealed pink pout, features twisting helplessly; a crinkle to her nose, a downturn at the edges of her mouth.
“You wanna cum?” Harry sputters to a grind, something that rolls wall to wall and pins, fingers slotting to her clit in a V that runs slick and doesn’t quite hone where she needs it. He murmurs against the shell of her ear, “Hm? S’that what you want?”
She takes a moment, maybe to process that he’s slowed his priorly cruel rhythm into something crueler, and as his balls grind against her clit, settle over a rigid V, Isla whines and nudges back against him in protest. Then, there’s fingers digging into a lovehandle, sharply, gone altogether as her head is wrangled ahead.
“Fucking look at me. You wanna cum?”
Her eyes blink open. There’s something feral pasted to her back in the reflection.
“Tell them we’re busy. Tell them we’re busy, or I'll stop.”
Another knock from the door paralleling their shapes; antsy knuckles snapping over steel. Slowly, Isla nods. Starts.
“It’s—“
Harry pulls off and out, snapping his hips forward with little warning. It jolts her into the body of the basin and stifles all progress of semblance. Before her eyes roll back into her skull, she manages to catch the vista of him, devilish, mouth curling in wicked ploy. Isla groans loud enough for the entire hallway to hear.
“Occupied,” he slams his fist against the door. One knock back for two; no more follow. His eyes veer ahead, “Get yourself off. Want you gushing over me.”
Her fingers reach her clit with wild hunger, parroting the filthy shapes he’d drawn into her flesh as he plunges in to the hilt, out to head, back — hungry, hungry, hungry. He chases it, the hot squeeze of her pussy tensing over every ridge of a vein, every millimeter he offers. How can he not, to such a sweet embrace? He could strum her like a guitar, his taut string to pluck by a fingertip. She tenses, scrabbling at the sink with one spasming hand, the other drawn where the tips of her digits can brush where they mesh.
“Oh, fuck— please— can I—?”
Habit. Something he’s nailed into her, time after time, crushed through flesh. Please’s and Thank you’s, Can I’s and May I’s. And now, the sinew has healed around it; this new norm. It furrows in between his pecs, this nasty satisfaction. His.
“Go on,” he spurs, tempo haywire as she jolts over the sink, like every muscle is washed in electricity, and throbs over his cock. He makes her watch; the way she tips, his fingers tangled in her hair and angling.
And he chases it harder. Bounding. A precipice in the depths, between her legs. The tide rises, coils up in tsunami from between his laurels. His mouth shapes a gruff garble of her name when he spills, pulsing, burrowing in as far as he can get.
“Shit,” Harry breathes.
Her head sways and sags when he lets go of her hair, shuddering over the sink and panting. When Harry tucks his way out of her, she clenches like she misses him again. Don’t go. Stay. A little rivulet in cream leaks out, and he brushes it back inside with the pad of a forefinger.
“Hold it,” Harry demands, but it’s soft, like hands brushing her hair back. He pulls her gusset back over, pleased.
She’s still shuddering and folded over the sink when Harry tucks himself back into his slacks, petting at the small of her back. He buckles up, pressing the fronts of firm thighs to the naked backs of her own, a sort of grounding to the foundation before he has the opportunity to stroke his hands all over her in gentle respite.
“Feeling full?” he teases. Strokes his fingertips over her underwear, where the fabric’s begun to grow wet from his release. Isla rocks back in response. Like asking for more, like asking for anchoring. Pull the ship back to the shoreline.
Harry rolls the dress that he’d bunched up back over her curves, smoothing and sorting her out. That’s what happens now; smoothing the crinkles with a warm press like a plugged iron. It starts at her waist, in the cinch, where he combs his hands up her sides to fondle at the ribcage and the bit of flesh there, and then meanders up her shoulders, thumbing at her nape.
“Good?” Harry mumbles. There’s a twitch in his mouth at the way she rolls her neck, still silent over the basin, and nods.
Good sex or good manhandling over her shoulders, thumbs drawing circles beside the vertebrae under her nape, Isla’s unsure. Good…
“M’proud of you,” he tells her.
It’s a sudden compliment — shatters the silence and has her deltoids and traps stiffening under his palms. It’s like he senses it, probably feels it under his fingers. Isla imagines his brow bone furrowing as she raises her head to look back at him.
“For what?”
“For being honest with yourself.”
She braces against the sink and unfolds into his back, twisting into the caress that climbs up the side of her throat. Harry doesn’t kiss on her, almost like he’s afraid, pending in limbo from the typical. He does drag up over the crest of her cheekbone, though. She eyes the onyx thumb pad that retires.
“How fucked is my makeup?”
“Pretty fucked, pet,” Harry tells her, rolling his lips into his mouth as if to muzzle back the beginnings of dimpled grin (she feels she’s been starved of for ages).
“Fuck.”
She swivels to catch a glimpse of the madwoman — now, makiage dismembered — in the mirror, but pivots back into the warm press of his hand over the fleshy margin of her cheek when he prompts by unceremoniously grasping at the bones in her jaw. He culls a paper towel, wets it with a flick over the faucet, and runs it over under a socket to catch smudges. Aftercare, in a manner. Something stirs on his face — trickles as a huff of laughter.
“Fuck,” Harry echoes, sponging over warm, smeared skin, more, more, and then— “I don’t know that I can save this, Isla.”
She peers into the mirror.
“Jesus Christ, what did you do to me?”
“—Not that much,” Harry reasons, the frame of his arms serving as chocks for her to the basin. He plants his hands on either side from behind, and then raises one to roam up her tummy as she wipes, ruddy skin streaking in patchwork, “…Not even close to the usual."
A balmy heat murmurs through her at the implication and throbs when he tucks his chin over her trapezius, partly shrouded by her hair, and hums, “This is a sexy dress, by the way. Did I tell you that?”
Isla leans into him. It’s the closest to normalcy she’s felt in the last two weeks. It tapers when she sets the sopped paper at the edge of the sink, scared to ask (splinter the rapture of soles on eggshells, crowding land mines).
“…What now?”
Harry shifts. His palm no longer strokes over her stomach, but rests on the basin behind her own. Brushes at her wrist with the tip of his pinky when he declares, “I want to see you.”
Isla doesn’t twist back to face him, or look into the reflection ahead.
“See me …how?”
“See you like this. I wanna see Isla.”
There’s that foggy murk behind her skull, that smog that dazes words, all too familiarly. Harry breathes behind her.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I was planning to mope.”
It’s simple. He rocks up behind her, and she imagines a close-lipped smile curling his mouth.
“Any way you can find a couple of hours somewhere in that busy schedule to see me?”
Isla blinks and meets him in the mirror.
“Like a… date?”
“Like a date.”
She keeps the hand with the towel on ceramic. Lets the mucky wad go to let him wheedle his palm over her own and slot his fingers in the webbed gaps.
Harry tacks on, “If you’re comfortable with that.”
She wants to turn into his embrace, nuzzle into the broad expanse of his chest and scope the shapes of his features with her fingertips; the slope of his nose, the upturned corner of plush pink below. Ghost over a cupid’s bow. She tilts her head and squeezes over his digits.
“And what… now?”
“Now, now?”
“Now, now.”
“Now… we,” fingers notch firmer into those gaps — the crevices between her digits longing for his touch the way the oozing cavity in her chest has pined, “—go out there, and you… sit there, look pretty. Pretend you didn’t just get fucked.”
He swaths her wrist with the bangle; a missing limb, nearly — a piece of her that’d been rived with something the size of a thimble. A piece of him.
Nobody says a word when they return to the booth. A kind of acceptance — knowing. A sort of respectful retreat in the sideline of Sam’s eyes when he skims and retires. Miryea talks with her eyebrows. Later. It’s even quieter when Isla slips into the nook under his arm, and then something flourishes in the lull. Normalcy. Stable footing. The conversation kicks back up.
She’s wet between her thighs. Not a pulsating warmth that yearns, but a sticky film of his cum that’s sullied her, tucked up in her underwear. It weeps out over the course of the night. She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. It seeps, and his hand roams down the small of her back. She coddled by the leather cushion of a booth and him. It purrs in the depths of her chest; something satiated and warm.
He coils into the chasm with an outstretched offering; a manhattan stacked with a mountain of cherries.
#harry styles smut#harry styles#harry styles writing#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles one shot#dom harry styles#harry smut#harry styles one shots#harry styles fic#harry styles fanfic#mean dom h#harry styles x oc#harry x oc#harry styles fluff#harry styles angst
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Make it up to you -m.s
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆ ☆
Dom!Matt x fem!reader
in which~ y/n had a crush on Matt but his friends/football teammates found out and teased you about it, he joined in on the teasing to hide the fact that he has feelings for you but six months later, you’re desperate for a ride to school and Matt is your only option.
warnings~ p in v/ unprotected (don’t be silly,wrap up your willy)/ use of baby, sweetheart, y/n, praise kink, cursing
───⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───
I stretched my limbs as I tried to peel my eyes open from my sleepy state. "y/n! Hurry up!" My mom shouted at me, afraid id miss the bus.
"Frickity frickity Frick" I mumbled to myself as I looked over at my phone and saw the time reading 7:15, my bus runs in literally like 7 minutes, theres no way I was gonna make it. I opened up my contacts and called and texted at least five of my friends in hope that I could get a ride from one of them but I failed.
I clicked on my last contact I was going to try and started to call my friend Nick.
She answered and her soft voice spoke "Hey y/n!"
"Hey Nick! Is there any possible way that you could give me a ride to school today?" She hummed to herself as she thought about it.
"im sorry girl, Matt took my car today. He has some thing after school but I can call him. He should be able to pick you up!" He chimes.
"No no no, id rather walk. Thank you tho." I say before we bid our goodbyes and hang up.
I meant that, i really would rather walk. Matthew sturniolo has been my biggest enemy since last year, when I first started high school and became friends with Nick. I had an obvious crush on matt even though he was a bit older. His friends found out because matt overheard me talking to Nick about it one time and his friends started to tease me about it and eventually matt joined in and ever since then, they make jokes and poke fun at me anytime I see them.
"y/n! Why are you still in your fucking pajamas?" My mom says angrily from my door.
"Mom its okay, matt is gonna give me a ride!" I spurt out quickly, just not wanting to get into an argument with her.
“Matt? oh! It’s been forever since you guys have hung out.” My mom says, her mood quickly changing to a more joyous one. I roll my eyes at her words and she tells me she loves me before she leaves out for work.
I stand up and put on a pair of black jeans and a dark blue body suit that accentuates my body perfectly. I finish straightening my hair, my luscious blonde locks flowing perfectly down my shoulders. I sit down at my vanity and apply a few makeup products, really just mascara, and a bit of highlighter. Mid way through my routine, i remember i haven’t called Matt yet. My hands start to tremble a bit as i scroll through my contacts in search of his name.
I reluctantly click the call button under his name and the ringing of my phone makes me shudder. After just two rings, he picks up.
“Y/n?” His deep voice grumble from the speakers on my phone.
“Hi Matt! Can you give me a ride to school?” I say peppily, not wanting him to give me any shit.
“I’ll be there in five.” He says before hanging up.
well, that was easy. i think to myself before spritzing myself with some perfume and slipping on my shoes. I grab my bag and walk through my house.
I get to the front door and see trey pulling in.
perfect timing.
The sight of Matts truck parked in my driveway makes me nervous. I push the nervousness down, pulling all of the courage i have out of me and I start walking down my driveway.
Once i step out of my door, he immediately steps out of his truck and walks to the passenger side and opens the door up. He stands leaning on the door, a small smile on his face.
why is he being so fucking nice?
“Hi y/n.” He says in a seductive voice while his eyes trail over my body. The way he’s looking at me sends a heat straight to my core but i try my best to ignore it. I shoot Matt a side eye and a nod of my head as i step up into his truck. He places his hand on my lower back for support as i climb into his vehicle which has me crossing my legs in the passenger seat. Matt looks at me with a hungry look in his eyes as he shuts the door for me and walks over to the driver side.
He climbs into the seat and takes a deep breath in before turning the key over.
“Thanks for picking me up.” I say in the most nonchalant way that i can.
“Yeah, i mean- you haven’t talked to me in almost 6 months so i was surprised you’d wanted me to.” Matt says while looking at me, our eye contact holding strong.
“I didn’t have any other choice.” I say with a shrug of my shoulders and i can see the pain flash in his eyes as i finish my sentence off and i immediately feel bad.
“No- I didn’t mean-“ I start to correct myself but he cuts me off.
“I get it y/n. I really do- don’t apologize sweetheart. I’ve been an asshole to you for so long and i let my friends make jokes and i’m just- i’m so fucking sorry. I was a coward because you made me- feel things.” Matt spurts out, his confession surprising me but making my heart skip a beat and my pussy convulse at the name he called me.
“Matt-“ I start to speak but he cuts me off yet again.
“Can you come to my football game tonight?” He asks impatiently as he starts to pull out of my driveway.
“Matt, you know i hate going to school functions.”
“Please” He says quickly.
“Okay, i’ll be there.” I say reluctantly. I don’t even really know why he wants me there but it seems important so i agree.
The rest of the ride is silent, just Matt glancing at me every few minutes and at some point his large hands made their way to my knee, slowly trailing up my thigh as i squirmed around in my seat, Matt glancing at my neediness but his hand never moved to my heat.
“Here you go sweetheart.” Matt says as we pull up next to the busy school entrance.
“Aren’t you coming?” I ask him.
“I’ll be here later.” He says with a small smile as he unbuckles my seat belt for me and walks around to open my door. His truck is raised high off of the ground but Matt is so tall that his head is still up to my level when he’s standing on the ground in-front of me. He puts his hands around my waist and picks me up out of his truck. I giggle as he sits me down on the ground. He chuckles and tells me he’ll see me later.
As i walk into school, all that’s going through my head is Matt.
the things he said to me were definitely more than ‘friendly’
why is he being so nice?
is this another joke?
the way his hands were all over me tho…
sweetheart?
why does he want me at his game tonight?
i made him feel things?
what things?
i spend the rest of my school day and the whole ride home and the whole time i’m getting ready for the football game also thinking about Matt. The thoughts about him in my head are inevitably erotic and i genuinely can’t help it.
My mom drops me off at the game and i pull at the tight shorts on my legs as i hop out of the car. I walk up into the bleachers and i find a seat that gives me a perfect view of the field. Matt comes out of now where and runs up to the fence that separates us.
“c’mere!” he says loudly, i can see his friends behind him starting to laugh and i get nervous and all of memories of them poking fun at me make me sick and i want to run out of there.
“y/n baby, i said to come here.” Matt demands in a soothing yet firm voice that makes me feel safe. His friends behind him starts staring and looking confused. I am too but i listen to try and walk over to stand over the fence. His eye black is starting to smudge and his hair is tousled perfectly and i’m so close that i can smell his manly musk.
As soon as i’m standing slightly over Matt, he pulls his hands up to my head and pulls me down to him and immediately shoves his lips onto mine. The feeling of his mouth moving over mine is something i’ve wanted to feel for so fucking long. I groan into his mouth as his tongue slips into mine and i can taste the saltiness of his mouth and i’m
craving more. I audibly groan when he pulls away, his lips swollen and pink as he runs back to the field. His friends just staring at him angrily and confused as he flips them off and walks down the field with a smile on his face.
what the fuck just happened?
and why is his whole football team staring at me?
Matt yells at his friends from across the field.
“hey! shitheads! stop staring at my girl and get your asses down here.”
I get butterflies at him calling me ‘his girl’ but then i remember the months of teasing he let his friends do to me and i wipe the smile off of my face quickly. Maybe i should let myself enjoy this tho?
Throughout the whole game, my internal monologue argues with itself. By the end of the game, i decide i want to give him a chance. I believe what he told me. Matt sweaty figure runs up to the fence at the end of the game, they won of course. I’m clapping and smiling at Matt, his eyes looking directly into mine. He puts his arms out over the fence and motions for me to walk over. I do so and he puts his hands on my waist and picks me up over the fence and pulls me onto the field. I smile up at him and he immediately kisses me again.
His friends and even his coach “oooo”-ing at us as he gives me a desperate yet gentle kiss.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you ever since you showed up to my house with your fucking sparkly pink jump rope for cheer practice almost two years ago.” he whispers into my ear as he pulls away. My face goes red with embarrassment.
“You played good.” I say with a proud smile.
He flashes his white teeth at me before one of his friends, jacob, comes up behind Matt. i sigh and immediately get nervous because jacob was one of the main people who teased me. Matt looks over at jacob with sharp eyes, as if he’s warning him to not say anything to me. Jacob just smiles at me. “I’m sorry y/n, i was a dick to you and owen for a long time.”
I nod with a small thin lipped smile.
“you wanna get out of here sweetheart?” owen says to me. I nod my head and he smiles at me as he takes my hand and walks us out of the stadium.
as we walk through the busy parking lot, murmurs from people in our small town are heard.
“ew he’s like- old as fuck.”
“didn’t he literally bully her?”
i block out the noise, Matt squeezing my hand as a sign of comfort.
We get into his truck and i immediately look over at him. “Matt. why?”
he looks at me confusedly. “why what?”
“why did you want me to come tonight?” i ask timidly. He laughs out loud and i grow confused.
“you’re oblivious. I wanted you here tonight so i could kiss you in front of all of the assholes who used to give you shit.” he says with a genuine smile of happiness as he rubs his hand up and down my leg.
“Oh.” I say quietly as it clicks in my head. “Oh!” i say once i get it.
“cmon sweetheart it’s late. i’ll get you home.” Matt says as he reaches over to buckle my seatbelt for me, his long fingers grazing over my chest. Butterflies erupt in my stomach and heat grows between my legs as owen starts his truck and pulls out of the parking lot. His hand is resting on my thigh and quiet music plays, my window cracked slightly allowing some of the cold friday night breeze to flow through the cab of his truck. Every smidge of cold air that hits my skin makes me shudder. My body is extremely sensitive to the touch right now. I look over at owen and his dark eyes are trained on his hand that’s resting on my leg. “you’re so beautiful y/n.” Matt says in a low, seductive voice as his thumb draws circles on my inner thigh.
“pull over.” I say nervously, trying to muster up all of the courage that i have. Matt smirks, knowing what i want as he pulls over by an empty desolate park by some trees that offer a good enough coverage. As soon as he shifts into park, i immediately swing my legs over his lap so i’m straddling. My lips are on his in a hot, sweaty and passionate kiss. The smell of sweat and grass still on Matt makes me impossibly needier.
All of a sudden- Matt pulls my face back.
“Patience baby.” Matt says with an attractive chuckle.
“you’re not gonna fucking tease me all day and then tell me to have patience Matt.” i say firmly as i slowly start to rock my hips back and forth on him, making him groan out.
“oh- don’t- god, y/n.” he says as he throws his head back and shuts his eyes in pleasure as his eyebrows knit together.
“Nuh uh, you owe me six months worth of apologies. You’re gonna be the one making me feel good, yeah?” i say deviously as i cease my movements. Matt eyes open up and meet mine, a smile playing across his features as he laughs and nods his head yes.
“i guess you’re right about that one sweetheart.” he says as he quickly puts a hand on my back and turns me so my back is against the passenger door of his truck as he pulls my ankles up to his shoulders. I groan out as i arch my back needily.
“calm down pretty girl. let me take care of you.” he says softly as he pulls my shorts down my hips. His eyes clench shut together for a second. “you’re so perfect.” he praises as he starts to kiss up my thighs.
“Matt…” i moan out as he gets closer to my core.
he starts to kiss over my clothed cunt before slowly pulling my panties down.
“you’re so soaked. all because of me?” he speaks seductively as i bring my fingers up to his hair and pull his head closer to my pussy impatiently. He laughs out loud before licking a stripe up me which pulls a loud moan out of me. His tongue moves against me quickly and skillfully, pulling more and more noises from me.
“Oh you’re doing so good for me sweetheart.” He says against my cunt before ducking on my bundle of nerves.
“Matt- i’m gonna-“ i pant out, unable to form a coherent sentence.
“Finish in my mouth, let me taste you.” he says, which sends me over the edge, screaming his name as his head gets squeezed between my clenching thighs.
I pant out as i come down from my high as owen continues to lick me clean like a starved man.
“good?” he asks with an egotistical expression on his face.
“i’ve had better.” i say sarcastically with a shrug.
“Yeah i bet.” he says as he pulls my shorts back up my legs for me.
I sit up straight and fix my hair in his mirror before i buckle my seat belt and Matt starts to drive again.
“y/n” Matts deep voice speaks out, diverting my attention to him.
“hm?” I hum out.
“I love you.” he says with a small nervous smile on his face. My stomach immediately erupts in butterflies and a smile forms on my face.
“I love you too.” I say as i intertwine my fingers with his.
#sturniolo triplets#chris sturniolo#christopher sturniolo#nicolas sturniolo#matt sturniolo#matt sturniolo smut#nick sturniolo#sturniolo smut#sturniolos#chris sturniolo fanfic
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I Want To. | Wellness Check
logline; Such is life, you go from not being needed at The Bear today to being more needed than you ever have been.
[!!!] series history, this is the fourth; First, Second, Third
portion; 4.7k+
possible allergies; a dash of Tony's former paramedic background (and just medical shit in general) in this one, so, a sprinkle of post-trauma stress (and her usual yikes psyche). Mikey comes up a bit, as usual! despite the ops, we ball.
pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (pretty unavoidably gendered episode, mb non-fem folks)
we'll talk after babe, have a good time w/ this one.
Falling asleep was easy— par for Carmen fighting to keep his 6:30 am alarm on. When he finds out you don’t have a plug on his side of the bed and he has to charge his phone on your side, he turns it off. Cute.
Well, there’s also the part where you had to ask if he was okay because it sounded like he wasn’t breathing and it turns out —He was not breathing— He then pointed out that it sounded like you weren’t breathing —You were not breathing— Both of you thought the sound of your lungs would bother the other, so you opted not to use them at all. Turns out, counterproductive; you notice each other’s absences pretty well.
But besides that, it's easy. Carmen isn’t an awful bedfellow. He’s not super shifty, he doesn’t tug the blanket, he doesn’t roll all the fucking way over to your side, or anything like that. He’s honestly concerningly still. Is he annoyed that you’ve gotta toss and turn a little to get comfortable? Probably. He's probably dreaming of you exploding right now, he’s so annoyed. He didn’t make fun of your ages old build-a-bear plush nor it’s Cubs jersey, so that was nice. Pity, probably.
...If Carmen wasn’t here, he knows he’d be stirring and kicking and probably sleep-walking to his oven to light it on fire. But he is here. Where kicking would hurt. Where stirring would wake you. Where a fire would cause more anxiety than relief because all your plants and projects would die. Where you washed his hair and told him that taking care of people doesn’t feel like a lot of work to you. Was it not a lot of work, to take care of his brother? Was it worth it, to you? Probably not. How could it be?
He wills his body to not fucking move because if he does it's going to ruin everything. He's going to ruin everything.
He wakes up at 6:30 on the dot, alarm or no. He’d be concerned if his body functioned any differently. But he can’t get to his phone while you’re sleeping in his way and you’re so comfortable. You’re clutching a bear that’s undeniably on a losing team and you’re at peace with it. He’s trying not to make a metaphor out of this in his mind; alas, it’s already there. The only thing he can do is go back to sleep and dream about killing the teenage boy in his head before he can escape again and call you pretty.
It's around ten when you wake up, you try not to wake him when you turn to grab your phone, but the split second of motion makes him flinch like he’s about to get jumped. “Relax!” You hiss, but like, soft, whispered. “I’m doin’ the fuckin’ Wordle, not smothering you with a pillow.”
“You do the Wordle?”
“Oh, fuck you—”
“The first fuckin’ thing you do in the morning is the Wordle?”
“And I do the Crossword too, bitch, what of it?”
“…I like Connections.”
“I fuckin' hate Connections.”
“Alright, damn!”
The Chicago accent in both of you is stronger in your rasping morning voices. As is the laughter. You roll onto your stomach to get closer to him and let him see your screen. Neither of you have entirely woken up yet and that means it’s the perfect time to do a puzzle. If you don't focus on this puzzle right now, you fear you will get too comfortable in this idea of domesticity.
“C’s in the right place. Nothin’ else though.”
He’s the one that figures out its Cumin. You pretend not to be mad about this. You’re furious. Of course, it’d be a spice on the day Mr Food Guy sleeps over. Bullshit.
When you finally sit up, stretch, and say, “I’m just gonna shower real quick ‘nd—”
He’s at a breakneck speed to reply, “I’ll make breakfast.”
“Oh, you cook all the fuckin’ time, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
You blink, then shrug, the man likes to cook, c’est la vie. “Who am I to refuse?”
He looks far too happy about this, as though he’s won a lottery. A lottery of manual labour. He rolls out of bed, grabbing his back pack stuffed with yesterday’s clothes before leaving you to your own devices. In a literal sense, too, since you get a text. Ugh.
‘Gigi called in, can you reach?’
You would prefer not to reach, but this is capitalism.
‘When's the shift?’
‘6:30 to 12:30’
Why couldn’t something else at The Bear be fuckin’ broken today?
‘yeah i can reach’
‘that’s my girl, red tops today, see u’
You have also won the lottery of manual labour today. Look at you and Carm, luckiest people alive. Something like that. Alright, go shower and be normal about the fact that there’s a Michelin Star Chef making you breakfast in your kitchen. And he’s prett—
“You make your own bread.”
“I do.” You sit at your own little breakfast nook, waiting to be served. Towel hung around your neck post shower. You’d offer to help, but based on his urgency to cook for you, it’s gonna be a no. Plus, the gift on the table you’ve got for him is going to piss him off enough, can't poke this bear too much. He's already given you a mile. Too many idioms.
“I like to think in another universe I am a homesteader who makes her own soaps and renders tallow n’ shit. But I settle for growing basil and making sourdough in my shitty little Chicago apartment for now.”
“I like your apartment.” He hums, though amused. He turns and sets your plate—the one black plate— in front of you with a small smile. This smile immediately falls when he pushes the plate towards you and you push a travel bag of toiletries towards him.
“Fuck is this?”
“I don’t want to hear any complaints, Irish Spring.”
“How d’you know I use Irish Spring?”
“It’s all five of your routine, it’s going to be pungent— Now listen.” You pick up the bag; you’d dug through your sink cabinet and found a dollar store pack of plastic travel bottles, unused from cancelled trips of yesteryear. You've decanted your own products for him. It's fine, you buy jumbo sizes anyways...
“Shampoo, conditioner, face wash—They’ve even got labels.”
He takes the bag from you, setting it down on his side of the counter, begrudgingly. Though he hasn’t particularly paid it much mind, tunnelled on something else entirely, “Do you not like Irish Spring?”
"I didn't give you a body wash, you can still use it for that one purpose."
"Yeah, but do you not like Irish Spring?"
"...I think it's fine."
“Fine?”
“I’m more of an Old Spice fan.”
“You don’t deserve breakfast—” He pulls your plate, you pull it back.
“All I said—” “Thinkin’ I smell like shit—” “Did not say that—!” “Just cause you use the fruity stuff—” “I smell good! Deny that I smell good!” “You smell fine.” “Wowww—Whatever, do the thing.”
“Bruschetta with a breakfast twist.” Ah, that makes him give you the plate back. His kink is explaining food. “Sourdough toasted, topped with fresh basil—”
“Courtesy of me.”
“Courtesy of you, yes. Tomatoes, bacon glazed in balsamic, and you didn’t have parm so I used feta. And then, y’know, over medium egg on top.”
“You’re very good, Carmen.”
“Oh, I—Uh—” You haven’t even tried it yet. You’re telling him he’s good for the sake of the effort he’s given alone. He needs an antacid. “Thank you.”
It’s redundant to say his food is good. But what else can you say? It’s a fucking perfect open face sandwich. But he’s eating it with you, and half of it’s your own handiwork, and all of your pantry, so you leave your praises purely reaction based, unsaid.
You're honestly a little distracted, reading too hard into the act of him giving you the black plate and taking one of your shitty plastic ones for himself. Time to talk.
“Itinerary for today?”
“Gotta talk chaos menu with Syd before opening, then, well, running the restaurant all night… And then I’ll—I’ll go home.”
“Yeah? You can come back here, if you want to.” Thank God you took a bite in time to hide your selfish disappointment. It’s good for him to go home, but then he’s not here. Real Catch-22.
He shakes his head, “I think I’m good now. Thanks, though. What’s—What’s uh, your plans for today?”
“I’m gonna drop you off wherever you’re going, n’ then I’m gonna go shopping for Syd’s gift—”
“It’s her fuckin’ birthday or somethin?” It’s a delight how immediately panicked he is by this. You're also thankful because he's so distracted it means you won't have to tell him the rest of your plans for today. You'd like to keep that life separate. For as long as possible, at least.
“Nono, it’s just, I didn’t get her anything for her opening night and I wanna change that. I’ll get you something too.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” The very idea of waiting for his response is freaking you the fuck out, so you’re quick to clear your voice and add. “I’ll give you my number, in case you end up needing to crash.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Ey, text me your invoice too.”
You take both your cleared plates to the sink, and the lie is swift. You've gotten a lot better at that, in the past year.
“Oh no worries, your sister already covered it.”
It is 6:30 and your life is over. Kidding. Unless? You dropped off Carmen at the train station hours ago and, to use his words, ‘it’s hit’. He’s at The Bear and there’s nothing for you to fix there— So you’re not.
You’ve only been there like three times and yet it started to feel… Like your thing!
Like, like you’d just come in everyday and… Dunno, fix something... But it’s not like they’re gonna have a crisis everyday. Especially not ones that Fak can't handle himself if needed— There's no way he's gonna last at hosting, anyways. You’re now realizing the unrealistic dream— Possibly more unrealistic than homestead you.
Speaking of, Homestead You would probably throw up, if she saw the you you’re looking at in the mirror right now. You look good. Objectively, you know you look good. The mug is stamped. Your pants are black, high-waisted, and give you an ass. The bright red leather corset top is… Chafing, but it looks good! It's a sweetheart neckline so you have to take off your long rope chain necklace from Mikey and shove it in your pocket— Which is fine and doesn't feel bad at all. And listen, listen, being an on-call bottle girl is good money!
And you might get put on bar tonight! You don’t know for sure if you’re gonna have to juggle around lit up bottles for a bunch of fucking geezers!
...
God, fuck, it’s 10:20 and your life is over.
This group of geezers have been fucking annoying and fucking Cherry wouldn’t get off fucking bar even though you literally covered for her last week and these stupid grandpas asked if gratuity is included— No fucking shit! Did you take their card and put a 40% tip? Yeah, maybe. Fuck them! They’re too fucking rich to notice! And they took three hours to leave! Gonna bash this champagne bottle over his bald fucking—
“Ey! That’s a face I remember.”
You hear your name— Not Tony, not Chip, not Cousin. Your name.
You turn to see, oh fucking hell, let God kill you—
“Uncle J!~ Good to see you!~ What a surprise! It’s Jack, here.” Jack of all Trades. It was cute at the time of sign up. Your smile is bright, fake, strained, and beautiful.
“Been too long, really.” Cicero isn’t a bad guy—Correction: Cicero isn’t a bad guy, to you, but as Mikey once put it, he’s a fuckin’ ball buster and in your case, you’re one of the few people beneath him that he asks favours from. Always wants free labour and your expertise. And he always has a habit of asking for favours the second you need one back. But you don’t need one right now! So it’s fine! Everything’s fine!
“Do your Uncle a favour,”—Fully not your Uncle—“Could you pair me and my friends here with a good red?”
You let it go that they’re having fish and asking for a red. Stupid thing to get hung up over right now. You make a commission of it anyways; you just pick the most expensive bottle. He won’t know the difference. The Bear would know the difference. Carmen would notice the difference... Alright, relax.
While pouring glasses, Jimmy whispers to his compatriots and one by one they all peel off. It is almost alarming how quickly this group of men turn and leave without a second thought, taking their glasses with them.
You raise your brows and look at Cicero. “Ah. This is the moment where I sit?”
He nods, gesturing to the booth. “This is the moment where you sit.”
You slip into the booth, sitting across from him. “What do you need?”
“Right to the point with you.”
“I hate suspense.” You shrug.
“You liked Mikey.”
What the fuck?
You bite your inner cheek, hard. “Don’t say that shit.”
“I liked him too,” He says it solemnly, like your mutual grief is a proper apology. He takes a long sip of his stupid red wine. “Did you hear? Cousin Vinnie and Mira are gettin’ hitched, finally.”
“I have no fucking idea who Vinnie and Mira are.” You take the glass when he hands it to you, taking a sip. Small. You gotta drive home, after all.
“Really? It’s a big wedding—Destination too, in New York—”
“I hate to remind you, but I was friends with Mikey, not his family.” Not his biological one, at least. The Beef, sure. But you literally only met his siblings two days ago. “What’s a wedding gotta do with me?”
He bristles, and finally cuts it short. “Around three hundred guests, seven-hour shift, open bar—” “Oh, for fuckssake—” “Listen—”
“It’s an easy gig, I’ll fly you out for it, it’s a month and a half away, you’ll get to attend a big fuckin’ Italian wedding— Which will be a shitshow, certainly, so free entertainment; and Michelin Star level catering, kind of.”
You squint. Kind of? “You got Carmy in on this shit?”
“You know ‘em?”
You nod, pressing your elbows on the table, “We’ve recently become acquainted. What d’you got on him for him to cater a wedding?”
“He’s eight-hundred grand in the hole.” “Fuck!” “He gets thirty off for catering. Smart boy, said yes.”
Christ, you massage the bridge of your brow with one hand and pull out your phone with another to check your calendar, you might as well see if you can even entertain the idea. You don’t need a favour right now, maybe you can bargain and get him to actually pay you for it, this time.
“I dunno, Uncle J…”
Oh.
28 unread texts from Syd.
3 unread texts from an unknown number— Probably Carmen.
9 missed calls from Syd.
Uncle Jimmy, always, always, has a fucking way, of asking for a favour when you need one…
You slam your phone, screen down on the table, straightening your posture in your seat. “I have demands.”
He motions for you to continue, taking his wine glass back. “You always do.”
“You and your friends are gonna tip a hundred percent tonight.”
“That why you give me a 2016 Fisher?”
“I like to think ahead.”
“Smart girl.” He shrugs, palms of his hands out. Which means yes.
“If Uncle Lee comes up to the bar I’m throwing a fork at him and leaping over the counter.”
He chuckles, “Thought you 'didn’t know family'.”
“I remember what I'm told.”
His amusement fades quickly, remembering first hand. He nods. “…You’re allowed to jump him if I’m watching first.”
“And you’re friends with my boss, right?”
“We’re acquainted.”
“I’m gonna punch out now and you’re gonna smooth that out for me.”
He perks up, amused, glancing at your phone, “Somethin’ come up, Chip?”
“Don’t call me Chip.” He wants to poke at you, just a little bit more, but there’s a rattled look in your eyes that he’s so rarely seen that he lets it go.
He waves his hand, shrugging, “Be safe. I'll send you the details. December wedding, remember.”
At the end of the day, Cicero isn’t a bad guy to you, someone who loved his nephew as much as he did.
You’re running to your car while you dial back Syd. You don’t have time to read the texts, all you need to know is that it’s an emergency. She picks up just after the first ring.
“Syd what the—” “Code blue!”
You almost fall on your face and eat asphalt. For a flash, you’re in the back of an ambulance being handed a defibrillator at the age of 22, surrounded by faces just as scared and young as you. Then you’re back in the parking lot, slotting the key into your car door because the fob doesn’t work. It’s never worked.
“S-Someone’s having a fucking heart attack!?”
“What?!”
“That’s what fucking code blue means!”
“Oh my god! Sorry! No, I was just saying the thing that scares doctors the most!”
“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ scared Syd!” You slide into the driver’s seat and slam your car door shut. You take a deep breath, white knuckling the steering wheel. “…I’m-I'm sorry for yelling! Where are you, what’s going on?”
“The—The Bear, the restaurant.” The second you have a location you’re revving off.
“Nat locked herself in the office—” “Like trapped?” This shit again?
“No, no— Like she locked herself in— She did this like two hours ago and I thought she was just taking a breather— But we’ve closed and, and like almost everyone left and she’s still not coming out— And she blocked the door inside— and— And I think she’s trying to hide that she’s basically shrieking in pain every five minutes.”
You take a long time to register anything she’s just said. Her tone is as panicked as you feel on the inside. You’re only now registering the ambient yelling of Richie and Carmen in the background.
“…Did—Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah Syd, I’m just thinking.” You don’t step on the gas on purpose, it just happens. “A pregnant woman is screaming in pain— in intervals— behind a blockaded door?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Have you called an ambulance?”
There’s a much more distinct yell in the background from Richie, “No cops!”
Then from Carmen, “No coverage!”
“Yeah…” Syd shakily continues for them, “The insurance is a problem, and Richie said— Motherfucker—” You hear a muffled scrap over the phone before Richie continues on for Syd.
“Er, yeah, Cousin, Sugar keeps yelling that she’s fine ‘n blocked the door, if we call the cops they’re gonna ram that shit down and take her to the loony bin.”
“That’s not— That’s not what paramedics do.”
“That’s what they all do.”
“Richie, y’know, I was a paramedic, right?”
“…You a fuckin’ fed, Chip?”
“Richie, if I was a fuckin' narc you would be in prison by now. I, I— I'll be there in like, like eight minutes, everyone stop fucking yelling at Sugar!”
You’re there in four. You almost rear end someone and you run every yellow you get but you’re there in four. You don’t park properly in the back, you just drive your car in and turn it off in the middle of the lot. You don’t bother to be let in, you just punch the code in as you remember it. As Natalie told you.
“Oh good you—Oh my, God?” Syd is no better than a man in this moment, going from grateful for your presence to being one intrusive thought away from whistling.
You did not have time to change out of your ...outfit and someone has been hogging your Carhartt. You pass Syd quickly, waving a hand in front of her face. Goddammit, why do your boot heels have to have that incredibly satisfying femme fatale click right now?
“Alright— Relax—”
“Holy shit, Chippy!” Richie was yelling at Sugar through the door along with Carm, but once alerted to your presence is now snapping his fingers. You'd describe him more as impressed than actually attracted to you. “You clean up!”
“Cousin, are you—” He grabs Carmen’s face, turning it to you— Carmen does of course, immediately slap Richie’s hand away which of course, means they just start smacking each other's hands. Like preteen girls. “Ey, get the fuck off—” “I just want you to look at a pretty girl, Cousin—!” “Stop fuckin’ touchin’ me!” “Are you looking!?” “I—”
“Everyone shut the fuck up!”
You silence the room. You’re thankful most of the staff has left by now since it’s well after close. It's just Carmen, Syd, Richie, Tina, and Fak for some goddamn reason...You can't be mean you're handymen, you have to stick together.
“I look different from the usual jumpsuit, yes, we get it, can we move on? Pregnant woman?”
Syd is the first to speak, “…Were you on a date, though?”
You blink and roll your eyes all at once, twisting your head to her, “Syd—”
“It’s good to see you getting out there, baby.” Tina, deeply unhelpful in this moment, puts a hand around your shoulder. Oh to have a mother’s judgment when she’s not even your mother.
“O-kay!” You drag on the ‘kay’, clapping your hands together, “Everyone, just get your thoughts out in the next five seconds and then we’re moving on.”
“Chippy, I cannot believe you’ve held this out on me—” “—I meant it like-like a concerned, did we interrupt your date—” “—The red is unbelievable on you, Cousin!” “I need you to teach me how you do your makeup—” “Can you— can you yell again—?” “Fak!” “Oh, so that’s too much?”
A cacophony, it continues on. Your eyes glaze over, and you’re waiting for Sugar to let out a scream so everyone remembers the fucking point of being here. But then you look at Carmen. Everyone’s pivoted from staring at you to yelling at each other. But Carmen; Carmen is still looking at you. Stupid soft scary eye contact. And his voice is so much quieter than the yelling but it’s the thing that you hear anyways.
“It looks tight.”
There’s a possibility that when you killed the teenage girl inside you that you also killed the feminist. Because there’s a small sub-sect of you that’s upset that he’s not objectifying you right now. That his vision is focused on you. Not the changes. He doesn’t seem to look at you any differently than when you’re wearing a jumpsuit and utility belt, covered in toilet water. This should not be annoying and yet it is.
“It is.”
He nods, eye contact unshifting, unblinking, “You wanna change?”
“Maybe after we find out whether or not your sister is in labour.”
He nods. He takes a second but he nods.
You approach him, rather, the door, knocking gently. Everyone quiets down.
You clear your throat, and once more, the persona is put on, you’re a paramedic, putting on that soft but firm reassuring authoritative tone. “E-M Rescue, I got a call for a wellness check on Natalie Berzatto?”
“Tony—” A groan of pain behind the door, “I am perfectly well! Everyone go home!”
You grimace, you motion with your hand for Fak to hand you a screwdriver— He keeps one in his breast-pocket, even when wearing a suit. Hey, you should start doing that.
“Nat, I’m a paramedic— Or I was—will you please let me in?”
“I don’t— Fuck! —Need a paramedic!”
“Never hurts to do a check-up, Nat.” You speak calmly, like you always did. “Listen, lover, if you don’t open the door, I’m gonna have to take it off its hinges, and we're gonna lose medic patient confidentiality.”
When she doesn’t reply after a good beat, you start to unscrew the top hinge; she can hear it, “Wait, wait, wait— Fuck-Fuck— I’m opening it!”
There’s another series of pained groans as she exerts herself to open the door, and once she does, it’s only by a crack, to look at you and you alone. She’s absolutely been crying. She speaks in a whispered tone. “Just you.”
You nod, handing the screwdriver back to Fak without breaking eye contact with her. “Just me.”
She cracks it open just enough for you to come in. And so, you do. Everyone is, for the first time, too worried about her shutting down to interrupt or yell a complaint.
You close the door behind you, pressing your back to it. You note the toppled over chair by your feet that she must’ve blocked it with. Plus the puddle of amniotic fluid beneath her. Oh fuck.
...
“You wanna talk or do you just want me to check your contractions?”
“I’m—” She shakes her head, covering her face. She half sits on the desk. “I’m fucking— I am not ready for this.”
“Yeah.” You nod. You’re not here to convince anyone they’re ready to be a fucking mother. But you’re here to listen, certainly.
“She’s gonna hate me.”
“Who?”
“Her—!” Her voice is choked, another contraction. You’re silently taking the time in your head. She points to her stomach.
“And— And we just opened, and— And I’m gonna have to go on maternity leave, which is the last fucking thing we need and— and— If I could just fucking keep her in!”
“Natalie.” You put a hand on her shoulder, she finally looks at you. “This is happening.”
“Not help—fu—ll.”
“I know it’s not. This is scary and there are no take backs—” “Very unhelp—”
“Nat, your daughter wants to meet you.”
You squeeze her shoulder; she looks like she’s gonna cry all over again for a completely different reason. “She probably won’t hate you. Who’s to say. But I know you’ll love her. And that’s enough, isn’t it?”
She nods, emphatically, but something is still bothering her. You squeeze her shoulder again. You whisper, so even if everyone’s ear is pressed to the door— Which you doubt, she’s screaming after all, they won’t hear.
“Carmen will still know you love him, even when you're not here.”
She immediately goes for a hug, you reciprocate with a shuddered ease. She sniffs, head on your shoulder. She stays there for a while before letting you go, nodding. “Okay.”
You hand her the tissue box next to her on the table, she takes it thankfully, crushing it in her hand. Another contraction. Oh, that couldn't have been more than 2 minutes. Oh fuck.
You kneel down in front of her, and you’re simply no longer in your body as a person but just the paramedic. You could not be more thankful that she’s wearing a dress today. Awkward requests of spreading legs and pulling off underwear aside, Natalie’s daughter does in fact really want to meet her. Oh fuck.
You look up at Natalie, between her knees, you speak cool, professional. “You’re crowning. This is gonna have to happen here. I'll have someone call your husband.”
You’re so calm that it doesn’t give Natalie the feeling or need to freak out, she just breathes. “Okay. Okay.”
You stand upright. “Do you prefer this office or somewhere else?”
“I can’t— Move.”
“Makes sense. Makes total sense. Okay. I’ll go get everything we need, I’ll be right back. I might send some people in, okay, love?”
She just grunts in reply, nodding, now that she’s not in as much emotional pain, she can entirely focus on her brutalizing physical pain.
“Oh, hey, I know—” You grab her purse, pulling out her phone and ear buds, handing them to her with haste, your calm demeanour is faltering just a bit. “Listen to some music, loud, y’know, chill…” You put the pods in her ear for her. She’s again, in too much pain to tell you to fuck off, and just plays her music loud.
You softly open the door, smiling just a bit too much as you leave, and very softly close the door behind you. Looking at the motley crew before you, your persona immediately falls apart. You really only wanted her to play music so you could scream. “Oh, my fucking God.”
“What’s happening, she good?” What a sweet, stupid brother, Sugar has.
You purse your lips together, eyes wide, shaking your head. “She’s going to give birth in like— Maybe six minutes. Max ten.” Everyone goes to speak in an uproar of panic, and then you slap yourself in the face. Hard. That stuns them silent.
“Alright!” You press your hands over your eyes, “Tina!”
She’s been around this block before, “What do you need?”
“Can you go sit in there with her? Tell her all the breathing exercises and shit? Keep her calm? Coming from you it won’t seem so—”
“Condescending as fuck?”
“Yes, exactly, can you?”
“Gotchu, baby.” She claps your shoulder when she walks past and into the office.
You clap hers in tandem, “Thank you, Mama—Okay, Richie!”
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna need you to call Nat’s husband—”
“Why do I—”
“Because you’re a fuckin’ dad, Rich, and he will need you!” You’re yelling all pissed, snapping your fingers at him, but he does light up when you say it like that. “I don’t care if he wets his fuckin’ bed, tell him to get here!”
He salutes, walking off, “Aye aye, Cap’n Chip.”
You shake off the sting in your hand, God, you really did slap yourself too hard. You turn to the next targets. “Syd, Fak.”
Syd responds hesitantly for the both of them, since Fak is silently enjoying your colonel persona a little too much. “…Yes, C-Captain?”
“I need towels, a lot of clean towels— cloth ones, like sanitized clean— Warm half in water— And then I need a clean sheet— A table cloth or something, I don’t fucking care, something clean and big that you’re fine destroying. I need sterile sheaths, Syd you get those— Other than that, however they get to me, I don’t give a shit— Just scrub in before you touch anything!”
They almost knock into each other the way they run so fast. You yell after them. “Get the big sheet first, she needs to lay down!”
“Yes, Chef!”
You take a deep breath before moving your gaze onto Carmy. The screaming lead EM in you melts off your shoulders, just for the second.
He asks before you can even say anything, “Yes, Chef?”
“I need you to scrub in and get me gloves and an apron—” “On it, Chef—” “And you’re gonna sit in with me for the birth of your niece.”
He cringes, not to refuse, but just the mounting reality of the situation is dawning on him. His sister is going to give birth to his niece in their shared office of his high-class restaurant within it's first week of open.
But you then tag on, “Carmy, she needs you— Frankly, I’m not the one giving birth but fuckin' I need you. T-There.”
He softens instantly, like tranquilizing— Well, a bear.
“Yes, Chef.”
I know the opening probably feels so far away by now, but i do want to note that Breakfast Bruschetta is my own recipe that I used to make like every fuckin' day pre-employment. It's so goddamn good. I highly recommend it, babes. It's balsamic with brown sugar dissolved, btw, Carmy's just a quick explainer.
I wrote like a solid 75% of the labour sequence before deciding it just needed to have the breathing room of it's own chapter, so until next time for that one bbs. But I'm excited for it! And also dreading it! A lot of hard conversations combined with giving birth = nightmare to write, but well worth it, i think. Speaking of: I don't believe at the end of Season 2 that Sugar is at the end of her term of 36 weeks, but in our case here, she is. I'm very much so not interested in a very scary premature birth for our girl!! She's okay!! Dw!! I just wonked with time a little, hope that's okay.
And hey, look at that reveal! Bartender/Sommelier was code for bottle service-- Which is a very respectable career, btw, don't get it twisted-- I was critiquing it only in the way I would critique literally any other job: Misery Under Capitalism. And now we've got that fuckin' wedding in the future midst! Ah!!
Anyways please send me your thoughts ad nauseam, I reload my activity feed every 3 seconds to see what you guys are thinking. If you reblog, tell me what you think in the tags!! Yell at me in the replies!! Send an anon in!! I don't bite, I swear <3
#carmen berzatto#carmen berzatto imagine#carmen berzatto x reader#carmen berzatto x you#carmen x reader#carmy berzatto#carmy x reader#the bear fanfiction#the bear x reader#carmy the bear#the bear fx
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aita for flirting with my online friend 🌐❓
i (20s, trans man) have been getting closer to my online friend (same as me). we were mutuals for a while in what i can best describe as an online writing community but only started actually talking last year when i approached him to do a project together. we've been pretty strictly platonic for the last year but this year it's ramped up a bit (in part i think due to greater proximity)- we make a lot of sexual jokes at each other. now that's not necessarily a big deal because we do it at other male (and not male in his case) friends of ours, its just sort of how our circle interacts with each other, but it's a bit different for me because i do actually have somewhat of a crush on him. i'm not super sure of how he feels towards me, but i do think he knows at least partially how i feel and is at least humouring our banter.
now here's where i feel like an asshole. i have no intention of dating him at all- even if he does like me back, the reality is that we live on two entirely separate continents and neither of us have the financial means to go see each other. now you could suggest we date long distance or online but i've done that like 4 different times now with 4 different people and i just know it doesn't work for me, for a variety of reasons i won't get into. just trust me when i say it would end poorly. i'm not on speaking terms with any of my exes (nor do i want to be, bar one) and my friend is important enough to me that if we ended up like that then i'd be really upset about it. usually when i break up with someone or am broken up with i'm left with a lot of resentment and bitterness. plus our writing project would be tanked, which i'm not willing to jeopardise because i think it's excellent, he's a great partner.
in addition to that i'm only a few months out of a pretty rough breakup with someone i also had viewed as a close friend (irl, not online). i'm not conflating them here, because they aren't alike whatsoever, but i worry that im using my friend as an emotional rebound to cope with what my ex did to me, even if he doesn't know it. i don't want my ex back and i am honestly still feeling a lot of anger towards him, so it's been nice putting my attention and libido elsewhere. however i know how shitty it feels to be someone else's rebound guy and would hate to do that to my friend. plus i could be stunting my own healing progress?? idk
it initially was just a bit of fun but i've had to privately and seriously talk myself down from getting jealous as fuck when my friend has had other people jokingly (or not jokingly, who knows) flirt with him. i'm a pretty intense person (hi, bpd) so i've been trying to reign myself back and keep things chill and funny between us but i'm getting kind of concerned whether i should stop entirely so my feelings go away or if im fine enjoying giving and being given attention in return, even if it doesn't lead anywhere. even just liking him is kind of breaking three of the rules i'd set for myself after my last few relationship disasters (no more online stuff, no more white boys, let my brain cool down and dont be interested in anyone for at least a year) so i kind of just don't know where i should be taking this if anywhere
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𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ! ᝰ 𝐆𝐈𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐎𝐊𝐀
ᯓ☆ 𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 : no bc i am making this man a pathetic simp for you idc. im writing these with myself in mind so yk, i have to pour out my feelings. and also i need to get all this giyuu writing off my chest, its actually a problem the fixation i have on this man but no fics tickle my brain just right so i have to write them myself
btw thank you so much for all the love and support on my last two posts. literally you all are so incredibly sweet !! ♡♡ i just graduated college so i might have a bit more time to write but no promises!
! 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ¡ : none. giyuu might be a little ooc. and most, if not all of my readers will be referenced from the modern era because i really enjoy that concept. i rewrote this a few times so pls be nice 🤧
Giyuu actually doesn’t know how this occurred. No, actually that was a lie. He knew how this happened, but didn’t at the same time. And honestly speaking, the man does not care at all. You were so nice and sweet to Giyuu it made his head spin. Like it makes him ill in the best way imaginable. He doesn’t understand why you want to be around him so much, why you want to be his friend – not that he minds – but he just can’t get past his own indiscretions about himself. That was until you told him to his face.
You tell him that you thought he was cute – I'm sorry? – and you liked how calm he was – really? His brain can’t compute anything that you say. He doesn’t know if you need any medical assistance or he’s just dreaming. But it makes you laugh. The cute, dumb look on his face as he stands there, gaping at you like a fish.
It wasn’t like it was new information. You did enjoy his company the most. He was very quiet and by no means were you either, but you have this habit of matching the energy of people you were with. So, it was almost relaxing and refreshing spending time with Giyuu. Though Giyuu is silent most of the time, he does in fact talk. At first it's about a mission he was on recently, if and most likely when he gets more comfortable with you, he’s talking a little more in depth about random things that are on his brain. It's endearing really. Or sometimes he’s just talking about things that he thinks you might like to know, random facts, and so on.
But sometimes you do the talking and he likes that too. You could talk for hours and he could listen to every word you have to say. He would soak it up like a sponge as you focus your eyes on the crochet hooks weaving in front of you. Your voice is quiet and nice, soft and warm sounding.
This typically happens when you visit his estate. And you visit his estate a lot. Maybe Giyuu was a little disappointed that you weren’t staying with him, but he knows that he shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds. He’s lucky enough to see you this much, as much as he's lucky to see you at all. He can’t be too mad though. Mitsuri has jumped you the first moment she got when the Master had brought up your living arrangements. You had nowhere to go. And honestly, Giyuu may have been a little relieved that Mitsuri of all people had gotten to you first.
He really wouldn’t have minded if it had been Rengoku or Gyomei. For obvious reasons, Rengoku would be happy to have him stopped by and probably Gyomei too, because it seems like they don’t have a bone to pick with him. Honestly speaking, he wouldn’t have minded Muichiro either, though the boy would have probably forgotten your existence within the day. But any of the others, the thought made his skin crawl for plenty of reasons. Maybe it was because it would have become a hassle, or he would be harassed every time he went to visit you. Yes, it does seem on par with him that might just avoid you so you don’t get verbally assaulted like he does if you were to associate with him. But he was a lonely, pathetic man who was enamored with you at first glance the minute you showed up out of nowhere and he couldn’t help but thank the heavens that the stars had aligned so nicely for him – even if he felt he didn’t deserve it.
His only issue with the arrangement was Obanai. The man had almost butchered him on numerous occasions just for showing up to the Love estate. Even if he wasn’t there for Mitsuri, the Serpent Hashira didn’t seem to care. Maybe it was funny the first few times – it actually wasn’t – but you really couldn’t keep your mouth shut anymore. Obanai was wearing you thin with his commentary. Everytime Giyuu was around, it was like the others just couldn’t help themselves by making a comment insulting the man. Maybe it was because you didn’t want to disrespect a Hashira, especially if four of them were in the room with you, but Giyuu was here to see you, and it was almost like insulting Giyuu was an insult to you for wanting to spend time with him.
Mitsuri was okay with Giyuu coming to visit you, she actually encouraged it. So watching Mitsuri stand behind you while you gave Iguro a piece of your mind was something Giyuu didn’t know he needed to see until then. And maybe he did allow himself to feel a little selfish and smile mentally. He still remembers how Iguro had this look of disdain on his face, simultaneously looking like a scolded child and embarrassed because this was happening in front of Mitsuri.
Giyuu wondered if you caught the look that Obanai and Kaburamaru were giving you – if looks could kill and all that – but that was stupid. You most certainly did and just didn’t care enough. And Giyuu also wonders just what kind of sorcery you have, because he did hear you mention Sanemi by name at some point and now he's not bothering him as much, especially when you are around.
It wasn’t like he could do anything about it, not like he had ever done anything about it in the past. He never really had the heart to correct anyone in their assumptions of him, he never really thought he had to. Though, that mainly was because he thought he deserved such mistreatment. Regardless, it didn’t matter how he felt about it and himself. If you enjoyed his company that much to defend him, he was going to provide as much of it as you wanted. But there was something about it that made his heart swell a little bit bigger and flooded him with enough warmth that you could have mistaken it as him having a fever.
Now here the two of you were, sitting outside the Water Estate. You both had taken your places by the koi pond Giyuu has. It's so calm and cool. The soft moving of water could be heard every time the wind blew just enough, as well as the sharp sound of water splashing because some fish got too close to the surface.
Giyuu isn’t losing himself as he stares at the pond, watching the fish move around. He finds himself mesmerized though, as you talk. It’s nice, as usual. He likes how you talk and the way you talk. He could listen to you for hours and never get tired of hearing you. And he knows that if he glances at you now, even briefly, he wouldn’t be able to look away. You just look so… wonderful. It makes him dizzy. But he has such a weak will to do so, and now he's staring at you. Eyes soft and relaxed. He has never felt so content.
Giyuu doesn’t know if he realizes what kind of situation he is in. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s finally realizing just how much of an effect you have on him. He likes you. He likes you beyond anything in the world. He loves you and everything about you.
You don't notice him staring. You’re too busy weaving the crochet hook in and out of your craft. You make it look so effortless. So enjoyable. And you seem so happy crocheting away as you speak. The way you talk and do it at the same time, you're so smart. You have to be. And Giyuu can’t help but hope you don’t look up. You’re as mesmerized with your work as he is with you. He would die though, if you caught him. The thought makes him sweat almost, being so close to you like this. His hands are clammy, and he's never been this nervous.
Yeah, he definitely has it bad for you. And for the first time in a while, even despite his nerves, he found the corners of his lips curling upwards, in a soft and timid smile. He averts his eyes, almost to gather his bearings, but that isn't enough. The subtle flush creeping onto his cheeks betrayed him. But he couldn’t be more delighted.
thank you for reading !! ૮₍˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶₎ა
#giyuu x you#kny giyuu#demon slayer giyuu#kny x reader#kny x you#no use of y/n#no y/n#demon slayer x reader#giyuu x reader#giyuu tomioka x reader#x reader#demon slayer#demon slayer x you#demon slayer x y/n#reader insert#oneshot#imagine#giyuu tomioka#giyuu tomioka x y/n#x you#kimetsu no yaiba#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x you#kny giyuu tomioka#giyuu tomioka my love#idk how to tag this
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(TW: Dehumanization, talk of opening up a mechanical bird to empty out its stomach, fantasy racism? I guess? Martyn fears one character in this story based on appearances- You'll see what I mean.)
Entry 36
Day 229
"I told you! Ohh, look who has an upset tummy because they wanted to drink something other than clean oil?" Martyn kept a steady pace as rubbed the bird's back. "But noo, mister smarty pants wanted to drink WATER."
A defeated caw left the sickly bird trapped in Martyn's arm. Poor Brian had been sick ever since this morning. With Martyn's water bottle being knocked over and tiny claw marks all over the metal... It wasn't hard to put two and two together.
"Oh I know. I know. Water and oil don't feel nice now does it? We're going to a shop, don't worry. Get a nice mechanic to take a look at you and empty out your stomach. Then I'll get you some clean oil. Sound like a deal?"
Another quiet caw, with a hint of hopefulness. Martyn would take that response if it meant Brian wouldn't try to take off.
Thankfully the shop was just as the hostess had said. Two blocks down, take a right, and look for... The building covered in all sorts of colors. "This... Is the place we're supposed to go to, Birdy."
A very hesitant caw.
"You and me both, bud." Martyn shouldered his way through the door. "Hello?" His eyes glazed the room, taking note of the rather plain interior. A few wooden chairs, checkered tiles, tools laying about everywhere... Yep. Definitely a mechanic's office.
With nobody in sight.
"Are they closed? Oh I hope not." Martyn stepped away from the door with a small grunt. "Sorry for any turbulence on Martyn Air, Brian. We shall provide you snacks as compensation." He said in response to the flurry of caws.
"I didn't know a crow- Helllllo." Martyn's eyes flicked up to a man leaning through the door. Who just so happened to be covered in an insane amount of colors. "Are you a paying customer by chance? Did you have an appointment with Doc?"
"Doc?" The Doctor? Was he here? "No, no, no, my little friend here decided it would be a smart idea to dunk his beak in my water bottle."
Another caw, sounding apologetic.
"Oh don't apologize to me! It's your tummy that you need to say sorry to." Martyn rubbed his head with a quiet sigh. "If you can't already tell, poor Brian here needs his stomach panel cracked open and checked. Think you could help?"
The other shook his head quickly. "Not me, no can do. I work on chems and spray paints. I can see if Doc is free to help? He works with machines more than I do. He could help you a lot more than me."
"As long as he helps Brian."
The multi-colored man eventually left Martyn in the waiting room. "Well. There you go! We're getting you some help, little fella." Martyn sat down in the closest chair with a small huff. "We just gotta wait a little bit. Get the Doc to look over you. Empty out your poor stomach."
A part of Martyn's mind wondered. What... What if this was THE Doctor? Could his arm problem be solved? Could he finally embark on his way home? Was... The G.U.I.D.E even his home anymore? What about Scott? He's alive! But... He hates his guts. His stupid mouth went blabbering and rage took over... Not to forget that bird guy beside him could have been the Canary Flight Master! He had managed to piss off two people in one day! Embarrassing, really.
"Hello?" A far deeper voice lulled Martyn out of his thoughts. And oh. Oh. He wished that his thoughts would consume his mind at that very moment.
The... THING towered over Martyn by an easy two feet, if not more. (And Martyn was a proud 6"0, a height that isn't all that common in the Crashlands.) But it wasn't the towering height that threw Martyn off. No, it was the pale green skin that clung to the man like glue. The way copper clung to the man's every breath, the twitch of his hand as it rested above his shoulder- The horrific glowing red eye that seemed to bore through his soul. The horrifyingly large horns that looked so impossible and yet were possible all at once.
Martyn had seen some weird things. He'd seen a LOT of oddities and impossible things in the Crashlands. But this. This takes the cake. Whatever this FREAK was, it was a danger. And with how still Brian had gotten in his arms, his bird agreed.
"You were requesting an audience with me? A problem with your... Bird?" That voice sent a shiver down his spine and NOT in a good way.
"Y-You are Doc?" Martyn cursed the way his voice stuttered. "Yeah- Yes! Yes, Brian. He... He drank some water this morning a-and..." His grip tightened on Brian subconsciously. That hand was getting so close to his bird. And the THING noticed. And it smiled.
Fucking SMILED.
"Don't be so jumpy! I promise to not harm him." The abomination assured. "As long as he doesn't peck me, we're fine!"
Brian's small caw rung through Martyn's mind. Right. Brian. Do this for Brian. He stared up at... Doc... And let out a sigh. "Okay. Let's....If it will help out Brian."
"Yes. I think it will."
(More to be added, the author is sleep deprived.)
#hermitblr#hermitcraft#the crash#hermitaday#void art#original art#mcyt fanart#martyn inthelittlewood#martyn itlw#docm77#docm77 fanart#cubfan135#cubfan fanart
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Geo with a reader who keeps poofing out of existence. MIAing, maybe even in a crime gang. Anything where MC vanishes for days at a time.
Also. Expect more. You want Geo reqs you're getting Geo reqs.
NNFNFNFNDJWNWW thank you annonie 🤲🤲🤲
This is under the pretence that geo knows about hyugos crimes
Not proofread
Hes super confused as to why you go for days at a time, but while he waits for you he takes notes, and marks down important class dates for you.
Does he like it when you disappear? No, absolutely not. Hates it, hes so overprotective to him the thought of you getting hurt or maybe disappearing for a day, then a week, then a month... then forever, actually brings out emotions he forgets he had.
Please tell when your gonna disappear. He feels... sad without you, especially without notice. (He won't let you know how he feels— directly atleast)
If you do come back hurt from your little crime rendezvous hes pissed, like so fucking pissed.
This is when you are forced to tell him what goes on when and why you leave.
Crime? Disappearing? That sounds awfully familar... Is genuinely irked at first, your too similar to hyugo— and thats not a good thing. He wants you to stop, but he knows you probably can't. It doesn't take him a while to come to terms with it, probably right then and there.
Because to him, at the end of the day as long as your safe and sound, preferably in his arms, he'll be content. (For a while)
Hes rich, he has connections to the citys founders— while he night not get directly involved (for a while), he'll work from the shadows. Doing everything in his power to make anything for anyone opposing you (and your gang) difficult. And, making things for your group easier.
Your gonna be gone for awhile?— heres 100 bucks— what? Its for food expenses?
Gets nice ass weapons manufactured for your gang. Oh your comrade was talking about how their knife broke?— next time you see him he gives you a freshly made one and tells you to bring it to them. Their your Partners in crime, literally. He'll do what he can to help protect you, and help your teamates protect you. If they fail to protect you he gets pissy, "how fucking incompetent are they?!"
If you get hurt bad another time then things kinda get rocky. Why do you still do what you do especially when you get hurt like this? This is when he really wants you out— if he has to pay a large ass fine then he willl. This probably causes an argument— hes concerned for your safety, really. Dont leave him please.
Things dont see to be looking well for hyugo, he doesn't want you to end up like him.
Sorry for the short length, i wrote this in one sitting ヽ(≧∀≦)ﾉ
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TAURTIS.
Taurtis isn't talked about enough. He's genuinely gotten drowned out and it's golly awful!!! Everyone's so focused on Sam and grian and their stuff taurtis gets drowned out.
Taurtis is such an anomaly and he is MORE than just some silly guy who's Sam's best friend. I'd argue he's just as bad or maybe even a tad bit worse. Hear me out.
Straight up at the beginning of the series, no one mentions (outside of like 2 people) that taurtis has killed someone and made it on TV while getting away with it. Bros the first murderer we see in the season revealed and hey, this can imply he's done it before and never gotten caught. Taurtis knows damn well how things are and id argue hes the result behind Sam's behavior. Not Yuki, while she did also heavily influence him, he did a lot more damage.
No one ever mentions ot though because he's just a "silly little guy"
Even from the start Taurtis has been seen making these decisions for Sam but the way they work is making it look like the others independent when I can argue they're both codependent on eachother in a way. Taurtis even convinces and forces the idea of Sam doing things for to a sense someone can see "for his (Sam's) own good" When Sam was in love with Sookie and found out she was into women, he was bummed out, however Taurtis was the one who suggested he could chop her up or get Sam to dress as a girl in which; he even protested at first and kept denying. Taurtis in the beginning had a small weird obsession with when things went wrong; they could resort to "chop chop" It is known and we all talk about Sam and Yuki being a yandere but what about Taurtis being one potentially? I know this can be diminished by the nice treatment Salex (I have a whole another yap session about salex and him and sam) The second Sam said he had no chance with Sookie, Taurtis asked about using force and deceiving to help get Sam what he wants. Also for whatever reason he has a TON of images of Sam on his phone canonically?? Am I the only one who's taking that into acc?
Sam is EASILY one of the most quick-to-influence characters in the series and can easily be manipulated, despite being described as a manipulator himself. And the person who's been with him the most in life and who's been living ALONE with for who knows what time? For Sam to having gone down the rabbit hole he is, the person who'd have tk influence that would have to be Taurtis. He encourages and excuses everything and I'd argue he even partakes in stuff in his own time. There's also the fact he has no problem hurting his own friends as well, he's CONSTANTLY being physical with Sam and he doesn't even care with Stabbing him off a building as a friendly gesture to a sense. There's also the fact he literally doesn't care if someone (coughs SAM) plays dress up with him whenever they want, it's fine its whatever right?? He could care less about that stuff
HOWEVER in the end he's still a teenager, he's a genuinely insecure teenager. It's not directly stated however it is very much implied with his reactions and interactions and his need/drive to impress others and for them to be impressed by and to want him. He almost needs people to need him and that's probably part of what makes him happy about Sam's codependency because he knows Sam needs Taurtis. Taurtis needs someone to need him, which is probably what started his infatuation with salex because she always praised and flirted with him and fueled his confidence; that's what he wants or "needs." That's part of where I think not only Sam but TAURTIS is also codependent in his own way. It's an eye for an eye. He gives what he wants and expects that to be given back in its own way. He's more than happy with being popular and having Sam do so much, hell that helps boost his confidence. He's got his own demands and we've seen instances where he makes Sam supply hjm or give him his own food (which my friend has pointed out that Sam's willing to even starve for taurtis if it meant taurtis could feel full/get what he wanted.) We see Taurtis even being insecure when Sam and Grian point things out (like when he went bald and how horrible it looked) and he instantly jumped on trying to find ways to quickly grow his hair back. He doesn't want that imperfection. He's quick to jump to conclusions too because when Sam makes a small comment he INSTANTLY retorts. (Example; "you have a great chewwy/ you'd be a great chewwy-chewbaca" "are you saying I'm hairy/fat???) He's still an insecure teenager, despite his popular and having someone straight up need him to be even the slightest bit okay, I dont think he'd willingly abandon that
I have so much more to say but rn this is what I'm giving, I could go into his relationship with Sam, his acts/interests, hus family and childhood but that's for another episode
#sam gladiator#samgladiator#samgladiator yandere high school#samgladiator yhs#yandere high school#yhs#yhs taurtis#yhs rambles#taurtis#this bitch is a red flag too!!!!#yhs sam#grian mention#tokyo soul
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Can I politely ask you to elaborate on the Aroace Nene fic you talked about some time ago? Or just simply how you see her in your brain after finding out she's aroace? If it's not much to ask, of course
OMG YES YES YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! absolutely. i will ramble about aroace literally anybody on the drop of a dime this is one of the best anons to get actually
nene's story is actually the one i have the least about, to be perfectly honest. i have a plot for both emu and tsukasa's stories, but haven't quite figured out one for nene. honestly, i think nene's the type of aroace to not really... care about it that much. she'd never cared about love or romance to begin with, so when she realized it was because she was aroace, it was mostly like "hm. cool. im gonna go play animal crossing now".
as for finding out... i think it would have happened in middle school, back when she was Online Gamer Nene TM full time. with how much she loves games and storytelling, it really only makes sense she'd want to engage with fandom content like fics. however, just... seeing the way people sexualize her favorite characters, or only write/draw shipping content... she didn't care for it. she didn't want to engage with that. not that there was anything wrong with it! people can do whatever they want with fictional game characters. she just. didnt care about it herself. which led to her feeling even more isolated even within her favorite hobbies. i think this would sort of lead her to playing a variety of games so she doesn't have to worry about getting absorbed in fandoms she doesn't care to be a part of. she still checks, every once in a while. for games that she really likes. i think its through this that she eventually stumbles across a popular aroace headcannon, goes "what", googles it, and is like "wow. thats me. sick". and then moves on
but like. even when she's moved on. it's still really nice to know, yknow? it explains why she felt like the odd one out not wanting to ship stuff, or even care to entertain it. there's people out there just like her. it makes her less anxious, a little more sure of herself.
she doesn't ever tell anyone. not even rui. (i mean, they hadn't talked in ages. how is she supposed to? "hi, we havent had a genuine conversation in years, how are you? by the way i discovered im aroace and you probably don't know what that means and honestly i dont really care about it myself. have a good day".) (and once they do start talking again, it just... never came up. she never felt the need to, and he never felt the need to ask.) until my epilouge chapter where they all end up coming out like WHAT WERE ALL AROACE THATS SO SILLY anyways
in casual life, i think nene would have been the type for adults to go "oooh, you have a crush on him, don't you? look at you, all red and shy just thinking about him" when shes simply Just Like That. it was really annoying. she knew she didn't like them like that and that was that. but shes too scared to say that so she just took it. definitely didn't help the "nene needs to learn how to make friends" department. honestly, her only relief from it was with rui- both her parents and the kamishiro parents recognized that the two really did care about each other, but it wasn't like that. also no way in hell they're ruining the one friendship their kids have.
later with emu, i don't think there was any point where people even considered a romance, at least not at first glance. it wasn't like people at school even knew about emu (minus when she snuck in, but why would this hyperactive pink thing be looking for that shy second year?). and people walking the streets didn't really assume they liked each other like that since they were two girls. nene's mom was a little curious if they were dating since emu comes over so often and is so physically affectionate, but she never really pressed. she was mostly just happy nene has friends over that aren't just rui. (also, emu's aroace too, so nothing in her demeanor even made nene consider it could have been romantic. shes just Emu.)
for tsukasa, it's a similar thing. by the time people have realized the two are friends, nene's confident in herself and her feelings enough to shut down the people who would even dare assume she likes a buffoon like that star in that way. there's those people that go "oh but you're mean to him and girls are mean to boys when they have a crush on them" but she's tough enough to go "ew" and move on. (she did complain about it a little to rui on a walk home once. if he ended up in her classroom the next day to "grab her for lunch" and weaponize his dangerous reputation to intimidate them when she wasn't looking, it was sheer coincidence.)
also, i think out of the four, nene falls most on the loveless scale. tsukasa, emu, and rui are all beings made of love despite the fact they don't fall in it. nene's a bit different. she cares about her friends, and she's super good at making them (despite what she thinks), but she doesn't really... love them. not in the ways people usually want to describe love. she would kill a man for them in a heartbeat, don't get me wrong. she just experiences those sorts of feelings differently. it's care, and determination, and hope, and happiness, but not... love. not completely.
anyways aroace gamer nene so real fic will happen once i figure out how to tie these ideas to a plot 👍
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the gang with a latina s/o
Summary: The Outsider x Latina!Reader
Warnings: none
Author's Note: I don't know much about this so I'm sorry for its vagueness
PONYBOY CURTIS
there's not many Latinas in Tulsa so you kinda stuck out
You were a nice blend of soc and greaser that he really liked
He would be very awkward around you because, like I said, not very many Latinas
Very sweet and tries to learn everything about your culture
JOHNNY CADE
Met you at your job and was instantly smitten
Asked you to the lot after and you were kinda freaked out
is Obsesssssseddd with how you do your hair and makeup and how good you smell
Really really really wants to meet your family
SODAPOP CURTIS
obsessed since day one
Like had your yearbook photo in his locker
Heard thru the grapevine that you thought he was cute and literally asked you out next period
Is like frantically looking for a spot that would have food that made you feel at home. Like frantically.
STEVE RANDLE
tried to talk to you in Spanish (Hola mi amor) ((with the worst accent too might I add))
You laughed at him (kindheartedly)((he was smitten))
Asks you to come to work with him and you literally just sit there all day while he sneaks glances at you
Funds your lifestyle. You want a new lip gloss? It's bought. Want a new expensive perfume? Its stolen for you!!
TWO-BIT MATTHEWS
does not stop with the Spanish. Like everything you see him he says Hola.
No matter how many times you tell him to just say hi he won't
He does it because he 'wants you to feel more at home with him' (oh girl 😰😰)
Takes you out every night but genuinely doesn't know what you would do for fun or eat..
DARRY CURTIS
Thinks you're a goddess
A little oblivious to how things are when you aren't white
Beats or intimidates anyone who fucks with you
Buys you your fav snacks and drinks at any given opportunity
DALLAS WINSTON
Dallas Winston is a white bitch
Thinks you're “exotic” LMAO
tries to bag you just because you're slightly different than the girls he normally sees
Finds it so hot when you speak your language but he will NEVER tell anyone that. never.
#shroomsroom#clara'sroom#the outsiders x reader#dallas winston x reader#dally winston x reader#johnny cade x reader#steve randle x reader#pony curtis x reader#ponyboy curtis x reader#soda curtis x reader#sodapop curtis x reader#two bit mathews x reader#two bit x reader#two bit matthews x reader#darry curtis x reader#darrel curtis x reader
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anything for you
chapter 2:
(reminder: this is my first writing anything ever! pls keep that in mind. another reminder, this is entirely a work of fiction based on Mike Faist. Enjoy! <3)
He was so pretty it was hard to make eye contact as I spoke to him.
"Emma," I say with a smile as I reach my hand out to shake his. He has a kind smile, I think to myself as his hand touches mine. With that, he puts his own things away and gets comfortable for the long journey ahead. As the remainder of the passengers board the plane and a flight attendant shuts the door, I feel my whole body tense up. In just a few minutes, the plane is going to take off into the sky, and I'm going to feel like I'm dying. I try to think of things to distract myself. The color of the airplane seats, the number of passengers I can see straight ahead of me, and whether I'm going to choose diet Coke or ginger ale when the flight attendant comes by later to offer us refreshments. All of my tactics work until I feel the plane begin to shift forward. Slowly at first, circling the tarmac towards the runway. Then, all at once; reaching over 100 mph. As I feel the plane lift off the ground and tuck its wheels under, I feel myself start to breathe quicker, and my eyes clench shut.
As the plane begins to climb in the air, I feel a hand grab ahold of mine that's been clenching the armrest since I sat down. "Are you okay?" Mike speaks softly, understanding the stress I'm obviously under. I nod, not really being able to talk.
"Squeeze my hand. Hard as you need to." He opens his hand up and I let my fingers intertwine with his, squeezing as hard as I want to, just like he said. I feel a little more comfortable in his presence. I gain a little confidence.
"Ask me something. Ask me anything." My own mind is no longer enough to keep me distracted. "What's your favorite color?" He asks. "Maybe something a little less personal," I tease, still clutching his hand. "Right, my bad. What do you think happens when we die?" He pushes back. "Purple," is all I can think to say. He laughs.
At this point, the plane has fully ascended into the air and we're coasting at a steady pace.
"Thank you for that, really. I've never been good with that part of the flight. Or the coming back down, now that I think about it. So I'll be needing you again in about ten hours." He chuckles and rubs circles onto the back of my hand with his thumb. At this point, I realize I'm still holding on very tightly to his hand. I could've held onto that hand for the rest of my life. However, not wanting to appear creepy, I politely gave the man his hand back.
"So what brings you to London?" He asks. "Personal trip, actually. I've always wanted to go. I've been saving up for years. What about you?"
"I'm actually going for work. I'll be in play on the West End." That really caught my attention. "Really? What play?" He could've said he was going on a business trip as a data reconfiguration analyst and I still would've hung on to every word he said, but an actor in a play was so unbelievably cool.
"You ever seen Brokeback Mountain? Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger? Gay cowboys?"
"Duh? So someone turned it into a play? That's SO cool. So who are you playing?" I asked, now fully intrigued.
"Jack, actually! I'm really excited." He smiled proudly, as he should have. "Woah! Well, I've been dying to see a play on the West End. Maybe I'll get tickets to come and see you."
"You should! Seeing at least one friendly face in the crowd would be nice." He smiles at me again, the most beautiful, tight-lipped smile.
I feel my cheeks heat up. "So is acting a full-time gig, or do you have anything else to keep you busy?" As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how insulting that must sound. He smirks back at me as my eyes get wide, realizing how rude I just was. I worry I've ruined this whole flirtatious interaction we've been having. Luckily, he just chuckles back at me and says, "Um, you know I haven't been asked that question in a long time. I suppose acting is it for me at the moment."
"Just stage plays, or anything I might've seen?" I quickly recover.
"Yeah, mostly stage plays. A couple of short films, nothing serious." He was being modest, I could tell. But I didn't push any further.
As the flight went on and I stared out the window, it began to feel very difficult to keep my eyes open. I closed my window, allowing myself to drift away.
💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜
I felt a warm breath on my face as I woke up. I look to my left and see that Mike has laid his head on my shoulder as he's fallen asleep. I stare at him as long as I want to, as he's not awake to catch me admiring him. I glance out the window, looking out into the night sky a couple of times, before continuing to memorize every detail of his gorgeous face. I see his lips start to upturn into a smile.
"You like me." He says, matter of fact, with his eyes still closed. "You think I'm really cute and funny and you like me."
"Were you awake the entire time I was staring at you?" He opens his eyes. "The entire 45 minutes? Kind of. I was in and out. You definitely like me." He finally looks up at me.
"Were you always this bold or did you develop that in the theatre?" I say, gaining some confidence of my own.
"In the theatre, definitely. I never would've had the confidence to look a girl like you in the eyes before, let alone speak to you without stuttering." He said, taking his head off my shoulder.
The boys I'd dated in my hometown never made me feel pretty, but Mike, the theater boy from the plane, made me feel absolutely breathtaking. I couldn't help but smile. It scared me, the feelings I had for this man that were developing so quickly.
"Well, you like me too. Otherwise, you would've found my staring incredibly weird and off-putting, so." He laughs yet again. I love making him laugh.
"You're not wrong. I want to know more about you. I know your name is Emma and your favorite color is purple. Are you from Ohio? Or was that a connecting flight, maybe?" My heart was starting to race a little bit. "I am from Ohio, actually. I grew up about 30 minutes from Columbus, in Gahanna. You know it?"
I watched his eyes get wide and his smile get even wider. "I grew up in Gahanna. I actually was just here for a few weeks visiting my family." I cocked my head to the side.
"No shit? Small world, huh? How come we've never met?"
"How old are you again? What year did you graduate high school?" He began to look a little cautious.
"24! I graduated in 2017. What about you?" He seemed to relax a little bit.
"I graduated in 2009, but it was a year early, so I was originally class of 2010. I turned 31 in January. Is it weird that I still like you?"
"Not even a little bit. It'd be weird if I was five years or so younger." I smiled at him and laid my head on his shoulder this time.
"Good. Because I really really like you. Would you want to get dinner sometime while you're in London?" I watched him think for a few seconds. "Actually, how long are you staying, now that I think about it?" "I'll be here for about 2 weeks. What about you?"
"It really depends on how well the show is doing, but probably through the whole summer." He lifted his arm so I could lay my head on his chest as he wrapped his arm around me. A bold move, but I felt comfortable with him for some reason. A flight attendant came over the intercom and announced that we'd be landing soon. As we landed, I gave him my phone number so he could message me when he wanted.
"I'd love to get dinner, just let me know when," I told him as we both gathered our belongings. After about twenty minutes or so, we were finally able to deplane. I looked at him, suddenly feeling attached, hoping this wasn't the last time I was ever going to see him.
We walked together through the long process that was getting out of the airport. As we walked out into the cool air of the London night, we turned to each other and he promised to see me soon. I hoped he was telling the truth. He kissed me on the cheek and lingered, only for a moment, then smiled at me and got into a taxi, waving goodbye.
My cheek felt so warm. I already missed him.
He messaged me about an hour later, as I got settled into my hotel room.
"So, how's tomorrow night?" I think I'm in love.
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Imola GP -brain-storming-
To my F1 Masterlist!
I’m very excited for Imola GP -not only because it’s home race for me as well-.
Ferrari will bring the new upgrade, Charles will have a new engineer and McLaren is showing its strength.
I will not say Red Bull will lose, I’m not delusional (denial it’s a river in Egypt, your husband is gay) but we can always hope for a better performance.
At this point I have to also hope Ferrari’s new upgrade won’t be a failure (not always upgrades are good, unfortunately). Vasseur is clearly cooking but he’s the team principal, not the main engineer or mechanic! Let’s keep our fingers crossed!
I’m a Ferrari fan but I like watching races for the adrenaline so I’m happy with Lando’s first win and I hope to see more bagarre between Ferrari and McLaren.
I’m not so sure I enjoy the first speculations about Antonelli taking Sargeant’s seat in September (Kimi will turn 18 in august) because at that point it’s would be better to let Logan finish his season and give enough time to Kimi to prepare for an F1 seat and save William’s reputation (for two months it doesn’t make any sense to take an 18 y.o. boy, just focus on finishing the races and make money to upgrade the car. Albon would score points if the car wasn’t a tractor). I have also read that Sargeant might go to Haas next season but it doesn’t sounds quite right to me! They are left with Kevin (?) -might see his contract first- and must replace Nico’s place, if they are still aiming for actual improvements they definitely can’t afford Sargeant as a driver, especially because we saw Haas in Q3 a few times now. Logan might be the sweetest person on this earth but we are talking about real things, huge amounts of money, sponsorships and he’s not the right choice for anyone unfortunately. It wasn’t his fault the incident during the Miami GP but he was still finishing at the very bottom of the grid, I understand he’s not driving a red bull nor a Ferrari but he never managed to finish before Albon…
Also Kevin’s behaviour it’s not very sportive. I understand he’s doing everything for his team and teammate but there is always a limit. He’s ruining everybody else’s races just because he already got 20 seconds penalty and it’s not fair to the other drivers. Nice to make a train behind him to let Nico pit but he has to stop to ruin races! He’s also 2 points to be disqualified for the rest of the season, this trick would have been useful if used less, at the end of the season, and not consequently!
Anyway! Can’t wait to see more, let me know what you think!
xoxo
#f1#formula one#formula uno#formula 1#formula racing#f1 2024#ferrari formula one#ferrari formula 1#ferrari f1#Red bull#red bull team#red bull f1#red bull racing#red bull formula 1#mclaren formula 1#mclaren formula one#mclaren f1#mercedes amg petronas#mercedes amg f1#mercedes formula one#mercedes f1#williams racing#williams f1#logan sargeant#alex albon#haas f1 team#kevin magnussen#nico hulkenberg#andrea kimi antonelli#f1 aston martin
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Robin chose Steve. Robin made the conscious and deliberate decision that she could and would trust Steve. She already liked him! She had fun working and bantering with him! They were already on their way to being weird little bffs and the torture just expedited the process. Steve chose Robin just the same! He thinks she's fun and cool and likes her so much! He chose to be honest and open with her too, putting himself out there.
Even though their interests on the surface level don't match why wouldn't they share them? Steve clearly caves when Robin wants to watch a movie he doesn't think he'll like, Robin can watch a March madness game or five.
Stop trying to take away their bond oh my god people can be close to more than one person!!! Their best friend doesn't have to be dismissive or mean or whatever in order for a romance to be special to them!
#if i have to see another fic or whatever that makes it seem like robin doesnt give a shit about what steve likes and talkes about im going#to scream and maybe even rampage#its nice to sit down and have someone who knows explain who the players are and what the stakes for this particular game!!#just because yall seem to not think anyone can be nutral towards sports doesnt mean people aren't#literally why is it so hard to believe robin would like to hear steve talk as much as steve likes to hear her talk#i am so close to telling some steddie shippers to not look at steve or robin or their friendship because some of yall do Not get it.#its like you can see them go 'have to make sure eddie is the most perfect specialest boy for steve...well that means robin doesn't Get Him '#or 'robin ignores him/dismisses his interests/isnt told everything happening in his life' like okay dont ever touch them again thanks#robin is steves specialest sunshine cupcake goober girl. steve is robins bestest happy times sweet funnyman. dont u dare take that away.#omce again tsgs longer than the post but ah well.#stobin#platonic stobin#robin buckley#steve harrington#stranger things#finda's rambles#steve and robin#this is a scheduled post just to jazz things up i guess#but seriously some of yall need to STOP MESSIGN WITH STOBIN
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