#the challenge doesn't even matter anymore since i failed three times but
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. itto / / @oniblood asked,
[PROSPERITY TOSS]
he's familiar with the custom...ish. has heard about it, knows what to do, and yet itto decides he'll be putting his own spin on it. bright eyes sweep across the room, watching as the other patrons slice crisp vegetables and salmon into delicate ribbons. others layer on crispy crackers and fresh fruit while they voice their wishes for the new year.
itto glances down at his own bowl, which has been filled with various candies. to the side of it sits a towering pile of colorful wrappers, kept there as spoils of war. (he earned these FAIR and SQUARE from the local children, y'know!)
the oni pops one in his mouth and sucks on it contently. mmmm. this one tastes like fresh cream with a hint of vanilla. a solid 7.5/10, he thinks. not bad! he waits for it to dissolve before popping another one — this candy more jelly-like in its consistency. itto smacks his lips and decides that this fruity-flavored treat gets a whooping 9/10. shabam! now they're talking!
itto chews on it contently...until he locks eyes (er...eye?) with an eyepatch-wearing stranger. the oni blinks. huh. hard to tell what the guy's thinking."what? you got a problem?" he calls out in a friendly challenge. "i know what you're thinking. who doesn't want a bowl full of candy? i mean...THIS," itto shakes the bowl for emphasis, "is the stuff of dreams!" a pause. he raises a brow and leans forward. "y'know...i'd be willing to share...for a price. you ever heard of an onikabuto?"
an older lady prepared the cavalry captain's bowl for him, and he'd let her, laughing sweetly as she led him through the restaurant aisles, past families and friends and lovers, held simply by the encouragement in her voice as she gestured between the offered trays and menus. this custom, as generous as it was fulfilling, was foreign to him in execution, but not concept. charity existed in plenty of forms and linking it to the cycle of beginning and ending, whether of life or all held within it, was entertaining to think of.
it was unfortunate, then, that the thought swiftly slipped from his mind at the flicker of attention; gaze drawn toward the brightly-colored, and specifically plucked, choices of treat a stranger decided to feast on. which, in turn, led kaeya's gaze to wander up to the stranger; from dark manicured nails to his muscled biceps; from exposed front to the protruding horns atop his head. not to pry, no, simply to observe.
but it was easy for this peacock's raised feathers to be spotted in the crowd. the older lady bowed her head and, once kaeya returned the gesture, waved a hand to the stranger before turning her back.
what else would be initiative to speak if not the bark of another's friendliness?
"oh no, no problem here. just curious... hm, what a bowl you have there."
human nature came easy to him; the prospect of the unfamiliar. the man's mere manner of thought inevitably drew him to occupy the seat opposite of him. legs crossed at the ankle, bowl carefully set before him, he leaned against the table to listen, though with how naturally loud the horned-stranger's voice seemed, the bustling of the restaurant could hardly stifle the conversation. a measured nod here, an acknowledging ohh there,
then came the offer, laid at kaeya's feet ever so kindly. though, putting aside his general neutrality to sweets and candies in particular...
"onikabuto? hm, i wonder if i do know of it... but, pray tell," captain leaned back, tilting his head with a countenance of little besides curiosity, "what do they have to do with currency? are we going to trade these 'onikabutos'?"
#ghlanternrite2024#oniblood#♛ ━━━ ❝ what is treason to the bloodied plumes of royalty? ・ 【 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 】 .#♛ ━━━ ❝ he is what a father has made him; what a nation expects of him ・ 【 𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐗 】 .#godbless itto and his gambling habits#sara i adore your itto so much he brings me so much joy and fills my heart with warmth#MEFMKEWKD BUT THANK YOU SARAAA :pleading:#the challenge doesn't even matter anymore since i failed three times but#wc 356#i actually don't like kaeya's voice in this reply but maybe letting it simmer away from me will change my mind. idk#also . two things; i hate the blue of his dialogue now and i NEED to get rid of that golden divider for him
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FLUFFVEMBER DAY 24: HAJIME IWAIZUMI
prompt: phone calls (prompts are by @jojosmilktea)
word count: 1,227 words | themes: gen!reader. angst and fluff. hurt and comfort. long-distance relationship. pre-established relationship. sorry this has to be done.
tags: @kacchanori @chickynn @todominica @sparkleswritings @brinthie @patricia-ceballos @giyuus-wife @bitchtrynafck @astrxrism @animatedarchives @deephasoceanmagic @strawberrysalwa @kawaiinishii @moonlightaangel @mrs-kuroojinguji @meliorist-midoriya @pandabobachan
rv: i know that this is fluffvember so yes there is fluff in here. i’m gonna be honest that this is probably one of my fluffvember that makes you frown with the angst but hehe
✒︎ wishing star
"where's hajime?"
"is he out again?"
"yeah, iwa-chan's talking to them again."
takahiro frowns as he glances at hajime's figure by the corner of the court, welcoming the familiar sight of him talking to his phone that was by his ear.
"how long has it been anyway? we haven't even seen that (y/n) face to face yet." he says, lips still curved downwards at the thought. "but at the same time, we don't really have a say in it. i mean, he does look happy when talking to them."
"yeah but that's because they only could talk on the phone." matsukawa joins in with a tinge hint of annoyance in his tone, glancing sideways at iwaizumi for a second before turning around to practice his services once again.
for a long time, iwaizumi's friends had took notice of the frequent time he spends on his gadget, most likely talking to you, which often leads him to be distracted around these times. it was not only them but the rest of the team did, even their coach. fortunately, they never did anything to get mad at him and tell him stop because he doesn't seem to let it get away to important things he needed to sort out for volleyball. but then, it doesn't really speak to how they feel about you.
so who are you anyway?
"are you not really coming home this christmas? again?” hajime tried his hardest not to appear broken, but his voice failed himself. he begged every god in the world for you to not notice the sound he just let out but whether or not you did, you didn’t brought it up.
ironically, hajime didn’t know if he should be relieved by that or not.
“i’m not coming by christmas, hajime. i’m sorry.”
hajime frowns on the inside, but he forces himself to smile and brighten up his voice, in hopes of not further pressuring you and let you know that he’s okay with the situation, even if he was clearly not.
“alright, take care over there, okay? can you call later?”
“i-i can’t too. i have a training later on.”
“oh,” his face fell again. “okay.” his lips purses, almost ready to spill out the contents that he had been wanting to say for a very long time.
but he resists.
“tomorrow? surely you’re free.” there was a bitterness in his voice and anyone who heard it certainly was unable to not notice.
“yeah, we can.” his heart leaped when he sensed the smile that was on your tone, as if he already knew the face you were making. truthfully, nothing else can make him happy more than you could, despite all the trials and challenges he has to face in order to make the relationship continue to work.
“talk to you soon, hajime.” and the line ends.
you were hajime’s long-time partner, about three years and going strong. most of those times, you were away, but he spent his childhood with you, along with oikawa. however it had been so long since you and oikawa had even seen each other for you were mostly close to hajime, whom eventually became your boyfriend.
“they’re not coming for christmas again?”
hajime darts to turn his body towards the owner of the voice, seeing oikawa who has his eyes glanced to him sideways, looking very pissed, much as how hajime was trying to hide all this time. even without saying it, hajime knew that oikawa wasn’t tolerating what was currently happening in his relationship with you. who wouldn’t?
only him was holding onto the thin thread that was keeping you by his side, but seriously, are you still are? because you seem like you aren’t anymore.
“no” hajime mutters, walking past off of the eyes that were glued on him, one that hajime was so used to receiving after telling his teammates of his long-distance relationship with you.
they never understood, hajime proceeds on telling himself over and over. whenever oikawa say to him that he should drop you already and find another one that would give the same amount of love that he does, hajime reasons to himself that no one truly knew the relationship more than he does, and if his heart tells him to not let go, he wouldn't.
but it didn't mean that he wasn't having thoughts about it either. he's only human, easily tainted of the words that others say, tangled upon choices that would make up his decisions. of course, he had thought about ending the relationship one way or another.
it was almost the end of the training when his phone rang, its sound ringing his ear and echoing throughout the gym, catching his attention away from the game, leading to him almost missing the ball that oikawa sets to him.
he wanted to ignore the seemingly wrong-timing call but his coach told him to answer it anyway, letting someone else substitute for him. it's merely a training for everyone in the volleyball team of aoba johsai anyway. for a moment, hajime thinks that the coach might have noticed his lack of enthusiast in his plays that's why he lets him take a break for now. either way, he wasn’t wrong.
hajime thought it was his mother, or anyone from his family who kept on ringing his phone until he answers it, but his face visibly perks up when he sees your name on the screen, as if it was enough to make his day and night, bringing a joy that no one else could ever compare to.
"babe? what is-"
"hajime? can you go outside?" your voice sounded different, as if your mood was elated, much like how he was. or was it something else? no matter, for hajime didn't ponder on it further when he asked another question.
"why?"
"uh-just go outside, please?"
he frowns, questions popping in his mind, but he abides, thinking you could probably hear the sound of the background for you to ask such a favor.
however, the moment he opened the doors of the gym, it was a sight he had never had expected.
because instead of seeing the familiar view of the outside of the gym, there was you. you—who he hadn't seen for the last two years in person, you who he had been longing for ever since the moment he last had seen your eyes staring back at him just as you were right now; your own phone held up to your ear, a bright smile illuminating your face, as if you were a wishing star that went down from the night sky to show up in front of him.
because you were his wish—you were his wish for this christmas; to hold you tight, to be by your side. he wanted to see you in person again to erase all of the unwanted insecurities that keeps on bogging his mind.
hajime didn't even bother the phone that slid away from his grip as the gadget falls to the ground, catching everyone else's attention. and by the time they turned at the commotion, there; hajime was engulfing you in a huge embrace, his clothes and skin drenched by sweat. but neither of you minded that.
because now, you were inside of his arms, and you were happy enough with that. he was happy enough with that.
#hajime iwaizumi#iwaizumi x reader#haikyuu x reader#iwaizumi scenarios#iwaizumi x you#haikyuu fluff#fluffvember 2020#fluffvember#roze.fluffvember#roze.daydream#roze.hq
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CONTEXT IS EVERYTHING
I got a reblog from one of the people that really dislike Scott McCall on one of my asks today. Like, an actual reblog and not just another anon chasing their tail in circles trying to convince me, themselves and the rest of the world that Scott was truly just Bad™. I was super surprised because that usually doesn't happen until after their leaders Athena and Cole give them the signal, but in the same breath I wasnt surprised because they had me blocked so that I couldn't reply. Par for the course, I guess, but I managed to snag screencaps of the reply and I'm here to just... go through them.
My favorite part of this is that they seemed to have been under the impression that my answer to that anon was a challenge of some kind.
For anyone interested, this was all in response to this ask that I answered yesterday. I went through and debunked all of their points and that's what I'm going to do again with this.
1: are we referring to the first season when they broke up after Night School because Scott "abandoned" them to save their lives from Peter? Because, yes, Scott did send her texts and a picture of them when they were together, and she got upset, and after explaining things, guess what, he did, in fact, leave her alone!
2: I've already talked about Scott's interaction with Isaac in Anchors ad nauseam, which can be read here and here. If anyone doesn't want to read the second one (I admit, I can get a little long-winded), what I said was that I didn't like that scene because of how out-of-character it was for Scott. As for Jackson, with the way he treated people, Scott in particular, I'm honestly surprised that no one beat him before that. Scott has the patience of a saint to deal with that for as long as he did without snapping.
3: what's really weird about this is how these people who really dislike Scott (and just by how that was phrased I think I finally found the anon) always fixate on that time Scott shoved Isaac. Just that one moment, and you know why, because their were no moments after that. Scott had no objections to Allison and Isaac hooking up (they never got around to actually dating).
4: this is one of those moments where I want to shake people and say "please watch the damn show!", because what this dingus left out, like everything else in their reply, was context (more on that in a minute). In that scene where Scott yells at Allison (Raving), its after their plan starts to fall apart. That's one of Scott's legitimate flaws in the show (conveniently overlooked in favor of fictional flaws). When things don't go according to plan, he gets frazzled and upset. It's why he and Stiles work so well together, because Stiles excelled at the spur-of-the-moment stuff. Their plan to capture Jackson (to save his life) and discover who his master was wasnt going according to plan. As a matter of fact, it went completely belly up, and a lot of people were in danger. Forgive me if I give a scared sixteen-year-old some leeway in that situation.
6: this is another instance where you just know that they either haven't watched the show, or they've seen the episode once (probably when it aired) and have never gone back to watch it again, relying solely on their Tumblr community to reaffirm their stance on the situation. What this person failed to include, was that the hunters were already hunting Isaac and Erica and Boyd. They were after Derek's pack since the moment Gerard came to town and declared war on all werewolves, whether they were involved in Kate's death or not (Omega). No thought as t all is given to why Isaac, Erica and Boyd were even in that situation to begin with. Why did Derek involve children in his issues?
What this person is also leaving out is that Scott and Allison didn't get to talk about what happened to her mother at the rave until season three. After she killed herself, she was manipulated by Gerard into actively hunting Derek's pack, and basically told Scott to leave her alone while she contemplated murder.
But once again, we have that double standard rearing its ugly head. Why is Scott supposed to tell everyone everything, but the same doesn't apply to characters like Derek or Stiles? Why didn't Derek tell Scott about his history with the Argents and why he hated them so much? Why didn't Stiles tell Scott about Donovan's or Josh's deaths or Theo's involvement? Why is that the fandom allows themselves to empathize with how these characters are feeling, with allowing them to be emotional in their decisions, but not the lead?
This is where context becomes incredibly important, because without context, we get people making blanket statements about a character in order to paint them in a bad light. Without context, I could make statements like "Stiles is a murderer for killing Donovan" or "Stiles nearly killed a police station full of people" or "Lydia was in league with Peter to bring him back from the dead". Those statements by themselves don't put those characters in a good light, do they? But once you add the context to those situations, it changes the entire perspective of things.
With context, I know that Stiles didn't murder Donovan, but that it was an accident that happened in a life-or-death situation. With context, I know that it wasnt Stiles that planted those explosives, but the Nogitsune possessing him. With context, I know that it was Peter's hijacking of Lydia's mind and untapped power that allowed him to rise from the dead. We're allowed to remember the context of these situations, but why not ever when it concerns Scott and his hardships? Another good example is painting Scott as an idiot because he had bad grades, while completely ignoring the circumstances around his life that led to his grades slipping, namely the werewolf shenanigans he was getting dragged into. The double-standard comes in when a legion of fans come to Stiles' defense for writing an essay on the history of circumcision for an Economics class, because "he has ADD/ADHD" all over one throwaway line about him taking Adderall.
Context is everything, and it's amazing how often it's completely ignored when it comes to Scott.
Two more points.
Sadly, this isn't just something specific to the Teen Wolf fandom. Fandom in general seem to think that romance is the final evolution of any kind of relationship. It says something about them that that's where they're putting the emphasis on Scott's and Allison's relationship, and not the fact that they found their way back to being friends after everything that happened between them in season two.
And then there's this gem.
Wait... what?
I am so confused by this, because I'm not talking about a character I hate, but rather defending one I actually live against a campaign of misinformation. They use the word irony, but I don't think it means what they think it does (this isn't the Alanis Morrisette song).
Final thoughts: I often find myself wondering why I even humor these people anymore because it doesn't matter what I say, or what evidence I produce, they're just going to go out of their way to twist everything into making it sound like I think Coolsville sucks. But I'm like a cockroach, I persist. It's going to take more than they can throw at me to make me stop calling out the racism and double-standards that permeate this fandom.
#scott mccall defense squad#teen wolf fandom problems#teen wolf meta#fandom racism#context is everything
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Changes || l.h
Summary: Sarah struggles to come to terms with her feelings for Luke, Ashton's a good friend, and Luke is an understanding boyfriend.
Word Count: 3.3k
Warnings: implied past abuse. lots of emotions. a few curse words.
Authors Note: More Luke and Sarah content! Here the first part if you missed it. This part may seem redundant, but that's okay. I think this ended up being a vent fic, so please just try to be nice to me. If you ever have any thoughts about the luke & sarah universe just send me an ask!
- - -
Love feels a lot like sunshine on the first day of spring.
Not that Sarah would know what love feels like. She doesn't. She doesn't even know if she loves Luke romantically, how could anyone be so sure of that? Luke seemed so certain of his feelings when he told her and she had been oblivious to it the entire time. All she knows is that she feels different whenever she's around the lanky man. She feels warmth from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, as if she were basking in comforting sunny rays. Everything seems so much brighter and prettier with him, it reminds her of seeing flowers for the first time after a long snowy winter. She doesn't know if that's what love feels like. She could just be happy to have Luke home.
If Sarah is honest, she's envious of Luke and all of his certainty. He's always been so sure of everything in life. Sure that he was born with music in his bloodstream and talent flowing from his fingertips. Sure that he was made for fame in LA. And he had sounded positively sure when he announced his love for her when he returned from tour. She hadn't been so lucky, in fact, she is the complete opposite and doubts everything. She hasn't quite found her passion in life, she often times regrets moving to LA, and she can't figure out all of these twisted emotions. She wishes it could come to her that easily.
“What're you thinking about?” Luke questions, breaking the girl out of her daze. He twirls more noodles around his fork and watches her with his kind blue eyes.
Sarah bites the inside of her cheek for a moment and decides to tell him the truth, “Love.”
The response nearly makes him choke on a mouthful of food and his coughing sends bits of liquid spewing everywhere. If Sarah hadn't grown accustomed to both him and the boys, she would've considered it gross. She also would've marked this as a failed first date, but it's Luke and it's nothing she hasn't seen before. The sight just makes her laugh as she hands him an extra napkin.
“Love,” Luke repeats. She swears his eyebrows might fly off his face if he raises them any higher, “Love, right. What about it?”
“It's just that you were so certain about it...And I don't do love, Luke.”
Luke's expression softens, “I know.”
“You know?” Sarah looks up at him in confusion.
“I know you don't do love. I know practically everything about you. Sarah, you've only ever told me you loved me once and that was just platonically. That's okay. It's only the first date, I shouldn't have been so quick to say that.”
The two sit in silence for a while, the slurping of noodles being the only noise between them. Sarah wants to be able to tell Luke that she loves him, because that's just what you say in response to someone who loves you. It's something you should say if you think you love someone. It's definitely what you say after you kiss the man that loves you, but the words never come out. Someday she hopes she'll be able to say it to the man and mean it with her entire heart and soul. All she knows currently is that she's enjoying the date and every time he smiles at her, she feels warmer.
“I don't do love, but I do other things. I bake sweets, I take care of petunia, and I write really nice music reviews on every app I own.” Sarah finally breaks the silence. “It isn't a lot-”
“But it's how you show that you love me,” Luke finishes for her.
Sarah lets out the breath she was holding, relieved that he understands, “Yeah. I know my fears are irrational, but I don't want not saying it to stop whatever this is,”
“I have to say, I've enjoyed this date and it'd be an awful shame if a second never happens.” Luke tells her. She can see the playful twinkle in his eyes, but the words ring truthful.
“That really would be disappointing,” She agrees. “I am looking forward to you beating traditional ramen. That's pretty hard to top,”
“Sounds like a challenge,”
/ / / /
Everything has to change. The seasons, the time, and emotions all go through changes. The summer turns to fall and long days turn to early sunsets. Sarah's tough exterior turns into a poorly supported shield. Which she isn't very happy about. She is not vulnerable. Or soft. She is consistent and strong. But she still finds herself lacking her normal demeanor whenever the blond curly headed demon is around.
Ashton invited Sarah over to his housewarming party, so naturally, she drives over with the tupperware full of cheesecake strapped safely in the passenger seat. The absurdity of buckling food into her car puts her in a giggly mood, but she didn't spend the night before baking it just to have it spilled onto the floorboards. She balances the gift bag on top of the containers and tries to carry it into the new home with steady hands. The task proves itself to be more difficult than she expected, because the bag covers her line of sight, and she doesn't know the layout of the house. She's barely into the foyer and she's already hit her hip on the sharp edge of a decorative side table, making her let out a hiss of obscenities at the pain. Ambling through hallways blindly is obviously not her strong suit, so when the bag is lifted out of her vision, she's happy to find Ashton in front of her. And to properly see the entrance to his house.
“You swear like a sailor, Sarah. You do know that, right?” Ashton asks her with a dimpled smile.
“Only because you have a table in your foyer!” Sarah huffs. Ashton laughs and turns to lead the two of them towards the kitchen, “Who puts tables in a foyer?”
“My interior decorator. It's been two minutes and you're already insulting my house, I'm wounded.” Ashton shakes his head in mock disappointment. He points towards the empty space on the counter next to the wings, so she can set down the containers.
After setting down the contents, she turns and takes in the sight of his new kitchen. She wishes she could find more to insult, but she really enjoys it, “It looks nice, Ash. I like the blue in here.”
“Me too, it feels appropriate. So, what'd you bring this time? Since you nearly fell protecting it,”
“I made two cheesecakes just for you! It took some research, but I made them coffee and cappuccino flavored,” Sarah tells him with an excited smile. “Just had to feed into the addiction,”
Ashton wraps her into a tight hug, “I think that might be the sweetest thing you've ever done. Thank you, Sarbear.”
“You're welcome. Just try it, loser. Since you're my biggest critic and all,”
Sarah leans against the counter while Ashton cuts himself a piece of each. She lets her eyes wander past the kitchen entryway to the living room where she can see some of their friends messing around. She can hear Luke's laugh before she sees him, even just the sound makes her heart race. When she does finally see him in the back of the room, curls bouncing as he laughs with Michael, it makes her heart clench. After multiple dates, lots of hanging out, and scattered kisses, she can still feel her heart melt into a puddle at the bottoms of her feet. And it frustrates her more than anything, because this is not her and this is not how she acts. Not towards Luke or anyone in her life. She can't figure out when she started looking at the man romantically, not in a best friend way or ‘just a couple dates’ way, but full blown “I dreamt I married him once” way. She does not do emotions, no matter what her stupid subconscious might say.
“It tastes delicious,” Ashton tells her. It breaks her daze and she focuses back on the black haired boy who gives her a sly smile.
Her eyebrows raise in shock. A compliment from her friend is rarely heard of when they like arguing so much, “Wait, really? I'm glad you like it,”
“Of course I do.” He rolls his eyes. “I know that look, by the way.”
“What look?”
“The one you have everytime you look at Luke. It's the same one he's given you for the past year. It's the same look that Michael gets when he thinks about Crystal,”
Sarah is immediately shaking her head, because she knows that look. She's seen Luke giving her that look, “No! There's no look. Besides, you guys have only been home for like three months, how can yo-”
“It's been a lot longer than that, he loves you and you know it. Sarah, I know you're this protected, cold, and unfeeling person, but stop denying this.”
“I'm not unfeeling, I just keep my emotions to myself. You learn to with five brothers at home.” She tells him softly, “I do love you and the boys.”
Ashton looks up from his plate in shock, “I love you too.”
“You all have been my best friends since I moved here. I've been up Luke's ass since day one and accepting that my love for him isn't platonic anymore is hard. All I've ever known is best friend Luke, not boyfriend Luke who is romantic and soft.”
“He can still be best friend Luke, but with a few upgrades. Admitting that you love people will not make the world implode. You'll be fine telling him,” Ashton encourages.
Sarah stares at Ashton silently. She's never realized that he could read her so well, but she's not sure what else she expected. He could see that she loves Luke and he can tell she's scared. She just wishes these things were as easy for her as it is for everyone else.
“And that's coming from the brother who wouldn't say that unless he trusted both of you completely.”
Ashton eats his piece of cheesecake in silence after that, the sounds of their friends filling the empty space. Deep down, Sarah knows that he's right. She knows that Luke loves her and she should tell him that she loves him too, but there's something terrifying about the unpredictability of emotions. She could tell him she loves him and there's the chance that his feelings could change. Or maybe he would realize he never loved her at all. If something ever did happen between them, could they ever go back to being best friends? Even worse than that, she hopes she never has to go back to being only friends.
What's the worst thing that could happen? Sarah knows that Luke loves her, he may have taken a step back from vocalizing it, but he shows it in other ways now. The worst thing is that she gets nervous and bails while trying to tell him. It wouldn't be so bad, to be able to show him her feelings for once. Right when she decides to tell him, Ashton bumps her shoulder and breaks her focus.
He holds his fork out to her with the last bite of cheesecake on it, “It's delicious, I swear. It's just rich and you're over here feeding me two slices.”
“You made the choice to try both,” She shakes her head, but still takes the fork to finish it. “Thank you though. I know how hard it is for you to compliment me.”
“Ashton complimented you? That's a miracle.” Luke comments. The unexpected sound of his voice makes Sarah jump, which brings out bubbling giggles from both men.
“Don't expect it too often. Anywho, I have a party to host. Catch up with you guys later!” Ashton winks at her, then leaves the two alone in the shiney new kitchen.
“Hey, honey.” Luke whispers as he pulls her into a tight embrace, “What were you guys talking about?”
Sarah snuggles into the warmth of his hug, “Just my absolutely amazing coffee flavored cheesecake and his poor choice of tables in foyers,”
“Sounds like an entertaining conversation,” He chuckles. He releases his grip from her and studies her playful expression.
"Oh, absolutely! You really missed out on that one. Just about as exciting as Ashton could get!”
"That's a shame, I must be so boring in comparison. I was just going to ask if you wanted to come over to my house after this.”
Sarah blinks up at his hopeful eyes and tries to keep the smile on her face, but she feels her brows furrowing some, “It'll be pretty late once we leave, Lu”
“I was asking if you'd like to stay the night with me.” Luke tells her softly.
His face has gone all serious and there's something in the sincerity of him inviting her over that just makes her crack right then and there. Sarah wants, scratch that, needs to tell him about the mess going on in her mind. He always knows how to organize the mess and it's not going anywhere until she finally admits what the issue is.
“I think we should talk,” She lets out a nervous sigh. By the look on his face, she can tell that's the wrong response to the invitation, but he recovers quickly and just gives her a tiny nod.
“Yeah, of course! Let's just get some privacy.”
Luke leads her to one of the rooms upstairs and explains that it's a guest room. He keeps glancing at their intertwined fingers and she knows that he must be thinking of the worst possible scenarios. She really wishes he wouldn't, she's just scared and needs to talk to both best friend Luke and boyfriend Luke. To accept that there's a difference in the two now, but all the same. And she needs to realize that no, the world will not implode if she tells him she loves him. It didn't when she told Ashton and it won't this time. The world will still be here continuing on with life and she'll be a bit more soft around the edges.
Except that Sarah has never learned to be soft or vulnerable. She grew up with five brothers and drunk parents. She was never given the chance to act like a proper little girl. It was always screaming, fighting, and blood. There were never any tears shed or lapses in her tough exterior, because the situation hadn't allowed for it. So, when she packed up and moved to LA she tried her best to push her own limits and act girly. She learned how to do makeup on her own and taught herself how to bake, without five boys waiting to make fun of her or parents to take everything away. She was trying to work on expressing herself when she met the boys and being surrounded by four boys meant that the exterior went right back up. They are her family here in LA and that means having three more brothers to protect herself from. She isn't sure she'll ever get the chance to be soft, but she wants to be. Especially for Luke.
Luke squeezes her hand lightly as the two sit on the bed. Sarah can't make out his expression or what he's thinking, but she still squeezes his fingers back in response.
“Are you breaking up with me?” Luke asks, breaking the silence. The question lingers heavily in the air and Sarah wishes a black hole would swallow her whole.
“Of course not,”
This time, Sarah can feel his warm blue eyes burning into her skin, “It feels like you're going to.”
“I'm not, I promise.” She tells him with furrowed eyebrows. She stares at the cream colored carpet beneath her feet and makes a note to tell Ashton that it was a bad choice. Light colored carpets are just asking for stains.
"I know we're still in the ‘new’ stage of this relationship and I'm really not trying to push you into being more serious. But you need to tell me things,” Luke lets go of her hand.
She watches as he paces the length of the room and struggles to piece together the words she needs to say. Everything is scattered in pieces, the words that Ashton told her, what she wants to say, and the stupid fucking carpets. But nothing is coming out, yet again.
“You never tell me things and I'm really trying to understand, but I can't when you used to tell me everything. If you can't talk to me and we're only three months in, we can't do this. Sarah, I am trying my best here and I don't know what else to do.”
"I told you everything because you were my best friend. And now you're my boyfriend and things feel different.” Sarah says quietly.
“I'm still your best friend,” Luke tells her. He squats in front of her sitting spot and strokes a thumb over her soft hand.
Sarah avoids his gaze, “I am used to being cold, it's just how I grew up. I had to. Then I met you and was able to express some things to you. Now that we're together there's a whole new set of emotions and I have never had to deal with them.”
“Are you trying to s-” Luke starts, but she cuts him off. He just pushes a strand of hair behind her ear and watches as she takes in a shaky breath.
“I love you, Luke.” Sarah tells him. And she waits for the world to implode, for the house to crumple on top of her, or for him to laugh. The only thing that happens is Luke looking up at her with glassy eyes as he kisses the backs of her hands.
“I love you too, Sarah.” He smiles, “Is that what all this was about?”
“I was scared that something bad would happen if I told you. That you would change your mind or you would laugh at me...I don't know, my family never reacted well to me talking about love and I didn't want a repeat of that.”
"Oh, honey,” Luke whispers and joins her on the bed so he can wrap his arms around her. “I would never ever do that to you.”
Sarah leans into the warmth, “I'm trying to get better at this. I just have to remember that you guys are different and emotions aren't weaknesses for you.”
"Never. You're human, you're supposed to be emotional. I know your family wasn't very nice to you, but you're here now. You have a loving boyfriend and three brothers who would do anything for you.” Luke explains softly.
Luke wipes the tears from her cheeks and places a kiss on her forehead. He remembers Sarah telling him stories about her family and how she wasn't too fond of them. She ended up in survival mode most of the time, but it never hit him that she was so cold because of it. He doesn't even think that she had realized that before tonight. She was just scared of emotions and didn't know what love felt like due to family. He hopes that she knows that they would never treat her badly.
“I'm sorry for crying all over you, I promise that it's not because of you,” Sarah giggles a bit, “I just love you so fucking much and I can say it,”
“You can say it,” Luke laughs with her, “I love you more than you'd ever realize.”
For once in Sarah's life, she feels completely at peace. She can do the whole “emotional” thing and nothing bad will happen, because all the bad stuff is in the past. It feels good to admit all the pent up stuff. And most importantly, loving luke DOES feel like sunshine on the first day of spring. Warm, fuzzy, and everything nice.
And she's certain that she's happy. So sure of it. She gets to be happy with the best person in her life and that's all she could ask for.
#5sos#luke hemmings#ashton irwin#michael clifford#calum hood#5 seconds of summer#5sos fanficton#5sos fanfic#luke hemmings blurbs#luke hemmings fanfiction#luke hemmings imagine#luke hemmings fanfic#5sos writing#be nice to me please#luke and sarah#5sos fluff#5sos blurb
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hello again! as already mentioned: your stories are reallyreally great 😍👍 and ooooh I'm so happy you're taking x-Reader requests! I'd be very excited if you could write a Connor x Reader story where the reader is rather sceptic about androids. he/she doesn't like that they become more humanoid and is especially annoyed of Connor. but at some point Connor does something that turnes the readers opinion around and he/she falls in love with him
combination of these two requests. COFFEE SHOP AU.
6.5k words.
In the chaos of the morning rush, you hadn’t noticed him come in. Hadn’t spotted the tell-tale luminescent blue accents on his CyberLife-issued jacket as you pinballed between the register and the service counter and the three drip machines against the wall under the chalkboard menu.
You place an espresso and a whipped-cream doused latte on the counter, calling out the orders over the din.
“Espresso for Melissa, latte with whipped cream and three pumps of vanilla for Xiong!”
Don’t wait to see them get snatched up before you’re on to the next customers, maintaining the precarious, hectic rhythm of brewing, counting out change, and serving.
Greeting every customer with a smile is a challenge. Your feet hurt already, there’s no chance of a break in sight. You’d opened at 6am, and you’re the only one here right now, three hours later. The only staff the owner of Has-Bean can afford.
Still, it’s a job. A decently-paying job, and there’s a set of Detroiters who make it a point to support human-owned and -run businesses. You have regulars who greet you by name, ask how things are going, drop a dollar in the tip jar even though for some of them a cup of coffee is, itself, a luxury.
You grab some empty cups that people have bussed to the counter, toss them in the sink where dirty dishes have already piled high, reassuring yourself that the crowds will die down enough within half an hour that you can make a getaway to the restroom.
“Good morning.”
You hear a pleasant voice from behind you, and turn, wiping your hands on the rag tucked in the front pocket of your apron. “Hi, welcome—“
Android. Your throat tightens. He’s tall, brown haired. ‘RK800’ is emblazoned on the right breast of his jacket; a model you don’t recognize, though you can’t bring yourself to study him closely. There’s no rule against him being in here, of course. Not anymore. “What can I get you?” You ask tersely, unable to muster your usual warmth.
“One large black coffee, please.”
“Name?”
“My name is Connor.”
“For here or to-go?”
“To-go, please.”
You ring it up, resolutely not making eye contact. There’s no point anyway. People come here for the human touch, the android-free atmosphere.
How’s he even going to pay? Androids don’t carry cash, they pay by linking wirelessly with other androids. “That’ll be four fifty including the city fee for the disposable cup and lid.” Here it comes, he’ll have to ask, don’t you accept link transfers, and you’ll get the petty satisfaction of telling him no—
“This should cover it.” He places a crisp five dollar bill on the counter, which you take, punch in the amount on the antique cash register, count out his change. Fifty cents back, and you note with absent interest that one of the two quarters you slide to him on the counter is rare, and old—an eagle on it instead of the newer designs.
“Thank you,” he says, but you turn away, busy fixing his order, and moving on to the line that’s accumulated while he slowed you down.
Even so, making brief, comfortable conversation with Julie, a regular, you watch him out of the corner of your eye.
“Bizarre, aren’t they?” Julie remarks in an undertone. “Now that they’re more human?”
You nod, starting her drink, which you know by heart, before taking her cash and giving back the appropriate change. “First one I’ve ever gotten in here, even after the referendum. He’s alone, too.”
He thanks you again when you put the large black coffee out for him; you only raise your eyes when he takes it and turns to go. The crowd parts for him, and you glimpse him in profile: handsome, impeccably neat, and pleasantly mild, though there’s a keenness to him. As he makes his way out the door, you get the impression that not very much escapes his notice.
“It’s gotta be a one-off.”
“Some wealthy asshole was in the area, wanted coffee, and sent his android to get it for him.”
Your regulars offer their opinions one-by-one, and you listen, nodding impassively, until it devolves to an argument among several about whether there are any androids left who willingly serve people since the deviant uprising. Then you tune out, the rush dies down, you finally tackle the overfull sink, hoping that the strange, polite android had just been a one-time thing.
He was cute. The thought pops in your mind, as unwelcome as his unexpected appearance had been. You shove it away, along with the lingering unease that androids always bring.
Later, at the end of your shift, you take the contents of the tip jar. Owner’s policy, for which you’re always grateful, because if there’s enough you get to eat two meals a day instead of one. You count out all of it: a five and nine ones. Enough for something cheap. A handful of coins, too, and as you pile the quarters in stacks of four, you note, with a strange jolt of curiosity, the rare eagle. Rare enough that it must be the same one you’d handed as change earlier to that android.
You keep it. Not one to hang on to spare change, but it takes up residence in your left hand jacket pocket, and doesn’t get spent.
**
He returns the next day, same time, same outfit, same order, same cash amount.
Who the hell is giving him money for this? Any decent person would know not to send their android on an errand in a place like this.
Same perfected air of calm in the face of general disdain. As human as he’s supposed to look, he stands out in the crowd, his carefully-designed idiosyncrasies making him somehow more irritating.
In the usual rush, you forget to watch the tip jar, and instead get distracted when he orders, because he tilts his head and gives you a small smile when you remember his name—
“Connor, right?”
“Correct.”
“What can I get you?” You’re not trying to be accommodating, and certainly not friendly. “Same as yesterday?”
“Yes, please.”
But he acts as if you are. Unfailingly polite, and you think—can’t be sure, but you think— he’s left all the change again as a tip.
And again, the day after. Looking at him still makes you uncomfortable, and you don’t even bother with the strained smile you give human customers you don’t like. Probably doesn’t matter. Androids don’t care about niceties. And you suspect he keeps tipping you anyway, though you haven’t caught him at it yet.
All through the week, Monday through Saturday, he keeps coming back. Always neatly dressed, even though Friday morning brings a thunderstorm.
Rain always has a way of thinning the typical morning crowd. During the lull, you lean against the back counter, trying to ignore
your gurgling stomach, and focus on the soothing grey of the downpour outside. It’s nearly empty in here, only a couple tables occupied. The quiet allows you to hear when the bell jingles.
It’s the android again. Right on time. And apparently not one to use an umbrella. Water streams off his hair, down his face, his grey jacket and jeans and boots. He doesn’t seem to notice, and you reject the instinct to offer him a towel, although he is tracking water in, and you’ll be the one who has to mop that up later.
You meet him at the counter.
“Good morning.”
“Is it?” You look away, already starting to ring up and prepare one large black coffee. At his odd silence, you glance back up, and find him staring at you.
“Yes, I think it is. Although, my programming isn’t meant to distinguish between good and bad. Only evaluate outcomes, and select subsequent responses. But– ” his expression softens with genuine curiosity, “—I really only meant to wish you a good morning. Is that not a thing humans say anymore?”
You really shouldn’t be noticing his hair right now. The fact that it’s shiny with water, dark and silky looking, and he has that one lock that falls to the left, which you’d really like to reach out and comb back in place for him—
“Are you alright?” He tilts his head, and you get the sense you’re being scanned.
“Fine,” you snip at him, and for some reason you’re blushing. He’s staring at you too intensely, that’s why. NOT for any other reason. “This is what you want, right? Your usual?” You’d never dare be this rude with a human customer. It feels wrong, somehow, with him too. Unfair, and are you REALLY worrying about hurting an android’s feelings? But you can’t help yourself.
“Please,” he inclines his head. “And I’m sorry for getting the floor wet.”
Wanting an excuse to stay even slightly irritated at him, you ignore the apology and fix his drink. Throughout the week, you’ve wondered who it’s for. What, and who, exactly, he is. Asking wouldn’t be out of line, you make small talk with customers all the time. The one thing humans have left to be better at than androids.
Too late. His order doesn’t take long enough to make, and you hand him the paper cup. Maybe you should suggest that he bring in his own reusable mug, like most of your customers do, save a few bucks. “Here you go.”
“Thank you, miss…” his gaze drops below your eye level, to your chest. He stares longer than necessary, zoning out.
You cross your arms reflexively, like he’s any other creepy customer who feels entitled to check you out, though that’s not really the vibe you get from him. More like he’s scanning you, again. Still. RUDE.
“Hey!” You snap at him. “What are you doing?”
He blinks rapidly, brought out of his reverie. “I was looking for your name badge. My programming directs me to address all humans by name, if I know of one, and failing that, a title. I couldn’t find either one for you.”
You frown at him. “Aren’t I in the National Citizens Database?”
“Most likely, yes. But I’m not authorized to access it for any reason unrelated to my job.”
“Job?”
“I’m a prototype,” he tells you earnestly. “A detective assigned to assist the Detroit Police Department.”
That’s a jarring thing to hear. You have a handful of regular customers from the DPD. Most are uniformed beat cops, though several are plainclothes detectives. Some are kinder than others, though the idea that any of them might be edged out of a salaried job by an android is upsetting.
How can a machine know the measure of pain, and despair, and humiliation– all the hurt that comes with not being good enough to earn a living?
Even if he is an android, it’s very hard to snark at someone who’s so polite. You resort to staring at him right back. His eyes are brown and warm, his expression open. The corner of his mouth twitches up in an almost-smile and in that moment you swear to yourself– swear it-- that you won’t get some stupid crush on him, because he’s weird and unwelcome, and an android for crying out loud.
But you feel your heart beat faster. Curiosity shocks you, like a hand shooting out to grab your wrist and pull you off course. What does he want?
What does he dream of? Why, after the android uprising, is he still an errand boy for the people who probably shot at his friends?
How does he see the world?
What can he know?
“Is everything alright?”
It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. His voice is as warm as the rest of his demeanor, calm and un-intrusive.
“Yeah. I’m– everything’s fine.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he actually means it. “I have to go.” He inclines his head.
He takes the coffee and leaves, and you notice, for the first time, how he moves. Precise and efficient. Nothing wasted.
You wonder if you might see him again, if only to have your questions answered.
**
On Sunday afternoon, the end of your week, you wait restlessly for the android.
My name is Connor. You hear his pleasant, even voice in your head, picture the peculiar ways he moves, and how he enters the cafe. Scans from left to right, cataloguing everything, and then fixates on—
You.
He doesn’t show up.
“Have you had any androids come in as customers recently?” You ask Jamie, your replacement, at shift changeover.
He looks at you expectantly, as if you’ve just given him the set up for a joke.
You match his expression. “I’m not kidding.”
“Uh… no. No I haven’t. Kinda figured they knew not to come in here. Could be a deviancy thing?”
“Could be,” you allow, though you’re hazy about how android deviancy actually works. No number of explainer articles in Century magazine had succeeded in making sense of it, and several months after the uprising, news pundits debate the issue ad nauseum on TV.
“I did have a dude on red ice try to swipe the tip jar.”
“No shit. Me too! Really short, skinny, with like, a gross, scraggly goatee?”
“That’s the one—“ Jamie interrupts himself to help a customer who approaches the counter.
“You haven’t seen Hank recently, have you?” You wait to ask until Jamie’s done with the order, and you have one foot out the door, with your apron folded over your arm.
“Who?’
“You know, the cop. Grey beard, usually cranky, smells like whiskey?”
Jamie shrugs. “Don’t think so. Can’t say I remember him.”
You adjust your bag strap over your shoulder, and, by way of farewell, remind him to give away the stale pastries by the time he closes. Anyone who had met Hank would remember him, you think. For better or worse, he makes an impression.
Same with that android, or maybe that’s just you. The half hour bus ride home gives you plenty of (unwelcome) time to contemplate your growing fascination with your newest regular customer. You thumb the quarter in your pocket the whole way, shoulder to shoulder with androids and people since public transport had been desegregated.
It occurs to you that some of the people might actually be androids. They aren’t required to self-identify anymore, not by clothing or any other way.
The usual aversion you feel towards them is muted today. Connor is on your mind instead. He’s so straightforward, he tips the scale back to enigmatic. Every time he had come in, another question had piled on, and now all you can think about is the little quirk of a smile he’d bestowed on you, and how soft his lips might be on yours, and if he’d kiss you back.
**
“Hey Hank!”
He grunts.
“Having a good morning?”
He grunts again, lifts his chin and glares at you. You beam at him, already starting on his usual order: large caramel drizzle cappuccino with extra whipped cream and a sprinkle of chocolate shavings.
There is something deeply satisfying about meeting his eternal crankiness with persistent cheer, especially on a Sunday morning like this.
You’ve tried with other grumpy customers, but it just isn’t the same. He’s not looking very good today, but then he rarely does. A web of broken capillaries covers his sunken cheeks and blunt, rectangular nose. Eyes are bloodshot, grizzled hair coarse and unkempt. His clothes are rumpled. You can smell the whiskey lingering on him, he’s been drinking for so long it’s in his pores.
Hank has a way of timing his coffee runs such that he avoids the crowds, and you comment on this to him, as you often do. He shrugs, gives his typical response, which is that he can only deal with so much bullshit this early in the day.
You hum in agreement, and ponder bringing up the unusual android customer you’ve dealt with for the past week. Hank’s always up for a good round of complaining, though you vaguely recall him mentioning something about an android at work. He seems like he’s changed over the past few months, though you’re not sure how that all fits together. But he has been smoothed around the edges. He smiles a bit more easily.
“How’re things at the precinct?’ You ask instead. “Any cool cases? Anything juicy?”
You turn back to him in time to see him put the whole ten dollar bill in the tip jar for you, instead of paying at all. You’d only stopped thanking him for doing that when he’d threatened to arrest you for ‘being too nice, it’s suspicious’.
“Same shit different day. Assholes trying to get away with stuff they know they shouldn’t be doing.”
“Did I tell you someone tried to grab the tip jar and run?”
Hank does not look surprised. “Nope. Might wanna think about bolting that thing down.”
“Maybe.” You drizzle in three times the called-for amount of caramel, and extra pinches of chocolate shavings. Sometimes you suspect Hank keeps coming back to you not for the preferential treatment, but because you had laughed in his face the first AND second times he’d placed such a ridiculous order.
“Was it a junkie? Or just some desperate kid?”
“Red ice. Sooooo… both?” You hand him the drink. If you didn’t luck into this job, that desperate kid could very well be you.
Hank grumbles his thanks, but sounds defeated.
“You gonna make it today?” You ask him lightly, wondering how bad his hangover is.
“Eh” He takes a hearty slug of the coffee, leaving whipped cream on his mustache. “I’ll be fine.” He makes to leave, then remembers one last thing.
“Oh, by the way. Precinct’s standing up a new task force. Anti-android hate crimes are getting out of hand—“
You know what’s coming next, and start shaking your head before he’s finished. “Hank, I’m not—“
“Just listen! Hear me out. Six month internship, and at the end, the possibility of transitioning to a full time position.”
The idea of it is enticing, and just out of reach. Too painful to hope for. And so you decline, again, with the reasons you’ve given him before. Can’t afford to take an unpaid, full time position. Can’t afford to quit your jobs and then not be able to get them back in half a year when you aren’t selected to join the force.
It’s your eight day working in a row, though you don’t mention this. You’d needed to request an extra shift, having come up almost a hundred dollars short on rent. Your life feels unmoored. Drifting, and precarious. You must simply make do, can’t hope for much more than that. Have to depend on the generosity of people who can’t really afford to be generous.
“Look.” He comes back to the counter to grab a few napkins and wipe his mustache. “Take some time, think it over. Could use someone like you.”
**
Weeks go by. Connor becomes a fixture of most of your mornings. Hank comes by less often, about every other Sunday. Every time you try to persuade him to bring his own mug—you know he has one, because he bought the café-branded one at your urging—he grouses and reminds you of the internship.
Someone like you. The words come to mind every time you look up from the register and see Connor step forward. Sometimes he’s doing tricks with a quarter. Snapping it from hand to hand, or spinning it edgewise and making it hop from one fingertip to the next. It’s his way of zoning out, you suppose, or entertaining himself (his screensaver, maybe?), but he always stops when he speaks to you.
Would the station even want you, when they had him? You can make coffee. He can do coin tricks and probably a hell of a lot more, and all better than you.
“Good morning. The usual, please.” He seems to enjoy saying that.
You’ve already started on it, and the next few drinks for some of your regulars you see behind him. “You got it.” And through the familiar routine of taking his cash, giving change, and the sleight of hand he performs to tip you without you catching him in the act. “Do you ever make coffee at work, Connor?”
The rare attempt at small talk doesn’t faze him. “No. A detective who resented my presence on the force demanded that I make him a cup of coffee. I refused, and he became upset.”
It occurs to you, with a sudden pang of shame, that you’d asked assuming Connor didn’t have a choice. You can’t imagine yourself doing anything other than hover in the breakroom and make coffee for whoever wanders in. That’s probably not what Hank has in mind.
You bustle around the little kitchen, with several drinks going at once, but not in any particular hurry to dismiss Connor. You still haven’t asked him why he comes to buy coffee most days, and he hasn’t volunteered the information. “What happened then?” You look over in time to see an odd expression cross his face, though you can’t quite place what it is, and it reminds you, again, that despite everything, he’s not human.
“He punched me in the abdomen.”
“What?”
“And then he left without getting any coffee.”
“Wait, go back to the part about him punching you, that’s crazy—“
He doesn’t get a chance to answer; a loud, shrill ‘excuse me!’ issues from somewhere further back in the line. You tip your head to peer around Connor, and see a young man—maybe younger than you— wave his arm in the air, as if you’re too dense to notice him otherwise.
“What’s the holdup!”
You don’t recognize him, he’s not a regular. He has a small dog on a leash, a cellphone pressed to his cheek.
“That expression of ‘excuse me’ didn’t sound polite,” Connor observes, more to you than anything else. He steps aside, and you keep the line moving, accepting payment and passing the appropriate drinks to regulars, who mostly disperse, out the door, a few to tables.
The man on the phone is next, carrying on half a conversation there, and half with you. There’s nothing that gets you riled faster than customers like this; you do your best smile (more of a grimace) and ask him for his order.
He pauses just long enough to sneer something about vanilla soy, and gives Connor, who’s hovering in front of the pastry display, a look of revulsion.
Connor tilts his head serenely, not oblivious, but unconcerned. Only observing. Something twists in you.
“Name?” You prompt, since the guy resumes yelling into his phone again.
Typical. You’ve noticed that it’s mostly the younger customers who are obnoxious, entitled assholes. Older people remember life before androids, and many, you’ve surmised, at one point had to work a service job just like the one you’re doing now. That’s a rarity these days. Those who didn’t suffer it end up like him.
“Name?” You ask again, and he apologizes to the person on the phone before sniping at you.
You hold your tongue, turn to start on the vanilla soy latte. Still haven’t given Connor his order, but he seems to have gone into standby mode or something, zoning out at the asshole on the phone, who’s starting complaining loudly about slow service, prices, laziness, and then you hear—
“fuckin androids, there’s one staring at me right now, it’s creeping me out.”
–and that twisting wrenches too far, and snaps.
You trash the drink without adding toppings, go back to the register, and ask him to leave. He’s causing a scene.
From there, the exchange goes pretty much as you’d expect. Indignation. Outrage. Insults at you and Connor and androids. Avowal to never frequent Has-Bean again.
Blood roars in your ears. Fine with you. Attitudes like his aren’t welcome here, you inform him, your patience hanging by a thread, reinforced only by Connor’s unflappable composure. He can apologize or leave.
Wrong thing to say. You weather the barrage of abuse until finally the guy storms out in a fit of apoplexy, yanking his dog’s leash.
The door slams shut, bell jingling. The whole place has cleared out. You look back at Connor, awkward and apologetic. There’s a slight furrow between his eyebrows, which you misinterpret.
“Sorry,” you begin. “Sorry you had to… see that.”
“I’m fine,” he says evenly. “I—I’m concerned about that man’s dog.”
“What? Oh.”
“It showed signs of distress, and abuse. There were contusions around its neck and snout.”
“it was a real dog?” You ask, before you catch how rude that sounds. As if it matters. As if androids aren’t real. As if Connor, and his feelings, aren’t real. Come on, get your head straight. You hand him his large black coffee to cover your embarrassment.
“Yes,” he replies. Unusually distant, until he accepts the cup, his fingers brush yours, and the attraction to him you’ve repressed surges anew.
How strange, that he seems to smile with his eyes, or maybe you’re just imagining it. “Thank you.”
Suddenly you need to stop him. You need him to stay, and you come around the counter. It’s strange, and new, to stand with nothing between you; you ruin the moment by wiping your cheek. “I think that guy got spit on me when he was yelling.”
He says nothing, listening patiently, until he determines you’re done.
“I should go. I apologize for any disturbance I may have caused.”
“Connor, wait. I have to ask, why do you keep coming back here?”
“I like it here,” Connor says, after a moment of consideration. “It’s cozy.” He conveys this with a kind of earnest conviction, which initially puts you off. Androids aren’t supposed to have a concept of what’s comfortable and what’s not. A pleasant, quiet space isn’t supposed to evoke anything in them.
You clear your throat. He’s quite tall. He’d have to bend down to kiss you. “What’s, um… what parts are cozy? What do you like about it?”
He looks around. You note the LED on his temple, spinning from blue to yellow. Processing…
“The ceiling. It’s a molded pattern, 17.5 feet high. Constructed early 20th century. It was a house first, then this first floor was a ballet studio. The floors are original, you can see over by that wall, the unusual wear on the floor boards. There probably used to be a bar where the dancers practiced.”
You turn to look over your shoulder where he’s pointing, but don’t see it. He sets the coffee down on the counter, puts his hands on your shoulder and spins you around.
All at once, he’s very close. Maddeningly close, and he still has one hand on your shoulder, the other pointing out details of the architecture and design you’d never noticed before.
The windows are oriented north-west, allowing an optimal amount of natural light throughout all times of day.
And the smell of coffee, but ignore that, and you can sense more, can’t you? The wood polish and warm, worn leather, and the musty doilies the owner won’t allow anyone to throw away.
The views across the street are nice: a flower shop, a pet store, an art gallery. Here inside is the perfect refuge to watch the minutiae of other people’s lives play out, though he phrases it as ‘gathering data’.
You hadn’t thought of it that way. Had never sat at the table he indicates, the one by the window, but now you can imagine sitting at it across from him, and you want nothing more than know what it feels like to hold his hand. To know him deeply, and for that quiet, familiar intimacy to become your language of ‘are you okay’, a keeper of secret things and shared smiles.
“Huh.” Is all you can say, after you turn to face him again.
He watches you, too perceptive, his LED still yellow.
The strength of your affection catches you short of breath—how shallow you must seem to him! How transparent, and uncertain, swinging from one extreme to another. At the mercy of emotions, so unpredictable they leave you twisting in the wind.
Your heart beats wildly, filling your chest with a fluttery excitement. You swallow thickly, “That’s, uh, nice, very informative. But I meant why do you keep getting coffee? You don’t drink coffee, do you? Is that a thing. Do androids drink coffee now? I’ve never heard of them drinking it, I thought they—you—I thought you didn’t need food…”
Connor waits for you to run out of breath and stop talking before politely replying. “No. I get coffee for my partner at the police precinct. I like doing favors for him. He’s my best friend. Plus he needs it. He drinks too much, so he’s usually hungover.”
You watch Connor with the sort of sinking feeling of an unrequited, inevitable crush. The lightness of infatuation in conflict with that weight, which addles your mind enough that what he just said doesn’t register immediately.
Hungover. No, it couldn’t be… And besides, the drink orders are polar opposites, and the idea of Hank having a best friend is absurd.
“I really should get going,” Connor reminds you, before adding, “you appear flushed. Are you alright?”
“Fine,” you say, though you’re not. You turn away to retrieve his coffee, and behind your back hear the clink of coins in the tip jar. One of these days, you’ll catch him at it. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” He accepts it, and inhales its scent; curiosity flickers across his features.
“Connor?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you could teach me those coin tricks sometime?”
“Alright. But I have to warn you, my biosystems and programming make it look easier than it actually is. For humans. Any android could do it.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone besides you do it before.”
He shrugs, a totally natural gesture, accompanied by a disarming smile. “They could if they wanted.”
**
“Huh,” Hank grunts at you. “Maybe you really aren’t cut out for police work. Took you long enough to put it together…”
Upon seeing Hank again, on a Sunday when he clearly did not want to be anywhere except drinking more, you had questioned him about work, and the internship, and most importantly, any androids working at the station.
You’d tried your best to hide your pique of interest in the connection, at the fact that an android considers this cranky asshole his best friend. You have to wonder if Hank feels the same, but as he endures your questions, you conclude that he does– that he loves Connor like a son.
“Well?” Hank asks. “Was that enough to convince you?”
You sigh, doing the math in your head. “Could you really swing it so I could live in the new recruit housing?”
“The barracks, yeah. Probably. Wouldn’t be the easiest living situation if you aren’t used to it.”
You take out the quarter that has inhabited various pockets of your clothing for the past few months. The prospect of possibly working with Connor in the most enticing aspect of this whole thing; as you fidget with the coin you again try to dismiss your pathetic infatuation and focus on practical matters.
Even with free housing for the six months, you’d have to find a way to afford food, and there’s no guarantee of a paying job at the end of it. Would be safer just to stay here. Making coffee. Forever.
“Where’d you get that?”
“This?” You hand it to him “Tip jar.”
He turns it over, grumbling, but you can tell it’s his ‘this is interesting’ grumble, and not his ‘I hate everything and everyone’ grumble. At last he gives it back. “Be glad you didn’t spend it. That thing’s worth a bit.”
“Really!?” excitement makes you knock over a cup of milk you were steaming. “Shit.”
As you clean up, Hank answers the question he knows you’re yearning to ask. “Fifteen thousand. Maybe more, depending on the date.”
A horrible thought intrudes suddenly; you imagine one, out of all the times you’d been turning the quarter over in your pocket, had you dropped it somehow, watched in roll away, fall in a storm drain. You pat the pocket where you’d just put it away, then zip the pocket closed.
“I’m no collector,” he assures you. “Stupidest way to waste money I can think of.”
To be sure, you personally can’t imagine have fifteen grand to spend on ANOTHER piece of money. People are weird. Then again, you have a crush on an android.
“You should take it to an appraiser. See how much you can actually get for it.” He lifts his chin like a challenge. “…unless you feel like keeping it.” Which only an idiot would do, is the clear subtext there. You shake your head. Plans are already forming in your mind, nebulous visions of a future, which somehow includes a scene of you and Connor strolling in a park, hand in hand.
You sigh, and shake your head to dismiss that image. “You said the barracks aren’t easy? What’s it like?”
Hank almost smiles. He must know he’s got you, and he motions to a table. “You have a few minutes?”
**
The countdown to your last day brings rising trepidation and doubt. What if you’re making the wrong decision? You’re giving up a steady income, as well as fixed rent that you know you’ll be able to afford for at least a couple more years.
The longer you wait, the harder it becomes to approach Connor with an apology. But he deserves one. It’s not just for your own peace of mind. How could you ever have hated him? Your memory of how you treated him is painful to admit to yourself, you’ll have to confront it soon.
Yet you put it off. Wait one day, because you see him and he smiles at you and you don’t want to mess it up.
And another day, one bright quiet morning, when he holds up a quarter between his index and middle finger and asks, “ready?” In the empty shop (lack of customers not a good sign, perhaps it’s for the best that you’ll be moving on soon) he stands behind you, hands on your forearms, speaking low and steady in your ear.
Relax, you’re tense, it’s all in the wrist. He sounds so human, you could be forgiven for mistaking him for anything other than a machine, but then he observes your precise heart rate, and the spike in dopamine, and he finally reminds you that humans need to breathe.
Of course. How silly of you. Forgetting to breathe. Inhale, exhale, and all that. While he’s hovering there at your back, appropriately spaced and you’d rather he NOT be. You’d rather he press himself against you, make you feel the ridge of his erection, if androids even have urges like that. Probably not, but that doesn’t stop you from getting distracted, nor does it weaken the potency of your arousal, because fuck he’s right behind you and it’s too easy to fantasize about dragging him into the back room and showing him how you’d like him to kiss your neck as he fucks you.
One day, a second day, a third, and fourth day in a row, he comes in, orders, then sits down and reads.
He carries a book with him. What was the outdated term you’d heard Hank use?
Oh yeah— hipster.
An android reading. Such a simple act of enjoyment; it shouldn’t be a shocking sight, but regular customers keep shooting him unpleasant looks. Finally, after the rush has died down, you work up the nerve to slide into the seat across from him.
“Good morning.” He looks up from A History of Jazz in the American Midwest: the 1940’s.
Last day, you realize with a start. Last chance, before you’re sort-of colleagues with him. You’d practiced variations of a most eloquent speech in your head, every bus ride to and from work.
“Connor, I owe you an apology,” it would begin. “I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I was unwelcoming and bigoted and it was wrong of me to act like that. I’m sorry.”
He’s staring at you expectantly, and in the aftermath of this conversation, nothing about the way you parse the details can account for what your mouth decides to do in defiance of logic.
“I’m an idiot with a crush on you.” You blurt it out and then freeze.
He tilts his head, bewildered. Clearly doesn’t know how to process this kind of thing, and the LED on his right temple spins from blue to yellow. When he speaks, he’s halting. “My algorithms can’t give me a precedent on how to respond to that—I’m…” He pauses again, searching vast databanks and not finding the right words. Any other time it would be reassuring. One of the most advanced prototypes ever made, rendered uncertain by human weirdness.
You wait in wrenching silence, brace yourself for a rejection that doesn’t come. He shuts his book without marking the page.
Then, he reaches up to brush a strand of your hair out of your eyes, and gives you a kind smile. His fingers trail from your hair to your cheek, caressing the skin. Your breath hitches.
Up close, he’s somehow more handsome, and how is it that everything he does makes you giddy? He regards you serenely, head cocked slightly to the left, observing your reactions. As always.
“It’s okay,” he answers your unspoken apology. “Do you want to start over?” And at your grateful nod: “My name is Connor.”
You respond in kind, though your own name sounds distant in your ears, because he’s saying something about how his protocols indicate this is the optimal moment to initiate mouth to mouth contact and he’s leaning over the table, closer, closer.
In the empty, quiet shop, he kisses you. This one, lambent morning when there’s a break in the clouds and sun in your eyes, he kisses you, not quite hesitant. More like he’s experimenting. Thoroughly.
You stiffen, though he’d moved slow enough to it, but his lips are soft, pliant. You kiss him back fervently, bring your hand up to grip his forearm, don’t go. Don’t end this too quickly.
When you part, it’s not far, you pull away needing to breath and knowing he never will.
“You know Hank hates plain black coffee, right?” It slips out before you can stop yourself. Something about this damn android.
“Yes.” His brow furrows. “He needs to eat healthier. He’s at risk of heart disease.”
You find yourself worrying your lower lip. “The fact that we made out probably isn’t going to help his stress level.”
“No. Luckily I know of several disused rooms at the precinct which are perfect for–”
“Discussing the history of jazz?” You finish, glancing down at his book.
He almost smiles. You catch it in his eyes. “Find me on your first day and I’ll show you around.”
#connor x reader#dbh connor#connor dbh#detroit become human#detroit: become human#fanfic#coffee shop au
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MI AMORE
Finally believed on the quote that, you'd never know anything unless you'll experience it. Yes. I will tell a great story that inspired me to write so. As I'm typing this, I shed a tear. Knowing that we're here, we've gone so far.
Two years ago, my friend introduced this man to me through facebook because that time, I was in pain. I want to focus my attention to others. Unexpectedly, there's this feeling that I can't explain. My first "hi" to him changed almost of my life. I never expected to like him, so him. I fell in love with him eventhough I didn't see him yet personally. I don't know but everytime I talk to him, I'm comfortable and feels like there's nothing in this world I wanna see except for him. It was on July when we stopped conversating. I heard a news from my friend that she likes another girl from their campus. It tore my heart into pieces but not as much pain. September when he came back, talked to me again and make it through. October 30, 2016 when he first court me. The love that I felt for him was like the feeling when I'm with my ex-boyfriend considering as my first one. At that time, I keep on doubting because of his looks, he might get by another girl that easy.
November 17, 2016 when we're finally official. Happiness floated. Smile bursts. Heartbeats flashed. All I know is, I'm just really thankful. At first, it's okay, normal cycle. But two weeks later, he keeps on playing online games. His time for me vanished. December 7, 2016, I go home. Checked my messenger, he finally said that we need space, he's demanding rather than asking for a breakup. Of course at my part, it was really unfair because how come that he'll decide on his own? How about my feelings? I beg him to stay. To talk about it. But I failed.
I'm in pain.
I'm wrecked.
I changed my dp into black.
I cried.
I, I.... I lost myself.
Since then, I didn't entertain any man again, well, I do but not as much as for him. December 21, 2016, I stalked him. I saw a post that tagged by a girl to him. It's about a post of relationship thingy that made a guess in my mind. Then I find out that it's really true. It's him and the girl that tagged him, they have a relationship. I keep again on asking to myself, where did I go wrong? Am I not enough? Am I ugly? Am I really this kind of girl that was easily left without any reason?
I really cried hard enough everynight. It made my academics poor. I feel that myself changed for that, I'm not the real me anymore. After New Year Celebration, I realized, I have to continue living normally and move on. First three consecutive months of the year 2017, I never talked to him nor stalked him. But on the month of April, he came back again, confessed that he want again our past bring to present and future again. I don't know what to feel but the only thing I know is, my heart really satisfied because it got what it wants. I didn't know the reason yet on why did he left me because he don't want to say. I let it, because it doesn't really matter, what matters most that time for me is him, he came back into me, again.
All I know, it will work finally. But then, one sad night, he didn't reply. It made me confused again. Why is he like that? He's so unfair! He keeps on leaving me without any reasons at all! That time, I felt pain again, nothing new I guess. I let my life continue until I reached my grade 10 and him, grade 9.
I heard again an another news that he falls hard for a girl. His classmate rather, that, considering also his first love. Every shared post that he has on his timeline makes me feel a trash. Every picture of them that I see made me shed a tear, honestly speaking. It really made me realized that his love for her was strong and unbreakable that no one could reach for. And for that, I stopped assumimg that he'll comeback that it's an impossible thing to happen. I keep on greeting him at his birthday but he didn't reply. Okay, so I told to myself that it's really time to forget him, even if it's too hard.
May 13, 2018, I saw him online and looks like they're ready separated and breakup happened unto them. So I ask him,what's wrong. He told me everything. On what pain did he suffer from his first love. He never knew that what he suffers that time, I already suffered it from him. So I kept on comforting him. My feelings returned. But I know he still loves that girl. But, lucky day arrived when he told me he likes me again. At first I told to myself that he will do again the same thing but I tried. I took again a risk. Even if the past still hurts.
As time passes by, my feelings for him goes deeper and deeper. I don't know if he feels the same too until he confessed sincerely that he finally learned to love me again. My first guess lets me want to prove that I'm not only his rebound. July 11, 20108 when we first met each other. I directly let his face seen by my family and meet his inner soul. He likes them. My family likes him too. But then again, his feelings for me, I know even if he don't tell me, it's not yet full. But at least there's love anymore that we can hold as we go deeper and deeper. August 11, when he starts courting me again. I know my love for him really formed. As well as he is. But I'm still afraid of the fact that if his first love will go back to him, he will leave me again like he used to, two times. But no, I challenged myself to be stronger for conflicts that may occur.
Three months after, It was November 14, 2018 when I finally released the magical words that made again us into official. But for a reason. Pain made me said it. For which after two weeks made us realize that it's really too early for us to take commitments. Actually, it's just that I'm not yet ready, I just tested him for his answers if he regrets to enter relationship this early. He said "Yes" and it really breaks my heart again. Actually, November 17 was my original plan for our date of being in a relationship so that it will be the date again, wayback two years ago when we were first heard to be couple.
There were so many problems that we encountered. A lot of problems. There's this one problem that it made the two of us decided to end. But luckily, it broke that decision.
One of our main problem is that we're in a long distance relationship wherein I was sent by my parents to study here in Tuguegarao while he left in Aparri for his grade 10 level of education.
Another is that, they will go to a swimming, where all of the members of their squad will go, including his first love that went to Aparri for a Christmas vacation. Of course, I'm a girl too, right? I'm an overthinker. Imagining that the one he loved most is there. I'm really afraid that he'll compare me to her. I admit, she's more beautiful than me, she's more sexy than me, she's more fare in complexion, she's more intelligent, she's better than me.
Who am I? Me? I AM JUST NOTHING. NOTHING BUT A GIRL WHO LEFT SO MANY TIMES IF THEY WANT. A GIRL WHO LOVES SO MUCH THAT FORGETS EVERYTHING JUST TO BE HER MAN HAPPY AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT WORLD DID HE GET THESE WORDS "PALIBHASA SARILI MO LANG KASI INIISIP MO." ANS THROWN UPON ME WEHRE IN FACT I KEPT ON PRIORITIZING HIM IN EVERYTHING THAT I DO.
And hours ago, he's not in the mood. I'm included again in his attitude of being so very cold that he did two years ago. I triggered myself for the recent happenings that what if he'll do it again. What if he'll see his first love again and will go back to her? It's not all about the trust that I don't have, I DO TRUST HIM WITH ALL THAT I AM, but I don't trust his environment specially his friends, they don't like me honestly. They want his first love that also their bestfriend to be together again with my love.
I'm really afraid of what next chapters I shall encounter. All I know is that at this moment of time, I want to rest. Not to talk to him for the mean time for me to gain peace of mind and find also my self-worth. I don't know if why is he like that. He already know that I don't want cold replies but he still do it. Is this a sign?
Altnough, I really do love mi amore. That's all, goodnight! All the love!
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