#[i left it ambiguous as much as i could make it :V]

[papermatisse]

the ultimatum || J.WW

♗ pairing: jeon wonwoo x f!reader

♗ genre: angst

♗ word count: 6.3k

♗ warnings: argument, break up, family problems, depression, overthinking, uhh

♗ synopsis: wonwoo is living a peaceful and happy mundane life with his partner, though outside forces and responsibilities prompt wonwoo to make a tough decision.

♗ (a/n): hello :) I have written smth :) this is for this request that I got in october and I've only just now gotten to writing it bc I finished my semester finally :)) thank you anon for your unrelenting patience I am so so so sorry for taking this long to write this. I v much so appreciate your understanding and your leniency on me 😭🙏❤️

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It was silent. Nothing but the low hum of his radiator whirring somewhere in the background, serving as the sole ambience to fill the dreadful, awful silence that plagued the dingey, rundown apartment. He sat on his couch, the rough material scratching along the back of his neck as he looked up at the ceiling with this dazed, thousand mile stare. The haze of delirium had haunted him for days now, at first merely muddling his thoughts into this droning ambiguity that left him empty and monotonous. Though soon it seeped into the outer edges of his character, skin paling like death, lips settled into a permanent scowl, eyes clouded with no emotion—or perhaps that look was him drowning and wrought with every emotion his feeble mind could conjure up.

There were specks of happiness dabbled in the disordered web of thoughts in his mind. They derived from the lot of memories in the archives of his head, playing on repeat and reminding him of better days.

When he first met (y/n), bemused by the sight of this girl dressed to the nines yet soaked to the bone. A flimsy jacket, just as drenched as she, lay helplessly above her head as a makeshift and utterly unsuccessful umbrella of sorts from the storm raging outside. He watched her carefully, glancing every so often as he wiped away at the counter. She at first stood there, taking in her surroundings with what seemed to be a mixture of confusion and awe. Though soon, she seemed to catch her bearings as she navigated over to his bar, carefully sliding onto a booth as if it were an entirely new contraption to her.

"What's your poison?" He asked her as he made his way to her side. The sound of his voice had startled her greatly, as she near jumped out of her seat, head whirling to face the sudden addition to her solitude.

"I'm sorry?" She replied. Her own voice was far too soft for a bar setting, though he was thankfully able to catch on to her and the utterly hopeless stare she gave him. With a soft chuckle, he leant over the bar, drawing as close as he could to her without invading her space.

"What drink can I get you?"

She was quiet at first with this stunned expression, blinking at him in a stupor. Quickly shaking her head, she averted her gaze to the countertop.

"I'll just have water please."

A simple request, though he couldn't really argue, merely filling a glass with water and sliding it over.

"Can I at least get you a lemon to top off your beverage?"

"Sure," She replied, a small smile spreading across her face at his inquiry, and he felt just the slightest bit accomplished in his duties as a bartender.

Again, he watched her carefully as he continued with work and as she nursed the drink before her. She had finally shed the useless article of clothing from her head, placing it in her lap with a defeated sigh. She really was quite overdressed for a bar setting, wearing a designer dress suited more for a business meeting than for day drinking. It only served to further pique his curiosity, and as the time passed by and the rain outside refused to let, he saw his moment to answer his questions.

"So what brings you to this fine establishment? Aside from the obviously satisfying atmosphere." He smiled to himself as she chuckled at his mannerisms.

"As much as I love this fine establishment so far," she began, widening his smile at her own jests, "it was the first place I could run into when the rains started." He hummed, still looking at her with unwavering eyes, and she attempted to meet his strong gaze, though faltered at the end. With a sigh, she continued, falling under the silent peer pressure of his eyes urging her to continue. "I attended a meeting for my dad. It didn't really agree with me, so I left. Before I could catch a ride home, it started raining, so I ran here."

"Sounds like a pretty rough day." She agreed with a nod, fingers absentmindedly tracing over the condensation clinging to her glass. He could see she was trying to shrink away from his presence, though he was never one to back down. "How about I give you a ride home?"

"Pardon?"

"My shift's just about to end now. I'd hate to leave you here knowing you're trapped 'cause of the rain." She looked at him again with that same stunned appearance as she had when he first made his presence known to her. Sparkling eyes with this dazed nature to them, as if not fully there at the moment—entrenched in her thoughts with nowhere else to direct her attention. The realization brought another grin to his face, and he waited expectantly for her answer to arrive.

"I don't even know your name, though." Her words were laced with hesitancy, as if not even she was fully committed to the concluding limitations she had made of his offer. Because he knew it was a good deal for her, and for him, as a part of him truly didn't feel right leaving her all alone without knowing for a fact that she was safe at home.

"Wonwoo." He replied easily, sliding his hand over to her. Her eyes had watched the movement, lingering on him for a moment more, before she slid her own hand into his in a subtle, noncommittal handshake. "I can't take a stranger in my car though. What's your name?"

Another chuckle out of her, and another boost to Wonwoo's ego for the day.

"(y/n)."

It was out of character for him, as he usually pays no mind to drifters of any sort, though he can't find it in himself to ever regret having stepped out of his comfort zone to bring a smile to her face that day. And what had started as a mere happenstance crossing of paths had soon morphed into frequent visits with (y/n) wandering into the bar and waiting for Wonwoo to serve her a drink before taking her home.

It was near inevitable for the two to grow feelings for one another, and soon blossom a relationship.

Wonwoo felt the corners of his lips twitch up just the slightest bit, remembering how nervous (y/n) had been to ask him out one of the days he dropped her off home. The memory of how she avoided his gaze, fiddled with her hoodie, stumbled over her words, and all he did was sit there and wait patiently, heart bursting at the seams at the sight of her trying to profess her love in some meaningful way on a random Tuesday evening.

It had all been so heavenly at the start. His apartment was small and old, yet she brought this vitality to it that made him feel more alive everyday. The kitchen which once was strictly for sustaining his nutrients now became a haven where the two cooked anything and everything together. The living room which was once merely a middle ground for him to pass the time by with nothing better to do was now where they spent their days watching movies and talking to each other endlessly. The bedroom where he once fell asleep and woke up as is became his sanctuary, where he could fall asleep and wake up to the sight of her right beside him.

Though now as he recounted these memories, that happiness in him soon twinged into a bittersweet sadness, wincing at the reminder of when it had all started going wrong.

Wonwoo had become well aware of (y/n)'s background in living a comfortable life with her family's old money. How could he not with how flippant she seemed to be with her finances. He had been initially concerned with the steady stream of money she tossed away at things he'd deem inconvenient or unnecessary, though it all started to make sense in due time. The way (y/n) went about life with such little worries, at times even seeming naive in Wonwoo's eyes. Though it never bothered him. He was always glad to be there for her. To help her in things she didn't understand, be the helping hand as she experienced many firsts in the world, and he could tell she was just as happy to have him by her side helping. A mutualistic relationship, in which both parties thrived in each other's differences.

At that point was when Wonwoo knew he was in love, and he hadn't hesitated in telling (y/n) that on a random night where they debated what to watch and wound up deciding on perhaps the worst B-movie they've ever seen. Through their fits of laughter, tears in their eyes and stomachs sore, Wonwoo took a moment to admire (y/n) as she was. Freshly showered and smelling of his body wash, adorned in his old raggedy clothes, bright eyed and smiley, absolutely jubilant in his arms. It was an undeniable fact. Something he couldn't refute, nor anyone else for that matter.

“I love you.”

(y/n) had glanced up at him, laughter slowly dying down, though her smile remained in place, only growing by the second as she processed his words.

“Really?” He nodded, lips tugging up at her infectious giggles bubbling up as she nestled closer to him. “I love you, too.”

It had only taken a few weeks after their confession for her to deem it acceptable to introduce him to her family, which is how Wonwoo found himself at the doorstep of an imposingly large manor, adorned with his old button up that had been tossed in the back of his closet, and a bouquet of flowers in hand.

The mother was the first to greet them as they entered the house, appreciatively accepting Wonwoo's floral offering. Next had been her grandmother, who had been absolutely floored by Wonwoo’s looks, praising the Lord above for her granddaughter having found such a good looking man.

Then he met her father. A man who seemed to be the epitome of stoicism. A permanent scowl was etched into the aged lines on his face, and every advance on Wonwoo’s part was greeted by a cold glare and an indifferent grunt. None of the others were in any way taken aback by his mannerisms, however, and so Wonwoo could only assume this was just how his character was.

Some days had passed since the initial meet and greet, and Wonwoo found himself being unexpectedly invited once more to the manor by none other than the man of the house. How he had obtained his number was beyond him, but upon the request of a one on one session between the two, Wonwoo couldn't really care less about the ordeal of his privacy, merely relieved at the possibility that he hadn't completely ruined his reputation with his significant other's father.

Or so he was led to believe.

“I'm sorry?” Wonwoo spoke, voice low and barely above a whisper, yet strained as he attempted to piece together the sudden turn of events without outright creating a potentially unnecessary fiasco in this man’s office.

“I want you to break up with my daughter.”

Okay, so he hadn't heard wrong. He truly was just given the demand to break up with his girlfriend for seemingly no reason. Shocked couldn't even begin to explain the emotions swirling in his head, mouth agape as he attempted to make any semblance of the situation at hand.

The man remained seated across from him, briefly returning to his documents as if Wonwoo’s presence alone was nothing more than a hindrance to his schedule. Merely a minor detour in his work flow that didn't deserve even his full attention.

Gritting his teeth, Wonwoo summoned every ounce of strength within him in order to maintain his calm facade, pressing on with as steady a time as he could muster.

“May I ask for what reason you've sprung this upon me?” The older man paused to look at Wonwoo, giving him an unimpressed once over before returning to his work.

“Mr. Jeon, you seem to be a very good man. Strong, capable, good looking. You're practically everything a father wants for his daughter. Just not my daughter.”

To say he was taken aback would be the understatement of the year, because Wonwoo found himself practically reeling whilst trying to gather his thoughts and make sense of the situation. He felt his eye twitch momentarily, fists clenching by his side as he allowed the man to proceed with whatever motives he had in summoning Wonwoo in the first place.

“My daughter is scatterbrained as is. The last thing she needs is financial struggles to add to her carefree thought process.”

“I'm not rich enough for you?” Wonwoo spat out, venom laced in his tone. His head quirked to the side, a sharp glare directed at the man, challenging him to press on with his offense. Yet the man seemed unaffected by Wonwoo’s clear disdain, merely huffing an amused sigh as he continued.

“Don't take it to heart, kid. You'll understand when you have your own daughter in the future.” Wonwoo watched as he stood from his seat, rounding his desk to be face to face with him. “You know (y/n) as well as I do. She's not built for the harsh world out there.”

“You want to keep her sheltered in your little fantasy world? Coddle her until you're on your deathbed?”

“The world's less harsh for our kind.”

Wonwoo felt his blood boil, though remained as is. Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, staring daggers into the man and his blatant ignorance.

“She's a grown woman,” Wonwoo began, voice low because he feared any alternative would involve shouting. “A grown woman capable of making her own decisions. Falling in love with whoever she wants to. Dealing with her own struggles without her father hovering over her.”

“She'll get just that if she stays with the likes of you.”

At this, Wonwoo found his composure faltering, brows furrowed in concentration, attempting to piece together what the man could possibly be insinuating. Judging from the prior turns of their conversation thus far, Wonwoo could only imagine the lengths this man would go to rid his life of Wonwoo’s presence.

A sly smile crossed the face of the man. Perhaps the first expression outside that of his permanent scowl. Wonwoo felt immediate discomfort from the sight, at the apathy emanating from beyond the man’s eyes. This cold, resolute stare that seemed near sociopathic almost.

“What are you insinuating?”

“If my daughter is to remain with the likes of you, a certified liability upon her, then I'd have no choice but to cut her off entirely.” Wonwoo felt his heart drop at the monotonous words coming out of this man's mouth, uncaring as if it were nothing more than a business transaction. “Cut off her finances, her access to my estate. Even her relations with myself and my family.” Wonwoo attempted to meet the hard and calculative stare trained on him, but his resolve was beginning to crumble with every new thing spoken. “You wouldn't want to be the cause of (y/n) being disowned, now would you?”

No, he wouldn't. It was a shitty ultimatum. Break up with my daughter or she'll be completely removed from her family. It was downright psychotic behavior. Something which shook Wonwoo to his core. He had only ever seen this type of character in fiction. Someone this unmoving, completely devoid of empathy. His thoughts and concerns only revolved around himself, only ever using the facade of concern for his daughter. Though in actuality, it had become perfectly clear to Wonwoo that the man only cared about his own personal image which would be impacted by his daughter's unworthy match.

He wanted to leave immediately. He wanted to actively punch the man before leaving this accursed manor. He wanted to whisk (y/n) away from the pitiful excuse of a father trying adamantly to control her every waking moment. He wanted to run away with her, live their own life without the crushing weight of societal expectations dampening the tranquility of their relationship. He wanted to return home where (y/n) would be waiting for him, safe from the outside world in the sanctity of their four walls. He wanted to make her laugh until her head was tipped back and her sides ached. He wanted to comfort her when times got too tough for her to manage on her own. He wanted to be the one to embrace all of the love she had to offer. He wanted to be her first and her last in everything.

Though he couldn't bear the guilt of having forced this ultimatum upon her. He didn't want to tarnish the image of her family because of the tyrant claiming to be her father. He didn't want to have her choose between her family or her significant other. The mere image of (y/n)’s agony wreaked havoc upon his poor battered heart. Images of when he first met (y/n), walking into the bar like a confused, wet puppy flitted through his memories, and he couldn't handle bearing witness to it once more.

That day, he left the manor without another word and without another glance behind him. He couldn't recall much of what happened following his departure, though sooner rather than later, he found himself walking into his apartment once more. His mind felt frenzied with thoughts and concerns, calculating his options and reevaluating his morals. Yet in a conflicting sense, he felt absolutely empty. Numb to the outside world, barely conscious enough to even discern how much time had passed since he had returned home.

By the time he had come to, he hadn't come to a decision. Or perhaps he just hadn't come to a decision he liked. There was a logical answer, one that took into consideration everyone's circumstances, one that accounted the world and the way it functions outside his own life. And then there was his selfish answer. The one that accounted for all of these factors, yet ignored them nevertheless in lieu of his own desires. The one that resulted in his own happiness, though at the cost of everybody else's.

It felt like an internal strife was dismantling the very foundation of his life, eating away at him until he was nothing left. A vessel devoid of its soul, wading listlessly in the universe, awaiting for, dreading the moment he'll have to make his choice. Or more correctly, make the only feasible choice in the matter. Because no matter how desperate he wants (y/n) in his life, and no matter how heinous of a being her father is, the guilt of the matter which derived from the conditions forced upon him overrode that of anything else. He couldn't possibly revoke (y/n)’s entire life, everything she's ever been accustomed to, merely for his own selfishness. He knew this was exactly what her father hoped for. Exploiting the way Wonwoo cared for (y/n) with every fiber of his being. And as much as Wonwoo wanted to deny it, his plan worked.

The sound of his door unlocking was what managed to jostle Wonwoo from his stupor, albeit only a microscopic amount, though enough for him to blink away his delirium and look up just as (y/n) came walking into the room, bright smile on display the moment her eyes landed upon the man seated on the couch.

“Wonwoo!” The jubilance in her voice managed to soothe the turmoil wrought in his heart, a wry smile curling at the corners of his lips. From where he sat, he watched as she mosied about the apartment as naturally as one breathes. Toeing off her shoes, tossing her things onto the counter, raiding the fridge for whatever beverage she can find to cool off. All the while, she rambled endlessly of her day, from the very beginning when she woke up to the traffic on her way to work, the new place her and her friends visited for lunch, anything to fill the void that usually enshrouds Wonwoo's apartment. And his smile grew more and more fond, impossible to even deny for a moment how happy he was in her presence. It was how they always worked. What he was, she was the opposite. In the silence Wonwoo had grown accustomed to, resided for most of his life, she offered that peaceful white noise to settle his nerves and quell his rampant thoughts. “You're awfully quiet today. Is everything alright?”

(y/n) had made her way to the living room, collapsing on the couch beside him, naturally nestling against his side. All the while, her soft eyes remained on him, never pushing him to talk, though assuring him he was always free to. The clarity of her emotions and the way she expressed them to him was always something he admired, and meeting those loving eyes for perhaps the last time finally broke his resolve.

“It's nothing, really.” He quickly turned away, not wanting her to see the way his eyes glossed over with unshed tears.

“Well, obviously it's something if it's got you like this.” Her voice was low, just above a whisper, preserving the still of the atmosphere set around them. The hum of the radiator filled the room, providing that subtle medium for Wonwoo to concentrate on and avoid the spiraling thoughts swirling in his head. Beside him, he could feel (y/n)’s gentle touch on his hand, thumb lightly brushing against his knuckles. He loved the way she treated him so tenderly, taking her time and speaking lightly, touches sweet and demure no matter how imposing he may seem to others. The thought of tarnishing this tranquility, destroying the relationship they both worked so hard to build up, killed Wonwoo inside.

His heart ached as he sat there, seconds ticking by, battling himself every step of the way. (y/n)’s persistent patience didn't help his cause in any way. Her presence which usually served as an anchor weighing him down to earth now felt like a damning weight upon his shoulders. The arrangement forced upon him by her father revolved around his thoughts, an ever recurring reminder that he can't preserve this. He can't keep this happiness anymore. He can't have (y/n) any longer.

“I…” His voice trembled, cracking through the gravely undertone from his silence that day. He hesitantly turned his head to face her, though couldn't find it in himself to look up at her.

He was a coward, he knew this. Everything in this situation only further proved this revelation of his. He was a coward, and even if he did choose the selfish route in this predicament, in what world did he even deserve (y/n) in the first place?

He gulped, breath shaky as he finally dared a glance her way. As always, the (y/n) before him was as lovely as ever. Eyes remaining on him, an edge of concern in her furrowed brows. Her hand in his continued to soothingly stroke his skin, comforting him for as long as he needed. Averting his eyes once more, he felt his body tremble with wrought emotion, knowing what was to come, yet attempting to delay it.

He truly didn't deserve (y/n).

“I think we should break up,” he finally spoke, voice weak, forced out in a broken whisper.

Silence settled over them, the radiator persisting with its low hum, yet this time, it couldn't mask the heavy tension slowly accumulating in the room. Wonwoo’s body seemed to vibrate with the effort exerted in detaining himself, preventing him from retracting his words, reaching out to (y/n) and apologizing for ever even amusing such an outlandish idea. But he remained as is, nervously scratching at the rough material of his jean clad legs, torturously waiting for a response from (y/n).

The silence he met was perhaps the most harrowing response he could've received, not having the slightest clue of what could be going through her head, especially since his eyes refused to stray her way. Though he could feel her gaze upon him, and it killed him inside. Completely and utterly at a loss for himself with only the fleeting strength he'd managed to scrape up to preserve the facade of monotony across his countenance.

“Break up?” She asked, the only words she could muster with his sudden proposition. Her voice was once more soft, though instead of the comforting lull it usually carried, it seemed weak almost. Barely able to slip past her lips, barely loud enough for Wonwoo himself to hear. His heart clenched upon itself at the sound of those words coming from her, as if a taboo phrase never meant to be uttered by either of them. And the realization that the two have both broken that unspoken promise made the situation all the more real. “Why?”

Why?

It was a simple question. Inevitable, even. But somehow it threw Wonwoo for a loop. He couldn't just outright expose her family for what they were, more specifically that of her father. It wasn't his place. And he wouldn't dare place that burden upon her. It was why he was deciding to break up with her now. He just couldn't say that to her directly…

“I…” He paused to clear his throat, averting his gaze to his lap now, perhaps his one safe haven in a room which reminded him of (y/n) far too much.

Every memory they ever made together. Where they first said I love you, where they shared countless meals together, where she'd fall asleep unknowingly in his arms and heal his soul with her presence alone. Every hug and every kiss, every loving word and tender touch. Their milestones, their fights, their heart to hearts. Every aspect of their relationship is imprinted upon the aspects of his apartment, like a time capsule commemorating the moments they shared together.

“I don't think… we're a good match…”

“Why?” This why came much faster than the previous one, and Wonwoo found himself momentarily floundering upon the realization that this would result in a back and forth with which he'd have to give her a proper reason for giving up on their relationship.

“I don't want to hold you back.”

“Hold me back?” She questioned. “Where would you have gotten that assumption from? In what ways are you holding me back?”

At the sound of her frustrated tone, Wonwoo gave in and finally met her gaze. Though her voice wavered with restrained disappointment, her eyes betrayed her motive, watering as she finally met Wonwoo's own conflicted stare.

“I mean… You're you… and I'm me. You have your life and I have mine. And I don't…” He paused once more, swallowing down the lump in his throat to continue. “You have your friends, your family, and—”

“My family?” She asked, drowning in confusion at his utterance. “What about my family? Did something happen?”

Wonwoo sat there for a moment, panic broiling within him. An opportunity presenting itself. His final chance to back out.

Either he confesses to everything. Tells her how her father pulled him aside on purpose so he would be the one to decide, in order to save face with his own daughter. Tells her how she would be forced to start anew in life if she were to stay with him. Cut off from everything she'd ever known in life. Money, family, businesses, properties. All of it no longer at her disposal. Merely as a consequence for choosing him at the end of the day.

Or he continues with his initial goal in mind. Revoking her right to decide merely because it was too tasking of a decision to make for him, let alone for her. Force her to live in blissful ignorance alongside her family, abandon Wonwoo and the life they built together, allow her to continue with the way of life she'd grown so accustomed to.

Could she handle the pressures of starting adulthood from scratch? With her only resources being Wonwoo and whatever he was capable of giving to her? Could she handle the debilitating trauma of being disowned and banished by the people who raised her? Merely to stay with him? Was he even worth such a grand decision?

Perhaps deep down, Wonwoo actually feared what her answer would be. Because there was always a high probability she'd choose her family and her comfortable life over him and their relationship. Perhaps that's why he felt the need to make the decision on his own. Perhaps that's why he chose to punish himself rather than to let her do it for him. Perhaps that's why he suddenly found himself spewing whatever nonsense his jumbled mind could conjure to complete this objective.

“This has nothing to do with your family.” (y/n) quieted down at the sudden resolve in Wonwoo’s tone, and Wonwoo himself was shocked to find how steady his voice had become in a mere few seconds passed. “It has everything to do with the fact that we are just not compatible.”

“Not compatible…” (y/n) repeated in awe, words mumbled as she attempted to process what he said to her.

“You come from an affluent background, so it was already a given we'd find differences in the way we perceived the world and engage in it. Your terms of spending and saving differ vastly to my own. Though you may seem indifferent to the way I live my life, I am not in regards to your own.” His words sounded almost rehearsed with the way he spoke in such a steady and monotonous manner. One brief glance towards (y/n) only served to validate his own observations of himself, and he quickly averted his gaze once more lest the unbridled emotion enshrouding her eyes tempt him into retreat. “With the obvious aside, I find myself struggling to find meaning in this relationship that we've somehow stumbled our way into.” He paused to gather his bearings, taking as discrete an inhale as he could to try and quell the nerves firing within him. “I find you clingy in that you've occupied my apartment for weeks at a time and have essentially weaseled your way into my living space. I think you're immature in the way you spend your money, but also shameless as you also attempt to monitor my own finances. You're sheltered and you don't understand the real world, including my own and all those around us. You—”

A swift slap across his face halted Wonwoo from proceeding. It hadn't hurt him in any physical way, merely resulting in the combination of silencing him, turning his head in another direction, and perhaps a slight sting at most. Though what truly struck at Wonwoo's heartstrings was the sharp gasp that followed the initial impact, and in his peripheral vision he could see (y/n) grasping the hand that had slapped him, as if offended by her own action.

He took the suddenness of the situation to gather himself once more, regaining his composure to the best of his abilities before slowly turning to meet (y/n).

His breath had become shaky upon the sight of her. Tears streaming down her face, hands clamped over her mouth in a feeble attempt to silence the sobs bubbling out of her. Her body trembled with the whirlwind of emotions broiling within her, and Wonwoo could see it all as clear as ever. Shock that she'd ever strike Wonwoo in such a way, never in her wildest dreams had she envisioned inflicting any harm to him. Confusion, seemingly in reference to both the slap that catapulted them into this moment of silence though also to the events which had led up to it. Desperation, as if wanting it all to end, not wanting to experience another moment of this ordeal, hoping it would all end soon, or even better if it would have never even happened in the first place. Though the most overwhelming emotion riddled all through her tear ridden gaze was that of despair. Because no matter how much she reflected upon herself and Wonwoo, no matter how much she prayed that this was all a sick figment of her imagination, there was no denying that what had transpired was in fact very real, and unchanging. Wonwoo said what he said, and as the silence grew longer and longer, it was clear there was no chance of him denying his words.

He inhaled shakily, at this point fully rendering the permanence of this situation, and thus allowing himself to momentarily falter in his stoicism.

“Must I continue?”

The next few seconds felt like a blur. One moment he was staring at (y/n), eyes darting to every feature he could, memorizing the curves and lines of her face, imprinting the image into his mind. Allowing himself to admire her one last time in person, even if the image before him would forever haunt his dreams. Every time he'll think back to her, he'll be met with the cruel reality that he allowed her to leave his side for the final time as a broken, defeated woman. Though perhaps it was what he deserved. To be forever reminded of his transgressions, and to forever reflect on what he's done to the one he loves.

Though this hadn't lasted long, for in the next moment, she was quickly rising from the couch and away from him. He sat still, unmoving as he listened to the raucous behind him. Her grabbing her things from the counter, sliding her shoes back on, and then the opening and closing of the door.

What he hadn't heard was the lock behind her, a telltale sign that the one thing she made sure to leave behind was the extra set of keys he had given to her. And at that point, alone in his apartment with the lone hum of the radiator to accompany him, he allowed himself to finally let go, releasing the broken sobs that he'd tried so desperately to restrain whilst in her presence. His cries wracked through his body, loud and pained with reckless abandon. His body gave up, caving in on himself and collapsing onto the floor, barely even strong enough to catch himself before he had curled into the cold, unforgiving hardwood floor.

Once more, time felt more a construct than ever before, for he hadn't any idea the duration of time he spent there, grieving for what he had lost. The pit in his stomach grew cavernous, churning with the absolute nothingness now occupying his insides. Despair consumed his being, imbibed in every fiber of his person, ensuring there wasn't a single remnant of the joy (y/n) had once instilled into him. Regret coincided with his downfall, memories of what once was now being met with memories of what had just occurred. Images of (y/n) smiling at him collided violently with images of her final mortified expression, alongside the onslaught of tears staining her face that he had been the cause of. Though the one all encompassing emotion that overrode everything else was that of pain. Pain riddled his entire body, clawing away at him, scarring him forever. This overwhelming emotion that burrowed into his soul and demanded his attention. He felt it in his gut, his chest, his head, though it soon bled to every square inch of his body, reminding him that it wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

Days had gone by since the break up, and Wonwoo found himself once more sitting at his couch, staring at his ceiling, listening to the radiator hum away. It was sickening to him how time continued to march by, not sparing him even a moment to recover from the plight he'd gotten himself into. Time continued, and so did life. The mundane routine he had made for himself returned like clockwork. Bartending throughout the week before returning home. Though even if he had lived through life like this for longer than he could recall, the now apparent emptiness of it all lingered tauntingly before him.

The lack of shoes to greet him when he'd return home to toe off his own. The silent kitchen as he cooked for one. The TV had remained off ever since, and instead he spent most of his spare time in front of his monitor playing games in hopes of it distracting him from the loneliness now consuming his life.

This was the first day he actually decided to sit on the couch since. The first day he sat in front of the TV, albeit with the screen still completely black. The first day he allowed himself to try and confront what had happened.

His head lolled to the side where (y/n) last sat, and in his self deluded mind, he could practically see the manifested image of her beside him. The clear image of what she looked like that day still fresh in his mind. Though the longer he recalled, the more he could remember of (y/n).

He could still feel the touch of her lips upon his own, her breath hitting the shell of his ear as she whispered sweet nothings to him, the warmth she'd radiate as she cradled him against her. The memories of her felt not only alive with the surroundings of his apartment where they lived together, but also forever imprinted on his person alone.

Weakly, he pulled himself forward, leant against his knees as he attempted to ground himself back to reality. As sweet and oftentimes bitter the memories were to him, they served no purpose other than tormenting him. He needed to move on first before he could think back fondly at what they once had. Though it was always easier said than done.

His hand swiped down his face, rubbing away the exhaustion from his eyes as he reached for the mail he had haphazardly tossed onto his coffee table.

Flipping through the stack, he was met with his usual itinerary of garbage and junk mail. Though one crisp envelope captured his attention. Unmarked, though from the quality alone, Wonwoo could tell it held some significance to it.

Mindlessly, he tore open the letter and extracted the singular sheet of paper within. An unmarked check, signed by none other than (y/n)’s father with only one remark written on it.

“Thank you for your cooperation.”

♗ (a/n): hello! this was my first request and also my first like pure angst fic! I do feel really bad for having suddenly dropped off the face of the earth for a good two months, so I hope this is okay. I had fun writing! I mostly sat there reflecting on some psychology 101 type of ethics lol.

#wonwoo x reader #seventeen x reader #jeon wonwoo x reader #svt x reader #wonwoo fanfiction #wonwoo fanfic #jeon wonwoo fanfic #jeon wonwoo fanfiction #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen fanfic #svt fanfiction #svt fanfic #wonwoo angst #jeon wonwoo angst #seventeen angst #svt angst #kpop x reader #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #kpop angst

[abibliophobiaa]

Beyond — s.h. x f!reader

Chapter Ten: Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You

summary: you head home for the holidays with steve.

warnings: holidays are celebrated with family (left ambiguous); semi-public sex, oral and p in v; smut. (5k words).

modern day!rich!fake husband!steve harrington.

story masterlist

——

Days bleed into a week, and soon a week bleeds into a month and you’re once again getting on a plane, this time with Charlie in tow, headed to the place you called home before making your place with Steve your new one.

With your excitement bubbling up to the surface, you hop out of the car with your bags in hand, and Steve rushing over to help you with them, waving to where your sister stands and waves in hearty greeting. Your fur child bounds into the home with much preamble, giant paws rushing forward to crash into Caroline, standing on the front step slapping her thighs and shouting “Come here, boy!”

She basically ignores you as you enter, earning a little ruffle on the crown of her head from Steve’s fingers, which she swats away with little effort, beaming up at the man she’s only met a couple times now, and throwing her arms happily around his neck.

He chuckles, grinning widely over her shoulder as he hoists her up into his capable arms, locking eyes with you in your doorway. And if you didn’t already feel so much love toward him you could burst as of late, you would now.

Caroline is glowing. Grinning from ear to ear as he twirls her around and settles her down on the ground, those greedy eyes of hers locking on the bag Steve brought that’s quite literally full to the brim with gifts for family and friends.

“What’s in there?” she asks, bouncing on her tippy toes as you and Steve remove your jackets, Steve’s fingers waving to where your father rises in the living room. “Are those gifts?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to wait to open them,” Steve chuckles, reaching over to grab your hand and tug you beside him, brushing a kiss against your cheek. “Where should we unpack everything?”

“You’ll be staying in my daughter’s room,” your father explains, coming forward to hug you both. “Gifts can go in the living room. Dressers in the bedroom are cleaned out and the closet is empty too. Charlie boy, come with me while they get situated.”

“Your bedroom, huh?” Steve muses quietly as you walk through the home, suitcases rolling behind you down the hall.

“Yeah.” Your cheeks grow warm, a heat crawling up your neck swelling as his eyes meet yours. “Don’t make fun. It probably hasn’t changed since before I started undergrad.”

“Just wanna see where you grew up, is all,” he says, and there’s a hint of mischief in his eyes that you’ve grown more acquainted with these weeks.

Grow acquainted with once again as soon as he enters, taking in the lavender walls, the dark furniture, your vanity. The bed is still as you remember, with white sheets and a plush comforter that your back meets as your husband pushes up against your chest, mouth sliding languidly over your own.

A hum spills from you before you can think any better of it, thighs falling apart to make space for him between your legs, throat bubbling with a moan as he rocks his already stiffening cock against the seam of your jeans, pressure just right against your clit. A vague awareness settles over you as those perfect fingers slide into the front of your jeans, seeking out your warmth, over where he finds you already wet for him.

“Steve,” you mutter breathlessly, head tipping back against a pillow as he kisses along your throat, “anyone can hear right now.”

He flops over onto your side, bringing you with him. Fingers glide up and along your thigh, settling in the back pocket of your jeans to pull you closer, warmth pooling where his skin touches yours through your clothes. Your forehead presses up against his, fingers tangling with his free hand.

“Welcome to my humble abode, Harrington.”

“I like it,” he muses, glancing about the room. “Weird to think of a time when I didn't know you. I’ll have to ask for all the old photo albums. Isn’t that what these holidays are for?”

“You wouldn’t,” you gasp jokingly, swatting at his abdomen with your entwined hands.

But he does. You spend that first night sitting around the kitchen table with Caroline nearly leaning over Steve’s shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of photos from your teenage years.

Most of which are full of braces and wide eyed youth. Eddie with his arms around your shoulders after graduation, Robin and the two of you on the hood of your first car. Dustin and you, when you babysat him. Later, pictures of you and Eddie with Dustin, Lucas, Max and Mike playing DND with the kids, their bored expressions and your overeager grin to try and compensate for their lack of enthusiasm.

Your father even pulled out the younger pictures. Years when your mother was still around, her smiling face, your parents with their two girls. Pictures of you and Eddie in the trailer park, your front teeth missing and his hair shorter, your knees scraped and muddy, and his jeans always torn and tattered.

After, Steve talks about his job while your sister dozes against his shoulder, having told him all about her TikTok page and showing him the endless videos she’s made. Your smile grows at the sight of them, his arm around her shoulders, the blanket you draped over her lap drawn tight around her body.

He seems at ease. Comfortable in a place he’s really only been in once. And when you later crawl into bed, with his arm slung low around your hip, there’s a stark understanding that this home was your home for the longest time.

Until you were nineteen and moved away for school, until you made a life for yourself in the city.

Now — now home resides in the man sleeping soundly beside you. Months ago, the thought would have scared you, made you want to run away from the immensity of it. Now, you only feel this tangible closeness. This understanding that as much as you are his, he is yours, in the way that feels untouchable. Wholly yours, and stronger every day that passes.

——

Snow falls over Hawkins throughout the night. Not the fluffy kind like in the city — the kind that turns to slush. No, it’s thick and wonderful and blankets the earth in a white halo, your sister’s excited laughter from down the hall rousing you from your slumber beside Steve.

A low yawn falls from his lips, the arms slung low around your waist pulling you tight against a broad chest, his nose mouth already finding its place near the curve of your neck, lavishing your skin in delightful kisses that have you wanting to fall back into bed with him over and over again.

But you know your sister, and you know her excitement over gift giving, and therefore understand that it’s only a matter of time before someone is banging on your bedroom door and demanding the two of you come into the living room to join her in her chaos she calls fun.

“Where’s Charlie?” Steve hums, rubbing at his eyes as you roll over in the bed, running your fingers along the lines of his abdomen. “I didn’t feel him by my feet.”

“I’m pretty sure your son betrayed you for his aunt,” you tease, winding your arms around his waist, chest brushing his as you lean in to give him a quick peck. “Good morning.”

He presses another longer kiss to your lips, smiling into your skin as he rolls you over until you’re straddling him. Thighs splay on either side of his hips, his fingers gripping at the dough of your thighs, rolling you over his already hard cock. It’s a tortuously slow drag, his head rubbing just so against your clit, eliciting a pitiful wine from softly parted lips.

A few more days — a few more days and you’ll be back in the city, and in the privacy of your own home. Until then, it’s wandering hands beneath the dinner table. It’s gentle brushes of skin as you ready for bed at night, a giggle as he pulls you into a room when no one is looking, ready to kiss the breath out of you. Simply trying to find moments where the two of you can simply connect.

Last night, it had been him tugging your sweats down and pushing your panties to the side. It had been his hand curling over your mouth as he slipped into you from behind, muffling your sobs as you quivered and clenched around his cock, stealing the very breath from his lungs.

“As much as I would love to watch you come on my cock right now,” he exhales, cunt throbbing as he tugs you closer so you’re laying on him. “I think I just heard your sister’s bedroom door open.”

“And we will hear a knock in…” You pause for a moment, pressing your hand to his sternum, “three…two…one.”

Three short taps echo through the bedroom, Steve’s hands there to help you up and off his lap as your sister hastily scrambles into the room, her nose wrinkling at the sight of the two of you.

Your legs are still in Steve’s lap, his hair a bit of a mess, and you’re certain you look interesting enough as well, tossing and turning all night without the comfort of Steve’s bed back home.

“I’m awake,” she grumbles, rubbing at her tired eyes as she walks the short distance to your bed, draping her body over your chest, just as Charlie hops up onto Steve’s lap. “Charlie doesn’t like to sleep, does he?”

“He’s just a puppy still,” Steve laughs, patting the dog’s head, his pink tongue falling from his lips at Steve’s affections. “But now you know why we asked if you really wanted him to stay with you last night.”

“Did you make coffee?” you ask her, exhaling as your hand runs up and down her back, Steve rolling over to teasingly shove her hand away when she pokes at his shoulder. “If you make us coffee, I’m sure Steve over here will let you open your presents from us.”

“Bribing your sister?” Steve gasps, mock aghast, a hand splaying over his heart.

“Done,” she giggles, rolling off of you.

Her feet hit the carpeted floor with a thud, legs carrying her out of the bedroom faster than she arrived. Charlie prances after her, his little yips and excited barking making your father shout down the hall for Caroline to calm down this early in the morning.

“Should we get up?” he asks, laughing at your muffled moan into his chest, face pressing against his sternum. “I wanna give you your present too.”

“Steve, we said no presents because we just had that second honeymoon —”

“I wanted to spoil my wife,” he murmurs, tilting your head up with a finger curling around your chin. “Let me.”

“You’ve spoiled me enough these past few weeks,” you tease, clambering off his lap, pulling off your ratty old tee shirt, his eyes zeroing in on your bare chest, before sliding a sweater over your head. “But seriously, Steve. Better not have been anything extravagant.”

He shoots a smirk your way, and you walk down the hall and out of your childhood bedroom, meeting your father where he sits in the living room, Charlie presently sprawling over his lap and trying to smother his face in wet kisses. Caroline has already separated the gifts into piles, coffee cups for you and Steve set out on the coffee table.

With a grateful sigh at that first sip, you both settle down onto the couch, watching as Caroline opens gift after gift from your husband. Things you hadn’t even known he’d purchased her.

“I bought her clothes,” you say a little icily, though there’s no heat to back the words up when you catch Caroline’s bright and beaming smile as she opens new ring lights and other technology for what you know is meant to be her growing TikTok obsession. “But — she seems to be enjoying herself…”

Steve curls his fingers around your shoulder, brushing a kiss to your temple as Caroline opens her last package, and within is a new iPhone. The latest model — and one of the gifts you allowed. She’d been needing one, her old one nearly on its way out. But it’s her reaction that has your eyes watering, her shrill screaming that nearly rattles the walls of the home, pre-teen throwing herself onto your laps with strangling hugs and screeches of thankyouthankyouthankyou.

Your father is next, with new wines for his wine rack, tickets to see one of his favorite music artists, and plane tickets to visit the two of you in the city. His mouth twists into a wobbly smile, his thanks a hug with his son-in-law that has you nearly melting on the spot.

You wonder briefly if Mr. Harrington ever hugged his son like this — even once. A giant bear hug, his arms locked tight around Steve’s back. It breaks your heart to know he likely hasn’t — that for so long the man who holds so much love in his heart it can overflow with it has gone without.

Especially from the one person who should have.

Can even see your answer on Steve’s face as he settles back down beside you. The look of pure joy across his features, uncontainable, and the line of tears building along his lower lashes you brush away with a gentle swipe of your thumb.

Clearing his throat loudly, Steve asks Caroline to pull out the small little box nestled by her kneecap. A box precariously shaped like a ring which has your name on it in beautifully curly calligraphy.

“Steve…” you mutter, a little breathless, heart in your throat as Caroline rests the box in your palm.

“Open it,” he says softly, mouth at your temple, arm around your frame as you pull at the box and open it to reveal a diamond band with a curve to perfectly sit around your engagement ring. “It’s just a little something. Look at the inside.”

And there, engraved in a sprawling font, are yours and his first name initials and the date of your wedding, and the words ‘I do’ beside that. Your gaze flickers upward, to the curve of his lips, and you’re kissing him. A breathless thing that has Caroline gagging dramatically, earning a scolding from your father.

As you pull back, Steve lifts the ring and you raise your left hand, watching his thumb graze your ring finger lovingly before sliding it in place. Three rings sparkle up at you, his hand still around yours as he kisses you once more.

“I’d do it again,” he says, and you know what he means. “I’d do it all over again.”

I’d do it all over again and marry you.

And you’d do the same.

——

The winter air chills you through your winter coat, boots clicking on slushy snow as Steve steers you through the parking lot and up to the Hideout. Recently renovated, and sprawling with bodies, intent on seeing Corroded Coffin for an exclusive hometown show.

The place is crawling with people — vastly different from the times you would sit on a barstool in the back and cheer on your best friends from high school, with only a few other patrons in the vicinity. You can’t think of anyone more deserving of this than Eddie, though. Years spent working his way up, trying to be the best at his craft, and now skyrocketed to fame.

Steve guides you over toward where Chrissy, Robin and Nancy are already situated around a table, all of which oooing and aaahing over Nancy and your new rings. Robin had finally gone ahead and proposed after months of living together. A small engagement within their own apartment, shared over glasses of wine and champagne and exactly what both wanted.

Chrissy is practically bouncing on her feet. Excited to see her new boyfriend perform for the first time. The actress looks stunning as ever in her all black dress that might be a little too formal for the crowd, but looks positively chic on her frame.

“I’m gonna go get us drinks,” you whisper, leaning up onto your toes to press a kiss below your husband’s ear. “Save my spot, will you?”

His hand is warm against your lower back as you slip through the crowds with sights set on the bar. The opening band has already started their set, the strumming of guitar strings greeting your ears as a familiar voice breaks above the crowd.

“What the heck are you doing in town, beautiful?” Chance asks as you approach the bar, coming forward without even a moment’s thought, wrapping his arms around your shoulder. “Thought you were a big shot veterinarian in the city now. Married too. I saw all the magazine articles at the supermarket.”

“Oh,” you laugh uneasily, rubbing your left hand unconsciously against your opposite bicep as the bartender asks for your orders. “Yeah, almost done with school. And yeah, married. Happily married.”

“You look great,” he muses, elbow dropping down to rest against the countertop. “Seriously. Just so crazy to see you here again. Seems like forever.”

“I pop in from time to time,” you tell him, heat creeping into your cheeks from his compliments. “I’ve been so busy it’s hard to get over here as often as I’d like.”

“How is your family? Gosh, how are you?”

And he’s beaming. Grinning at you in a way that reminds you of those early days of your relationship — when everything had been rose-colored glasses and champagne bubbles in your belly. But now you feel nothing, only the creeping desire to be back at Steve’s side, enveloped in his warm embrace, comforted by his mere presence.

Chance prattles on about his life. How he’s the new head coach at Hawkins High for the basketball team. You’re shocked to hear it, knowing he’s loved the sport for years now, brows rising at his words as he continues, the bartender seemingly taking forever to make your drinks.

But you laugh all the same at his jokes, feel yourself easing into the bar as he continues, the ghost of a smile crawling across his lips as his gaze roams over your features, before settling on something over your shoulders.

You shouldn’t be surprised when you feel Steve’s hand low against your back, nor should you be when his lips press against the crown of your head, his words stern as he says, “I’m so sorry to interrupt, I just need my wife to help me with something. Nice meeting you, my name is Steve.”

“Chance…” he trails off, just as you’re tugged away from the bar and down the back halls leading to the bathrooms.

Your mouth opens to protest, but Steve’s quick to quiet you with a rushed, “Get in.”

The door locks behind you with a harsh click, your eyes needing a moment to adjust to the yellowy light. His hands are on you before you can think, turning you to face your reflection in the mirror, just as his mouth descends on your throat. Your left hand crawls up your chest and onto his cheek, gentle hum spilling on a swift exhale as he sucks greedily at that spot he knows reduces you to a puddle, cock already hard against the fullness of your ass.

“Steve,” you whisper, turning around to face him.

Hands rest against his chest, noting the rapid rise and fall of his breath, the way his eyes are so dark they’re practically molten. And then he’s gripping you hard and fast. Fingers around the back of your neck, bringing your mouth to his in a bruising kiss, your feet pulling up onto your toes as you grip at his collar, dragging him nearer to you.

“He looked at you like he wanted you,” he murmurs. “Your ex, right? Don’t blame him, honey. You drive me crazy, you know that, right?”

He begins trailing kisses along the column of your throat, smirking to himself as he tugs the top of your dress down, sucking along the top of your breast, before dragging the cup of your bra down and trailing across your sensitive flesh. He breaks free from your nipple with a loud pop, mouth swallowing your unspoken words with another searing kiss.

“God, I’ve missed you.”

“Steve,” you rasp out hollowly, his fingers creeping along the hem of your dress, inching the floaty skirt up and up until he can feel the edge of your underwear, index and middle finger seeking out your already slick center. “Oh — nnng — been only a couple of hours.”

“And even that’s too long, honey.” He rubs lazy circles against your clit, relishing the way your body trembles in his arms, mouth curving up at the low whine that punches from you when he dips a finger in, opening you up for him. “Wanna kiss you here. Can I?”

You shouldn’t — you’re in a public place, you know that. But there’s something alluring about the image of Steve Harrington dropping down onto his knees before you that reduces your thoughts to nothingness, head dipping rapidly as you press your lower spine to the sink countertop for support, heart hammering loudly in your ears. He tugs your underwear down your thighs, the skirt of your dress ruffling prettily against your hips, tucking the lacy scrap of material into his back pocket.

“So fuckin’ pretty.” His breath dances along your core, hot and inviting, tongue teasing along your clit, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh. Those hazel eyes look up into yours as he flattens his tongue and licks into you, murmuring, “Keep your eyes on me, baby” into your heated flesh. “Look at me.”

He’s an expert at this point on unraveling you. Has spent the better part of weeks fucking you against practically every surface of your home, learning the best ways to have you crying out his name. But there’s something salacious about it now — how he feasts on you in the dimly lit room, people outside, the sounds of your slick and his greedy moans spurring on your racketing desire.

Drives you closer and closer to the edge fast, chest heaving wildly with your panted, “I want your cock.”

He grips the backs of your thighs tighter, sucking on your clit until your eyes roll back in your head, fingers tangling in his hair tight. You’re jealous of his hand rubbing against his own cock, hard in his jeans, straining against tight denim, and you grip him tighter with a whine.

“Steve.” His eyes flicker up to your face as you shamelessly beg for him. “Need you to fuck me. Right now. Please.”

Never keen on making you wait, Steve turns you around, your hips bumping against the countertop, hands splayed against the cool marble. Behind you, you catch the image of Steve loosening the buckle on his belt, the metal clasp clanging in your ears, followed up by the tug of his zipper downward. His cock is freed and the dress is hiked up over the swell of your ass, back arching a little needy for him.

“Ready for me, sweetheart?”

You drop down to your elbows, feeling the tip of him against your entrance, keening with the ache to be full of him. To be so full until all you see is stars dancing behind your eyes.

When he pushes in, you both sigh at the way it feels like coming home. A deep, throaty sound that spills into the empty bathroom, hearts pounding in tandem as he pulls back slowly before pushing forward to the hilt.

A hand drops to the curve your ass, spreading you open for him, watching as his cock disappears over and over again within you, slick with your need.

“Come on, baby,” he grounds out, the slap of his hips against the backs of your thighs echoing in the bathroom, driving your lust higher. “Let everyone know how good your husband fucks you.”

A white hot pleasure zings up your spine and you’re coming, fluttering, crashing around him, crying his name as his hips falter in their rhythm, his own end approaching. He’s spilling into you, warm between your thighs, body folding over your back as his kisses splay across the column of your spine. You’re vaguely aware he’s speaking. Terms of endearment and affection, whispers for you to stay still so he can clean you up.

Your chest is still heaving as he pulls the edges of your dress back down, hand reaching for your underwear in his back pocket when he teases, “No.”

“No?” you huff out with a pout, pressing a kiss to his neck, right where his pulse still thrums away.

“I’m keeping them.” He cradles you in his arms, your chest pressing against his, the warmth of him blocking out the chill in the air. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

A chill runs up your spine at his words, fingers wrapping around his free hand as he unlocks the door and an annoyed looking patron rushes in, cursing at the two of you for whatever they think you just did in the bathroom.

And as you approach the table, Eddie’s voice nearly shouting your name as you rush forward and crash into his arms, you can’t help but think this is the best holiday season you’ve had in a long while.

Here, with the people who matter most. Here, as Eddie eventually gets up onto stage and plays his heart out. As your friends all gather together, mouthing along to the words of the songs. Chrissy nearly falling into you in her drunken excitement, Robin and Nancy blissfully in their own world, Steve standing at your back, with a hand around your hips.

Here in the place you once called home with the people who now are home. Those you can run to, find cover, fall into. And behind you, the man whose heart is your home. A soft pillow to land on, a place to rest your head, the one your soul has unknowingly longed and searched for.

The one you have now found.

Perfect.

——

You’re gasping. Breath falling in short pants, fingers spreading over Steve’s back, nails scraping into the heft of his muscle. His hips roll down into yours, endless strokes that have you seeing white, his words against your ear soft praises that make you whine soft and pretty in his ears.

The rest of the world sleeps within the home, except for you, Steve and the moonlight that spills in through your softly parted windows.

He’s hiking your thigh up around his hip, your back arching into the mattress, foot digging into his lower back. And he’s hitting that spot inside over and over again that has you muffling your moan into a pillow, his own face pressing into your sternum as he comes.

Chests heave with heavy breaths, bodies rolling over to seek one another — like magnets in the night, coming in close and tangling tight. His arms around your waist, your arms around his, hearts beating hard against sternums.

He lifts your left hand, kisses at the bands there, toys with the newest ring and rests it over his chest. Over his heart where you now reside. Your gaze follows the pathway, where you can feel it thrashing behind his ribcage, threatening to break free.

His eyes meet yours in the darkened room, mouth dropping against yours for a long, searing kiss that has your head spinning, swimming, spiraling. “Honey…”

It’s a whisper. A long sigh.

You lean into his palm as it rises to rest against your cheek, his thumb stroking long lines against your pretty features. Comforting, gentle, loving.

“Your ring,” he mutters after a while, sliding off the newest one, holding it up in the moonlight. “I want you to know, if I could do it again, I would mean every word. I would marry you again, in every universe.”

“Steve…”

“I love you,” he whispers, “I’ve never felt this way before, but I know it. I’m in love with you, sweetheart.”

And there it is. The words you’ve felt rattling around in your mind. The words you’ve been holding on your tongue for safe-keeping, waiting for the perfect moment to release them into the open.

I love you. I do. I love you. I do.

You lean down and kiss the planes of his face. The tops of his cheek, the curve of his jaw. His temples and forehead. The bump of his chin. The plush of his bottom lip, the bow of his upper lip.

When you fully press your lips against his, he rolls you beneath him, shoulders on either side of your head, keeping his weight off of your form. And he looks at you — he looks at you like he holds the world beneath him. Like you’re delicate and yet fierce and wholly his.

And you know in your heart you are. You are his, he is yours. Equally so.

“I’m in love with you, Steve,” you tell him, brushing at his cheek, feeling him smile as he leans into your palm. “I have been for a while now.”

So he loves you like that. Deeply and languidly, in the dying moonlight. Softly, until you shudder beneath him with his name a prayer on your lips. Until you catch your breath once more and roll over beside him and his arms find your waist in the night. Until you’re so wrapped within him that you don’t know where he starts and you end. And maybe that’s how it’s always been, how you know it’s always been meant to be, the promise of your vows and your love the sweetest balm to lull you both into blissful rest.

——

figured the lovebirds deserved some happiness before the next two chapters. two more, and then the epilogue to go. let me know what you think, please. comments/reblogs/likes are encouraging to your creators. 🩷🩷

#steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #lunalovessteve

[meowordeath]

A/N: I love Identity V!! especially Eli Clark!! I attempt to make it as gender ambiguous as possible, besides one having the word boob just replace it with pec! i didn’t know a gender neutral term for boob, sorry! :3 btw I'm not sure if someone else has already done this!

Characters | Eli Clark , Ganji Gupta , Naib Subedar and the lovely lady Patricia Dorval

Content warning : fluff , reader with boobs but no specific pronoun, not too inappropriate, jack the ripper And Breaking wheel if those count?

Identity V characters reacting to their s/o clothes getting ripped! :3

Eli Clark

Before the match started Eli got to view your new costume. It looked very ninja like, the clothes were very skin tight. You two chatted while preparing for the match “Remember, just called out and I'll send brooke to your aid, okay?” He whispered to you laying his gloved hand atop yours. “I know, don't worry if I need you I’ll shout”

You smile before pecking him on the cheek. Brooke hoots happily, as Eli gives you one more loving look, before everyone's sight fades.

For first few minutes of the match you had been decoding. Feeling more relaxed as Luca shouted the hunter was on him, making him first kite. Your cipher was a little over half way done, as Luca started kiting toward you. At first you assumed he was just kiting in the area so you didn't bother to get off the cipher.

Your heartbeat started to get more prominent, but you were still very lax, thinking Luca and whoever the hunter was were just getting closer, when a shout rang out through the map. “Beware! Hunter has changed target!” You lifted your head abruptly from your cipher, accidentally messing up a calibration in the process making you shield your face from the explosion.

Soon after you messed it up you felt blades run from your back to your side. You cry out in pain bumping into the cipher as you sprint away, unfortunately the cipher snagged one of the slashes he had made in your shirt. A dark chuckle sounded behind you as you ran.

“This chase is already way more exciting than chasing that decoder,” Jack said licking the blood from his blades. You ran vaulting windows, throwing pallets for distance, you even led him back to Luca. Luca had a flustered look watching you pass him.

Eli knew you were currently kiting and trusted that you’d call out for help, so he didn't want to waste his spectate. “Help me!” Your shout rang out through the map. Eli was quick to send brooke to your aid. Looking through brooke's eyes he was shocked at the condition of your current costume. His face turned a little red.

Jack had only meant to slash your back, but since you messed up the calibration his slash went down your side, slicing open your shirt. It would've been fine with thin slashes, if your crash into the cipher hadn't caused your shirt to snag. It tore and your right boob was pretty much exposed.

You were trying to hold onto some dignity pulling the shreddings of your shirt over to cover it, but vaulting and pulling down pallets. You needed both your hands. Jack definitely had a great view of you each time you pulled down pallets. Eli was quick to find the teams other assist, William, and asking for his help to get The Ripper off you.

William was quick to assist. He stunned Jack allowing you to escape and hide, forcing him switch targets. Eli set brooke to find you, so he could help.

When he did find you, you were crouched behind a pallet, making a pathetic attempt to save your shirt. Eli crouched in front of you, not looking at your chest, instead checking over the wound. “It’s gonna be okay s/o, you can have my trench coat” His voice was slightly flustered, as he shed his coat.

He was left in his white long-sleeve button-up and black tie. You couldn't be more thankful for him wearing his recluse costume. “Thank you, Eli. God, this is pretty embarrassing!” Both your guy's faces have a faint blush, as you button up his trench coat finally covering your exposed flesh.

Eli's nervousness faded as he smiled. Lifting his hand to cup your cheek. “Don't worry, if they say anything, I'll have brooke rose peck out their eyes” he jokes, brooke hoots in agreement.

Ganji gupta

You and Tracy are both hanging out in the manors workshop. She was originally tinkering until you came in, wanting to show off your new costume to her. It had this futuristic theme, and Tracy was quick abandoned her invention to mess with the small gadgets they stuck to you as accessories.

On the front-side of your shorts, you had some sort of tablet with buttons and fun looking controls. It was attached to some belt that had other gadgets, they were all locked to the belt, which was attached to the shorts. Tracy was crouched down messing with them all.

“How mad do you think Miss Nightingale would be if I started taking this stuff apart?” Tracy said with a small grin. You look down and it seems she had already took her screwdriver to a few things. “Well, I guess we will find out” She laughed at your words.

Everything was going fine you were standing as you watch Tracy dismantle each piece of futuristic tech on the belt. Ganji knocked before entering the workshop. He sighed looking at Tracy crouched next to you. “How much longer are you gonna keep my s/o, Reznik?”

Ganji was told this was only gonna be a quick visit to show off the costume. Yet He’d been left waiting out there for at least 20 minutes. “Calm down ‘Gupta’ your s/o came here to show off their costume to me not you!” Tracy taunted, while saying his name is a mocking tone. Ganji scoffed, setting his cricket bat down at the door.

“Who do you think they showed it to first, Reznik.” Ganji sounded like he was subtly bragging, at being the first person to see you in the new costume. Tracy rolled her eyes. “Darn, the screen to this thing just doesn't want to come off!” She said trying to get the screen off, to get the wiring.

Ganji started to walk toward them reaching to pull Tracy off his s/o. “Okay Reznik, I’ve had my fair share of sharing my s/o.” Before He could reach Tracy she had fell back as her force caused your shorts to rip.

Tracy honestly didn't see anything with how fast Ganji was to cover you, He scowled down at Tracy. “I'm sorry...?” She said with a sheepish smile. “Find my s/o something to cover up with Reznik” He said firmly. She was quick to bolt out of the room. “Right! I'll be right back!”

She didn't look back in fear of seeing Ganji's harsh gaze. You could help but rest you forehead against his back laughing. “What are you laughing at? You’re currently in your underwear, if you hadn’t noticed.” He said turning toward you with a slight frown.

“I can’t help but laugh at the silliness of this situation my love. I never expected Tracy to rip my shorts, all so she could get the tablet!” You found this situation pretty funny. Ganjis frown turned into a small smile with your amusement.

“Glad you find this amusing. Though I’d rather be the only one to see my lover without pants on.” His words made your face slightly red. “Okay, perv.” His gaped slightly. “… I’ll remember that the next time your clothes rip. I won’t cover you.”

You smile squeezing his cheeks. “Yes you will, because you love me!” He sighed as you squeezed his face passive-aggressively. “… Yes I will.”

Naib Subedar

You know your lover hates Murro with an burning passion. Mostly because he hates boars, but you thought Murro’s boar was kinda cute.

Unfortunately Murro stayed very far away from you, making it so you barely saw his boar outside of matches.

It was a very nice day at the manor, survivor matches going smoothly, not that you had any matches to participate in today, Naib had about one or tw. With him on the team you didn’t doubt they would win.

In the manor there is an outdoor area, and due to you not having any matches today you want to go walk around in the sun for a bit.

On your way out you were wearing loose fitting loungewear. Not being in a match you didn’t want to put effort into putting on one of your usually costumes.

The sun felt good especially after being inside for most the day, you would take what you can get before Naib decides to ‘lowkey’ glue himself to your side. The outdoor part of the manor was pretty big enough to have a small forest, with a gate surrounding the whole area of course.

In the distance near trees you saw a tail and decided to investigate. Upon getting closer you realized its nust Murro's boar.

“Oh, I wonder why you’re out here by yourself. Is Murro around?” You said crouching down in front of the boar. It kind of just stared at you chewing on grass.

“Right, you’re an animal you can’t talk…” You felt a little awkward as the boar stared you down. “Well… I’m gonna go back that way…?” You stand dusting yourself off. As you stand the boar approaches you. You got back down wanting to pet it.

It did let you pet it for a moment, you got to even rub its stomach. It was fun, until you decided to go back inside and it grabbed ahold of the back of your shirt.

You and the boar had a short staring match. “Hmm, as much as I would love to spend more time with you Murro’s boar i’m sure my boyfriend is done with his match.” You said trying to tug the shirt from its mouth.

The boar refused turning it into a game of tug-a-war. “Let. go!” You huffed out fighting against the animal, you could hear the fabric starting to tear from you two pulling on it.

With one last tug you fell backwards, grunting in pain. It had a good chunk of fabric in its mouth as its trophy. You heard hurried footsteps. looking up you saw Murro. “I’m sorry! I didn't realize my boar had wandered away, forgive me!” He reached out to help you.

Unfortunately Naib had just arrived at the scene to see Murro’s boar with some of your shirt in its mouth, and Murro himself standing over you. In a moment a blade whizzed past, slicing Murro’s cheek causing him to fall on his butt in fear.

Looking behind you, he could see a very angry Naib hauling ass toward you all. In fear he quickly abandoned you. Hopping on his boar he left, running in the opposite direction.

Naib almost ran past you to chase Murro if you hadn’t gotten up quickly to grab the back of his shirt. “Wait, don’t chase after him!” You struggled to hold on to the man.

“I’ll gut him and that boar. How dare he sica damn animal on you.” His voice wasn't a shout but he was definitely furious. He was very strong actually draggjng you as he tried to pursue Murro.

You pull on his ponytail dragging his head back. “Hold your horses, who said anything about him siccing his boar on me?!” You let go of his hair as he stopped for a moment. “What do you mean, his boar was standing over you with some of your clothes in it mouth. How could that not be an attack on you?” He finally turned toward you head tilted slightly in confusion.

Sighing, you lightly pat Naib's cheek. “I wouldn't say it was an attack, I was originally playing with the boar. It only was trying to stop me from walking away, and Murro said he ran over after noticing it was gone.”

Naib’s eyebrows were still furrowed, eyes slightly closed, as of he was trying to see if you were lying for the sake of Murro. “Fine, I won't chase after him, for now.”

You grin pinching your lovers cheek. “Good! Now lets go inside you smell like shit” You say looping your elbow with his to lead him back to the manor. He rolled his eyes. “Whatever dear.”

Patricia Dorval

“Breaking wheel...! That son... sons? Of a bitch!” You say irritated, cursing his name to the sky quietly. He had been chasing you for most of the match before you lovely, kind, sweetheart patricia, took kite.

Inside your head you gushed about your girlfriend as you were trying to remove his spikes from not only your clothing but from your skin, as it had penetrated through the cloth into you.

Pulling them out was a huge pain, It hurt like hell. If only someone could help. You couldn't reach the ones in your back. Your mind drifted to Patricia as you pondered how her kite was going.

“You need help?” A raspy voice spoke out from behind you causing to yell and jump. Quickly turning around your faced wth the sneaky bastard who turned out to be Kreacher.

“Damn it Kreacher, you don't just sneak up on people like that!” You shout at the man hand over your heart. Other one raised as if you were going to hit him.

He back away from your shouts ready to coward out, and run away from your aggression. “Wait! Yes, I need help...” You say embarrassed about having to ask Kreacher of all people, to help you.

He was a little hesitant to come toward you, he had a sketical look toward you as you were just shouting but he did anyways. “Stay still and Ill get them removed” He said hand already painfully pulling one lodged in your back.

You try to hold in your pained shouts, refusing to show that this bothered you in front of Kreacher. They were pretty thin the spikes, but very sharp with tiny barbs that makes sense them hard to get from your skin.

Kreacher doesn't exactly have the gentlest hands while removing these from both your clothes and skin. You couldn't tell if he was trying to hurt you or help you.

“You could slow down damn it! Stop removing them fast you asshole, It hurts!” You hiss pulling away as he pulled another one carelessly out.

“Maybe if you could actually dodge breaking wheel..” You heard him mutter under his breath. “What did you just say!?” You say ticked off. “Nothing!!” He quickly says pulling one out to distract you.

He was pulling out the last one when both your hearts started to beat slightly, though it was barely anything to make you fret, polun didn't even know where you two were.

Coward freaking Pierson on the other hand grabbed ahold of the last spike dragging it down your back as he pulled away, bolting.

The specific spike he pulled was at the top so it tore all the way down, making the shirt go forward almost exposing if you hadn’t held it up with your hands. You grind your teeth slightly, turning to curse out to Kreacher.

As you turned your eyes met Patricia's, who had wacked Kreacher down with her ape skull, making his head bleed as he dizzily sat on the ground.

“Sorry I wasn't here sooner s/o, but at least I crushed this roach.” She said walking past him to you. She pecked you on the cheek getting her lipstick on your face, before looking at your back which was now exposed.

You had some blood drops rolling down from the sprike removals. She cut some more of your shirt so that she could tie a not in the back so it wouldn't fall off.

“I would take Kreachers jacket and give it to you, but I'd rather none of his filthy items touch you” She said as she gently caressed your back, careful of the small wounds.

You blushed at her caring gesture. “I should've warn a different costume one with a jacket, that's my bad.” She put her arms around your neck. “Well, I for one really like this costume, too bad it gonna be temporarily out of commission”

She makes it so hard for you not to swoon when shes this sweet. Kreacher groans reminding you two he was there.

Patricia unhooks her arms from around your neck. “Let's leave that thing and go decode the last cipher. Polun will find and kill it” She says loud enough for him to hear.

She grabs your hand pulling you away toward a cipher, while you follow her happily. Patricia was right about Kreacher as he was found & killed after Ganji led the hunter to him. At least the 3 of them escaped!

PLEASE I REALLY TRIED HARD TO MAKE THEM ALL SIMILAR LENGTH!! Hope you like this :3

#idv x reader #identity v x reader #naib subedar x reader #mercenary x reader #eli clark x reader #ganji gupta x reader #seer x reader #batter x reader #enchantress x reader #patricia dorval x reader #patricia dorval #eli clark #ganji gupta #naib subedar #idv fanfic

[corazondebeskar-reads]

remember what you're staring at is me

jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

originally for Febuwhump 2024 Day 8 - found footage | Febuwhump masterlist

words: 2.9k

summary: A videotape is left on your porch one morning, and it changes everything about your budding relationship with Joel Miller.

warnings: Jackson!Joel, some dark!Joel, some soft!Joel, we love a man who contains multitudes, ambiguous ending, I wish I had made this a much longer one shot but oh well, references to The Hospital Incident, oral (f & m receiving), implicit p in v

dividers by @saradika-graphics

You find it on your porch one morning in an old paper bag. Someone’s written right onto the brown wrapping with black crayon—”you need to know the truth.” It seems rather dramatic once you peel back the paper to find a videotape. 

It's not high quality—the footage is fuzzy and crudely edited together. But there’s just no mistaking the man on the screen. 

Joel and Ellie came into your life when they arrived for the second time in Jackson. You had heard the gossip the first time, but never met the pair. 

You met him fairly quickly when he swung by with a torn jacket, gruff and blunt but polite. Steady. “They, uh, said to ask you about some mending?” 

“Sure thing,” you say easily, smiling at the very handsome stranger. “Let me take a look.”

It was a casual thing, the sewing, and you liked it that way. You didn’t make anything, didn’t haul things to the market. You spun the wool for those who did craft things, and then you kept to your little projects at night.

The push and pull of the needle was the meditation you needed to keep going every day, even now, even safe here in this bubble. Something productive, something to keep your trembling hands busy and your mind blank. 

And in return, you got company and conversation. Most folks knew your services could be bought with a warm drink or baked good, a promise of a favor you’d never call for.

“How long?” he asks, voice flat and serious, but it didn’t prick at you, didn’t land as rough as it set out. 

“Not long,” you muse, looking over the tear—a knife gash of some sort, and the thin lining that peeked out. “Ten minutes if you just want it sewn up, or if you give me a day, I can get it properly stuffed.”

“Sewn, please.” 

Please. You like that. Manners at the end of the world. 

“You sure? Be a lot warmer if I fill it out.” 

“I don’t—” he scowls at the ground. “I barely have anythin’ to offer ya for the mending.”

You want to tell him it’s on the house, call it a welcome basket, but he’s holding out what he does have to offer and your jaw drops just a little, lips parting to make way for a soft, pleased “oh” that has him straightening up. 

“I can find somethin’ else,” he says.

“Oh, no. That’s… amazing,” you say, taking the jar into your hands and popping the lid. They certainly aren’t potent, not like you remember, but oh, you could die from just the faint smell of the cinnamon sticks. “This is… more than enough. I’ll owe you, I reckon.”

“I dunno about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Seriously,” you say, eyes wide. You set the jar on the counter. “For that, I’ll get the whole thing done tonight.” After all, the delay had only been so you could go to bed. 

“Y’ain’t got to do that, I don’t mean to be a bother.”

You brush him off and start gathering your supplies. If you steep the thread in tea for a bit, you think, you might be able to get close to the color of the fabric.

He turns down a cup when you offer but does take a seat at the table. He’s as stiff as your late husband’s favorite bourbon, but the blunt edges grow a little duller when you don’t try to keep up small talk.

The bright overhead light casts him in shadow, deepening the circles under his eyes and drooping his wrinkles in inky black. But his eyes are bright and curious as he watches you start to add unspun wool from your stockpile into the jacket, trying to shape and layer it evenly through the inside. You have to make a couple incisions but keep them tight to the hemlines and existing stitching.

The thread dries quickly with the hearth raging and he speaks for the first time as you weave it through the needle’s eye.

“What’s that?” 

“It’s a threader,” you say, offering it to him to see after you’ve pulled it loose. “I, um. I’m not as dexterous as I used to be and I can’t say my sight’s as keen, either. Makes it easier to use these damn tiny needles. Luckily, it wasn’t a very in-demand item when people were raiding shops.” 

“Huh,” is all he says, sliding it back across the table to you. 

The stitching is quick and rote. You’re used to people pouring out their life stories and desires and drama when they sit at your table or on your sofa, feet kicked up on your coffee table while you sew. 

But this silence with Joel is warm, too. You’re almost regretful the job didn’t take longer.

You stand up and he follows, pushing his chair neatly back into its place. He takes the coat and runs a gentle finger across the original wound.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. 

You give him a wan smile, never having found those words to settle right in your skin. “Nice meeting you, Joel,” you say instead. “You know where to find me if you need anything else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and lets himself out. 

You lock the door behind him and wonder why you feel so energized. That tea was decaf, after all. And a little fuzzy, if you were totally honest, but you weren’t going to dump it down the drain just over a few fibers. 

One day when he comes, it’s with a bundle of thick socks and another, smaller jacket. Not a difficult job, but the gift he brings to trade knocks you off kilter so hard that you have to sit down.

“Not sure if it’ll be any use to you, but figured you’d know someone who can use it if you don’t,” he says, looking at the floor.

You’ve gotten to know him a little better, though his visits are few and far between. But he’s gotten more comfortable around town, more interested in following that wild daughter of his than hiding away. 

Sometimes, he’ll even sit at your table in the mess. You’d even go as far to say that the two of you were friends.

So you can tell what he’s trying so hard not to project. He’s nervous.

It looks almost like a desk lamp with its sturdy base and bent wooden arm, but in place of a shade and bulb is a hoop. You recognize it immediately and your stomach swoops. It’s an embroidery stand and you might faint just from that, just from having a steady way to hold the fabric tight as you sew. 

But that isn’t all. He shows you how to turn the peg that loosens the grip of the handle on the side, a raw hewn thing that doesn’t match the worn stain of the stand. You’re burning, head spinning, and the fuzzy darkness at the edges of the world stop you from focusing on the gift. 

The carved handle, he says, with hands curling around either side of you, has been partially hollowed to accommodate the end of the magnifying glass. You can raise and lower it with the peg and rotate the handle to use the other side of the glass.

“Joel,” you say uncertainly. He doesn’t really seem like he’ll want the attention drawn to it, but you have to know. “Did you make that?”

“Nah,” he scoffs. “Just added the glass is all.”

“Just added the glass,” you echo in a whisper. But you know he doesn’t mean he only attached it. He made the entire attachment and fit it onto the stand. 

His ears are red and he won’t look at you. 

You set a cautious hand on his arm where it reaches across your shoulder, still resting on the table. He’s caging you in from where he leaned over to demonstrate. “Joel, this is incredible. This is… this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Ain’t a big deal,” he mumbles but he doesn’t shake off your hand. “Just saw it and thought it might be useful.”

You feel emboldened by his kindness, so you curl your hand around his bicep. “Can I thank you?”

He looks down at you now, seeking something that he must find, confirmation in your blown out pupils and parted lips, and nods. 

He doesn’t break away as you slip from the chair to sink onto your knees or when your fingers loop around his belt to pry it open. 

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” you say, voice tight. 

He shakes his head. “You’re not.” His voice is the rumble of thunder breaking a tense summer night. 

You don’t bother removing his belt, simply knocking it open to reach for his zipper. 

You’re about to tug his pants down when the door opens. 

“Hey sugar,” Tommy drawls, “all my fuckin boxers have holes. Can you help a guy out? Promise they’re cle—“

His loud mouth gave just enough warning for Joel to pull his shirt down over his belt and for you to fumble at rolling the cuff of one pant leg up just so, reaching for a pin. 

“Oh hey, Joel!” Tommy says happily. “Finally fixin’ those ratty old things?” 

It’s a fucking miracle that he’s in these jeans, his favorites. Actually, it’s not, he wears them all the time, and they’re just a little too long so the bottoms are torn up. 

“Guess so,” Joel scowls. He’ll have to finally let you hem them now. 

“Just leave ‘em on the table, Tommy,” you say around the needle between your teeth. “And tell Maria to stop bein’ so rough with them.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “She can’t help it, sugar. I’m irresistible, see?” He claps his brother on the back and takes his leave. 

You slump a little, sighing as you set the needle on the table before moving to resume your activity. 

But Joel steps back. “I should get goin’,” he says. The line between his brow is cavernous and his lips are tugged down at the corners. 

“Oh. Okay,” you say, and pull yourself up with a hand clutching the table. 

“So. Thanks again,” he says. And then he’s gone. 

You let yourself drop dramatically into a chair, groan growing as it turns physical when your tailbone hits the seat wrong. 

You’re rubbing your forehead and thinking about going to bed to give yourself a pity orgasm when the door opens. He’s quiet and cautious, but he pushes the door shut behind him and locks it. 

“M’sorry,” he says. “I…”

“It’s okay,” you say with a tired smile. “I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, offering you a hand. 

You take it and let him pull you to standing. 

His other hand finds your waist. “I was bein’ a coward.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“Darlin’, you couldn’t,” he says. His arm slides further around, pulling you to him in a gentle embrace. He looks down at you through heavy lids, watching the way your lips part just a little. “You still want this?”

You bring a hand up to cup at the hair that curls down the nape of his neck. “Please,” you whisper. 

He matches your motion, cradling your head in his palm as he dips his head to kiss you. He wastes no time, licking into your welcoming mouth, seeking out the earthiness of the tea still lingering on your tongue and the sweet shiver of goosebumps prickling across his skin as you wind your fingers into his hair.

“Shit,” he mumbles when you break away for air. “What do you want, baby? What can I have? You gotta tell me now, before I can’t think straight.”

“You can have whatever you want, Joel,” you say, hot breath brushing his swollen lips before he presses them to you again with a growl.

It’s a much quicker kiss, and he breaks away to drop to his knees and push your skirt up to your hips. You have to lean back with both hands clenching the edge of the table not to fall over in shock.

He nuzzles against the soft cotton of your panties and groans at the smell of your wet cunt. He mouths at it gently over the fabric before hooking his finger around the gusset and pulling it aside to part your lips with his tongue. 

“Not fair,” you gasp as he feasts. “I was supposed to—supposed to do that for you.”

“You said whatever I want, darlin’,” he says against your pussy, chasing the taste of you. 

“Fuck,” you pant. “Fuck.” 

“Gimmie one and I’ll let you suck my cock if ya want it so bad,” he says, plunging two thick fingers in and basking in the way you squeal and squirm. He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust, pistoning in and out like he’s trying to win a race. 

It works, with his tongue on your clit and his fingers against that soft, secret part of you that no one has touched before, you gush around where he spreads you. “That’s it,” he croons, “good girl. Good fuckin’ girl, give me another.”

“You said—”

He cuts you off by sucking on your clit and your hips rock, wobbling the table as he takes another from you anyway. 

“Couch or bed?” he says, tugging your panties down your legs now that he’s sated the immediate urge. 

“Don’t care,” you say.

“Alright, bed,” he says. “Wanna do this right.” 

“Don’t think you could do it wrong,” you say, a lazy, sated smile on your face and a lightness to your eyes that he thinks he could get addicted to. 

He does let you suck his cock, and thinks maybe he could die happy from the warm, wet of your mouth and the way you look up at him like he’s the only thing in the world. 

At that moment, he is. You had resigned yourself to keeping your little crush a secret until it faded, too fond of him to risk it, but here? Now? Now that you’ve had him, you don’t think you can ever go back. 

He’s gentle in a way you can’t quite name. It’s not that he’s soft with you, but just aware. Like he knows where you’re capable of meeting him and settles there. He makes room for himself in you like you’d done for his coat, opening you up and stuffing you until you’re warm and full and renewed. 

He doesn’t leave you to stitch yourself up, either. He buries his face in your tits and holds you tight after, cleans the both of you up with a warm towel, and kisses you before he leaves.

Neither of you want him to go, but he’s got Ellie at home and won’t—can’t—worry her by not coming home. Not without warning. Next time, he whispers, and it carries a question and a promise. 

There is a next time. And another. And another. You think you might be in trouble. You do far less mending jobs once your evenings are taken over by Joel. You still take them, darning socks on the soft with your feet in his lap, or basking in the way he looks proud and satisfied when you use the stand to fix up bigger projects. Some of your favorite nights are when he sits and strums his guitar while you sew, just two people finding peace by creating it themselves. Together. 

So when eight months later, that tape finds its way into the VCR you’ve only used twice, you’re more than familiar with the bulking shape of him. The way his hair sticks up when he runs worried hands through it. The grip of those hands, sure and steady.

He finds you there on your third viewing. You didn’t even hear him come up the porch, didn’t realize the sun was starting to crest over the mountains, that he’d be coming by with breakfast just like he promised.

The little Joel on screen is working his way to the operating room. You’ve stopped flinching at each crack of the gun or collapsing body. 

“Where the hell did you get that?” 

You do startle when he speaks, unaware that he’d been watching you watch the tape for a minute. His voice is low and slow, something lurking beneath the baritone that trips an alarm. 

This isn’t your Joel. This is that one, the one from the TV. 

He moves like a jaguar, slinking and graceful. “Where,” he snarls, breath curling off your clammy skin, “did you get this?” His hand curls around your shoulder at the base of your neck. 

“It was on my porch,” you whisper. 

His fingers dig in a little where he holds you in place. “Try again.”

“It’s the truth, I swear. I didn’t know what it was.” 

“How much did you watch?”

“All of it,” you whisper, though it feels like the click of a lock.

“Goddamnit, baby. Why’d you have to do that?” 

There’s an actual click, the unmistakable flick of a release. 

“Joel, please,” you say, voice breaking. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“I can’t take that chance,” he says. 

He still hasn’t brought the knife close to you, though, so you hazard a glance over your shoulder. You wish you hadn’t. He’s gone, his sweet eyes dead to the world, no whisper of his gentleness to be found. 

“I swear, please. You can trust me.” 

“Can’t trust anyone in this world, darlin’. You shoulda realized that by now.”

*title from "Through Glass" by Stone Sour

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #jackson!joel #dark!joel #the last of us fic #joel miller fic #dead dove fic #febuwhump #febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday8

[rae-gar-targaryen]

as blue as your taste (i taste the same) [mickey “fanboy” garcia x fem!civilian reader aka “cielo”]

A/N: For Fanboy’s fangirls, more Fanboy and his cielita linda. (Remember, reblogs make the world go round!). Fic title from I’ll never tell you where, fic vibe inspired by a twittering little birdy who knows only one, two-syllable word (iykyk). 

Pairing: Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia x fem!reader (aka “Cielo;” as always no use of y/n – my readers are written ambiguous, but with a latina!reader in mind.)

Word Count: 3.8k (what a joke I am) of a sun-soaked morning drenched in promise, the taste of coffee, and of your love (beneath your tongue)

Warnings: my writing is its own warning, smut, so 18+ ONLY – p in v sex, unprotected sex (look, it's fic, let's suspend a certain amount of disbelief about what's advisable), touching, fingering, spit as lube, v mild daddy kink (oops i gave away the twittering little birdy reference.)

Summary: Your boyfriend, Mickey, is home and is keen to cater to you early in the morning, whether it’s with a cup of coffee, or all of him. Loving is easy, it’s partial to teasing, tugging, desperation, and softness [part of the Fanboy y Cielo ‘verse.]

--

Hardwood floor, however elegant, bears the inescapable curse of being cold first thing in the morning. And the bedroom floor is chilly and smooth as ice against the flats of Mickey’s feet as he slides out of your shared bed, extricating himself from your snuggled warmth. Your shared bed – something he’d never tire of. 

Mickey cursed his internal clock, burned into his being from the repetitive, intensive military training and the value of routine imbued in every recruit. But if it wasn’t for routine, he wouldn’t be awake at 5:00 a.m., even while on leave. If it wasn’t for routine, he would still be in bed with you. If it wasn’t for routine, he would wrap his arms around you ever-tighter, ensconced in the cloudlike grip of dreamy sleep – his reality, even better with you in his arms.

But he was a man of routine. Except that today there was no barracks check. No drills. Nothing to do with his time in this moment, except to be awake. 

Stretching his arms, Mickey reveled in the popping of his joints and the pleasant tingling burn in his muscles as he made to stand, glancing over his shoulder (not enviously, he swears – but adoringly) at your still-sleeping form, starry-eyed at the sight of you clad and snuggled in his grey sweatshirt. 

The well-loved – not worn out, thanks very much – baggy one he’d worn to your first movie date, when he’d come over to your house with an armful of snacks and a perpetually sunshiney grin. You’d chosen “The Thing” (a horror sci-fi classic – and he could respect a woman of taste), and ended up burrowing into his shoulder, snuggling into the warmth of the very hoodie you were wrapped in now. He couldn’t remember now exactly when it had become a permanent fixture in your home. But now he couldn’t envision it on anyone but you. 

And you hadn’t stirred at Mickey’s departure from your bed – perhaps, Mickey thought, forlornly, perhaps you were used to being in it without him when he was gone for months at a time. The absence just as much a part of your routine as morning laps were a part of his. He shook his head gently, the now grown-in curls caressing his forehead gently at the motion. He refused to let himself dwell on that, when he was home now. When you were together. 

And you had done such a good job of maintaining your shared home while he was away. And as much as MIckey loved seeing you during your FaceTime calls, he would be remiss to say he didn’t also relish catching glimpses of the lived-in domesticity of your space in the background. The sight of your favorite blanket rumpled into the corner of the couch off to the side of your camera. A water glass left on the coffee table. Your golden retriever, Artoo, sprawled on the kitchen tile, snoozing gently while you spoke to your beloved through the little glass screen of your phone. 

It was the least he could do, Mickey thought, to give you some of that domesticity back while you slept. To contribute to your home in ways he otherwise couldn’t while away. 

With that, Mickey slid his feet in preparation over the cool hardwood once more before standing, before slipping quietly from the room, and beckoning Artoo to follow with gently-clacking paws. 

–

The laundry had been started. The dishes from last night’s dinner removed from the drying rack and put away. Artoo had been walked and fed and was now curled atop his cushion with his favorite rawhide chew. And, perhaps most importantly, the softly-burbling coffee maker had filled up enough for Mickey to pour a cup, steaming, and prepared the way you liked it best. 

Slipping quietly back to your bedroom with the porcelain mug generating a welcome warmth that seeped into his fingertips – a contrast to the still-frigid surface beneath his feet – Mickey slid beneath the covers on his side of the bed. Mindful of the fact that you were still sleeping, your features angelic, smooth, and untroubled in that way of deep sleepers, lavender haze cloudy and dreamlike.  

The desire to let you sleep was at odds with the desire he felt as he gazed upon you, his cielo. His morning sky, radiant, even when compared to the purpling, blooming dawn of the expanse outside of your window, casting the room in a sweet morning glow. Bathing your features, resplendent, as though you were made to be seen in the morning light. And perhaps you were. 

It was no secret that Mickey’s days began with you, his name on your lips and his first thought when he awoke, no matter the distance between the two of you. And his nights (when he was lucky), ended with you, too. Lucky to be ensconced in your touch, with the wax and wane of your skylight pull, a siren’s song beckoning him into the bygone era of your devotion, ever lost to time in its eternity. With your breath fanning across his face, and your lips on his. 

And wouldn’t it be so nice to begin his day this way, too? 

Gently, Mickey set your coffee mug on the bedside table nearest him before turning back to you and bending to skate his hand, warmed by the sweet heat of morning caffeine encased in porcelain, beneath his (your) hoodie and along the skin of your waist, tracing up your side and along the ridges of your ribs. 

Bending, Mickey revels in the slight gasp that his touch has emitted from you as you begin to stir, quick to follow the teasing traipse of his fingertips with the skating bridge of his nose, and the sweetest skim of his lips along your neck, trailing up, up to the bridge of your cheek.

What a way to wake up.

“Good morning, tease,” you rasped, twisting in the sheets to separate Mickey’s lips from your neck so that you could crack an eye open, taking in the sight of your beloved leaning over you. “What time is it?” 

Instead of responding, Mickey pressed forward further, closing the gap between you two, to press his lips fully to yours, the softness of his (your) hoodie pressing into his chest as he sucked your lower lip between his. A little something like ardor blooming, aching in his chest as he withdrew in time to see the flutter of your lashes as you opened your eyes fully at his departure. 

“Still early, Cielo,” he murmured, nudging his nose along the bridge of yours, cocking his head to press another kiss to your cheek.

You hmmm’d at Mickey’s attentions, the tingling sensation of goosebumps erupting across your skin – no matter how many times your Mickey has kissed you, no matter how many times you feel his lips across your skin, it garners the same reaction. As though your very person was surprised, pleased, to be the recipient of this man’s love. 

The cool air of the room bit across your face, now that Mickey had retreated from you some. Prompting you to snuggle into his (your) hoodie, and burrow ever further beneath the covers to shield your legs, your slipper-socked feet, from the bite of cold air. 

“I have to get up,” you sighed, wistful that your time beneath the warm cocoon of your comforter was coming to an end. “Artoo needs to go out, and…”

Mickey silenced you with a press of his finger to your lips,

“S’alright, Cielo, I took care of it. And the dishes, and the laundry. I wanted you to sleep in. You know, you work so hard, … and I come bearing gifts,” Mickey passes you the still-warm mug from the nightstand, into your eager fingertips, pleased at the look of gentle surprise that crossed your features.

“You did all my morning chores?” You asked, cracking voice warming with the first grateful sip of your morning caffeine, ever-careful not to belabor too much the loss of the feel of his finger from your lips in favor of coffee. “Oh,” you groaned at the feeling, the taste, of the divinely hot liquid down your throat. “Holy shit, babe. This is amazing.” 

Mickey felt himself flush, a pleasing prickle tickling the tips of his ears and warming his cheeks. Though whether it was at the pleased noise you had made, or the praise that had dripped from your lips, he wasn’t sure. Both were sure to get him going. Coupled with the sight of you in his (your, damnit) hoodie, and he was working his way up to being a total goner.

“Haré cualquier cosa por ti, amor,” Mickey breathed, easing an arm around you as you pressed into his side, sipping happily at your coffee. Anything for you. “I know how you like it.” 

You raised an eyebrow at your boyfriend then, at the perhaps-innuendo, “You do, do you? Careful. A girl could get used to this level of service.” 

“I do,” Mickey assured, using his arm around you to guide you between his legs, allowing your back to rest against his chest. “And you know, as a dutiful soldier, I’m only happy to serve you.” 

You huffed through your nose at that, an undignified little snort, gently knocking your elbow back into the crook of his side. 

“You’re corny when you’re horny, I just want you to know that,” you chided, your voice lilted and teasing. 

“Me?!” Mickey spluttered, indignant. “What a rude thing to say. I bring you coffee in bed, I let you sleep in my hoodie, and this is how you repay me?”

You twist in Mickey’s arms, coming to face him now, resting on your knees and leaning past him, brushing your chest to his as you place your coffee cup gingerly on his bedside table once more. 

“You’re right,” you sigh, mock consternation coloring your voice. “Maybe it’s just me that’s turned on. Hot guy brings me coffee in bed? How can a girl resist?” You slid your arms around your boyfriend’s neck, allowing your fingers to tangle in the curls at the base of his neck and tugging lightly, causing Mickey’s head to tilt, his jaw to jut ever-slightly upward, pleased at the groan that burned its way from his throat to your ears. “And don’t act like you don’t like me sleeping in this hoodie.” 

And you loved him like this, if you were honest. Teasing, sweet, as he is. And slightly at your mercy. 

You allowed your eyes to drag over your boyfriend’s angelic features, his honeytar eyes swirling as he took you in, in kind. The flash of white teeth behind full lips, parted, waiting with bated breath for your next move. Cinnamon burn married with honey sweetness. 

Your lips met his, then. Full and flush. 

And isn’t it just like Mickey to overwhelm your senses, even when you’re the one –barely– in control? If the sight of him at your mercy wasn’t devastating enough, the feel of his silken curls between your fingers was unmatched in its ecstasy, second only to the feel of his lips on yours. The clean, warm smell you associate with him surrounding you, bleeding into the taste of him on your tongue. Paired remarkably with the taste of the coffee he’d made, rich, bold, and wanting. His sweet little hitch of breath, music to your ears. 

“Rude,” Mickey murmured as your lips parted, “a rude thing, you are.” 

“Rude, hm?” You pecked another kiss to his pouted mouth, a mocking, quizzical little question. “So I shouldn’t let you fuck me now?” 

And isn’t just like Mickey … To render you breathless as he flips you beneath him? Teasing giggles punched from your lungs in exchange for the ever-sweet surprise of his display of strength as he surges over you like a tidal wave of want. 

“Don’t fucking tease me, Cielo,” Mickey breathed, lips inches from yours as his molten-whiskey eyes roved your form. “Don’t you wanna be a good girl?” His hands, warm and firm against your skin, steadied your wriggling thighs as he skated his palms along your legs and up, up, up and beneath the loose hem of your hoodie that skimmed along the tops of your thighs. 

As Mickey’s lips met yours once more, heated and heady, the tips of his fingers toyed with the hem of the underwear you had slept in. You gasped at his touch so close to where you (always) wanted him, allowing Mickey to slide his tongue along yours, deepening the kiss as he tugged your panties down your legs, allowing you the slightest of wriggles of your hips to aid him in his effort. 

And if your teasing before hadn’t done it, the feel of your back pressed to his chest as you had chided him, the feel of your thighs beneath his palms was certainly getting him there, the ache that so frequently accompanied his desire for you, rendering him half-hard. Because of course a touch was all it would take, when he (always) wanted you. 

His cherry cola girl, sweetly radiant and resplendent beneath him. Unfairly resonant of some kind of solar goddess in the lavender-gold hue of early-morning sunlight awash on the creme color of your bedroom walls, splashing along the skin of your now-bared legs, beckoning him to paint you with the reverence you deserved – an eternal piece of art worthy of worship. The very notion of you, heavy in his bones, keeping him grounded whenever he was away, even when he was in the sky.

“I’ll be good, M,” you sighed, gripping Mickey’s wrist with wanting fingers, guiding one of his hands over the top of the hoodie, over the curve of your breast, and allowing his palm to rest along the plane of your throat, pressing a sweet kiss to his fingertips. “I’ll be good if you’ll be mine.”

And who was he to refuse?

And for as many times as you had told Mickey that the was sunshine personified, that his smile was dazzling, that he was the source of light in every room – he could say the same for you, of the sight of the golden light of morning dancing in your eyes, causing them to swim with sunshine and pleasure – with your love for him so naked and plain before him. 

Kneeling between your parted thighs, one hand on your throat, the other squeezing the skin of your hip after he had absconded you of your panties. You brought your legs up to wrap loosely around Mickey’s tapered waist, encouraging him to touch you, with an impatient roll of your hips against the warmth of his thigh just barely within your reach. 

Mickey chuckled at your resulting huff of impatience, conceding with sweet sin. 

Pressing his index and middle fingers past your lips, you accepted them eagerly into your mouth, the warmth of you around any part of him enough to make Mickey close his eyes with a groan. 

“That’s good, baby,” he praised as you gently sucked his fingers, allowing them to work gently in your mouth, satisfied with the feel of your saliva coating his fingers before withdrawing them, rewarding you with a dazzling smile as he took in the glisten of you along the skin of his fingers. “Don’t worry,” he assured, leaning forward to press a kiss to your neck as brought his fingers down to run through the seam of your bared pussy, your spit and the wetness already gathered there allowing him to glide his digits along your folds. 

Your love continued to stroke you, one finger probing closer, closer to your entrance as he lavished attention with piteous lips along your neck, a heady, whiskeyed series of kisses with a chaser in the form of nipping teeth. Plucking and playing you as only he could. 

“M, God,” you gasped, as he finally, finally, slid a long finger inside of you, urging, beckoning, demanding, the heel of his hand pressing against your clit as you continued to roll your hips against it. 

Mickey’s other hand traveled up your side, pushing the hoodie up as he went to bare your tits, a light scrape of nails over a pebbled nipple enough to make you yelp, bucking your hips evermore into the hand that cupped you as he continued to finger you. 

“M, please,” you whined, the pressure building inside you painfully exquisite, but not quite enough, “I w-wanna come with you inside me.”

And who was your love if not merciful? Especially when you begged for him, so pretty? So piteous?

 “Y-yeah,” he breathed, shifting to allow your legs to release his waist so he could shuck his boxers down, his hard length prominent, curved. “Gonna fuck you, pretty girl. My good girl.” 

And his pull over you as you reached down to guide his length between your slick folds was oceanic. You’d do anything he asked, if only he’d just — and with a snap of his hips, a groan, and a pitch forward to bring his hands down by either side of your head, Mickey was seated inside of you, rendering you full. 

The surge of him was like the wax and wane of the tides as he began to roll his hips into yours, thrusting at an even, but weighted, pace – every thrust that much harder, harder, harder…

You turned your head to the side to press a kiss to the wrist of the arm that rested there, bringing your own arms up to greedily drink in the feel of your love, skin on skin. 

And, oh, the firm, defined feel of his chest beneath your fingertips was worth any minute spent dreaming about it instead of touching it – because you could touch him now. 

For his part, Mickey was awash at the feel of you around him, silken and warm, like a bolt of eternally-pleasing velvet only he would wrap himself in. The feel of your lips along his skin, of your touch along his torso, your fingers making their way once more to bury himself in his curls, tightening and tugging at a particularly hard thrust of Mickey’s hips. 

And there you were, a veritable garden blooming beneath him, your soft-petaled heart open and bursting with your love as you moaned for him, the sound like honeyed nectar to Mickey’s ears. 

The feel of Mickey inside of you, of the heavy drag of his cock with each flexing thrust was the sweetest torture, satisfying but not quite enough as you urged him for more with your body. Your hands twined in his curls gave a particularly harsh tug as you surged upward to meet Mickey’s lips, catching his lower with your teeth and giving an insistent, but gentle scrape, the bite of someone starved. 

You were so close, so close… Just a bit more… 

“B-baby,” you gasped, “p-please, Daddy, please…” your whimper escapes your lips, the word meeting Mickey’s ears, two syllables drenched in your desperation, your desire. Syrupy and sinful, from your lips to Mickey’s ears. From Mickey’s ears, down his body, tingling along his skin. Your sweet urges, all for him.

And had you ever used that word with him before? Mickey wasn’t sure (and he was sure that if you had, he would recall it) – but the sound of your sweet, breathy moans, the sound of that word was going to play on a loop in Mickey’s mind, burning into his bones in perpetuity. As ever-present as his desire for you. He was sure of it. 

“Please,” you breathed again, dropping your hands to his sides and allowing your nails to drag along the skin of Mickey’s hips and up his torso, your thighs tightening around his tapered waist, soft, sock-bedecked feet locking in place behind him to pull your beloved closer, closer to you. 

He groaned in your ear, a desperate, jumbled rumble from somewhere deep in his chest as he acquiesced to your pleas, surging, deliberate as he continued to fuck into you.

“Say it again, baby,” he urged, inching a hand down to where your bodies were joined, the promise of his precise touch over your clit, where you needed him most a threat enough to make you weep. He gripped your jaw with his other hand, forcing your eyes to lock with his as the cinching warmth of an impending orgasm began to bleed its way through his veins. “Fuckin’ say it again,” he pleaded. 

And it had clicked, just as Mikey’s fingertips brushed your clit, causing the blush of that tightening coil inside of you to begin to burst – he had liked what you’d spilled from your lips, like the dirtiest secret. 

You gazed at the looming glimmer that looked so like desperation behind your love’s eyes, wild and wanton, parting your lips to give him what he wanted – knowing it would result in him giving you what you wanted. 

“Daddy,” you whined, fucking back onto Mickey’s cock with insistent rolls of your hips, and urging his touch along your clit, “Please make me come.” 

And who was he to refuse? 

As the moon in the sky controls the tides, you beckoned. And Mickey had no choice but to follow, rolling his thumb insistently over your clit as he fucked you, a seafoam wave of staticky pleasure overtaking you as your orgasm crested, thighs squeezing Mickey’s sides as the whole of you tightened around him like a viper. 

Pleasantly warm and venomous, your pleasure bleeding into Mickey’s as the two of you joined. 

And like a venom, your desire had spread, bleeding and burning its way through Mickey’s veins as he continued to roll his hips into yours before he spilled himself inside of you, the feeling of him giving you all of himself until he was spent made you want to pen sonnets – an incomparable feeling of secondhand ecstasy at the knowledge that you had given your love this pleasure.  

With a groan, Mickey extricated himself from you – you truly had wrapped around him like a snake, eyes roving over your blissed-out form to confirm that he hadn’t been too rough with you before allowing himself to settle in by your side…

“Soooo,” Mickey sighed beside you, his breath steadying as he came down from his high, from your collective exertion. “Daddy, huh?” 

You rolled your eyes, swatting his arm playfully with the back of your hand, “Please. As if you didn’t like it.” 

The sheets slipped against your skin as Mickey pulled you – still wearing his (your) hoodie, now pulled back down to cover you once more – across the bed, all liquid limbs and pliant bones, into his arms. Pressing a kiss into the side of your head and retrieving your forgotten coffee cup from the bedside and depositing it once more into your waiting fingers. 

“You liked it too, Cielo,” he noted, snickering at your semi-disgusted face at the dissatisfying sip of now-cold coffee. 

“Well, yeah, Mickey,” you replied, ignoring the offending coffee in favor of the pleasure of his now stroking along your hair, the two of you settling back into the lazy morning as the sunlight along the walls began to blaze orange. “You’re still so fine.” 

“And does it blow your mind?”

--

Tagging: @withahappyrefrain  @thegirlwhowritesfics @xbamboowishesx @friendly-neighborhood-blondie @abibliophobiaa @clints-lucky-arrow @inklore @phoenixhalliwell @ohmagawd-life @thematthewmurdock @mrshipsmcgee @p3mybeloved @letmeplaytheliontoo @vestrangel @moonlight-prose @aphrogeneias @levylovegood @thatredheadwriter @2clones-1kamino @zombieaurora @shadeds-library @writercole @ijustwantedplums @justalonelyslytherin @gretagerwigsmuse @fanboysfangirl @siriusfahey @joaquinwhorres @gingerbreadandpaper @the-navistar-carol  @alexxavicry @jadore-andor @fanboygarcia @lavenderluna10 @thedaredevilsgirl @fluffyprettykitty @mickeyluvs @mothdruid  @maxmayfield @eagerforthesky @melinacalhounxo @marvelousmermaid @callmemana @spencer-is-amazing @mxgyver ​ @n3ssm0nique ​@mothdruid   

#mickey fanboy garcia x reader #fanboy garcia x reader #fanboy x reader #mickey garcia x reader #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x reader #fanboy garcia x you #mickey garcia x you #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x you #mickey fanboy garcia x you #fanboy x you #fanboy x cielo #mickey 'fanboy' garcia x cielo #mickey garcia fic #top gun maverick fic #tgm fic #mickey garcia smut #mickey garcia fluff #danny ramirez #danny ramirez fluff #fanboy fluff #fanboy smut

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

Rewatched the tea party scene, and the fact that Jinx’s monologue to Vi only now registers to me (don’t know why or how it didn’t before)

‘Silco thinks he made Jinx, with all his rants’ etc. Silco thinks that he is what made Jinx, Jinx. Silco thought he had successfully supplanted Vi as Jinx’s primary motivation for what she did, but Jinx claims that is not true.

Jinx claims that Vi “was always there. Pushing me.” which I interpret in several simultaneous ways. As a torment, as a motivator, as a comfort, as a frustrating out-of-reach ideal she could never hope to match.

Vi was also there for when “all the colors turned black”. Silco was there for the meltdowns, the spiralling, the panic and chaos that would crop up from time to time, but as for the silent despair? It seems that Silco was not immune to the unfortunate tendency where those close to a depressed person do not pick up on that person’s suffering. Not out of negligence, apathy, or ineptitude, but because those who suffer from the sort of despair Jinx describes do so behind a very tight fitting happy mask, and in a small way you want to believe that the pain someone feels is not as bad as it really is. It’s okay, it’s fixable, it is not a pervasive state of existence but a temporary phenomenon.

In a roundabout ironic sense, Silco fulfilled his role as a father very well by being blind to his child’s suffering. And like a father often does, he misunderstands his daughter’s problem. He tries to mould it and liken it to something he can understand in order to apply his solution, which is a VERY Dad thing to do. The difference between Vander and Silco and Vi and Powder is the exact circumstances of betrayal. Vander tried to actively kill Silco, a man he considered a comrade and brother. Vi in an understandable fit of rage left Powder. A direct murder attempt v. abandonment will not have the same trauma attached to it. The betrayal of one’s trust vs. forsaking unconditional love.

And Jinx held no illusions that Silco was responsible for Vander’s death, ultimately, at the end of the day. She accused him of it. She knows what he is. (One could make an argument as to whether she has always felt this way toward Silco and just put it aside, or if the clash of Vi + Caitlyn, Silco, and the shimmer amplified subconscious ideas and pieces finally fit together so that she could finally make sense of the cosmic stew of her feelings)

But she had had no one else. Silco was right there. He raised her, cared for her, so what other choice did she have? Deny herself of those things because of who was giving them to her?

There is also the ambiguity of Vi saying “We can go” while Jinx is threatening Caitlyn. Vi doesn’t make clear if she means [Jinx and Vi] can go, or [Caitlyn and Vi].

I like to think that Jinx’s voices pointed that out to her and teased her with ‘your sister means her and the enforcer, not you.’

Uggggh there is so much happening. So many strings and loyalties tied to Jinx’s heart.

#silco #jinx #vi #character discussion

[paperandhis-paper]

Arc-V Day 6 and 7

I'm a bit behind. Please @arcvmonth, spare me. Don't turn me into a card.

Anyway, for Understudy Spotlight I wanna briefly talk about Roger. I say briefly, because I'll save most of my thoughts for the Villains Prompt. For now, I gotta say, he's my vote for most underrated Yugioh bad guy. I LOVE villains who think they're hot shit, but turn out to be nothing but smug snakes. Plus, his voice actor NAILS his breakdowns. I was surprised to see so many people disliked him (probably Shōnen fans who can't accept a villain that isn't super-duper powerful). Finally, I love me some Disney Villain Deaths.

Anyway, Day 7: Of Amores, Per the Prophecy

Oh boy, does Arc-V have some banger ships. Some of my faves:

Fruitshipping:

Main-guy with Main-girl ships in most Shōnen anime tend to hit with the force of a wet fart, with Yugioh being no different. This is because they fall under the trap of making the girl be the only one who constantly thinks of protagonist-kun, whereas the MC is usually only thinking about fighting, eating, and their male rival who they're totally-not-gay-with.

Therefore, it's wild that these two idiots enamored the Arc-V so much as they, and it was via the use of a very simple trick: have both parties be clearly interested in one another. Seriously, Arc-V turns into an epic, interdimensional romantic drama from Season 2, and it's so strange for a franchise like Yugioh (even if it already happened in GX). Yuya spends as much time thinking about Yuzu as she does about him, and that's so refreshing.

One thing I love about this ship is how much they emphasize that the distance between them doesn't diminish their bond. In fact, it's the opposite, when they're separated that their feelings are most in display. Yuzu's duel with Chojiro is one such example: despite not being allowed near one another, Yuzu still had her feelings reach him.

Them being enemies in their past lives but lovers in this one also adds an extra element of brainrot for me.

Appleshipping and Fallenangelshipping:

I wanna re-emphasize this: we NEED more F/M ships where the guy is completely, stupidly in love with the girl. This applies more to appleshipping admittedly; seeing Yugo explode with joy from seeing Rin will never stop melting my heart. Male characters in anime are often shy of showing physical affection toward their love interests, but not Banana-boy. Plus, imagining how they grew up in poverty is interesting.

Serenadeshipping:

OMG THIS SHIP IS SO GOOD. LIKE I KNOW I HAVE MASSIVE YURI BIAS BECAUSE LOVE LIVE FAN BUT STILL. Ok so you obviously got badass and serious Serena with ray-of-sunshine Yuzu, so the dynamic is fun from the get-go. But we also have the fact that Yuzu became one of, if not the, first friends Serena's ever had. Plus there's the "changing clothes" scene and I'm sure you could do some gay awakening shit.

Also Yuzu is so happy upon seeing Serena late in the series. Just look at her!

And then when Serena betrays them she's so sad. DAMN IT ARC-V, THIS IS FROM THE FREAKING CAPTAIN SOLO EPISODE, WHY IS MY HEART IN PIECES?!

(Extra angst when you consider this is the last time they spoke before getting thrown into Arc-V)

Finally, I imagine she'd be happy to forever be with Yuzu at the end of the series

Lustershipping:

similar dynamic as Serenade, but with a rival-to-lovers tint. It's just cute, mmkay? Aesthetically, this is one of my favorites, Masumi's design is great

Genesishipping:

Sometimes, ships are more interesting for what they don't tell you than for what they do. The showrunners left the nature of Zarc and Ray's relationship ambiguous, which means there's a lot of possible avenues to take it. Enemies to Lovers? Sure, go ahead. Enemies that become lovers because of their new incarnations' unique souls? Works too.

Plus Zarcray fans make some Fire content.

Honorable Mentions: Guiltshipping, Candyshipping, Emblemshipping, Braceletshipping,

#arc v #arcvmonth #arcvmonth2023 #yugioh shipping #fruitshipping #serenadeshipping #lustershipping #genesishipping #yugioh arc v

[v-arbellanaris]

tbd later but i keep seeing people just try to go on and on abt how ppl are morally reprehensible or whatever for Not Liking f characters and i just wanna say there's definitely. ABSOLUTELY. some people in fandom that need to fuckign check their misogyny. there absolutely is and ive been talking abt it on various different blogs and things like that since '09.

but.... idk is that constructive? or helpful? to attach morality to the gender of the characters that you like? idk! this shit fucked me up bc i would like... deny that i liked m characters. like i used 2 feel soooo guilty for liking m characters???? for YEARS??? and i rly felt it was my moral obligation to Like f characters and it was SO forced... and the truth is that a lot of the time ppl write f characters with v little depth and v little intrigue bc they dont want to make Statements abt women overall bc every f character written is somehow supposed to Represent multiple someones and even when theyre """"problematic"""" or """villainous""" or whatever its in a way thats designed more for them to be unlikeable instead of morally complex or morally compelling. ppl who write m characters usually dont bother to think abt the Optics (esp when theyre white m characters) and so all of the lovely complexities come through and its clear from the story n narrative that its unrelated to their identity, or if it is related to their identity, its because of how they relate to it (rather than the relation between identity and action being that being x means you do y or that BECAUSE you're x you do y). in all honesty there's v few f canon characters that have that kind of complexity (part of the reason im always writing my own - ive been writing ofc x canon character fics for actual decades, long before i joined this fandom) and the v few f characters that do have tht complexity are probably side characters or characters not directly relevant to the plotline. and bc theyre so preoccupied w writing these characters as like... a stand-in for Minorities or whatever, they're so careful to strip any potential conflict or moral ambiguity from them in a way that leaves me feeling not v compelled to care - compared to, lets say, m villains who almost always still have that shred of humanity left to compel me to care so much about them bc i can see myself in them, f villains usually dont get that. there's exceptions to this - i can think of a lot of comics characters for e.g. - and i love those exceptions, but they're exceptions.

and idk i feel like we should also acknowledge that like... ignoring that these f characters are badly written or lack compelling (notice i specify COMPELLING here like its not rly enough for them to have a husband or a kid or whatever that's not compelling???) humanising moments because ppl treat f characters like they're supposed to Represent All Womens and 2. this makes them less compelling than m characters like 80% of the time and 3. that these critiques should be anchored in "FUCKING DO BETTER". what could we change abt how we write and engage with f characters? talk about that as much as the critiques or whatever that we have for f characters in the first place bc people are much more willing to give up on trying to write f characters if theyre told "this was shit" vs "this could use with some improvement - what abt this? or that?"

like idk i think there's a more productive way we could be talking abt this

#fandom critical #i guess. i'll probs make this private or smth later but idk! im not a huge fan of 'if u like x why dont you like y' #with the intent of shaming rather than trying to encourage a discussion. is it rly misogyny or are the f characters here just badly written #and saying f characters are badly written IS NOT MISOGYNY. when m characters are badly written its rarely bc they're m #but when f characters are badly written it's usually contained to f characters only. and we should interrogate that and question it! #i dont think its BAD to say this f character was badly written to me and so i dont find her that compelling comparatively. like... #that's not always going to be misogyny? and the solution i think is to talk abt HOW we write m characters compellingly and #whats stopping us from writing f characters the same way. that's a more fruitful discussion to me #than just sitting there whinging that no one likes f characters. (which isnt true). DO SOMETHING about it.

[notepadsandtealeaves]

Dick Grayson x GN!Reader in: The Penalty Round

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT || 18+ ONLY ||

|| F!Reader | M!Reader | Ao3 Version ||

|| Dick’s Tag | Batboys M.list | Batboys Tag | Personal Blog ||

|| The SFW prequel: The Curious Case of the Lovers in the Library || || F!Reader (Ao3) || GN!Reader (Ao3) || ((some links pending))

↠ Requested By: The ~heaux~ in me ↠ Reader Gender: Neutral ↠ Content Type: NSFW af ((make no mistakes, I will 100% fight a kid if I see them on this post)) ↠ CWs/TWs: There’s nothing too out there, but still make sure to peep the in story note for the deets. ↠ If you’re looking for a beta-ed work you have come to the wrong place, my friend lol. ↠ Total WC: ~3k

“‘And the loser will be completely at the mercy of the winner.’ Those were your exact words, baby, don’t you remember?” His eyes are bright with an impish sort of glee as he pulls back to take in your replying expression—the needy glint in your gaze, the alluring way your lip sits trapped between the pearl of your teeth, the ragged breaths that leave your chest heaving… “Oh yes, that is definitely a look,” he comments, a harsh exhale punctuating his words. “And a damn good one too…” You could certainly say the same about him. His amusement has been slowly draining away as he continues to regard you until all that is left behind his something darker, hungrier…

↠ Who says you can’t win for losing?

This brief bit of spiciness with my second favorite Bat is brought to you by The Thirst™ lol. I’m trying to get back into the swing of things, so if this is just “meh”/anything seems off blame that…

|| The Penalty Round

💦 Tags: Reader uses they/them pronouns | Reader has ambiguous anatomy | Pre-established relationship | Dick’s waistline being problematic | ((said problem is that my legs are not currently wrapped around it #madaboutit)) | ((why is it like that, if not for us to grab, huh? HUH??!)) | A v. brief mention of cum eating (Reader) | Oral (Reader giving) that leads into throat fucking (kinda rough, but not too much) | OP’s Dick’s praise kink is showing | Which means there’s lots of pet names (i.e. baby, honey, and the like; Reader receiving) | Reader gets that good oral-handy combo | Unprotected sex (remember to be safe IRL, so on and so forth) | Penetrative sex (more specifically a mating press, Reader receiving) | Knowing me there’re probably some v. light dom/sub undertones | ((that wasn’t necessarily my intent, but it is kinda my brand lmao)) | And finally a bit of afterglow‘n’cuddles before falling asleep in Dick’s arms because that is the Good Shit™

“Ready to settle up, love?”

The question is posed over the muted sound of Dick depositing you onto his bed. His preference for a softer, cushier mattress doesn’t allow for you to bounce, but rather you sink into its plushness with a giggle. Any answer you might have given is lost under another peal of mirth as he follows you down with a laugh of his own. Long limbs cage you in as he settles the perfect amount of weight onto you and the feeling grounds you even as the drag of his lips over your pulse point has you arching into his touch. Kisses tease themselves up the length of your neck and across the breadth of your face; he’s thorough, covering every spot readily available to him while simultaneously avoiding the pout of your lips. It doesn’t take long for you to voice your displeasure, but your breathy whines are only met with a playful chide.

“‘And the loser will be completely at the mercy of the winner.’ Those were your exact words, baby, don’t you remember?”

His eyes are bright with an impish sort of glee as he pulls back to take in your replying expression—the needy glint in your gaze, the alluring way your lip sits trapped between the pearl of your teeth, the ragged breaths that leave your chest heaving…

“Oh yes, that is definitely a look,” he comments, a harsh exhale punctuating his words. “And a damn good one too…”

You could certainly say the same about him. His amusement has been slowly draining away as he continues to regard you until all that is left behind his something darker, hungrier. The weight of his want has lidded a gaze that is more pupil than iris, with the vivid blue having been ceded ground like a freshly eclipsed sun. Altogether it’s a look that says he’s more than ready to devour you whole and with the way he’s got you feeling right now you’re beyond down. He knows this, of course, and it definitely shows. A smirk slowly creeps its way across the plush of his mouth as he rises up to his knees.

“But if you’re that eager to do something with those pretty lips of yours, well…”—his thumb drags across your bottom lip with a deliberate slowness, reveling in the slight bounce it gives when his touch moves to trail down your chin—“I guess I’ll just have to put them to work then.”

He reaches back to gather a fistful of his shirt before pulling it up and over his head. Though the movement is tantalizing in and of itself (the way his arms and stomach flex as he shrugs out of the clingy material has to be illegal, at least in a few states) what it leads to is undeniably better. You whimper at the sight of him—the sleek, but powerful musculature, its broadness tapering out into a taught waist that just begs to be held on to, be that under the curve of eager palms or trapped between equally willing thighs.

His hands are purposeful as they ghost their way over his frame, from the soft whorls of hair that cover his chest and beyond. The short, downy soft strands’ raven hue contrasts beautifully with the natural tan of his skin enticing your eyes to follow the trail down to the sharp V-cut of muscle and further still to the joggers that sit sinfully low on his hips. It’s here that his hands linger, just for a moment, just long enough to make you squirm with impatience. His fingers dance along the band a few times before he finally, finally hooks his thumbs in and pushes the material down. The move isn’t nearly as smooth as everything that has preceded it, can’t be when his ass is that damn fat, but at this point you’re too gone to care.

With that final barrier gone his cock sits proudly on display, curved deliciously and bobbing under its own weight. Your mouth goes dry as you take in the dark flush of it, the way precum pearls against its tip before spilling over into a trail that your tongue is desperate to follow. He’s already so hard and yet he somehow manages to get even harder as he takes himself in hand and begins to stroke. The play of his pretty fingers over his equally pretty dick is mesmerizing, so much so that you don’t even realize he’s moved until the tip is nearly touching your lips. Without any cognizant thought on your part your tongue darts out to catch his still dripping arousal before retreating back into your mouth so that you can properly savor your prize; as always the taste leaves you groaning and greedy for more, your lids fluttering as you swallow thickly. The needy (and thoroughly debauched) display has Dick chuckling darkly.

“Such a good, eager baby,” he coos as his free hand caresses your cheek.

He doesn’t even have to tell you to open up, not when your lips have already parted as wide as they can go, your tongue lolling out in anticipation. The sight leaves him cursing hotly under his breath as he guides his length into your waiting warmth. You both moan at that first contact, though the vibration of your pleasured mewl sees Dick’s devolving into a gritted out hiss; at the same time his hips stutter but he’s able to stop himself before he gags you. This kindness isn’t extended for much longer, however, as he’s quick to set up a pace that’s just this side of brutal.

With every forward push his cock goes that little bit further until he’s fully fucking your throat. The sound of your moan laced gags can just be heard over your man’s near continuous stream of curses and praise. Though the angle makes things a bit more perilous you brace yourself and let Dick take what he needs, what you’re all too willing to give.

“Look at the way you swallow me down,” he pants in a voice that sounds just as wrecked as you feel, “my good, perfect baby. So, so good, always so good…”

It’s clear that both of your brains have fuzzed over—his from the pleasure that has him damn near shuddering above you, and you from his very apparent approval. You work your tongue along the underside of his cock as much as you can wanting, needing, to make him feel even better, to draw more of those sweet words out of him which you most certainly do. The pair of you are trapped in this feedback loop of lust for only a few minutes more before Dick is pulling out fully with a half-choked growl. You only have enough time to take one lung filling breath before his lips are crashing into your own. The kiss is a raw, feral thing full of tongue and teeth and a desperation that has you tearing at one another’s clothes.

Once your bottoms are gone an impatient hand makes its way to your center and Dick lets out a breathy little curse at the sheer amount of wetness that greets him. “All this just from sucking cock, babe?” he asks on a chuckle as he coats his fingers in your pre, their pads dragging oh-so-slowly over your sex before sliding down to trace teasing circles around your entrance. The jolt of pleasure that courses through you reduces your reply to a reedy cry of his name that trails off into a hiccuping moan, a thing that clearly suits your man just fine.

“I was ready to fuck you into the mattress,” he continues on in a tone far too casual, all things considered, “but hearing you sing so pretty for me makes me want to play with you a bit more, so I think I will…”

The hand that had been working against you so perfectly is soon joined by the molten heat of his mouth in a move that’s so quick and fluid that you don’t have a hope of bracing yourself for the added sensation. Your body’s replying arch is cut short by steadying hands, a knowing little laugh vibrating against you all the while. You shudder at the feeling, gasping when his tongue drags itself over your already sodden flesh, Dick’s name a ragged cry on your lips as your fingers curl in against his hair. He likewise shivers at the bite of your nails against his scalp, humming his approval all the while before pulling away just long enough to tell you—promise you—that he’s going to make you lose your mind. And he’s as good as his word. He doesn’t let up, his tongue laving and twirling against you in shifting patterns that leave your head spinning and your legs shaking. His hands are just as busy as one keeps your hip anchored while its opposite works in tandem with his talented mouth.

“You sound so. Fucking. Cute.” The declaration is made some long moments later when his need for oxygen finally outweighs his greed for your sex. His voice is absolutely wrecked with his desire, though you can barely focus on the rasp of it when he’s punctuating those last few words with suckling nips against your thighs.

You whimper out his name in reply only for the appellation to scale up into an opened mouth gasp when he takes advantage of the mess he’s created between your legs to easily slip a finger into your tight hole. A second soon follows the first before he purposefully curls them against that spot. You jolt up against him as pleasure skitters across your body like lightning. Moans claw their way out of your throat as you grind shamelessly up into him, your arms winding around him somewhat awkwardly in an attempt to pull him impossibly closer.

“Mmm~ I think baby likes that,” he chuckles darkly as he continues to massage your walls. “That’s right honey, keep rocking those hips for me—need to work you open, get you ready to take me…”

You’re too far gone to fully comprehend what he’s saying, with your mind only really being able to focus on the sinuous purr of it all. Lust has deepened his voice into something specifically designed to leave you fully under his spell, and enthralled as you are there’s no perceiving anything outside of you and him and the pleasure that’s drawing closer with each pump of those ridiculously long fingers. You rut against him with a desperation that would be embarrassing if Dick wasn’t just as gone. He doesn’t have it in him to tease you right now, not when he feeds on your pleasure and you’re so close to the edge. He murmurs your name before pulling away from you to watch you chase your bliss a ravenous intent. His gaze darts over the length of you in an attempt to drink in every little detail as words that blur the line between praise and pleas are panted down at you. His movements grow more pointed as yours become more frantic, the crescendo building up-up-up until–

“Oh fuck babe. That’s right—give it to me.”

A sound that’s caught somewhere between a moan and a sob squeaks out of you as your body tenses before going lax under the weight of your release, but that’s hardly the end of things.

“Fuck,” Dick growls lowly, his body slinking down further still so that he can hook your legs over his shoulders. When he comes back up to level his eyes are consumed with want as he grinds himself against you. “____, baby, do you have any idea how goddamn delicious you look right now?”

You try to reply, you swear you do, but between the orgasmic haze that hasn’t even begun to fade and the feeling of his cock pressing hot and heavy against you, well… You figure you can be forgiven for whatever the fuck it is that actually comes out of your mouth—not that it would’ve been audible anyway when your man’s tongue is so tangled up with your own. He sucks down your mewls of pleasure only to feed you his own as he reaches down to take himself in hand. His cock, hot and sticky with your combined arousal, slaps against your entrance a few times in rapid succession before he pushes finally, finally pushes into you.

Dick finds his rhythm quickly, settling on something hard and fast enough to have jostled your body forwards with each thrust had his bulk not been there to hold you steady. There’s a certain frantic energy to the way he fucks you—as if he needs to be inside you like he needs his next breath, as if the few seconds he has to leave you on the backstroke are too long to bear. It makes the encounter desperate in a way that that you usually only ever experience when he’s had too close of a call on patrol. You feed off of this, into it, clawing at whatever bit of him you can reach though pinned as you are all you can really do is lie there and take it–

Well until a particularly good downwards thrust leaves his dick brushing up against your sweet spot. Your reaction is instantaneous, your walls clamping down on him with a vice-like grip that nearly sees him collapsing. His mouth parts around a moan that has you clenching up all over again as he catches himself on shaky arms just moments shy of crushing you.

“Fu-fuck… Fuck! That’s– It’s too damn good, babe. I-I’m already so close—you keep doing that and I’m not gonna last…”

There’s barely a sliver of sapphire to be found when he looks you over with wide, lust-blown eyes; said eyes cross just a bit when you bare down again, and when combined with the flush that sits high on his cheeks and the loose loll of his mouth he’s just one drool trail away from something straight out of the most obscene manga panels. The sight would’ve left you laughing if it weren’t for the way he rolls his hips into you in a deep grind.

You sigh his name as you urge him closer to you. From here you can feel the way his lips part under his pants, your breaths mingling as you tell him, beg him, to fall apart for you—“Please baby, want it. Want you to fill me up…”

“Yuh-yeah,” he starts, nodding wildly. “Yeah, I can do tha– Ah, shit! So fuckin’ tight… God, fuck—kiss me.”

He doesn’t give you time to comply, his lips already moving to crash into yours within the same breath. The kiss is sloppy and short lived, however, with Dick pulling away a few moments later to moan out your name as he redoubles his efforts. His strokes come fast and choppy as they lose their rhythm with each passing stroke until he’s abruptly stilling over your with a punched out sounding sigh and a shiver. The feeling of his release pouring into you is enough to push you over the cliff after him, his name on your lips as you give yourself over to ecstasy’s free fall.

The pair of your work your way through your orgasms with heaving chests, and in your case limbs that feel like jelly. As the euphoria begins to fade the mood easily slips over into something softer and more subdued. Dick, clearly still lost to his pleasure noses at your cheeks, pillow soft lips pressing sweet, lovesick nothings into the flushed skin there in between peppered kisses. The heart achingly tender display leaves your chest squeezing in the best of ways, and while you’d love nothing more than to bask in the afterglow of his affections for a long while yet your current positioning isn’t exactly the ideal setup in which to do so.

Your displeased little whine is all the hint your man needs and within the same moment your legs are being gently lowered onto the mattress. He flops onto his back right after, arching into a dramatic bow of a stretch—the sound that escapes him as he does so certainly makes you Feel Things, but you’re not trying to start something your already fucked out body most definitely cannot finish—before moving to curl himself around you. Insistent hands work to soothe away any aches you feel, starting with your hips, though he soon decides this can best be achieved by cradling you against his chest. Having been put through your paces you’re essentially dead weight, but that’s never been a hindrance before. Just one of the many perks of dating a man that moonlights as a vigilante, you muse with a silent laugh as he moves and settles you with ease.

You sigh contentedly as you allow yourself to sink more fully into his warmth, with any lingering tension that your muscles insist on trying to hold on to melting away under his care. Sleep has already started to blur the edges of your world, with the haze steadily creeping in to dull all of your senses until you fade out in full. You don’t register the slight shifting of your body or the soft glide of sheets that follows. The feeling of Dick pressing one last, lingering kiss against your temple is likewise a distant sensation, though his words are just able to slip underneath the fog–

“I love you, baby—always.”

–and that five word declaration, spoken with all the gravity of an indisputable truth, is the last thing you hear before you give yourself over the land of dreams.

© notepadsandtealeaves/TheViperQueen, 2023 || Please do not repost, translate, or otherwise alter or distribute my works without my express permission. And for the love of god keep it away from Youtube and TikTok lol…

#so i'm back. kinda lol. #dk when i'll update next but at least i'm writing again #anyways... #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x gn!reader #dick grayson x gender neutral reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson smut #((Immy does fan fiction: the Batboys))

[caseopened]

Last weekend, I popped on TCOT Heartbroken Bride (1992 movie), and I've been ruminating on the implications for a plot line that could be interesting to explore. I'll include some scenes and some thoughts below:

SCENE I

PERRY: [looking reminiscent] Laura, you look wonderful. [They kiss.] LAURA: And you have not changed a bit. You remember what I used to say? You never change, Perry Mason, you only weather. [She places a flower in his lapel. It's at this point Della comes in on their reunion, and you can tell that Della knows what is between Perry and Laura. There's some idle talk, and then...] LAURA: Perry, thank you for coming. You have no idea how much this means to me. [They kiss.]

SCENE II

PERRY: I do imagine that I've known Kaitlynn since she was born. DELLA: I don't believe you've told me how you came to know Max and Laura. PERRY: Laura and I worked on the same Civil Rights Committee. DELLA: What Civil Rights Committee? PERRY: Oh, around 25 years ago. DELLA: The year you lectured at Georgetown? PERRY: That year, yes. Laura and I spent a lot of time together. Laura and Max were going through a very bad time. They filed for divorce. DELLA: How'd they get back together? PERRY: Oh, they hit a very rough patch, but they weathered it. Laura had found out she was pregnant. Now, they're the happiest couple I know.

SCENE III

GARY: [Kaitlynn] needs you, Mr. Mason. She knows it, and it scares her. Please, you gotta help her. PERRY: [looking reflective] Yes, I do.

SCENE IV

KAITLYNN: I won't let you drag [my father] into court. You'll ruin him. PERRY: I know how you feel. KAITLYNN: No, you don't. I love my father. I'd do anything to protect him. [...] I'm sorry, Perry. I just don't want to see him get hurt. PERRY: Neither do I. I believe he's innocent, and I will do whatever I can to protect him and his reputation. All right? KAITLYNN: All right. [She leaves.] PERRY: She's tough, isn't she? DELLA: [offering a knowing look] She might just say the same about you. PERRY: [looking distant] She doesn't know me. So she doesn't know how far I'd go to protect her and her family.

SCENE V

[Case closed. Kaitlynn is found to be innocent. Perry leaves the court room because of his injured shoulder, and Della and Laura are alone.] LAURA: Please tell Perry I owe him so much. He's given me back my daughter. DELLA: Why don't you tell him yourself? LAURA: I can't. There's so much you don't know about Perry and me. DELLA: [getting teary eyed] Oh, Laura. I know. I really know. [They hug.]

SCENE VI

[Della and Perry are standing outside, watching Kaitlynn and Gary leave as newly weds. Perry is watching Kaitlynn hug her father. She eventually climbs into the car.] DELLA: I'd say his father really loves her. PERRY: [Still looking after Kaitlynn in the car.] Yes. [Della and Perry share a knowing look.] PERRY: Yes, he does. [They hug.]

What's also scattered throughout the film is Kaitlynn calling Perry her "Uncle Perry" because he has been a family friend through the years.

Certainly, what is clearly obvious is that Perry and Laura have a past history with each other. It implies romance with their close affection and Della’s reactions to their relationship.

However, I just think you can make an argument that Kaitlynn is Perry and Laura's daughter.

So let's break this idea down.

Perry and Laura spent a lot of time together at a time in Laura's life that was emotionally turbulent. She's filed for divorce from her husband, and I think it's pretty reasonable to conclude that, in spending a lot of time with Perry, she leaned on him for support.

How involved they were with each other is left open to interpretation, but however involved, they remained very close. Close enough for Perry not only to support her, but also to have known Kaitlynn since she was born and to remain a family friend through the years.

I think things start to get a bit ambiguous when Kaitlynn comes to Perry to argue about involving her father in the trial. She doesn't want him involved because it will ruin him, to which Perry responds: "I know how you feel." It is the fact that Perry brings emotion into it that makes me feel like it's beyond factual acknowledgment that bringing Kaitlynn's father in will ruin him in a financial sense. If it were just factual acknowledgment, then the answer simply could have been, "I know." But if Perry knows how Kaitlynn feels, we must ask why? She feels angry at Perry for involving her father... why? Because she loves her father and doesn't want to see him in court. If Perry knows how she feels, you reverse it to his view-- He's a lawyer having to watch his daughter on trial.

And Kaitlynn fights back with, "No you don't [know how I feel]." This only stresses the strained emotion on Perry's part, and the implications behind his previous line. After their argument, Perry makes a comment that Kaitlynn is tough, to which Della implies kinship and similarity between Kaitlynn and Perry with her reply: "She just might say the same about you."

But it's Perry's response that suggests a duty beyond that of a lawyer-- a duty by which Kaitlynn doesn't know he maintains: "She doesn't know me. So she doesn't know how far I'd go to protect her and her family."

If it was left at that, I'd say it was just Perry's commitment to justice. But when Kaitlynn is ruled innocent and Della and Laura have an exchange, it seems that there is something else going on. Laura tells Della that there is so much she doesn't know about her and Perry, but Della gets emotional about it and confirms that she does know (because let's be honest, when Perry and Della finally reunite after over a decade, I know he'd tell her). This is immediately followed by a scene wherein we watch Perry look after Kaitlynn after she got married. And it's the way Della says, "I'd say her father really loves her" before she looks at Perry, who hasn't taken his eyes off Kaitlynn, that suggests she's saying that he really loves her. She could have said "Max", but leaves it ambiguous to "her father." That ambiguity is only further bolstered with Perry's confirmation that yes, he does love her (implying that he is the father).

There is also the matter of Perry's involvement in fatherhood. And there's so many questions there. What I think would be plausible is that Perry and Laura simply clung to each other, and one night it went further. But it was enough for Laura to become pregnant. Sometime after that, she reconciles with her husband, and instead of being the person who breaks apart a marriage and family, Perry lets her go to be with the man she was still legally married to even though she had filed for divorce. I think there's just a whole lot of complications there that Perry would be against: breaking apart a marriage for one night, the fact that the Laura wasn't legally separated yet, ultimately creating the potential for a child to grow up in a fractured family dynamic, and his own unresolved grief and love for Paul and Della. And to quote Laura, Perry gives her daughter back-- he gives them the life that he perhaps would have wanted to have himself, but ultimately knows is not in the cards for him.

And if that were the case, Perry being "Uncle Perry" and supporting Kaitlynn in other ways may be as close as he gets to fatherhood. He essentially becomes her benefactor, and she never really knows that he is her real father.

But there's the matter of chronology here, too.

If we follow what Perry has given us, he left to lecture at Georgetown for a year "around 25 years ago". If we use the release date of the movie (1992), that takes us back to 1967-- a year after the last episode of the series aired.

In my head, the one way this makes sense to me is for something like this to happen after Paul passes away. I do headcanon that it's Paul's passing that breaks up the trio and drives Perry away from Los Angeles and away from Della for roughly 15 years (see here). Additionally, I do think that Perry grieving over the loss of Paul and separating from Della would leave him especially raw and vulnerable himself. And if you pair that with Laura going through an emotionally hard time, I could easily see how they'd cling to each other.

But 1967 is too early in my own timeline for Paul's passing, and as such, the only way I'd see it working is if we take Perry's "around 25 years ago" to heart and just fudge the years a little to make it work post-Paul's death.

Anyway, it is just food for thought that is stirring in my brain!

#&. perry headcanons #perry mason

[thetrashywritingwitch]

So I just had this thought… of course in BSJFM they both kinda want to get over each other, but wouldn’t it be cute if it turned out that Katsuki had been secretly attending classes to learn y/n’s language? ;_;

IT WOULD my unconscious brain just defaults to language barriers idk why it just does bc miscommunication can be the perfect *chef's kiss💋* plot device

Bc the language is left intentionally ambiguous it could go in all kinds of directions. The decision to make Mar from PR was mainly @rose-sparks13 idea bc she's also from PR. If reader spoke Spanish, he could definitely learn from Mar which would be adorable. He already rolls all his r's in canon he's got half of it down already /s. Side note his raspy voice speaking Spanish tho... oh be still my-

Ofc theres so many diff dialects of Spanish and some things dont translate over or are just totally different. IM OFF TRACK ANYWAY yes it's a v cute idea that would've been more on the table had he known she was coming but he did noooooot 😔😔😔 at least reader is paying Livia for Japanese lessons to try and be prepared but four months is not long enough to be conversationally proficient in any language, esp Japanese.

If it was explicit that reader was somewhere where English was the predominant language, then he wouldn't have much trouble bc 1A is already taking English classes in canon so the language barrier wouldn't be nearly as much of an issue, if one at all.

But learning anything for someone else, to communicate with them better, to connect through culture and/or heritage in that way...

#trashwitch answers

[ospreyeamon]

the jedi exile, connection, and the force

Thinking about the implications of the Exile being the one to order the activation of the Mass Shadow Generator at Malachor V and the Exile’s lifelong propensity to forming Force-bonds is more than a little tragic.

Bonding is the Jedi Exile's great talent with the Force. While it is introduced with their abnormally strong bond with Kreia, the scenes with the Jedi Masters make it clear that the Exile has always had the gift, that it had already manifested back when they were a Padawan. We know that the Exile developed deep ties in the Force like the ones with their companions during that time because they shared one with Atris. Atris’ love for the Exile was deep enough for her to want to follow them in the Mandalorian Wars, though not strong enough to induce Atris to act against her principles of obedience.

Logically, Atris wouldn’t have been the Exile’s only friend in the Order before they left following Malak and Revan. There must have been a posse of them – a precursor to the Exile’s following of companions in-game. Given the Exile’s pull and that their friends would have likely shared their belief that defying the Council to fight the Mandalorians was justified, it is likely Atris was the exception in remaining behind. When Revan intentionally posted those Jedi less securely loyal to Revan personally in what would become the blast radius of the Mass Shadow Generator, of course that number included the friends and admirers of the general picked for the ill-fated command.

The Exile made the decision to activate the Mass Shadow Generator knowing it would kill at least some of them. The Exile felt those deaths through the bonds they shared.

When the Exile withdraws from the Force they also withdraw from other people. They were already well into the process of severing their connection to the Force when they were exiled by the Jedi Council. They spend the next nine years drifting alone, never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots, talking to other people so little that they remain largely oblivious to the raging Jedi Civil War. You can play them as not recognising Bao-Dur when they meet again on Telos. They tried to forget.

Even though the Exile can be far and away the Revanchist Jedi who coped best in the fallout of the battle of Malachor V, they were clearly deeply traumatised. Part of the Jedi Council’s reaction to them is explicitly a kind of denied horror at encountering someone who has metaphorically clawed their eyes from their sockets with their own hands. It’s an act of self-protection, but for a person who was given to the Jedi Order as a young child with no memory of a life before trying to reach out to the Force – before reaching out to others through the Force – it would have left them unable to connect to the world and the people in it in the way they had before. Kreia says as much, but Kreia is focused on the idea of autonomous capability rather than social functioning.

Those things are entwined for the Exile; connection and the Force, the Force and connection. They form Force-bonds without effort or intent. It’s like they don’t even notice they’re doing it; being connected to people in general and being connected through the Force are practically synonymous for them.

It’s ambiguous when Kreia and the Exile bond on Peragus, whether the Exile was able to bond to Kreia because they had begun to touch the Force again or if they could touch the Force again because they were bonded to Kreia. The Exile’s new connection to the Force operates primarily or entirely second-hand through others. How could they bond to Kreia through the Force if it is through Kreia they are connected to the Force? Was Kreia the first to reach out? Or were connection and the Force so inseparable for the Exile that the mere decision to throw in with Kreia was enough to breakdown both those walls?

I think that the Exile’s initial conjoined relationship with personal connection and the Force was something uncommon, but I also think people’s connections to the Force are varied and personal enough that there can’t really be said to be common ones. The shift after the Battle of Malachor V was into something exceptionally rare though, unprecedented in the records of the Jedi Order judging by Kreia’s reaction. It has similarities to Nihlus’; the feeding off death, the compulsion of others, the emptiness. Different though; Nihlus kills by feeding whereas the Exile doesn’t (unless they choose to pick up Force drain), the Exile makes people want to follow them while Nihlus dominates others with brute strength, the maw of Nihlus can never be filled while the Exile’s void is a potential site of new growth and life. The Exile’s relationships can be symbiotic or parasitic, but it’s only Nihlus who is the virus which kills its host, and in doing so dooms itself.

#Meanwhile in a Galaxy Far Far Away #kotor meta #The Jedi Exile #Force bonds #knights of the old republic

[sothischickshe]

4?

Thank you 😘😘

4. How much do you trust the reader?

Oof well the reader im most concerned by atm (cos ~theoretically stumbling through a draft😓) is me, and I'm not sure I trust that bitch at all 😅😅

This concept [particularly re ~comprehending the story/aspects] is a bit of a tricky balancing act I think, bc if you as the writer have sat with something for a long time espec while editing/rewriting/tinkering it can be really hard to get a sense of what does come through clearly, espec in a first/single read. And with serialised fiction like multi part fic which isn't published at a fast regular clip, it's impossible to know how much a reader might recall about what's happened already (maybe fic chapters need a 'previously on' segment?!).

Plus and maybe especially as a lover of ambiguity, it can be really hard to know if the sense/s you've tried to convey as an author have come across coherently. I think that's just something you have to accept if that's a style you prefer, and you can figure out how to develop certain aspects/skills better to help; if you want to be surer of things coming across relatively clearly you may have to explicate pretty explicitly and/or repeat more.

But I suppose this is why writing primarily for oneself is important -- if it works for you, then maybe by definition it works for this idealised reader 🤪 both in terms of quality but also of joy, eg if you include easter eggs which make you cackle, maybe they'll brighten someone else's day too!!

further, if you wanna trust the reader, you've gotta create a scenario where they can trust the writer, SuReLy? For example, if you as writer HAVEN'T nailed down what's happening with characters on and off the page or how truthful they're being (in convos but also ~pov) that tends to show; trust of hypothetical ppl probs needs to be earned too.

Ofc whomsoever 'the reader' is is gonna be varied! Can you trust that any reader is going to pick up on your context clues? Obviously not! But I do think writing towards an idealised good faith audience concept can be encouraging.

I suppose it also depends on what you're hoping to trust the reader to do tho! if you can identify, maybe you can ~aid:

Eg: to read your story? Well OK, maybe you can promote it better. To read your story alllll the way to the end? Well OK, maybe you need to focus on making it continually engaging; cut some chaff; have an endpoint in mind. Trust the reader to respond/feed back to the story? Well you can at least request that if it's important to you, and specifying what areas you particularly seek it for will likely help. Trust the reader to interrogate the story? Well, I think certain styles probably encourage this. Trust the reader to reread the story? Well, you better make it engaging then!! Etc etc

Ultimately, I've had ppl comment on my stories in a way which implies they've misunderstood what I was trying to convey, maybe that means I've left it too vague, or that they were bringing their own assumptions and/or didn't read carefully. Does that mean I should trust no readers/completely change how I write? I don't think so, espec when I've also had other ppl engage with the ambiguity in a positive way, or try to crack a secret of the story open, or take the time to try to understand references they weren't familiar with at first glance, or ref things implied-but-not-stated as if they were on the page. It DOES mean though I can consider that it may be worth clarifying or repeating important points if I want them to def be understood by more readers, and that there's some areas where it's probs worth being more specific (eg did I think the setting was obvious cos I could imagine it clearly but maybe that didn't translate and someone could get it totally wrong?). Also how you approach this for different kinds of stories can be v different! Eg a 1500 word short story can easily be v ambiguous & fun for a reader to play with interpreting vs a 200k one probs needs more clarity to not alienate the audience -- if you're referencing line 1 on line one million without any mention of that topic in btwn, I'm not sure you can expect ppl to remember what you're on about!

So I suppose it's about deciding what reader/s you wanna be able to trust -- just you? Just an idealised perf reader type? Or more broadly, and if so how wide? Can you make it work on multiple levels?? And overall yea, I don't think you can be asking an audience to trust you without making it abundantly clear you're trustable at storytelling!

Writing meme: ashamed edition!

#Ty this was fun! 😊😊😊 #I think i just need to remove my head and shake it a few times😅 #Writing #On writing #Life advice #On reading #Did I actually answer the q? 😅 I trust the reader: middling amount ig

[marshmallowprotection]

okay seriously I have a question and it's who has the best hand-eye coordination? like, who would DESTROY others at a rhythm game? I'd want to say Seven because he shreds in LOLOL, but I feel like maybe those games have too many lights and sounds and distractions. Yoosung thinks too hard and that's bad for rhythm games. Zen obviously has rhythm but he probably couldn't even figure out the game's interface. Is it Ray, who dissociates and gets a full combo???

Saeyoung is fast. He's #1 in the LOLOL server so we do have to give him credit for that. I feel like he's capable of facing any distraction that you put into his path. It might take a little bit of trial and error for him to learn how to circumnavigate situations to work out in his favor, but even Geniuses have a learning curve that they have to challenge. Watch out for him since his hand-eye coordination is good. His hand-foot coordination is also, unfortunately, good.

Yoosung is #2 in the LOLOL server, so we know he's just as able and capable as Saeyoung is. The issue here is that Yoosung could be easily distracted when he's trying to tap along to the beat and that would make him lose focus almost right away. It's not even the lights in the colors that distract him, it's something else in the room that catches his attention. He could be a formidable foe to face against as long as there's nothing to distract him.

Zen... Zen’s computer is older than all of us. He has the ability but I can’t trust him to figure out the user interface without help. The same thing goes for V, I’m sure, because even though V knows how to use Photoshop and his camera, he is hopeless with everything else... probably to do with the fact that his hobbies are not something that include tech.

Jumin could be a surprise. The only reason that I hesitate on that is because he struggles to take a photo so I assume that he has hands that tremble quite a bit. That’s the only logical explanation for his photos. I also have that whether I like it or not and that makes hand-eye coordination pretty difficult sometimes for those fast tappy games so I can see how that would be a big issue for him if he tried to pick up a rhythm game.

Jaehee... hm. I feel like she's the option that could come out of left field. If she had the motivation to put herself into it then it wouldn't be all that hard to imagine. I just don't see her having the energy to go to that extent. It would be interesting to see her explore that Avenue, and completely decimate the playing field.

Rika... good question. We actually don't know all that much about the things that she's into and it's kind of left ambiguous for the most part. It would be quite the image to see her bust out a rhythm game out of nowhere and completely destroy the game with a max combo with no errors. Is that how you challenge her to be the next Savior? /j

Ray might be able to commit to this if he thinks that it’s going to prove he’s so much better than Seven. No, I know he could and that’s the issue. He’s the one that we need to watch out for. I don’t know if I can say the same for Unknown, but I think his taps would be so angry that it would make you worry for the state of the device he’s holding.

#ask #doridoripawaa #mystic messenger #mysme #mm #mysticmessenger #saeran choi #choi su yeon #ray chen #choi ray #jaehee kang #kang jaehee #jihyun kim #kim jihyun #yoosung kim #kim yoosung #hyun ryu #ryu hyun #jumin han #han jumin #saeyoung choi #choi saeyoung #rika kim #kim rika

[crimsoncrim]

30 for Takace uwu

30 - Free space! Say something about this ship that you want to say!

oh no decisions and being given freedom to talk about anything....

I just rlly care them lots <3 I could talk an essay about the ship, they're beloved to me. they're really sweet, and they make me smile lots!! they compliment each other rlly well as charas and as a dynamic-- I love how they both uplift each other's strengths and help them grow past their weaknesses. friends to lovers is a ship dynamic that I'm v soft for and I think they do it rlly well and respectfully,,, I sent a little ship meme I made ages ago last post that talks about a few silly headcanons but they just fulfill a lot of tropes that I love.

it's really interesting to me that they parallel each other a lot-- they both end up visibly questioning what they're doing and the team that they're a part of, but are trapped in it for different reasons. they're both kinda the one spot of normalcy for the other in Meteor-- which isn't a good environment for either of them to be trapped in. both of them seem pretty reluctant to battle the player (i.e. stuff like using gimmick sets, visible reluctance and dialogue surrounding fights), and only do so because of orders and obligations-- I get the feeling that the MC in a story instead of a game (and absolutely plan on capitalizing on this) would absolutely pick up on the fact that both of them never really... try. both of them just don't really ever want to fight you-- whereas some other characters like Blake, Zero, Fern, etc will pretty much always throw everything they've got. that along with them being really close in age (canonically! the exact ages are left ambiguous, as is the same for most other characters, but it's mentioned that they're very close in age) and they just are both really fun to talk about and to draw and write together. I love how they still are there for each other even when Meteor's no longer a thing and I love thinking about how much both of them finally having that freedom can help both their relationship and them as characters grow.

it's an AU but it's also pretty heavily canon-based in terms of characterization (although events diverge a lot from canon!) so I love the two of them in Margo's AU as well-- Martakace (Meteorshowershipping) is one of my fav ships along with Takace (Royalcourtshipping) rn <3

rambles under the cut bc this is OC stuff that I have shared custody over with some friends so it's not as pertinent to the original ask, so cutting it here in case you don't want to read!

HI if you're here! i have SO many thoughts about martakace and MC/Ace/Taka as a polyship outside of Margo bc they're a power throuple hdfsdf. since Ace doesn't send their letter, now neither of them know where to go, and they end up leaving to the desert together. neither are really very prepared, and they're both kinda in a rush so they don't have many supplies beyond food and healing items and their backpacks. they can't use their PC of course since Terra would zero onto them in an instant so they only have the teams that they carry on them (Ace's is modified a little to split between the mons they share on other teams), although they miss their other Pokemon dearly.

they end up sleeping on the sand together one night and wake up to find Margo on the platform the next day and the reaction is panic initially. Margo's absolutely been able to tell that neither of them have really wanted to fight throughout the game and they see that these two people are panicked and unprepared and just. protec. Taka and Ace are panicked on the other hand and just think "okay if they're here then the others aren't far behind and then it's gameover for us." so they're a mix between terrified and betrayed and resigned. but then the three of them are traveling together and they're just both. confused. Taka and Ace are obviously very close with each other but here they're kind of questioning whether this is even the same person that they heard rumors of with meteor? and Margo calls them friends for the first time and it's kinda the start of both of them developing a sort of puppy love crush-- where it's kind of just that Margo is very cool and thoughtful and kind to them. their feelings for each other are obviously the kind of thing that's never been acted upon-- Margo encourages them to be more open with themselves as well as with each other-- so Taka and Ace end up getting together in Train Town after having a first kiss one night very late in their travels when the three of them are stuck on top of Teknite at night. Margo refuses to take the Gible when they're all in Sugiline and adopts a Trapinch instead, and doesn't take the sword either when the three of them are atop the tower.

Margo just encourages both of them to be more open-- Taka to be more confident, and Ace that it's okay to be vulnerable and to put themself first sometimes-- since they have a habit of neglecting themself in favor of worrying about others (such as Taka and Margo). Taka and Ace help each other grow and end up growing closer as friends due to being able to communicate more, and grow into not just being used to acting as stepping stones-- but instead wanting to actively help others and do things. there's a lot of other canon divergences-- Labradorra City+tournament and Victory Road are big ones due to both Ace and Taka being involved in that and in a relationship now, and their feelings for Margo growing more (they don't get together until postgame after Margo comes back from the New World, though, so it's slowburn on that end).

there's so much more but I . will stop rambling. thank you for listening shdfsdkfsd I will talk more about either of them until the cows come home but this ask is getting too long and I'm getting embarrassed. I love them v much <3

#ask crim #ship asks #takace #royalcourtshipping #pokemon reborn #rozetheeuwu #thank you for ask <3 sorry i rambled too long

[itisilithi]

hi ok without getting too much into it. ignoring the hateno house and "warm loving embrace" solely bc im just talking about botw;

we're told explicitly that zeldas powers were awoken by her love for link + thats backed up by mipha, who was about to tell her what helps HER cast was thinking of who she loved. zelda is also described as "only having eyes" for her swordsman 100 years later, so her having feelings for them was probably pretty obvious back then. shes the one we know, for sure, had feelings.

while we do have the original "i want to see her smile with my own eyes" text from link (and its clear that they very much cared for her in the memories ie. the rain scene), we aren't told anything either way about if link shared those feelings back then, or if she would share them now (which. the amnesia makes me think probably not).

nintendo i think deliberately left links feelings as vague as they are because. theyre there for the player to project onto. if the player wants to think of link as loving zelda, then suddenly the look he gives her during the last two memory cutscenes, the diary entry in the original japanese text, etc etc etc suddenly make a lot more sense. and if you dont, then they dont mean quite as much to you. but that doesnt change zelda's more explicit feelings, so if you take only the canon stuff with no deeper analysis into account. it comes off as one sided.

(and ur right it is interesting and ive seen it explored in some fics v well! zelink is one of those pairings that i enjoy as long as smthn interesting is happening with them, even if its tearing their relationship down entirely 👍)

You’re right!!! I haven’t seen a lot of people saying that, now that I think of it. I think it’s actually nice that it’s ambiguous enough for people to get to decide (also, the drama!!! The tension of Unrequited feelings!!!!)

AND THIS IS DEVASTATING OMG. Post-shrine of resurrection Link could be a totally different person from before. He could not return feelings like he used to, or return them, or Zelda maybe wouldn’t feel the same way anymore because he is different… *scream into pillow*

#this is giving me brain works actually #thank you!!!! for the analysis!! I’m going insane now