Hate breeds anger, anger breeds emotion. Emotion is dangerous. Jimmy Ink x reader PART 2. part 1.
Angsty fluff. Enemies that secretly love each other + one bed trope. (part 3 will be smut but for now, moreeee yearning!)
Who would've thought a shared bottle of red wine to make inhibitions disappear... enjoy (thoughts always appreciated!)
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It wasn’t the birds that woke you up in the morning, the rain was still going heavy – no sign that it had let up at all over night. What woke you up was the sudden movement of the figure beside you. She’d woken up herself seconds earlier, and ripped herself away from your warmth like a quick blink.
“Morning” you rasped out, but the greeting was met with no answer. She didn’t even look at you.
It hurt you inside, and the sound of her footsteps shuffling out the bedroom door made your heart sink. You sat up slowly, following her with your gaze. Empty, it left you feeling empty, why? You didn’t know.
There was no rush in getting up, and the space where she’d just been was still holding some warmth, so you rolled into it. The rain was going to keep the two of you in here for a while longer, so you let the sounds softly call you back into another sleepy haze.
By midday, the weather still hadn’t changed. The storm still raged with the same stubborn fury, trapping the two of you inside the cottage like insects waiting under a rock. Ink had taken up her usual post near the front busying herself with sharpening her weapons with an intensity.
You finally got out of the bed, and it took only an hour of waiting around till you couldn’t sit still any longer. “I’m going out,” you said, already pulling on your damp boots.
That got her attention immediately, her head snapped toward you, expression darkening instantly. “No.”
You paused, brow furrowing. “We need food.”
“We’ll manage.”
“With what?” you shot back, gesturing vaguely. “Dust and mould?” You couldn’t understand why she had an issue with everything you ever suggested doing. It was really taking a toll on you, and after you thought for some miracle that last night was a step forward in coexisting with her, she seemingly didn’t see it as so.
Her jaw tightened, face like stone, “You go out there in this, you won’t see what’s coming.”
You stared at her for a beat longer than necessary, something shifting in your chest as you caught the edge of it. Was she worried about you?
As if reading your mind, she was quick to correct herself, turning away with a scoff. “Do what you want,” she muttered. “You’ve got a habit of it.”
It shouldn’t have stung because her words were nothing new, not really, just another sharp-edged remark thrown carelessly in your direction, the kind you’d learned to deflect long ago. It was frustrating, how easily she could do that, how a single sentence could unravel the fragile steadiness you’d been holding onto. You felt it then, the shift in your expression, the tightening around your eyes, the kind of vulnerability you refused to let her, or anyone else, see so you moved before it could betray you, before she could read it, turning away too quickly, already heading for the door under the flimsy excuse of necessity.
The forest was soaked through, every step sinking into mud, rain clinging to your skin like a second layer. Each step dragged, as if the earth itself meant to keep you there. Cold seeped through your clothes, settled into your bones, but you pushed on anyway because sitting still, waiting, feeling… that had been worse.
It took longer than you liked. Longer than you told yourself it would. Long enough for the echo of her voice to start circling back, replaying in your mind with an edge sharper than before. You’ve got a habit of it.
A habit of what? Leaving? Or coming back?
You exhaled sharply through your nose, shoving the thought aside as your eyes scanned the forest floor again and then finally, something that made you smile. Beneath the remains of a rotting log, half-shielded from the rain, a cluster of oyster mushrooms pushed stubbornly up through decay. Better yet, surrounding them were a thin spread of wild herbs. It wasn’t a 5-star meal, but it was something. You quickly plucked them from the ground and hid them in your small pack.
You felt weirdly giddy on the walk back to the cottage, grinning despite the rain and the inevitable coldness you’d face from within. By the time the cottage came back into view through the rain, that feeling had softened, but it hadn’t disappeared entirely.
You opened the front door, already excited to share “Look what I found-”
Ink was moving before you even finished. She crossed the room from where she’d been watching out the window in two strides, fast enough that something in your chest jolted not fear, not quite, but something close to it.
Her eyes locked onto you immediately. Not on the mushrooms, not on what you were showing her, but on you. Her gaze was almost clinical, sweeping over with precision. Little did you know she was checking for blood, for damage, for anything that meant something had happened to you. At the realisation you were still whole and fine, she was flooded by warmth. The same warmth she felt looking upon your peacefully sleeping face this morning in the moments before you woke up. The feeling that had her up and bolting for that bedroom door before her instincts had her doing something she knew would cause nothing but trouble.
Not that any of this showed on her face. All you saw was a cold calculating look, before she broke the silence“…You were gone too long,” she said flatly.
Your smile faltered, not completely, “Was just trying to-.”
“Decide to wonder again did ya?”
There was no heat in her tone. No raised voice. Just that same dull, unbothered voice that was meant to show you she didn’t actually care.
“That’s not fair.”
She shrugged, already turning away, dismissing it as easily as she always did. “You’ve got a habit of it.”
Did she know more about your habits than you did? Sure, as hell seems like it. You rolled your eyes and moved past her without another word to the remains of the kitchen. You could do your best to ignore her, by focusing on the ingredients you’d found. What you didn’t see was Ink’s gaze falling back to your figure as you went.
She was honestly thrown off, having expected the usual back-and-forth.
You didn’t give it to her. She couldn’t tell if this annoyed her, or made her angry, squashing the disappointment at your seemingly ambivalent reaction. Ink stood for a moment longer, unsure of how to proceed, then she followed your direction. From the doorway of the kitchen her gaze lingered on you as your hands searched through cupboards for anything and everything that might be an addition to your cooking creation.
She told herself she was just irritated. That it was easier when you argued back, when you pushed, when you proved her right about how people always were.
This felt… wrong. You began humming, completely tuning out her cold stare and the presence of hatred that now filled the air. She stopped just short of entering the kitchen fully, leaning against the frame, arms crossing loosely watching the methodical way your hands worked, the slight sway of your hips as you rocked to an imaginary tune. You were acting like she wasn’t even there, like you didn’t have a care in the world.
She didn’t like it, or more so, didn’t like the way it made her feel. Her fingers twitched at her side, a physical want to now be by your side.
Ink’s eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze sharpening as it settled on you and on the quiet rhythm of your movements, her chest tightened.
Stop that. Stop watching. It doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t mean anything.
But her eyes didn’t move, they didn’t want to move.
Because there was something about it, about you, like this that felt dangerously close to something she’d spent years teaching herself didn’t exist anymore.
Her fingers twitched at her side, a restless, physical urge pulling at her to step forward, close the distance, say something, anything that would put her back into that space with you instead of stranded just outside it. Don’t. You know how this ends. Her jaw clenched, tension pulling tight through her shoulders as she forced herself to look away, breaking the line of sight like it burned. The feeling didn’t stop, if anything, it got worse because now, well now she was aware of it. All those thoughts she’d been ignoring, shoving down, burying beneath routine and irritation and distance they weren’t staying down anymore. They pressed upward, insistent, clawing their way to the surface no matter how hard she tried to force them back.
Her chest tightened again, sharper this time, almost enough to make her wince. “…Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, though it wasn’t clear if she meant you or herself, and with that she abruptly turned and left the space.
The rest of the day passed in something that almost resembled peace.
Neither of you acknowledged the other. Not with words, not with glances that lingered too long, not with anything that might crack whatever fragile balance had taken hold. You existed in the same space, moving around one another like opposing currents, close enough to feel, never quite touching.
You kept yourself occupied. The kitchen offered little, but you searched it anyway, opening cupboards, sifting through remnants of a life that had been abandoned too quickly to pack away properly. You found a dented can, tucked behind a collapsed stack of mould-eaten tins, it was tomatoes. You turned it over in your hands, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked too long. You didn’t want to think about how long it had been sitting there. Didn’t want to picture the hands that had last placed it on that shelf, or the reason they never came back for it.
Food was food and these would go rather nicely with the mushrooms and herbs.
At the back of a lower cupboard, half-hidden beneath warped wood and debris, sat a bottle of dark glass, sealed, untouched. Red wine. You let out a quiet breath of disbelief, wiping the dust from its surface, turning it slightly in the dim light. Jimmy Crystal’s voice echoing from a memory,“Wine doesn’t spoil, darlin’ - it evolves. Like me. Only gets better with age.”
By the time evening crept in, the storm had softened, the rain no longer a violent assault but a steady, quiet fall gentler, almost rhythmic against the windows. You stood over what you’d managed to piece together, staring down at it longer than necessary.
Unsure if you should separate it into two portions, or one. She’d made it clear, hadn’t she? Didn’t want you near. Didn’t want the conversation. Didn’t want your help. But she still needed to eat. You exhaled slowly, already dishing up that second makeshift serving. It was dished it into a small pot, the closest thing to a plate you had, and poured the wine carefully into a hollowed cup from your pack. Crossing the room, you found her where she’d been most of the day stationed by the front window, gaze fixed outward, ever watchful.
You didn’t speak but just placed the food and drink beside her and turned away.
Returning to your own up at a small table under the window back in the kitchen, you settled and looked out to the now gently pattering rain. The small wooden surface was meant for two and you traced a scuffed marks absently as you ate, your thoughts drifting despite yourself.
Wondering about the people who had lived here, what their days had looked like before everything fell apart. Whether they had sat here like this, sharing meals, filling the space with voices instead of silence. Whether they had left together or not at all.
You were pulled from your thought by the sound of a heavy movement. You looked up just as Ink set her food down across from yours, the scrape of metal against wood loud. She sat opposite you, or rather dropped herself into the chair opposite you, one leg folding up instinctively beneath her, resulting in her signature loose posture but ensured she was constantly on guard. The silence that now enveloped the table felt like a stand-off, almost like some unspoken game neither of you had agreed to but were both playing anyway. The ‘who would speak first’ game.
You ate. She ate. Eyes flicking up occasionally, then away just as quickly.
The 2 glasses of wine didn’t stay full for long. It was rich and strong. Leaving a trail of warmth as it slid down your throat, settling low in your chest like a slow-burning ember. You let out a small sound at the delicacy of it all, an unintentional noise that had your cheeks burning red the second it slipped from your throat. You hid your reaction by taking another few big gulps of the wine.
Ink noticed, eyes avoiding yours, locked now on the bottle up at the kitchen counter. Without a word, she stood and reached for the bottle after you’d finished your glass, standing just long enough to pour another for you first, then herself.
Such a small gesture, but one packed with meaning that neither of you had ever addressed before. You were now the one avoiding her eyes. By the time you were halfway through the second, the edges of the world had softened slightly. Not enough to dull your awareness but enough to make everything feel… closer.
Particularly the space between you. You felt the back of your neck heat up, along with your cheeks. You couldn’t help but notice the way you suddenly felt more aware of Ink, and how your stomach flipped with every movement she made. Her gaze lingered longer now, and the quite tension no longer felt sharp, but rather heavy and warm in a dangerously different way.
“How’d you make it?” Her voice cut through the quiet, low and rough, “it’s bloody delicious.”
Your eyes lifted to hers. For the first time you noticed how she was actually looking at you.
Not past you. Not through you.
At you.
You took a moment to realise she wasn’t insulting your food, but actually complimenting it. What a peculiar person this girl really was. Maybe it was the wine, or the strange comfortability of the situation now at hand, but you proceeded to go into detail around your cooking process, and she listened. Intently.
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The conversation that followed was an odd thing, both of you were testing unfamiliar ground, but then slowly, unexpectedly, it began to flow. Not easily, not without pauses or glances away, but enough that it felt real.
The bottle between you grew lighter and lighter still, until eventually, there was nothing left. The last drops had long since been poured, and what remained was a quiet that felt different from before not empty, not tense but you were the one to break it. With a quiet sort of finality as you pushed your chair back, the legs scraping softly against the wooden floor.
“I’m going to bed,” you said, voice gentler than you intended, the words carrying a weight that felt heavier than just exhaustion.
The faint light of the sun that filtered through the heavy rain clouds had long since faded, replaced by the dark night.
Ink didn’t respond to you but she didn’t look away either. Your movement had drawn her attention fully, her gaze lifting and then stopping on your lips where it lingered, much longer than it should have.
Long enough for something low and unfamiliar to coil in your chest, tightening as heat spread through you, settling somewhere deeper, heavier. The wine didn’t dull it instead made it much much worse, made you more aware of every shift in the air between you, every unspoken thing hanging there.
Your breath caught slightly, and you turned. The wood creaked softly beneath your steps as you climbed the stairs, each one feeling louder than the last in the quiet house. You didn’t look back.
Didn’t see the way Ink’s gaze followed you. Didn’t see the way her eyes dragged downward, catching on the subtle sway of your hips as you disappeared up the staircase.
You didn’t feel the sharp, sudden pull in her chest. Didn’t hear the Don’t that echoed in her head. But she was already half-risen from her seat before the thought had fully formed.
Upstairs, the room felt smaller than it had before. You quickly stripped down to your singlet and briefs, getting as comfortable as you could as you sank onto the mattress, the familiar creak beneath your weight grounding in a way everything else wasn’t. The events of the day circled your mind in fragments: her voice, her annoyance, the way she’d looked at you, the strange, pleasant dinner, the quiet moments that didn’t fit into anything you understood about her. You pulled the thin blanket over yourself, settling into it, trying to ignore the restless energy still humming beneath your skin.
The mattress dipped. Your breath hitched. The Déjà vu struck hard, but this time, you didn’t stay still. Didn’t pretend. You turned to her before she had a moment to turn away and found her already closer than you expected. The space between you was almost nothing now, the air thick with something heavy and electric, pressing in from all sides. Her eyes were already on you, pupils dark and searching. Then they dropped to your lips again.
It sent something through you like a spark catching dry kindling. The warmth between you wasn’t just body heat anymore. It was something deeper, something that coiled and tightened with every second that passed without either of you pulling away.
Neither of you moved.
It was like standing on the edge of something neither of you had meant to reach and now that you were here, neither of you quite knew how to step back. Or if you even wanted to.
Ink exhaled first, letting out a heavy and shaky breath. It brushed across your skin, warm and uneven, carrying something far more fragile than anything she’d ever let you see before. Something raw. Unsteady. Almost uncertain.
It unravelled something in your chest. Her hand twitched slightly where it rested between you, like she was fighting the instinct to close the distance or maybe to pull away entirely.
Her voice didn’t come, didn’t need to because everything she wasn’t saying was already there, hanging in the space between your mouths, in the way her gaze kept flicking back to your lips like she couldn’t stop herself.
You didn’t want to disrupt the moment, the air between you felt so fragile, but something kept you from jumping on top of her here and now. “You hate me,” you said finally. The words didn’t come out sharp nor did they carry the edge of a challenge or the weight of an accusation. If anything, they felt tired, like something you’d been holding onto for too long, something worn down by repetition until all that was left was the quiet, aching truth of it.
Her expression shifted, just slightly, like a crack forming beneath the surface of something carefully controlled. “I don’t-”
“You do.” You didn’t raise your voice just met her gaze and held it, steady and unflinching, like you were offering her the chance to deny it properly this time.
“I don’t,” she snapped, but the words lacked their usual bite. There was no force behind them, no sharpness to cut you down just a reflex, it was automatic but didn’t quite land the way it was supposed to. Ink’s jaw tightened, her gaze flicking away for half a second before dragging back to yours like she couldn’t quite let it go either. You could see the way the words caught somewhere behind her teeth, the way her throat moved as she swallowed them back once, twice, like forcing them into shape was harder than she’d expected.
“You’re-” she started, only to stop abruptly, frustration flashing across her face. Her hand dragged through her damp wig that was obediently still in place, she pushed the synthetic hair back roughly as she exhaled through her nose. “You make things… complicated.”
A breath left you, a quiet laugh but there was no humour in it. “Complicated how?” The question wasn’t to mock her, it was genuine and honest, your voice showing the clear desperation that you felt searching for a remedy to the distrust between the both of you.
And that more than anything, seemed to undo her.
Her voice dropped, softer now, rougher as it had been worn thin by the effort of holding everything else back, “fuck it” she said, and moved in, closing the distance between you in one abrupt, decisive motion. She knew if she hesitated any longer, she’d lose the nerve entirely. For half a second, it was uncertain, hovering on the edge of hesitation, like she wasn’t entirely sure how to do this, how to cross that final line she’d spent so long refusing to approach.
Ink kissed you the way she did everything else: sudden, fierce, unrelenting in its certainty once she’d made the choice. There was no softness to it at first, no careful testing of boundaries just impact, heat, and something raw breaking free all at once. Her hand gripped your thin shirt tightly, fingers curling into the fabric like she needed something solid to hold onto, like you might disappear if she didn’t anchor you there.
It wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything she hadn’t said. Everything she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for years. Everything she’d been holding back finally forcing its way to the surface all at once.
She stilled momentarily, a flicker of hesitation threading through the intensity, like she was bracing herself for you to pull away, to break it, to prove her right.
You didn’t. Instead, you reached your right hand up to cup the side of her face, to bring her assurance that you wanted this too. At the soft touch she let out a sound, and with it, the shift in her was immediate. Mirroring you, both her hands were now gripping the side of your face, pulling you in even closer, the kiss becoming deeper, messier, more desperate.
Her heart was pounding, loud enough for you to feel it in her kiss. She’d stepped off the edge and instead of falling, she’d found something there to catch her.
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a/n: hehe, sorry for the mild cliff hanger - part 3 will be smutty, you have been warned. Thanks to all who have read my stories so far, any and all comments are appreciated and LOVED.
