Warnings: fluff, public affection, teasing, married couple behavior, michael being shy and emotional, reader making michael blush on national television
before anybody asks
this is NOT a michael jackson x beyoncé fic. the reader is just inspired by 90s/2000s beyoncé aesthetics because it fit the vibe i imagined while writing 💓
Michael had embarrassed you first.
That was the defense you kept repeating to yourself backstage while your stylist adjusted the sparkling microphone in your hand.
Because how were you supposed to act normal after your husband stood on stage in front of thousands of people and sang Heaven Can Wait directly to you like the entire world wasn’t watching?
You still remembered the way the audience had screamed when the cameras cut to you in the VIP section beside Katherine and Janet. Michael had looked directly at you the entire performance, smiling that soft, devastating smile that always made your stomach flip and made you tingly.
His brothers had teased him for weeks.
“Boy was about two seconds away from jumping in that VIP section.” Jermaine had not let him live that down.
Now it was your turn.
And Michael had absolutely no idea.
The lights dimmed slowly inside Madison Square Garden, the crowd screaming as your name echoed throughout the arena.
Michael sat in the front row tonight instead of backstage for once, dressed in all black with gold accents, hands folded together while he smiled proudly toward the stage.
Your husband always looked calm before your performances.
At least until you started singing.
The second the opening notes of Speechless filled the arena, Michael’s expression changed instantly.
Janet, sitting beside him, slowly turned her head.
“Oh, she did not,” she muttered under her breath, already grinning.
Because Michael knew that look on your face.
You stepped toward the edge of the stage slowly, eyes locked directly onto him.
And suddenly the King of Pop looked terrified.
The audience noticed almost immediately.
The giant screen flashed to Michael in the crowd just as you sang the first verse softly into the microphone, your voice smooth and emotional.
Michael blinked before pointing at himself like he genuinely wanted confirmation.
“Me?” he mouthed.
The audience screamed.
You smiled without missing a note.
Yes, him.
Only him.
By the second chorus, the entire arena was losing their minds because Michael Jackson, the Michael Jackson was visibly blushing in the front row.
He tried hiding his face behind one hand while laughing shyly, shaking his head every single time the camera zoomed in on him.
Which only made the crowd louder.
“Oh my God,” Randy laughed from two seats away. “You can’t even look at her.”
Michael leaned forward, covering his mouth while smiling helplessly.
“She’s doing this on purpose,” he mumbled.
Janet nearly died laughing,
The worst part?
It was exactly like his performance
You kept walking closer.
By the bridge of the song, you were directly at the edge of the stage nearest his section, singing the lyrics so softly they almost felt private despite the thousands of people surrounding you.
Michael looked completely speechless.
Actually speechless. (get it ??)
The same man who could control entire stadiums couldn’t even form a sentence now.
All because his wife was looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky.
The camera caught him pressing his hand against his chest while smiling down at the floor shyly.
And that clip would unfortunately follow him for the rest of his life.
---------
Backstage afterward was even worse for Michael.
His brothers were crying laughing.
“I have NEVER seen a grown man blush that hard,” Tito said.
Jermaine pointed toward Michael dramatically. “Camera caught you fighting for your LIFE, I'm glad that's on recording.”
Michael groaned loudly while you laughed against his shoulder.
“You did it to me first,” you reminded him sweetly.
Michael looked down at you, squinting his eyes, trying and failing to hide his smile.
“That was private.”
“You sang to me in front of thousands of people.”
“That’s different.”
“It literally isn’t.”
Janet wiped tears from her eyes. “No, because the way this man started blushing--
“Janet.” Micheal interupted her
“I’m serious! You looked like you were about to pass out!”
Michael buried his face in your neck while everyone laughed harder.
“You all are very annoying people, I don't even know how I'm related to y'all,” he mumbled.
-------
A few days later, the concert clips went viral everywhere.
The interviewer was already grinning before the question was even asked.
“So…” she started carefully. “Your wife serenaded you on stage the other night.”
Michael instantly covered his face with one hand.
The audience erupted laughing.
“Oh no,” he muttered.
The interviewer laughed harder. “And you were caught on camera blushing through basically the entire performance.”
Michael shook his head immediately. “I was not blushing.”
The giant screen behind them immediately displayed a freeze-frame of him looking completely flustered while holding his chest.
The audience screamed.
Michael stared at the screen in betrayal.
“You all are evil people,” he said weakly while laughing.
The interviewer grinned. “People online are calling you two the most disgustingly in-love couple in music history.”
Michael tried to answer seriously.
Instead, he smiled.
That soft smile.
The one he only got whenever somebody mentioned you.
“Well…” he said quietly. “She makes me speechless.”
And somewhere backstage, you nearly passed out hearing that.
(shit i would pass out too) not my best but im slowing easing back into it guys, i missed writing.
vroom vroom
warnings: usage of fuck, injuries, mild suggestiveness r is a literal grease monkey use of y/n daniela wants that cookie real bad
synopsis: You're a mechanic, she has a lotta cars, and also an eye for pretty things she wants to own.
genre: umm i dunno
A/N: gay as hell also im tryna get back to writing more often
word count: 6.8k
The first thing Daniela noticed was the sound.
Not the music bleeding out of rehearsal rooms three floors up. Not the dull clatter of road cases getting rolled across concrete. Not the distant, familiar shouts of staff trying to coordinate something big and expensive and late.
This was different.
A sharp metallic crack, the whine of a drill, and then the low, smooth growl of an engine turning over somewhere in the back bay like it had been coaxed into obedience by force of will alone.
Daniela paused just inside the open garage doors, one hand still hooked in the strap of her bag, sunglasses perched on top of her head. The place smelled like hot metal, motor oil, rubber, and that strange clean-burn scent of machinery that had just been worked hard. It was louder than she expected, brighter too-sunlight slanting through the high windows in gold bars, catching dust and steam and the shine of polished chrome.
The company kept this garage half for necessity, half for insanity.
Stage lifts, rigging systems, custom transport platforms, touring trucks, backup generators, specialty trailers, hydraulic equipment-someone had to keep all of it alive. And because their world was also full of people with too much money and very little patience, the garage somehow also serviced personal cars. Luxury SUVs. Modified imports. Vintage nonsense someone bought on a whim because it was pretty. If it had wheels or an engine or a finicky electronic system that would absolutely fail right before something important, it ended up here.
And apparently, eventually, everything ended up with you.
Daniela had heard about you before she ever properly saw you.
Mostly in fragments.
Ask Y/n, she’ll know.
Y/n fixed it.
No, don’t send that to outside service, Y/n can do it faster.
Y/n said the truck’s fine.
Y/n said the truck is not fine and if anyone drives it anyway they deserve what happens next.
The funny part was, no one ever said your name like they were talking about a person. More like a force. A final answer. A problem solver with grease under her nails and zero tolerance for stupidity.
Daniela hadn’t paid much attention at first. She’d figured you were probably forty, grizzled, mean as hell, and built like a cinder block. Some intimidating garage tyrant with a wrench in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Then she’d actually seen you.
And unfortunately, that had made things worse.
You were under one of the show trucks when she first spotted you a week ago, boots sticking out from beneath the chassis, coveralls tied around your waist, black tank top stuck to your back with sweat. Someone had called your name from across the bay and you’d rolled out on one of those little mechanic creepers like it was a throne, one arm braced over your head, the other holding a ratchet.
Daniela had fully stopped walking.
You were absurd.
Hot in the most unfair, offensive way. Strong forearms streaked with grease. Broad shoulders. A neck damp with sweat. Rings on a few of your fingers that somehow didn’t make sense in a garage and yet looked exactly right. Your hair was shoved back messily, like you’d run your hand through it too many times to care anymore. There’d been a smudge of something dark along your jaw, and your expression-
Your expression had been the real problem.
Calm. Nonchalant. Slightly bored.
Like absolutely nothing in the world could rattle you.
Like engines obeyed you because they should.
Like if someone annoyed you, you’d just tilt your head, look at them once, and they’d start apologizing automatically.
Daniela had watched you talk to one of the transport guys, and even from a distance it had been ridiculous. He’d been flustered, gesturing too much, clearly trying to explain something. You’d just leaned back against a tool chest, listening with that heavy-lidded, unreadable face. Then you’d said something short-too quiet for Daniela to hear-and the guy had immediately nodded and hurried off to do exactly whatever you told him to.
That had been the moment.
Because obviously.
Obviously Daniela had taken one look at you and thought, well. There it is.
That is a person who definitely tells people what to do.
That is a person who wins every stare down.
That is a person who probably pins someone with one hand and says something devastatingly calm while they fall apart.
The energy was unmistakable. The vibe was outrageous. Every line of your body said control. Competence. Command.
It was, frankly, irritating.
Especially because Daniela was not the type to get thrown by hot people.
She was usually the one doing the throwing.
So she’d taken the mature route and avoided you for a week.
Which would’ve worked fine if her car hadn’t started making that noise.
She’d bought it three months ago: sleek, low to the ground, glossy black, expensive enough that several staff members had just stared when she first pulled up in it. Daniela liked beautiful things. She liked fast things. She liked things that listened when she put her hands on them. The car had seemed like an excellent decision right up until yesterday, when braking at a red light had produced a wrong-feeling shudder under her foot.
Not dramatic. Not a full failure. Just… wrong.
This morning it had done it again.
A faint jerk in the pedal. A weird catch. Enough that she noticed, and if Daniela noticed something off about a car, she was not going to ignore it.
Which was how she ended up in the garage, standing in the heat and noise with her keys in one hand and her sunglasses still perched uselessly in her hair, trying not to look like she’d come down here because she wanted an excuse to talk to the hottest mechanic she’d ever seen.
A pneumatic wrench screamed somewhere to her left.
A truck horn blared once.
Someone laughed near the parts shelves.
And then, from the far side of the bay, you straightened up from the open hood of a dark green haul truck.
Daniela forgot, briefly, how to be normal.
You had one hand braced on the hood frame and the other holding a rag, wiping grease from your fingers in slow, absent motions that did absolutely nothing to make you less filthy. Your shirt-faded charcoal, sleeves cut off-clung damply to your torso. There was sweat at your collarbone, a streak of black along one bicep, and those same heavy work boots planted apart like the concrete itself had agreed you belonged there.
Someone said something to you. You answered without looking away from the engine. The person nodded and left.
Of course.
Of course you were like that up close too.
Daniela started toward you before she could overthink it.
You glanced over when her boots sounded against the concrete, and that was somehow worse. Your gaze was steady but not intrusive. Calm. Direct. You took her in in one smooth sweep-face, outfit, keys in hand, expression-and then leaned back a little against the truck like you had all the time in the world.
“Need something?” you asked.
Your voice was lower than she expected.
Not rough exactly. Just even. Easy. The kind of voice that sounded like it never had to rise to be listened to.
Daniela slowed to a stop a few feet away.
Up close, the details got more dangerous. Smudged knuckles. A silver chain at your throat. Sweat at your temples. The lazy set of your mouth. The complete absence of fluster. It was deeply unfair, this whole thing.
She crossed her arms instead, partly because it looked cool and partly because it kept her from doing anything idiotic.
“My car’s braking weird,” she said.
You nodded once, like that told you half of what you needed already.
“Weird how?”
Daniela held up a hand, making a face. “Not a helpful weird. A bad weird.”
Your mouth twitched, almost a smile.
“Most car problems are bad weird.”
That got a small laugh out of her before she could stop it.
Right. Great. So you were funny too. Excellent.
“It jerks a little when I brake,” she said. “Not every time. But enough that I noticed. Feels off in the pedal.”
Now your attention sharpened.
Not dramatically. Just enough that Daniela could tell the switch had happened. Casual mechanic to focused mechanic. Your eyes flicked to the keys in her hand.
“What are you driving?”
She named the model.
One of your brows lifted just slightly, not impressed exactly, but registering it. “Fancy.”
Daniela smiled, slow and sharp. “Jealous?”
“No,” you said, wiping your hands again on the rag. “Fancy cars break too.”
Something about the way you said it-flat, unconcerned, entirely unimpressed by price tags or aesthetics-made her want to laugh again. Or maybe just stand here longer than necessary.
You pushed off the truck and walked toward her.
Daniela remained perfectly still.
This was because she was composed.
It had nothing to do with the fact that you moved like you knew exactly where your body was at all times and expected the world to make room for it.
You stopped in front of her, not too close, and held out your hand.
“For the keys.”
Oh.
Right.
She handed them over.
Your fingers brushed hers for half a second, callused and warm and a little rough with the residue of work. Daniela hated that she noticed. Hated more that she noticed without wanting to.
You looked down at the key fob, then back up at her. “You need it checked now?”
There it was again. That tone. Straightforward. Calm. Like if she said yes, it would happen. No fuss. No dramatics. Like things got done around you because you decided they would.
Daniela, who was very used to being the one people adjusted around, found it oddly compelling.
And also annoying.
And also hot.
Mostly hot.
“If you can,” she said.
You nodded once. “I can take a look.”
Daniela tried very hard not to seem too pleased by that.
“Okay,” she said, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near interested.
You glanced toward the open garage doors, toward the lot outside where her car was parked, then back at her.
“Show me which one’s yours.”
Daniela smiled, small and satisfied, and turned slightly toward the doors.
“Come on, then,” she said.
And you, easy as anything, followed.
****
Daniela heard her car before she saw it.
Not the dramatic kind of hear, not some cinematic roar announcing your return from a test drive like the universe was trying to hand her a problem directly. Just the smooth, low purr of her engine easing back into the bay, controlled and clean, followed by the soft chirp of brakes and the faint crunch of tires over dusty concrete as you guided it into place like you’d known the shape of it for years instead of less than an hour.
She looked up from where she’d been pretending to answer emails on her phone near the office doorway.
Pretending being the key word.
Because in reality she’d been very aware of time passing. Very aware of the garage noise rising and falling around her. Very aware that she’d sent her car away with you and that now, for reasons she did not care to unpack in any healthy or honest manner, every few minutes she found herself glancing toward the open bay and wondering when you’d come back.
Then there you were.
You killed the engine, stepped out, and shut the door with your hip. The sleeves of your shirt were still gone, your forearms still streaked in grease and dust, your hair somehow even messier than before, damp at the temples and shoved back without much success. There was sweat darkening the fabric between your shoulder blades and along your chest. A rag hung from one of your back pockets.
Daniela stared for a second too long because to be fair, the rag tugged on the pants a little and your ass was right there.
Then, before she could decide whether walking over immediately would look eager, you rounded the front of the car with a spray bottle and a rag in hand and-without the slightest ceremony-started wiping down her windshield.
Daniela blinked.
That wasn’t what she expected.
She’d expected maybe a gruff, it’s done. Maybe a list of repairs in that calm voice of yours. Maybe something annoyingly competent and brief that would force her to find some other excuse to linger.
She had not expected to find you leaning over the hood of her very expensive car, one hand braced on the glass, the other moving the rag in clean practiced arcs over the windshield while-
While eating an uncrustable.
For one surreal second her brain simply stopped.
Because your hands were visibly filthy. Not fresh-from-under-the-engine filthy anymore, but still dirty enough that obviously you weren’t going to touch food with them. Which meant you had solved that problem in a way that no normal person would have chosen and yet, somehow, on you, it looked so natural that Daniela couldn’t even call it ridiculous.
The sandwich was trapped gently between your lips.
Not fully in your mouth, just held there while you worked, and every few seconds you would tilt your head back slightly, let the edge of it drop just enough, catch a bite, and chew before nudging it back into place again-all without using your hands once.
Daniela stopped walking.
Just fully stopped, halfway across the concrete.
You looked up while dragging the rag across the top corner of the windshield and caught her staring.
And instead of being embarrassed, instead of rushing to explain, instead of looking even slightly self-conscious, you just held eye contact and took another bite.
A slow one.
Head tipped up just a little. Mouth opening just enough. Bite. Chew.
The uncrustable remained tucked in your lips through all of it.
Daniela felt heat crawl straight up the back of her neck.
This, she thought furiously, was obscene for no reason. This, she thought, was a new low even for her. How was an uncrustable hot to her?
You were wiping down her windshield while eating a sandwich hands-free like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. Sweat was sliding down the side of your throat. Your bicep flexed every time you wrung out the rag. There was a streak of black grease near your wrist and another faint smudge near your jaw, and a little smear on your cheek. And the expression in your eyes when you looked at her over the top of her car-steady, calm, unreadable-made it feel somehow worse.
Or better.
Unfortunately.
She got herself moving again and came to a stop beside the driver’s side front quarter panel, crossing her arms because she needed somewhere to put them.
You gave the windshield one last pass, then moved to the side window with the same unfussy focus.
Daniela watched you for a beat.
Then, because her mouth had to do something before her brain exploded, she said, “Lunch?”
You glanced at her and nodded once, the sandwich still held between your lips.
It should not have been as charming as it was.
It was infuriatingly charming.
She watched you finish the driver’s window, then lean back a little and take another bite. This time the corner of the sandwich shifted, and Daniela’s eyes snagged on the faint smear of purple-red jelly left behind at the edge of your mouth.
That was new information she absolutely did not need.
You chewed, swallowed, wiped the last bit of glass with a quick flick of your wrist, then finally pulled the poor crushed sandwich from your mouth with the cleanest part of the wrapper, took two proper bites in rapid succession, and finished it off like this was just a normal Tuesday.
Which it probably was for you.
You crumpled the wrapper one-handed, glanced around, tossed it neatly into a trash bin without looking, and then picked up the rag again to wipe once more at a spot Daniela couldn’t even see.
Of course.
Of course you were thorough too.
Daniela leaned a hip against the neighboring tool cabinet and tried to look like she was not at all distracted by your mouth.
“How bad was it?” she asked.
You made a small gesture with the rag, like one second.
Then you crouched beside the front wheel, checked something with a brief practiced touch, rose again, and finally stepped back from the car.
You gave the hood a light pat, then gestured vaguely toward the front end and said, “Yeah. There was a problem with the-” and then a flood of mechanical terminology followed, easy and matter-of-fact and completely understandable if Daniela had been listening with anything except the part of her brain currently occupied by your lips.
Because there was still jelly there.
Just barely.
A little dark gleam at the edge of your lower lip.
And you were sweaty in a way that should have looked rough and messy but instead just made you look warm and alive and dangerous in that lazy nonchalant way you always did, as though heat and labor only sharpened you into something more unfair.
Daniela realized with a flicker of horror that you were halfway through explaining her brakes and she had not retained a single word.
She caught, “…and here,” as you tapped somewhere near the wheel assembly. “It wasn’t gone yet, but it was heading there. You probably started feeling it because the pedal was compensating.”
Daniela stared.
Not at the wheel.
At your mouth.
You straightened, looked at her, and paused for half a second.
Probably because she had gone visibly unfocused.
Daniela recovered with the speed of a professional.
“I-” She lifted one manicured finger vaguely toward your face. “What is that?”
One of your brows lifted.
“That,” Daniela said smoothly, as if she had not just completely stopped hearing about her own car, “is a fantastic color on you. You should get a lip gloss in that shade.”
Silence.
Then your eyes narrowed just slightly, not suspicious exactly, but deeply unimpressed.
You wiped at your mouth with the back of your wrist, checked the smear there, and looked back at her.
“No,” you said.
Daniela blinked. “No?”
You held up the wrist with the jelly smear still on it like evidence in court. “This is my uncrustable. No making it fancy by being all popstar.”
Daniela laughed before she could stop herself.
It came out brighter than she intended, warmer too. The corner of your mouth twitched in response, which made the whole thing worse in a way that felt medically significant.
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head, pushing off the cabinet to wander a slow half-step closer to the car. “Actually, I’m serious. You should try a lip combo like that.”
Your face remained completely flat.
“It’s grape jelly.”
“And?”
“It’s lunch.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
You stared at her for one measured second, then another.
Daniela held your gaze, perfectly composed.
Inside, she was having an entirely separate experience.
Then you glanced toward the trash bin where the wrapper had landed and said, “Your choice of compliment being based on a sandwich is something.”
Daniela smiled, sharp and lazy. “Your choice of lunch being a disk is something.”
That finally got an actual reaction.
Not a full laugh. You did not seem like someone who gave those away casually. But there was definitely a real smile now, small and crooked and gone too fast.
“It’s efficient,” you said.
“It’s circular.”
“It is not circular.”
“It’s close enough.”
You looked offended in a way so mild it was almost theoretical. “It has corners.”
“Barely. Spiritually, it’s a disk.”
You shook your head once, like this conversation had already wandered too far from sanity to be worth correcting, and set the rag over your shoulder.
Daniela watched a bead of sweat trace down the side of your neck and disappear beneath your collar.
Terrible.
Just terrible.
“So,” she said, because she did in fact need to know whether her expensive car was about to kill her. “Can I drive it, or should I start emotionally preparing for betrayal?”
You nodded toward the front wheel. “You can drive it. I cleaned up the issue and tightened what needed tightening. But you were right to bring it in when you did.”
That got her attention back where it belonged.
Mostly.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning another week or two and it would’ve gotten louder, rougher, more obvious. You caught it early.” You shrugged one shoulder. “Good instincts.”
The compliment was simple. It still made her situation worse.
Daniela had gotten compliments from people who wanted things from her, from people who wanted to impress her, from people who wanted to be noticed by proximity alone. She got praise about her work, her looks, her performances, her instincts onstage, her ability to command a room.
But from you it sounded different.
Not indulgent. Not flattering for the sake of it.
Just true.
She found, absurdly, that this mattered.
“Well,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses where they rested on her head even though she didn’t need to. “I do have excellent instincts.”
Your gaze dipped over her face once, calm as ever.
“Clearly.”
Daniela ignored what that did to her pulse.
A forklift beeped somewhere behind you. Voices rose near the loading dock. One of the other mechanics called your name from across the bay and held up what looked like a metal bracket in question.
You glanced over. “Minute.”
The mechanic nodded and went back to whatever crisis had found him.
Daniela looked at you, then at the car, then back at you.
“You wiped the windows,” she said.
You looked mildly confused by the observation. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
You seemed to consider that.
“They were dirty.”
Daniela stared at you for a long moment.
“You fixed the brakes,” she said slowly. “And then just… detailed my field of vision?”
You gave a tiny shrug. “I was already there.”
Already there.
As though that explained anything.
As though a person being competent enough to casually add thoughtfulness on top of it was normal.
Daniela dragged her tongue slowly against the inside of her cheek.
“You are,” she said, “deeply strange.”
That earned her another flicker of a smile.
“I work here,” you said, like that was explanation enough for all eccentricities.
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Apparently.”
For a second the two of you just stood there in the noise and heat of the garage. Her car clicked as the engine cooled. Light from the high windows caught on the black paint and turned the dust in the air gold. Somewhere behind the parts shelving, someone started swearing at a printer. A radio crackled in and out with half a song. It smelled like motor oil and hot metal and clean glass and, faintly, fruit.
You hooked your thumbs into your back pockets and tipped your chin toward the keys, still sitting on the cowl near the windshield where you’d set them while cleaning.
“Want those back?”
Daniela looked at the keys.
Then at you.
Then back at the keys.
“No,” she said, because that was funny to her and also because she wanted to see what you’d do.
One of your brows went up.
She smiled innocently. “I think maybe I should hear the explanation again.”
“You already heard it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
That got a pause.
Then, with maddening accuracy, your eyes flicked over her face and settled. Reading her. Not in a way that felt invasive-just precise.
Daniela had the distinct sense that you knew exactly why she had not heard it.
Which was impossible.
And if it wasn’t impossible, it was unacceptable.
“And why,” you asked in that low even voice, “did you not hear it?”
Daniela held your gaze, refusing to be the first one to blink.
Then she said, with perfect seriousness, “I was distracted by the lip color situation.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then another.
Somewhere in the distance, something metallic clanged loudly enough to ring.
You exhaled through your nose.
Not quite a laugh. Not quite not one.
“Right,” you said.
Daniela smiled wider.
For the first time since she’d walked into the garage, you looked almost faintly thrown-not much, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for her. Enough to satisfy something mean and delighted in her chest.
You reached up, finally, and swiped your thumb properly across your lower lip. When you looked at it and saw the last trace of jelly, your mouth flattened.
Daniela watched that thumb very carefully.
Then your eyes lifted back to hers.
“Brake issue,” you said. “The front started wearing unevenly. Small enough to fix now. It probably was aAnnoying enough that you felt it in the pedal. Now it is safe to drive. Bring it back if it starts acting up again.”
Daniela nodded like she had followed every bit of it.
“See?” she said. “That was much better. Very educational.”
You stepped closer-not enough to crowd, just enough to reach past her for the keys where they sat on the glass.
Your arm brushed the air near her shoulder.
Close enough that she caught the clean salt-warm scent of sweat under oil and soap and something metallic.
You picked up the keys, then looked down at her hand.
Daniela, understanding immediately, held it out.
You dropped them into her palm.
Callused fingers brushed her skin again.
This time neither of you moved away right away.
A second. Maybe less.
Still enough.
Then you withdrew and hooked the rag back over your shoulder.
“You gonna be okay?” you asked.
The question should have been ordinary.
Instead it landed low and strange and intimate in a way she deeply resented.
Daniela curled her fingers around the keys.
“Yes,” she said, then added, “though I do think I’m owed compensation for having to witness whatever that lunch situation was.”
Your face remained unreadable. “You mean efficiency.”
“I mean a crime against sandwiches.”
“I fixed your car.”
“That doesn’t make you right.”
“It makes me busy.”
Daniela huffed a laugh and took a step backward toward the driver’s side door.
“You know,” she said, opening the door and then pausing with one hand on the frame, “I still think you should consider the lip gloss.”
You looked at her over the roof of the car, sweat-damp, grease-streaked, impossibly composed.
“No.”
“Tinted balm, then.”
“No.”
“Just a stain?”
“That was jelly.”
Daniela slid into the driver’s seat, sunglasses finally coming down over her eyes. “And yet,” she said, glancing up at you through the open door, “it worked beautifully.”
Your mouth twitched again.
There and gone.
“Drive safe,” you said.
Daniela started the engine. Smooth. Steady. No wrong shudder under her foot when she tested the brake.
Perfect.
She looked up at you one last time, standing there in the wash of afternoon light with your rag over one shoulder and sweat still glinting at your throat, and thought with a mix of irritation and satisfaction that this had gone very badly for her in exactly the way she’d expected.
Then she smiled, slow and bright and dangerous.
“Try not to miss me too much,” she said.
“I will” you retorted without missing a beat.
That was an awful thing to say to her while looking like that.
Daniela stared at you for half a second, then let out one startled laugh and pulled the door shut before you could see quite how much she liked that.
As she rolled out of the bay, she caught you in the mirror already turning back toward the rest of the garage, toward the next machine, the next problem, the next thing waiting obediently for your hands.
Like this had been nothing.
Like she had not just spent ten full minutes trying not to openly stare at your mouth while you explained brake wear with grape jelly on your lip.
She braked at the exit.
Smooth.
Perfect.
Daniela smiled to herself, tapped the steering wheel once, and drove off thinking, very clearly, that her car had not been the only thing with a problem.
She made it exactly one street over before she gave up pretending she was going to be normal about any of this.
The brakes were perfect.
Of course they were.
The pedal felt smooth under her foot, no catch, no shudder, no hint of that wrong little stutter from earlier. You had fixed it exactly the way everyone said you fixed everything-quietly, correctly, with no fuss and no attempt to make a production out of being competent.
Which meant, inconveniently, that Daniela had no practical reason to go back.
And yet.
She sat at the stop sign at the next corner with one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping once against the glossy leather, sunglasses back on now though they did absolutely nothing to help with the fact that her brain was still replaying the image of you in the sunlight with a smear of grape jelly at your mouth.
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
She should keep driving.
Instead, Daniela cut the wheel hard, made a clean U-turn in the middle of the empty side street, and headed straight back to the garage.
By the time she rolled through the open bay doors again, she had exactly half a plan and all of the confidence necessary to make that someone else’s problem.
The garage was still in motion around you. Same heat, same metallic noise, same hum of people doing expensive things to expensive equipment. Someone had moved a lighting crate near the back wall. The transport truck from earlier was gone from its spot. A red coupe sat up on one of the lifts now with its undercarriage exposed like an autopsy.
You were where she’d left you only in the way a storm could be said to still be in the same county.
Not still, exactly. Just still central.
You were leaning into the open side panel of some equipment trailer, one arm braced overhead, the muscles in your back shifting beneath that faded charcoal shirt as you reached in with a wrench. Sweat darkened the fabric between your shoulder blades. Your coveralls were tied around your hips again, hanging low, and Daniela had just enough self-awareness to know she should maybe not be noticing the way the knot sat there.
Too late.
One of the interns looked up as her car pulled back in and visibly hesitated, like he was trying to work out whether she’d forgotten something or just enjoyed making entrances.
Daniela parked near the doors, stepped out, and shut the door with deliberate calm.
The sound was enough to get your attention.
You looked over your shoulder first, then straightened all the way when you saw her. Not startled exactly. More like mildly curious. You set the wrench down on the edge of the open panel and wiped one dirty hand over a cleaner patch of rag tucked into your waistband.
Daniela started toward you.
Your gaze dropped briefly to the car, then came back to her face.
“Something wrong?” you asked.
The question was practical. Immediate. You were already halfway into problem-solving mode again, eyes flicking once toward the front wheel area like maybe you were about to go right back to work.
Daniela stopped a few feet away and hooked her sunglasses into the neckline of her top.
“No,” she said. “The car’s perfect.”
You nodded once, like yes, obviously.
Which, annoyingly, was hot too.
“Then why’re you back?”
Daniela tilted her head, studying you in the bright spill of afternoon light. Up close again, you looked even more worked-over than before-sweat at the temples, a faint streak of grease still along one forearm, hair shoved back messily by a hand that had probably not been clean when it did it. There was no jelly now, sadly. Just your mouth, which remained a problem in its own right.
She let the silence hang for one beat longer than necessary.
“uncrustables,” she said at last, “are an interesting choice.”
You blinked.
That was it. Just one slow blink. Then one brow lifted slightly.
“Okay,” you said.
Daniela crossed her arms, the corner of her mouth pulling up. “But you can do better.”
There was a pause.
“Me”
A mechanic pushing a tool cart went by behind you. Somewhere farther back a compressor hissed. The whole garage kept moving, but it felt oddly like the two of you had stepped slightly outside it.
You looked at her for a moment with that same unreadable, heavy-lidded calm that had been ruining her week.
Then: “You.. better how?”
Daniela smiled fully now, because there it was-the opening she needed.
“Dinner,” she said. “Come to dinner.”
You stared at her.
Daniela held your gaze. She was used to people reacting faster than this-flirting back immediately, smiling, posturing, rushing to meet her where she stood. But you never seemed to rush anything. You took things in. Turned them once in your hand. Decided on purpose.
It made waiting for your answer far more interesting than it had any right to be.
Finally, you asked, “You asking me out because I fixed your car or because I ate an uncrustable?”
Daniela laughed, startled enough by the line that it came out unguarded.
“That depends,” she said. “Do you want the honest answer or the one that protects my dignity?”
“The honest one.”
“You were already hot before the uncrustable.”
Something in your expression shifted.
Not much. Just a flicker. Amusement, maybe. Or satisfaction. Tiny enough that someone else would’ve missed it. Daniela, who had apparently become a scholar of your face in under two interactions, did not.
“But,” she continued, “the uncrustable situation was so deeply weird that it tipped the scales.”
You angled your head. “In my favor?”
“Massively.”
Your mouth twitched.
Daniela felt absurdly pleased with herself.
You pulled the rag free from your waistband and cleaned your hands a little more thoroughly this time, each finger one by one, though there was only so much a rag could do. “You always this decisive?”
“When I see something I like?”
“Mm.”
“Yes.”
You glanced past her toward the car, then back at her. “You know I’m at work.”
Daniela made a face. “I’m aware. I can, in fact, identify a garage.”
That earned her the smallest exhale through your nose.
“I mean,” you said, “I’m sweaty. Greasy. Covered in whatever that trailer decided to leak on me half an hour ago.”
Daniela’s eyes flicked down and back up with no shame whatsoever. “I had noticed.”
Your expression did that near-smile thing again.
She was starting to think you enjoyed making her work for every inch of visible amusement. Which, honestly, tracked with the rest of you.
“So?” Daniela asked.
You looked at her for another beat, rag dangling from one hand.
Then, simple as anything: “Okay.”
Daniela, who had absolutely not expected you to agree that easily, just stared at you.
You held her gaze, calm as ever.
“Okay?” she repeated.
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
You shrugged one shoulder. “You said come to dinner.”
“And you’re just saying yes?”
“Do you want me to make it difficult?”
Daniela laughed again, softer this time, because there was no winning against that kind of composure except maybe getting to stand near it more often.
“No,” she said. “I definitely do not.”
One of the other mechanics shouted your name from across the bay.
You turned your head enough to call back, “Minute,” without raising your voice, and somehow they still heard you clearly over everything else.
Of course they did.
When you looked back at Daniela, she was smiling in that slow, pleased way she got when something had gone exactly the way she wanted.
“Tonight?” she asked.
You nodded once. “What time?”
“Seven.”
“Where?”
She named a place downtown. You just accepted the information and tucked it away, written on a scrap piece of paper in your pocket
“Okay,” you said again.
Daniela tipped her head. “That easy?”
You leaned one shoulder against the trailer panel, wiping one last streak of grime from the heel of your hand. “You wanted something better than an uncrustable.”
“I do.”
“I’m giving you a chance.”
Daniela actually had to look away for a second, smiling despite herself.
“You’re very confident for someone who ate lunch like a feral little disk enthusiast.”
“Portable,” you said.
“Suspicious.”
“Efficient.”
“Still strange.”
You considered that with a face so serious it made her want to laugh all over again. “You’re the one who came back.”
Daniela looked at you.
“Are you always like this?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Calm enough to be annoying.”
Your mouth twitched. “Mostly.”
God.
She stepped closer without quite deciding to, stopping just inside the range that felt private without being obvious. The air around you was warmer than the rest of the garage, touched by sunlight and engine heat and your body heat besides. Up close, you smelled like clean soap buried under sweat and metal and work. It was deeply distracting.
“You know,” Daniela said, lowering her voice just a little, “I did make a whole U-turn for this.”
“Did you?”
She stared at you. “You saw me come back.”
“I saw the car.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re still here.”
The answer landed with enough precision that Daniela had to fight not to grin too visibly.
“I am,” she said.
You nodded, like that was simply another fact on the table.
Then you reached into your back pocket, fished out your phone, and held it toward her.
Daniela looked at it, then at you.
“Put your number in,” you said.
She took the phone, trying not to enjoy the tiny trust of that too much. The case was plain which was boring. She’d fix that soon. Your lock screen, when it lit under her hand, was a blurry photo of some engine part on a stand. Also of course. Soon enough though, it’d be her.
Daniela typed in her number, added her name, and then-because she was who she was-put a black heart beside it.
When she handed it back, your gaze flicked to the screen. The black heart registered. You didn’t comment.
Coward, she thought fondly.
“I’ll text you the address,” she said.
You slid the phone back into your pocket. “I know where it is.”
Daniela lifted one brow. “Do you.”
“You think I only know this garage?”
Something about that pleased her more than it should have.
“Good,” she said. “Then you can show up on time.”
“I’m usually early.”
Daniela laughed under her breath. “Of course you are.”
Someone shouted your name again, more insistently this time, followed by a muffled curse from the other side of the bay.
You glanced that way, then back at her.
“I should go stop whatever that is before it becomes expensive.”
Daniela took one slow step backward, reclaiming her own space with obvious reluctance. “Fine.”
You didn’t move yet.
She stepped forward before pecking your cheek, light enough for it to have feeling but far too little for anything to smudge on her.
For one small, strange second, the pause between you felt almost domestic in shape. Like you’d been doing this for longer than twenty minutes and one wildly successful repair. Like coming back for each other was already a habit waiting to happen.
Then you tilted your chin toward her car.
“Drive safe.”
There it was again.
That same quiet directive. Not dramatic. Not controlling. Just spoken like it belonged where it landed.
Daniela smiled, slower now.
“Yes, boss.”
That got an actual look from you. Tiny. Sharp. Interested enough to feel like she’d brushed a live wire.
It lasted maybe a second.
Then your face smoothed right back out.
“Seven,” you said.
“Seven,” she echoed.
She turned and walked back toward her car without hurrying, very aware of your eyes on her for at least the first few steps. When she opened the door, she glanced back over the roof.
You were still standing there, rag in hand, grease on your forearms, shirt damp with sweat, sunlight cutting a bright line over one side of your face.
Still watching.
Daniela smiled to herself and got in.
This time when she pulled away, she didn’t look back in the mirror until she was already at the doors.
You were moving again by then, headed back toward the chaos like the center of it had simply shifted to let you through.
Seven, she thought, easing the car out into the street.
Hi hi! Could you do ryan ross x reader smut perchance 👀 perhaps reader as a backup dancer on tour and they always catch ry staring
MY FATE WAS SEALED WHEN I MET U
NOW PLAYING ; RYAN ROSS X READER
an: YESS MORE RYAN I LOVE WRITING RYAN SM TYSM FOR THE REQ!!! I hope you liek it. I’m SOOO sorry that this took so long, I’ve been very busy with school and haven’t had the time or motivation to write as much as I use to
tags: semi public, jealous Ryan 👀👀, mostly vanilla, praise, protection, gn reader
wc: 1.4k
It was pretty dark, the night sky clear as day. The stars danced around while the moon beamed brightly, lighting up the dark sky that engulfed everything.
You were dripping sweat, your costume sticking to your skin like sticky honey.
It wasn’t bad being a backup dancer but the venue was definitely hot and humid you were sure your makeup might’ve sweated off. You made tons of new friends like Katie and Dusty, who you were friends with immediately when you guys met and were attracted to the hip ever since, they were like your sisters.
You were also pretty close with the band members like Brendon who always chatted with you when both of you guys got a chance and Spencer and Jon as well.
They were all ever sweet and friendly!
Except for Ryan, he always seemed quite distant towards you, like he was holding a grudge against you, as if you cursed his whole family forever, even though you guys didn’t really talk that much.
Only a few small conversations you always saw him glaring at you across the room or even on the tour bus.
It was especially prominent when you’re around Brendon which was pretty often.
Brendon was very touchy in a friendly way when it came towards you, always having his arm around your shoulder and he gets especially clingier when a drop of booze touches his tongue.
You changed into some more comfortable clothes and took off your makeup which felt so refreshing, you walked towards the band's tour bus and sat down next to Brendon on the black couch, Brendon seemed like he always had something up his sleeve especially when he’s really close to you, which you didn’t seem to mind but a certain guitarist did.
As Brendon was talking your ear off inching closer to you and draping his arm around your shoulder and his other arm doing random gestures as he talked about something you weren’t really paying attention to and kind of just nodded, acting like you’re listening. You could feel Ryan’s daggers looking at you too even though Spencer was talking to him on the other side of the bus.
“Hello? Earth to Y/N? Are you even listening to me?!” Brendon said, waving his hand to snap you out of your gaze, “Huh? Oh— yea I’m listening but is it just me but I can literally feel Ryan’s glare burning through me.” You said in a whisper tone, not wanting Ryan to hear your conversation.
Brendon hummed, looking over at Ryan. He smirked, seeing Ryan's angry expression; he was practically red with it. Brendon smirked, leaning closer to your ear and whispering something Ryan couldn’t lip-read or hear, which just made him angrier.
What if Brendon was flirting with you?
That made Ryan’s blood boil but he chose not to do anything and act like he doesn’t care, not even one bit even if his bones are telling him to go over there and kiss you right then and there.
…
After a few hours, most people decided to head to bed since it was getting late, it was now just you and Ryan. You kind of assumed he was gonna go to sleep as well, but he didn't.
He sat on the other side of the bus awkwardly, tapping his fingers on his thigh.
Slowly you inched towards Ryan, now sitting next to him. Your knees at times bumping into each other, it was definitely a very uncomfortable silent situation,
“Sooo… how was the performance for you?” You said awkwardly trying to start a conversation with Ryan as he looked at the horizon.
“It was fine, just tons of fan girls screaming my name. The usual.” He huffed which made you giggle. His cheek turns a pinkish undertone hearing you giggle.
“Hey uhm— I have a question for you Ry, why do you always look at me? Especially when it came to our performance and well…”
You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, “I always saw you looking or at least glancing at me every time, and yet, every time I tried to have a conversation with you. You’re just so distant.”
Ryan gulped nervously, he really didn’t know what to say or do.
I mean it was true he was quite distant with you, he didn’t hate you it was actually quite the opposite. He kept closing his mouth and opening it again, like a fish out of water until he smashed his lips against yours.
Your eyes widened in surprise but slowly you accepted it and wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing you guys closer together.
When you guys finally parted ways, you guys were panting heavily trying to catch your breath, “I-I’ve loved you Y/N for a long time and, and I know I’ve been giving you the cold shoulder but I really do like you—” You cut him off by shushing him which made him slightly surprised.
“I want you to show me how much you love me rather than telling me” you said in a teasing tone and winked.
Which led you both to both crashing into each other's lips, tongues dancing around as you guys felt up each other's bodies and stumbled onto the tour bus's bed which was very cramped but had to do. You lay there while Ryan was on top of you, mesmerized and taking every inch of your body.
You guys were both half naked, and tried to quickly take off your pants, “Fuck… Y/N you’re so beautiful.” He said kissing your neck possessively and went down to your stomach making you whine, your hole soaking your underwear.
“I love you so much Y/N…” He groaned, taking off his boxers and your underwear, he grabbed a condom he had in his pocket and ripped it open.
Slowly rolling it on his hard cock that stood up tall confidently, “Fuck— I love you so much Y/N you’re so perfect, I want you to be all time.” He whispered against your ear before slowly putting his cock in your hole.
You gasped slightly at the pain with the mix of pleasure, as you tried to adjust to the size of Ryan’s cock plunging into you.
“You’re so tight— God,” Ryan mumbles.
After a few minutes of adjusting you nodded, allowing Ryan to move, he thrust inside of you groaning in the process as you whimpered trying to keep as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake up anyone on the bus, “Ryannn~ feels too good..”
You whined your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms wrapped around his neck and you whined and whimpered against his ear.
Ryan kept thrusting into you at a steady pace hitting your G-spot now and then causing you to see white as you blissed your way into pleasure, your eyes rolled back as your tongue lolled out, “F-Fuck Y/N you’re mine… fuck ‘m close…” You panted nodding, not being able to form any words from being fucked out you were.
A few thrusts and Ryan slammed into your hole groaning as he came, his cum trapped inside the latex that covered his cock.
You moaned loudly as you literally saw heaven when you came. Spasming on Ryan’s cock, Ryan’s hand immediately covered your mouth. Muffling the sound of your moan.
Both of you caught your breath as he pulled out, throwing away the condom in the nearest trash can. He lay on top of you as you played with his chocolate hair.
Your sweaty bodies against each other until you guys fell asleep peacefully in each other's embrace.
…
The next morning when you guys finally woke up from a restful sleep, you guys got dressed inside the bed that was covered by the curtain giving you guys a little privacy from the outside.
When you guys finally got out of the bus some people looked extremely tired from the restless night they had or like Brendon, smirking and winking at both of you guys.
“What’s the matter, guys?” You yawned rubbing your eyes from tiredness
Brendon whistled teasingly, “Next time when you guys have sex maybe try to keep it down or do it somewhere else, I was right below you guys and I could hear anything and even the squeaks from the bed.”
You embarrassingly turned your head to Ryan who was already looking at you with a red face in embarrassment. Immediately, you guys tried to excuse and reason with yourself which didn’t work obviously since mostly everyone. Heard everything.
warnings: Haymitch's perspective, slight angst, porn with too much plot, emotional Haymitch, drinking, overthinking (self deprecating), f/m smut, soft dom Haymitch, making love not fucking (but fucking too)
summary: you're such a little stuck up princess the second the train leaves 12, acting like a capitol girl. Haymitch is sick of it, but with a little coaxing, maybe you arent as bratty as he had thought.
A/N: so sorry for the months since my last fic.. i had one almost finished then deleted it by accident. was genuinely heartbreaking. this is NOT an ask, but ASKS ARE ALWAYS OPEN!! i love any and all feeback + reposts, i look at everything! did i mention asks are open?
have a nice read ♡
The Capitol; beauty, wealth, significance, ease. The definition of luxury. With a simple location change, the district scum could forget their mistreatment in absolutely no time. Just like you did.
Haymitch couldn't help but to judge. Sure, he abused the free selection of drinks, but you? It was like you completely changed when you arrived. Abandoning him every year with the tributes, rarely speaking to him or them.
It was like you wanted them to die on your watch.
Detached behind the scenes, yet when the cameras were on you, you worked them like you had private lessons from Flickerman. All smiles and positivity and, quite frankly, more charm than he had ever managed himself. Selling your tributes to the audience the way you had before your own games.
Some sickly impressive show of survival instinct, such a dramatic shift from your demeanor at home. The sweetest girl turned manic at the sight of gold and cat whiskers. You would get at least three new tattoos every year. You would buy a whole new closet worth of clothes. You weren't you.
So to see you sitting across from him, the pretty little Seam girl he grew to adore, turned complete stranger when you got off that train every year.. He couldn't articulate his true feelings. His bemusement with you back home had begun to turn cold when you behaved so strangely.
Half of him still saw you as the kid you had been the first time you were in the capitol; small but smart, articulated but loud. Admirable.
But the part that was far from sober, the dense and hurt bit that was looking at you now, was disgusted.
He had come with you because you offered, hoping for at least a fragment of your normal self to shine through when you were alone with him. Yet as you lay on your stomach getting a fresh back tattoo, all he could think of was what could be.
You had been so reserved around others, but when you were on his couch, sitting close to his side, you always giggled and joked, squealed and snorted. Encouraged any semblance of humor he could muster. You changed him, transformed him from a bitter, aging man to someone all-together new.
If only you knew that he was putty in the palm of your hand, one of Pavlov's dogs salivating at your attention, confused when it led to nothing of substance or nothing at all. He groaned aloud, placing his empty glass on the table next to him as he stood from the crushed red velvet couch.
He stumbled away from you, thoughts a cesspool of his adoration and contempt for you swirling together into an incoherent dumpster fire he wasn't sure he'd be able to decipher sober.
He wondered if he would ever tell you he loved you. If you would give a damn, if you would say you loved him back. If you would call him a disgusting old man or reject him in a more painful way than he could imagine.
His currently muted rationale was very well aware that you were truly nicer than that, you had always admired him and would never treat him the way his irrational fears were promising you would. He knew your insanity was part of the same defense mechanism you used to win, it was the way you defended yourself from breaking apart every year, but it didn't hurt any less.
He grabbed a whole bottle from the parlor's bar, bringing it back with him. When he entered, you craned your neck to look at him. A confident smile graced your lips and he attempted to reciprocate, but could barely manage.
He was crumbling, overwhelmed and drunken and becoming irritable. Why were you doing this to him? Why was he letting you dominate his thoughts in the way only you could? You were always there for him and he had never been so frustrated with your behavior this year when it had barely been a minor issue in the past?
He knew why, he knew only he had the power to mend this emotional turmoil you had thrown him in. Because in reality, he had reached the apex of infatuation. He had to tell you, and it would either be from you breaking him or on his own terms.
He took his seat back on the couch across from you, allowing himself to take in your form. The current tattoo you were receiving was a pair of angel wings, stretching from your shoulder blades to right above your rounded ass. His eyes traced the shape of your curves, the tight little black thong causing your hips to bulge ever so slightly around the strings.
He felt his blood pumping to his groin in no time and forced himself to avert his gaze, shifting uncomfortably to hide his erection. His awkward shuffle caused your artist to look up, giving a low chuckle that caught Haymitch's attention. He kept his eyes trained away from the two of you, doing his best to distract himself from the crude imagery flowing much too freely through his consciousness.
"What's so funny?" Your muffled voice came from the jacket bawled up under your head. Your artist simply shook his head and dismissed you with a 'nothing'. You persisted though, arching your back and propping your arms beneath you to look around.
"C'mon Cyprus, let me in on the joke," you giggled, his favorite sound in the world breaking through the night's resentment and reminding him that you were still you. Your eyes shifted to Haymitch, and he was lucky as hell that your angle stopped you from glimpsing his hard-on. You flashed him a grin.
"Lay your head back down, pretty girl," the words fell from his tongue smoothly but he felt far away. "Don't want cyprus to accidentally clip your wings now, do you?" He offered you a drunken grimace for a smile, your giggles encouraging him.
"What does that even mean?" You questioned into your makeshift pillow, clenching and unclenching your fists. "You ain't gonna clip my wings, are you, Cyprus? You better not."
Haymitch could barely make out your muffled words, but you were back. The normal you, lying ten feet from him.
Maybe he should have accompanied you to at least one of your last 6 tattoo appointments. Were you always this.. Unburdened? Free from the shackles of fear, needles poking into your numbed skin, beautiful and pain free the whole process with the Capitol's high-tech ointments purely for cosmetics like this.
Bile rose in his throat when he remembered that ink drilled into your skin had you fucking pussywhipped for Snow.
His spiteful glare flickered from the back of your head and up to Cyprus as he let out a finalizing sigh and leaned back, flicking his machine to a halt.
"You're done, angel," He announced. "Take a peek in the mirror, see if you're happy with it." You launched yourself from the table, giddy with excitement. Scampering over to the mirror, you backed yourself up until your ass was nearly touching the surface, pastie clad tits bouncing as you tiptoed back until you had a clear view.
Haymitch should definitely have come with you sooner.
"Ugh," you groaned, face filling with satisfaction. "I look sexy, Cyprus. God himself lent you his hands for this one."
What you did next took Haymitch by such shock, he wasn't sure he would've been able to shield your eyes from his election if he'd tried.
You sauntered over to him, confidence in your stride, jiggling thighs and tits taking every last ounce of self restraint to avoid staring at. When you reached him, you turned your back to him. You placed your palms on his thighs and sat down on his knees, leaning forward to give him a full, perfect view of your back.
"What'cha think, Haymitch?" You crooned, and what he took for pure confidence before became something that felt near intimate, your tone setting his stomach ablaze.
"You make quite the pretty angel, sweetheart." He rasped, voice nearly catching in his throat. When you giggled and shifted your weight from his lap, his first instinct was to pull you back. So much so, that he actually reached for your hips.
The split second he wasted allowed you to stand and look back at him, and of course, your eyes flickered to the noticable arousal in his jeans. You flushed, confidence transformed into something fiercer, something that took more than yourself to exist.
Lust.
All it had taken was that one little touch, your plump ass planted on his knees, and the floodgates burst.
"C'mere, girl, let me get that finished up for you." Cyprus spoke, breaking your wide eyed stare from Haymitch. His neglected bottle took the entirety of his attention now, the lingering, consuming focus on you previously needing a new target.
Yet, as he took a big swig, avoiding letting his eyes even wander within ten feet of your spot, he was scarcely aware of anything aside from your presence.
"All good, love," Cyprus announced, helping you up from the table, the pleather surface sticking to your sweaty skin. You sauntered to Haymitch's side, slipping your arms through the sleeves of your jacket.
"I've got your bill," Haymitch grunted, approaching the register in the parlor. You attempted to protest but he ignored you, paying up and tipping generously as you struggled into your pants. You had just finished knotting your boots as he reached the door to leave. Your long ass Capitol escort limo was faithfully parked aside the sidewalk. Haymitch stepped out the door and held it for you to follow suit.
The drive back was tense. You stared. Unlike he'd ever seen you, something strange in your gaze. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, reaching to pick up the bottle he snatched from the shop. He offered it to you, tensing as your fingers brushed over his.
"Somethin' on your mind?" He questioned lowly, watching the way you shook your head while sipping, eyes never leaving his. "Keep mean-mugging me and I might start feelin' hurt." He rasped, half to himself and half to you.
"'M sorry," You whispered, eyes dropping to the floor. His heartbeat swiftened, what did you mean by that? What could you be apologizing for when you just ruined his entire concept of what you felt for him and made him want nothing but you?
"What're you sorry for, princess?" He questioned softly.
"I pushed it in the shop, that was inappropriate," You sounded guilty. "I know you're not like that."
"Like what?" He asked, pushing off of the seat and turning to sit next to you.
"Uh," You stumbled over your words, unsure of what to say. "Well, I know you aren't one to..." You trailed off, yet he understood what you were trying to say. He wasn't one to sleep around. Hadn't been. He hadn't touched a woman aside from you in years, so of course you'd get that impression.
"One to touch women?" He offered, and you flushed red.
"That's not what I was going to say!" you exclaimed, a giggle breaking through as you smacked his arm.
"But you'd be right," He countered. "Ain't touched a woman in years." He was so close to you, breath fanning your neck, and yet you didn't seem to notice.
"That's.. embarrassing." You grimaced.
"Unless you count yourself," He smiled. "Rubbin' that ass on me like you wanted a little more than for me to just look at that tattoo, huh?"
"Well, that's kinda why I'm apologizing, Hay."
"Uh-huh."
"Uh-huh.."
He grabbed your hip, gently pressing his lips to your neck. He had an arm behind you, supporting himself against the tinted window.
"Mind showing it to me again? Didn't get to look at the details." And there it was. His offer to you, a choice motivated by something he wasn't sure you had. You finally met his eyes, practically cradled in his warmth, nose grazing the scruff on his chin. You sat like that for a moment, the only noise a mix of quiet music about sex and your own breathing.
"Of course. You sat through the appointment, didn't you?" You stood, hunched over as to not hit your head on the ceiling. You moved until you were hovering over his lap and sat down slowly. He didn't hesitate to put his hands on your hips this time. He heard the unzipping of your jacket and watched as you pulled it off. You shrugged it down until the only thing it was covering was your ass on his lap. He swallowed hard as you pulled it away and to the floor.
"It suits you," He was so quiet, as though speaking up would scare you away. "Beautiful angel."
"What?" You craned your neck to look back at him. "What did you call me?"
"Nothin'," He felt a pit open up in his stomach. "It looks good on you." He was gripping your hips tight, tighter than he'd ever dared to hold onto you. You wriggled out of his grip though, and he feared the moment was over, but you turned and faced him, lips brushing against his cheek.
"Say it," You whispered. But instead of obliging you, he roughly trailed his hand up your spine, stopping as he wrapped his fingers around the back of your neck, massaging with his thumb. A light whimper escaped from you as he watched goosebumps rise on your skin.
"Fuck," He groaned, picking you up and pushing you to the floor of the vehicle in one swift movement, pinning you beneath himself. You gasped and he chuckled. "So fucking sick of the games you play, sweetheart." Your eyes widened.
"Huh? What games-" You attempted to speak, but his lips were on yours. Sparks flew as years of quiet glances and deafening laughter collided at last. It took you a moment before you reciprocated, confusion, as you tried to finish your sentence. He kissed you hard, short circuiting your senses with deep love he'd waited to show you for so long.
He could take the distance. He could handle the cold. You could give him frostbite every day of the year, so long as you let him kiss you like this for one more second. And of course, you did. Every moment of uncertainty became a single vision of one thing; he was a fucking idiot.
Of course you felt the same. How could you not, it wasn’t like there was anyone else either of you could even somewhat relate to. You were his lighthouse in the open sea of trauma and fear, and with your lips molding perfectly to his, he knew he was the same to you.
“Don’t listen to me, sweetheart. Don’t listen to a word I say,” He sighed against your lips. “Just let me love you.” You sucked a sharp breath in at his words. He looked in your eyes and watched your irises disappear, watched the smile form, felt the warmth spread from every point of contact he had with your body. He had so much contact with your body. His chest pressing into yours, one hand pinning both of yours above your head and the other supporting himself so he wasn’t fully crushing you. His knee slotted between your plush thighs.
“Am I supposed to listen to that?” You questioned softly. “Should I let you ‘love me’, Haymitch?” And all he could do was smile. Before he could answer you, the limo halted.
He attempted a quick maneuver off of you, but was quickly reminded by oncoming vertigo and aching knees that he was in fact not young enough for that. He pressed a kiss to your temple before rolling onto his back on the floor next to you. You sat up and looked over at him, smiling. As you helped his sorry self from the ground and towards the door just in time for the valet to open it, he saw something shift in your demeanor once more.
Your grin turned bittersweet and your eyes filled with the sort of sorrow he had felt for decades. He wanted to pull you back to him that instant, embrace you with the warmth your smile had given him moments before. But he let you step out, he followed suit, and he wrapped his arm around your waist as two peacekeepers led you to the elevator, swiping a keycard and pressing a button on the outside of the transportation before the doors opened and you stepped in, immediately soaring towards the penthouse.
He somewhat expected tension- for you to pull back and hide from him once more. But instead, he simply felt a sadness he hadn’t truly seen before radiating from you. Your breath, your movements, your goddamned, beautiful eyes, all hurting in a way he knew all too well and wished he could fix. The two of you sat on the loveseat in the lounge of District 12’s annual abode and caught up on the parts of the games you missed while you were at the shop.
He saw you cry. Something you rarely did in front of him anymore. Not since the months after your survival of the Games. With all of your behavior, he knew he should be concerned. Yet, he knew this was nothing new. You had felt this way every waking second of every day, and yet a kiss was all it took for you to finally feel vulnerable enough to show it to him.
With a flicker, the footage on the screen looped. The young boy from your district was standing still, leaning against a black barked tree, until realizing the girl from 9 was quickly approaching. He turned and began running, surely outpacing her by an insane amount, before he stopped and bounced back strangely. As he fell, it became clear he ran into something. Shining tripwire was laced back and forth between two trees.
Before you could take it all in again, Haymitch flicked a button on the remote and shut the footage off. The blood making the wires visible, the ripped flesh of the boy, his wide eyes, the cannon, seen once and avoided until necessary to be seen again.
Haymitch looked at you. Watery eyes to the floor with your arms wrapped tightly around your legs. He sighed and pulled you towards him, your strange position causing you to collapse into his lap. He coaxed you to sit up, your knees pressing into his thigh and your forehead to his shoulder. He placed a hand on your hip and with no further urging, you moved until you were straddling his lap.
This wasn't new; you’d sat on his lap before, accepted affection as comfort when words weren’t enough, exactly as right now. But something about it was different. Something in your breath fanning against his neck, the twitching of your hips, as if you were trying as hard as you possibly could to be still. It was a horrible time- you had just sobbed next to him, but you were so close, so pretty.
“Haymitch,” He would’ve never heard you if your lips weren’t so close to his ear. “Can I sleep in your room tonight?” He nodded without hesitation. This wasn’t new, either. Nightmares plagued the two of you constantly, and when it got bad, he was always here, right next to you.
Wordlessly, he stood with you in his arms. You yelped, he almost dropped you, but in a few moments he was walking down the hall with you steady in his arms. You had your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers intertwining in his hair as he turned and opened the door with his hip after a moment of struggle.
He carried you to the bed and laid both of you down gently. He knew it was no different from your own, just as your homes in the Victor’s Village were the same. The Capitol handed you both so much, and if it weren’t so impersonal you could take it as a reward. Never an apology, though. Just a fucked way of keeping Victors complacent after killing other children and having friends die in front of them. Payment for participating in the show, for being an entertainer.
He was brought back to reality as you curled your body into his, forehead to his chest and little hands tracing patterns on his abdomen. He couldn’t help but smile at how soft you looked. He felt bad, but he sat up and slipped his shirt from his back. You stayed curled up, but watched him carefully. When he laid back down, you moved closer. Chin on his pec and temple on his bicep, you ran your fingertips through his chest hair.
He moved his hand to the back of your head, practically petting you. You gave him a small smile, eyes flickering to meet his. You both sat like that for a moment, methodical movements continuing in a comforting manner. Your eyes began to water and he brought his palm to your cheek, you closed your eyes and he pulled you towards himself.
Your lips met his, softly melding against his own. He set a slow pace, and you pushed yourself closer to him, clamoring up the bed until you were straddling his stomach. He placed his hand carefully on your hip and wrapped the other around your waist, sitting up and placing you beneath him without breaking your kiss. You pulled back for air, hand bracing yourself on his chest.
“You’ve been so damn good to me, Haymitch.” You whispered. “Thank you for everything.” A tear slid down your cheek and he kissed it.
“Don’t thank me, sweetheart.” He pecked at your neck and you choked up a sob. He felt himself cringe, hurting to see you in pain. He held your jaw between his fingers. “Let me make you feel better, pretty girl. Please?” And you nodded between your tears. He offered you a soft smile.
He made quick work of undressing you, having you fully bare beneath him in a matter of minutes. He couldn’t stop just caressing you, running his fingers from your neck to your breasts, from your ribs to your hips. He watched gooseflesh rise on your skin and began kissing your tits, soft little pecks filled with love and care, tongue flicking at your pebbled nipples, giving you love bites until purple marks covered almost every square inch of your top half.
You laid there, breathing heavy and whining quietly as he entertained himself and pleasured you. His lips began gravitating downwards, and soon enough your bare thighs were sticking to his shoulders as he lapped at your cunt. He had you a moaning mess beneath him, hips twitching and toes curling. Tongue fucking you into oblivion, he brought you to the edge and pushed you right back down. He knew what he was doing and he was relishing in your frustrated pleasure.
“H-Haymitch, stop, just make me- fuck, please?” Your mumbling was barely understandable but he chuckled nonetheless. “I know you’re doing that on purpose, please just-” He began relentlessly repeating all of the little things he had noticed you liked in the short time he had been squeezed between your thighs, holding eye contact as he pushed you over the edge.
You screamed his name, fists balling up in his hair as you humped his face. He was rock hard against the mattress and let you come down before pulling himself away.
He collapsed next to you and you giggled at him, grinning as you reached forward to wipe your slick from his beard. He stuck his tongue out and tried to lick it from his own face. You blushed and he kissed you once more.
“Do you want to fuck me, Haymitch?” You asked, looking deep into his eyes with such genuine question he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Of course I fuckin’ do, sweetheart,” He rasped, and you smiled, leaning in once more.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
And quicker than he thought possible, he had your knees hooked over his elbows and his cock dipping between your sopping folds. As he sank into you, he had to stop for a moment. Halfway sheathed in your mound and he was already holding on for dear life. Tight, wet, and pulsing with need, he was halfway to heaven and getting all the way without cumming was a task.
Over the next minute or so, he took his time filling you and letting you adjust to his size. You were ready faster than he had anticipated and he wasn’t going to keep you waiting. Slow and deep, he had you trembling in a matter of thrusts.
“You have no fucking idea how long I’ve dreamed of this, sweet girl,” He grumbled. “More perfect than I could’ve ever imagined.” The praise began spilling out of his mouth. He rambled on and on about how good your pussy was, words distracting him from his pacing until he was fucking you into the mattress fast and hard. He was sure you couldn’t hear a word he was saying over your own moans.
“Haymitch, I’m gonna-” You were gasping for air, tears streaming down your face for no reason other than pleasure now. “Faster- fuck, harder!” You cried out, and he obeyed without question. He threw your legs over his shoulders and leaned forward to support himself, your knees to your chest as he plunged into you with more force and speed than he had ever imagined you could take.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmy-” Your incomprehensible cries turned to one long, drawn out whine as your whole body tensed, nails digging into Haymitch’s back as you came hard around his cock. Your pussy clenched like a vice around his dick and his hips stuttered. He fucked you through your orgasm before pulling out and finishing all over your belly.
With an exasperated sigh, he fell once more to your side. He pulled you into him, sweaty arms sticking to your back as he held you tightly to him. You said nothing, head resting against him once more as you stared at his face.
“Thank you,” you finally said, face glimmering but devoid of tears this time.
“No need to thank me, sweetheart.” He grinned.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know,” His heart raced in his chest, not expecting that response from you. A smile spread across your lips. “I love you, too.”
Hi, I don't know if you've written for Bruce yet but could you do a polar opposites fic with him? Like his girl is the scary mean one in the relationship and he's the soft spoken one who is the only one who can calm her down.
Hothead
Bruce Banner x Fem!Reader
[A/N] I haven't written for Bruce yet, this is my first Bruce request! ❤️ I loved this request, this version of reader was so fun to write 🥰 Thanks my lovely, hope you enjoy this one 😘
Admittedly, people were surprised when Bruce started dating you. Especially your fellow Avengers. Over the years they’d all taken care to keep a calm environment when Bruce was around – for obvious reasons. Tony occasionally pushed the boundaries because of course he did but otherwise people were always careful around him. Bruce hated it but what could he do? He understood their hesitance, their worry. He just wished he could be treated like the rest of the team rather than something fragile.
That was why you’d been such a breath of fresh air.
You’d joined the Avengers the week previously. Against your will and you weren’t shy about telling people that fact. You had the power of pyrokinesis, able to create and manipulate fire. It was something you’d struggled to control for the majority of your life until things had finally come to a head and you’d been faced with two options – serve time in a federal, secure facility or join the Avengers.
“That Tony Stark! How do you stand him?” You’d burst into Bruce’s lab, pacing up and down “He’s so fucking patronising! Just because he’s rich he thinks he can talk to people however he wants. Ugh!”
You’d felt your hands warming up, a telltale sign your powers were activating without your input, and you’d taken a deep breath – you’d found over the years that the usual anger management techniques didn’t work for you. You’d always had a problem with your temper, ever since you were a kid. There was the infamous incident in kindergarten when you’d tackled that girl to the ground and pulled her pigtails because she’d said the hat you were wearing was ugly. At first it hadn’t been a problem. You were just a normal albeit angry kid. Until the day your powers had activated for the first time.
Bruce hadn’t officially met you yet – he’d heard about the new girl with the literal fiery temper and had been warned to stay away until you were more settled, until your power was under control. Whenever that would be. He’d watched you clenching your fists and not wanting a fire in his lab, he’d reached over and put his hand on your arm “Hey. The breathing’s irritating I know but the box method works sometimes. Inhale for three, hold for three and then release for three.”
You’d glanced at him and then followed his instructions, keeping your gaze on him. Bruce had smiled “There we go. Working, right?”
You’d nodded, unclenching your fists – the breathing had helped but what had helped even more was his hand on your arm, grounding you. In the past people had ran for cover when your temper got the better of you but clearly Bruce knew a thing or two about anger. He hadn’t been scared of you. You’d taken another deep breath “What else helps?”
“Writing my thoughts down in the evening. I like Science, that helps. Absorbing myself in my hobbies.” Bruce had studied you “What did Tony do to wind you up then?”
You’d gone off on a rant, telling him all about your latest issue with Tony – the two of you hadn’t instantly clicked. It wasn’t like you’d chosen to be an Avenger and you’d found Tony to have too much of a hero complex. His patronising tone during training hadn’t helped either. You’d accidentally caused a fire every day that week “I’m still learning though!” You’d burst angrily “It’s not like I like losing control! He’s acting like I’m doing it on purpose. Aren’t you guys meant to be teaching me this stuff? He doesn’t have a fucking clue what it’s like.”
Bruce knew how that felt though. It hadn’t taken him long to ask you out.
Going on actual dates proved difficult for you both because of your powers so he’d arranged a picnic for you both on the roof of the compound. It had gone well but you were frustrated again about how training had gone that day “I worked with Natasha.” You’d told him “It was okay, she’s okay. She was showing me self-defence, fighting skills, I don’t know, whatever. I was struggling to understand this one move she was showing me so I started to get angry. She sprang back like I was going to explode; Steve was already grabbing the fire blanket for God’s sake.”
You’d sighed heavily, looking out at the night sky “How do you put up with it? With everyone treating you like you’re a bomb waiting to explode?”
Bruce had shrugged “I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t be the same. People are… Frightened of what they can’t control. What they can’t predict.”
“Are you scared of me?”
Bruce had laughed and shaken his head “No… No, I’m not.”
You’d looked at him and admitted quietly “I scare myself sometimes.”
“I know what you mean. I scare myself too.”
It had been so nice to talk openly with someone who had truly understood him. After your fifth date you’d made it official and Bruce became your boyfriend. He’d told the Avengers about it and had just about managed to swallow down his irritation when they’d all shared concerned looks with each other. Steve had been the one to gently suggest it might not be the best idea. He'd brushed off their concerns.
Bruce was quickly falling in love with you. You were funny and smart, and really pretty. But what Bruce loved the most about you was that you weren’t afraid to get angry not just in front of him but at him too “You said we were gonna meet at seven, why are you still farting around in the lab at half past?” You’d roared at him, getting even more annoyed when he’d simply smiled in response. He’d had to whisk you out of the lab quickly before you lost control of your power again.
Your training continued and whenever you felt your temper rising they began to send Bruce to calm you down. Anyone else telling you to take deep breaths or to hit the punching bag only sent you into a further rage. But Bruce? Gently putting his hand on your shoulder was all you needed to start calming down. His voice always remained soft, his thumb stroking over your skin as you took the infuriating deep breaths.
People began to treat Bruce differently after that – less like he was going to explode at any given moment; his reputation had shifted in people’s eyes. He was the soft-spoken, calm one, the reliable one, the only one who could calm your fiery temper. Overtime people became less wary around you too – it became a running joke that if you were starting to lose your temper they’d have to call for Bruce “Off she goes.” Tony would tease “Better call the green one.”
One night you’re spending the night in Bruce’s room, his fingers stroking through your hair when you mumble “Do you think I’ll ever stop being angry?”
“I don’t know. What makes you so angry?” Bruce asks quietly, his fingers moving to run up and down your arm.
“I don’t really know. I’ve always had a strong sense of justice I guess.” You reply “I don’t like bullying. Or people who think they’re better than other people.” You hesitate “I guess if I didn’t care so much I wouldn’t be so angry.”
“If you didn’t care so much you couldn’t be an Avenger.” Bruce smiles “Not that you wanted to.”
“Don’t, I was so mouthy when I got here.” You cover your face with your hands “I had the wrong idea. I’d seen all the devastation; I thought you guys didn’t care. I was wrong.”
“Act first; think second, that’s your motto.” Bruce teases, his arm going around your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“I really don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Keep the anger at bay. Keep… You know at bay.”
“Well, I don’t always. Sometimes it gets the better of me.” Bruce admits quietly “I just try my best though. Because what’s the alternative? I lose my temper; the other guy comes out and destroys a city. I don’t want that.”
“I don’t know how to control my temper though. And that means the fire comes.” You turn to face him, pressing your face to his chest “I set my childhood home on fire. I can’t even remember now what made me so angry but I just saw red and before I even knew what was happening the place was up in flames. My parents were lucky to get out alive. My baby sister was in her crib, she could’ve…” You cut yourself off, swallowing the lump in your throat “They never told on me. About the powers. Told me to try and control them but they didn’t trust me in the house after that. Never left me with my sister alone, even when we were older.”
“If they didn’t let you in the house, where did you-”
“We moved out of the city and they bought me a trailer. I lived in the backyard by myself. They barely had anything to do with me. We don’t speak these days.”
“How did the government find out about your powers?”
“I lost it at work, you know, my old job. We had this client, he was making a claim. It was a fair one; it was in his paperwork, he should’ve got it… They screwed him on a technicality. I’d tried to argue on his behalf but was told to not get involved. My boss had this horrible, smug look on his face. He had so much money, this guy didn’t, and I just… Lost it.” You take a deep breath “Everyone made it out except for my boss. My powers had finally killed someone. I’m very lucky I didn’t go to prison.”
Bruce presses a kiss to the top of your head “It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was and you know it.”
“You didn’t ask for these powers. And how were you meant to learn to control them if you’d been told since you were a kid to suppress them?” Bruce kisses your forehead “You know what? I don’t think the trick is to stop being angry. Don’t stop being angry at the injustices in the world. You just gotta learn to live with that anger.”
“Is that what you did?”
“Yep. I’m angry too… All the time. You can’t let it control you though. Easier said than done, trust me I know.” Bruce leans his forehead against yours “I’m here though. And you’re gonna get a handle on your powers. You’re getting better every day.”
You meet his gaze, wishing you could share his confidence. But the look in his eyes does make you feel better. He completely trusts you – trusts that you’ll get your powers under control, that you’ll learn to keep your temper under wraps, to stop flying off the handle. That you won’t hurt him. Maybe you can become someone to be proud of, rather than someone to be feared. Maybe. But until then, you have Bruce. Your calm in the storm. The first person in the world who hadn’t run for cover when your powers had been activated. You kiss him and then lie back against the pillow, finally feeling calm.
Not me getting all excited when I saw Din and Grogu's home in the movie. The self-insert fanfic writer in me being like, "and that's where I'd sleep, that's where I'd cook and that's where Din would throw me against the wall." 🤭
-Synopsis: After a month or so of your initial meeting with Miguel. He's been spending his free time studying the ways of merfolk and uncovered a dark secret. A secret you've been warned about before, advised to stay away and not give in to you curiosity despite your longing for something more than life in the sea.
-Word Count: 2,502
-C/W: Enchantment, pining for a mythical creature, reunion, usage of Spanish, longing, hints at depression and isolation, talk of dark magic, angst, depictions of blood bonds and ritualistic magic, mentions of blood, depictions of violent transformation, depictions of souls bonds, vulnerability, trust between human and mythical creature, affirmations. No use of Y/N
-T/W: Depictions of Dark/Ritualistic magic, mentions of Blood, depictions of violent transformation.
-Part 1
-A/N: Hey, so I had this idea for a while and I finally got it written down, a little darker for what I was originally planning but I like me a romantasy with some dark themes. Didn't know if I was actually gonna make a part 2, but here we are lol. I'd like to make a part 3 and progress the story some. But we'll see. @lazyjellyfish300 and @miguelandjayce4ever this is for you guys. Know you've been waiting awhile, Enjoy my dears 🫶🏻💖
•Credit for the artwork goes to the lovely @shuploc
A full moon cycle or moon since you and Miguel met that night on the beach. Days and nights passed like a blur on the ship. But you were never far from his thoughts as the days passed. He found himself seeing your face in the most unassuming places.
In the clouds that formed before the storm.
In the early morning wisps of sea mist.
In the swirling tide pools of the harbors they docked in.
He was completely, utterly, and hopelessly smitten.
Enchanted.
Every moment of free time he had he was desperately hoping to see you once again or reading up on whatever lore he could get his hands on. Raiding libraries or shops for manuscripts, storybooks and whatever writings he could find during their short stays in ports of their shipment routes. Hiding away in his quarters after a day's work and learning every bit of information he could with the hope of understanding you better the next time your paths crossed.
Which he seemed to be getting a bit desperate for as the days and nights dragged on without so much as a hint of your presence.
Searching from the bowsprit or the stern, scanning over each horizon for the familiar, gentle eyes or shimmering scales to emerge from the deep blue depths.
Every night he searched, only to be met with silence and darkness.
And with the silence, the longing seemed to intensify, like a pit being dug deeper and deeper in his soul.
That was, until the night of the new moon when they arrived back in that same harbor where you two met.
That somber, oceanside village.
Another shipment was delivered, another night of their celebration at some local tavern, his crew members forgetting their worries and cares like clockwork. That was the routine, and that would continue to be the routine.
But not for him.
Not tonight.
Instead he found himself sat on the worn, almost splintered wood of the pier under a lamp post. Back hunched over a manuscript and his legs crossed, engrossed in the weathered text as the low light of the oil lamp illuminated his concentrated features. Taking in ancient rituals and forbidden magic of merfolk.
Writings of a graphic transformation, an almost forgotten Latin tongue, and a blood bond that was almost impossible to break.
Upon reading the text, he felt his stomach lurch in discomfort before he saw you peak your head up just past the edge of the pier.
He knew those eyes anywhere.
The ones he was hoping so desperately to see again.
His heart betrayed his stoic features, jolting slightly as he stood from his spot at the lamp post. His manuscript fell out of his lap, the disturbing text quickly forgotten, wanting nothing but to be close to you again.
He knelt down on the edge of the pier, a softened expression on his face, a hint of a smile even.
“It's you, sirenita.”
A simple statement, the nickname rolling off his tongue so naturally as if that was the way it was supposed to be. But the weight behind it was very apparent. Not shy or hesitant like before.
It was more comfortable, a sign of letting you know he was happy to see you again.
You smiled brightly back up at him, crossing your arms against the pier, resting your chin on your elbow in a relaxed state.
Allowing yourself to trust him just a little.
“Of course it's me. I was hoping you'd come back again. Although I'm surprised you didn't make your way to the bluffs like the last time.”
A gentle huff escaped his nose.
“Makes it difficult when there's no moon to light the way.”
You giggled at his rebuttal.
“Well, I suppose you're right. But it's good to see you again all the same, Miguel.”
“Same to you, mi amiga.”
‘My Friend’.
He whispered, as if whispering a secret before he let a full smile spread across his face. Adjusting his position on the pier so his legs dangled off the edge and one of his hands rested dangerously close to your own. The soles of his feet skimming the inky black water, your tail hidden beneath the surface.
The low flames of the oil lamp reflected off the freckle like scales on your cheeks. Casting a dreamy haze in your eyes as Miguel took in the vision that was entirely you.
Breathtaking even in the darkness.
He wasted no time catching up with you. Sharing what new adventures he had been on, his pursuits of learning about merfolk, and what he had learned so far before inviting you to share as well.
Not that much ever changed for you, it was a quiet, simple life. Watching ships come and go, the townsfolk go about their lives, and envy the freedom they had. Of the kinship between them. Of the love they shared amongst themselves.
All the while you were chained to a life below the surface.
You weren't unhappy per se.
You just wanted a little more.
To be a part of something meaningful.
To be loved even.
As you vented your troubles to him, he felt his heart uncharacteristically crack in sympathy for you. Hearing the genuine sadness in your voice, the loneliness you endured, it stirred thoughts in his head of what could never be.
To whisk you away.
To give you the life you very clearly wished for.
To show you what it meant to be human.
But within those thoughts, it reminded him of something he read. Something scribbled on yellowed pages in faded ink from generations ago.
The manuscript.
A flicker of hope bubbled in his chest as he stared at you, but it was just for a moment.
He remembered what the pages entailed. How gruesome the ritual appeared to be on paper, he couldn't even imagine how it would be if it were carried out. He knew he couldn't do that to you, it wouldn't be fair to ask for you to change either.
But he was curious, he wanted to know from the source that faced him on that pier.
He wanted to know the truth.
“... Forgive me if what I'm about to ask is inappropriate, but I'm curious.”
He started hesitantly.
“Not long ago I found an old manuscript, no dates, no names. Just…instructions. A ritual that is said to turn merfolk into humans. Is that something that can be done? ¿Es verdad?”
The silence of the night consumed you both as he uttered what the text contained alongside his curious inquiry of you. The air thickened into an uncomfortable atmosphere. He knew the moment your eyes lost their soft edge that you heard of this ritual before. An expression of unease replaced the previous one of comfortability as you broke the silence.
“There's a legend that long ago, long before you or I, there was an elder siren and a fisherman who fell deeply in love with one another. She was infatuated with him, and with human lives in general. So much so that she was willing to give up her life in the sea to be with him.”
You paused, unsure if you should even be speaking.
“Somehow, some way, using the power of the moon and the tides, she was able to shed her tail she was born with. To turn herself into a human.”
You paused, setting a slightly dramatic tone.
“It's said she lived out the rest of her days with that man. That she never returned to the sea. But the elders speak of it as a tale of warning, saying the magic she used is best left alone.”
But even as the words fell from your tongue, you didn't heed them. If anything, the idea of such magic existing had you buzzing in the dark, salty water.
The ability to leave your isolated life in the sea.
To have the human experience.
You always assumed the story was a wives tale. A lesson for merfolk to stay away from humans. To resist the temptation of what was considered “forbidden” knowledge.
That temptation was winning.
Miguel, eyes wide with intrigue as well as concern for your shared infatuation as the elder siren in the story she spun, leaned in.
“You say it's a tale of warning, but you don't seem wary, pequeña. If anything, you seem enthralled at the idea of such magic truly existing.”
You chuckled bashfully.
“Am I that easy to read?”
“I'm afraid so.”
He could see the gleam in your eyes despite the darkness that swallowed you both.
The thirst for knowledge.
It created an unsettling sensation in the pit of his gut.
“It's unlike any ritual I've come across,”
A hint of hesitation in his tone once again as he looked away from you to the dark depths of the skyline. Watching where the stars met the sea.
“You were right about that usage of the moon and the tides, but…it's so much more than that. So much darker.”
“...Please, tell me.”
You quietly coaxed, placing your webbed hand over his. The contact of the wet, cold skin sent a jolt straight to his chest. His brownish crimson eyes met your own with a clear sense of caution at your persistence.
“Mi amiga, I understand your curiosity, I do. But this, this ritual. It's…violent. Tan muy violenta. There's a reason the elders advised that you leave it alone.”
A bitter frustration crept in your chest.
“How can I believe it's as bad as you say if you won't tell? If you explain it, perhaps I can better understand.”
You persisted.
And he caved with a defeated sigh.
"It's a blood bond, mi sirenita.”
He paused, letting the statement settle in the thin air between you.
“It's a blood bond that takes place on a full blue moon when the tide is low and there's a pool big enough for the mermaid to settle herself in. The mermaid exchanges a vial of thirteen scales and thirteen drops of blood from her hand. The man must exchange the same amount of his blood and a lock of hair to her in return. A symbol of each other's...devotion.”
He saw the curiosity on your face twist and morph into one of fear and disgust as he painted you a mental picture.
But he wasn't even close to the worst part.
“When the moon reaches its peak, they intertwine the hands that have been sliced open. Allowing their blood to combine while the man recites an incantation that bonds the mermaid to him. Allowing himself to give up a part of his human attributes to her in exchange for her soul… to be tied to one another. To become one.”
A moment of silence, the air thicker than oil before he described the finisher.
“When the incantation is finished and the hands pull away. With the lunar magic and the combined blood spilled in the tide pool. The mermaid begins an agonizing transformation. She sheds her scales first, then her bones begin to shift under her skin. The one tail splits in two, the skin ripping, tearing, and then bones reshaping into human legs. When all is done, the mermaid is left bloodied and incapacitated for days, even weeks after the ritual is finished. Her soul belongs to the man, she cannot return to the sea unless they perform the ritual again. And as you know, there's a reason it's called a blue moon.”
There were no more words to be said after that.
Only the suffocating silence of the truth.
You didn't realize it was that intense.
That it was that…gruesome.
And the worst part of it all, even after hearing how awful of an experience it would be.
You still wanted to go through with it.
You were willing to put yourself through hell, to experience the agony of the transformation, and to bind yourself to him as long as it meant you could leave the sea.
“I-”
You stuttered before finding your footing as you placed your palms down on the edge of the pier.
Locking eyes will him.
“I'd still go through with it.”
A quiet admission, but a firm one all the same.
Miguel just shook his head in disbelief.
“Don't be foolish. You'd really go through that kind of pain, that agony, give up your very soul to a man just to be human?”
His eyes searched your own, seeing a flicker of the gleam in them from before.
“If you were the man I'd give it to, I'd do it in a heartbeat.”
He wasn't ready for that.
Not at all.
As the words registered in his mind, he felt the flush creep up his face. His serious expression wiped right off his face from how blunt you were.
It wasn't fair.
Here you were, the creature that had been haunting his thoughts since the day he met you. Wanting nothing more than to be with you in every sense of the word.
You were willing to give that to him.
To bind your soul to his without hesitation.
Foolishness, he thought.
“You shouldn't say things like that, sirenita. Not when you don't mean them.”
Trying to convince himself you didn't mean it. That you were acting brazenly.
He knew you weren't.
“I do mean it. I meant it with every atom of my being. Can you even fathom how long I've dreamed of being able to leave the sea? How I've longed for something more than the isolation of the deep? To have connections with people? To dance with someone I love? Can you comprehend how much I want to actually live and not just exist?”
Your voice cracked with emotion and your eyes shimmered with unshed tears. It made Miguel's heart wrench down at the sight. His large, calloused hand found yours. Trying to loosen your vice like grip from the edge as he leaned in closer, close enough that his forehead brushed against yours.
“I know, mi amiga. I know, and I'm sorry you've lived with those sorrows for so long. But I don't want you to jump into something that you'll later regret. If this is really what you want, just know it's not all love and joy. There will be moments of pain, moments of sadness, and moments where it feels like it's all too much.”
His hand moving from yours to your face, tilting your jaw so you were looking at him. Looking for any hesitation, any kind of sign that you weren't sure of what you were asking for.
But he didn't find any at all.
This was what you wanted.
“But why me?”
“Because I trust you.”
Vulnerability laced in your answer.
“No te dejaré. Lo prometo, mi amiga.”
'I won't leave you. I promise, my friend.'
You allowed a few tears to fall down your scaly cheeks and a smile to spread on your lips.
