#Fish n' Chips Mention

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[OLD ART ALERT] A COLLECTION OF SCENES FROM THE GILLIONS CATSCRATCH ARC THAT BROUGHT ME GREAT JOY. i love fishy chips especially when its just gillion being delirious and violent and hostile

[cameronspecial]

I Know

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of Signs of an Eating Disorder

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.4K

Summary: Y/N isn't great with eating and Rafe knows how to help her out with that problem.

A/N: This is inspired by this post.

Masterlist

Food has always been a sore spot for Y/N. She is particular about the type of food she eats and while she is okay with eating leftovers once, she quickly grows tired of eating the same thing more than twice a week. In these situations, a part of her brain tells her that she doesn’t want to eat and she should spend time doing other things she wants to do instead of eating food that no longer sounds appealing to her. This leaves her stomach to cry for food, but it goes unanswered by the girl, who would rather be at the beach. Rafe knows how her brain works and that is why as he is returning from an early morning errand, he is sure to stop at the restaurant down the street. 

When he returns home, even though it is one in the afternoon, Y/N is lying on the couch watching TV. She must not be planning on eating lunch because if she is, then she would’ve eaten at twelve. Lunch is always harder for her to eat. It is when they eat leftovers more likely than not and she often eats it alone. Her eyes train on him as he walks to the kitchen, setting a bag on the kitchen counter. This piques her interest and she goes to sit at the kitchen island. “What’s in the bag?” she asks, reaching to look inside. He beats her to it and opens it to unleash the scent of fish and chips. She also gets a hint of the mouth-watering gravy from their favourite fish and chips place. He places two containers on the counter, joining her on a bar stool. He opens the containers, “I got us lunch. Your favourite.” He kisses her before handing her cutlery. “Aww, thank you,” she says. Her hand subconsciously reaches for her phone and she pulls up Google. Rafe yanks her hand out of her hand before she can type anything in. “Hey, what are you doing?” she protests. 

Rafe tsks, “Nope. I know you, I won’t let you search up the calories. Just eat, okay? You haven’t had anything all day.” Her heart flips at his care and understanding of how her mind works. “You are amazing. But what about the leftovers?” she worries, thinking about the container of lasagna in the fridge. He brings her hand into his, “I’m going to drop it off at John B’s place tonight. Sarah and the others are going over to his place and we both know they are all too lazy to cook. Plus, JJ will eat just about anything so if no one else wants to eat it, we know he will.” “You’ve got this all figured out. Don’t you?” she wonders as she begins to dig into her food. He gives her a grin, “Of course. I know how to take care of my girl.” 

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming

[saiidahyunie]

daydreaming

minatozaki sana x soccerplayer!reader (pt.1)

synopsis: you seem to have a really bad habit of spacing out. it’s even worse when you’re spacing out while staring at your best friend sana, but that shouldn’t be the case when you and her are flirting with each other already anyway. 

wc: 6k 

warnings: mostly fluff ; a sprinkle of angst ; slightly suggestive (?) ; mentions of food 

a/n: hi hi hiii, new blog, new account, and first post? feel free to leave any comments, asks, or even feedback, i hope you guys will like this! 

had this idea brewing in my head for a while now after playing fifa myplayer career mode. so this is my own little twist to the prompt inspired by @spidergirlanon with jihyo, but swap her out with sana instead for mine! i do intend to make this into a mini series so the next parts will be on the way eventually (if college doesn’t kill me by then) so please enjoy and also show some love to her as well!!! :))

you knew it was gonna be a good day with a hit on the crossbar at the end of morning practice.

sure, you would’ve wished to hit it on the first try and be done with it, but going overboard and hitting five out of five attempts left you with some scattered cheers from your teammates watching as they cleaned up the surrounding area of cones and soccer balls. 

you also chipped in a small contribution by putting the remaining balls in the last two bags near the goalpost. making your way towards the bench with four sets of bleachers behind it, you set your eyes on one person sitting on the first row of seats. 

now sana didn’t really mind coming along with you to your practice sessions no matter if it was early, late, rain, or shine; heck, she even offered to drive you at times just to change things up despite her questionable driving skills that made you wonder if her passing the drivers test was entirely a fluke. but instead of sleeping in on saturday mornings, she decided to spend them with you. 

you walk up to the set of bleachers without her knowing as she was hunched over watching one of her numerous netflix shows that she changes every other week because she could never fully commit to watching one series entirely. waving your set of shin pads over her phone causes her to look up with a scrunched look on her face in a slight annoyance.

“you seem pretty invested with that new show now.” you said, smiling at your antic as sana paused her show, slapping your thigh lightly. “I already told you that I'll try sticking to one a week yesterday.” sana playfully said, getting up with her small handbag on her shoulder. “you finished?” 

you simply nodded, “yeah, I also bring good news.” sana tilts her head in with a quizzical look on her face on top of her lips set in a slight pout.

“no training next week.” you said. “coach rain said that he’ll be out of town running some trials for a second division team out of state.” sana’s eyes shot slightly wider than usual, raising her eyebrow after your little announcement. “are you sure you’re not pranking me? you said that last time!” sana asks, checking her phone after for a quick second before giving back her attention to you. 

“it’s not a prank this time.” you respond giggling as you turn to grab your bag from the bench, quickly fishing through for your car keys. you turn back soon after to see sana fixing her hair tying it in a messy bun. you sort of pause any movement for a small second. 

a second for everything that’s happening around you, but an eternity in your head when you laid eyes on sana again.

the appearance of sana was always breathtaking to look at regardless of what she was doing. her sense of style didn’t go to disarray as she perfectly pulled off your oversized gray hoodie that you let her borrow along with her flared yoga pants that would one-up the models wearing it on the website when buying in addition to the small white prada handbag that you picked for her when you went designer brand shopping two weeks ago. her fair skin that seemed to illuminate in the sunlight close to being angelic. her light brown hair which looked seemingly perfect even if she put it up or down. the way her face contoured in angles you didn’t even think it was possible for one to have. in your opinion, she had the ideal side profile in addition to her nose being flawless. there was no denying the fact that she was pretty, (wait not pretty- beautiful) and you were left in wonder sometimes how you managed to have someone like her as your best friend. 

“is something wrong y/n?” sana asks, breaking your trance as you shook your head in response.

 “yea- no, i’m good, i thought i forgot-” 

“looks like y/n’s daydreaming again.” 

“you know you’re unbelievable sometimes y/n?” 

keeping your eyes on sana she smiled at you after hearing the pair of voices’ remarks. you mirrored her lovely smile as you turned around to see the duo of maki and mia watching you two from a short distance.

“don’t you two have cleaning responsibilities?” you quickly ask the pair, pointing to the last pile of ball bags placed to the left of them. “you don’t want coach to get mad at you guys let alone run laps again do ya?” 

maki scoffed, “yeah, but you’re not denying the fact that you were daydreaming right in front of us weren’t ya?” mia quietly snickered behind you, noticing a faint hint of red spread out on your face. you shoulder your bag over your right side, lightly raising your fist in response to their little inside joke against you. 

“i could give both of you guys red ass right now if i wanted to.” you declared, eyeing a ball set next to the bench. maki picked up on your sentence and was quick to put hands behind his butt; reminiscing the flashbacks of what unfolded last time he pulled a quick joke about you and sana. “Han was lucky he was sick that time, but i’m sure that he would love to see it happen-”

“okay okay, you win this time captain.”mia replied quickly to admit his defeat as he and Han both turned around heading towards the last pile of ball bags placed next to the goal. after internalizing your small victory, you then turned back to sana with a subtle smirk on her face.

“what?” 

“oh nothing. i know it’s just regular banter between the three of you. im still shocked that you’re the youngest between them. crazy to think about, but cute nonetheless.” 

“so you’re saying that my age is apparently more important than my contrasting appearance? don’t even get me started about my first impression of your dad.” 

sana taps your shoulder, “hey! you should be glad my mom convinced him that you weren’t the cliche jock type you see in high school movies.” you place your hand over your shoulder that sana hit, raising both your hands as you gave in to her argument. “alright, you made your point. now lets go before the morning rush starts at chae’s,” you said as you both began walking towards the parking lot. 

—

meeting sana could’ve gone differently looking back at it now.  the last thing you expected to happen was an attempted knuckleball skyrocketing over your small goal followed by a broken window and an ear piercing screech at your neighbor's house from your front yard. what made it even worse was the fact that sana and her family had moved in just next door at the time. after getting an earful from her dad while also getting another tangent from your dad, it eventually led to both your parents meeting sana’s parents properly. at first, you were reluctant about coming along to meet, especially following what you did, but your mom convinced you that it’ll be fine and how there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. 

“just think of it as getting off on the wrong foot! besides, you already apologized to mr and mrs. minatozaki!” your mom said to you, rubbing your shoulders to ease the nervousness from your body.

“mom, how do you expect me to be fine after blasting a ball into our new neighbor’s window?” you look up while asking, putting both of your hands in the pockets of your stained sweatpants. 

“i already told you, there’s nothing to worry about sweetie, your dad already said that he’ll fix the window.” your mom glanced over at you, placing her hand on your cheek.

you sighed as the three of you stood in front of the minatozakis’ new home. a few quick rings of the doorbell followed by the door opening, you see the quick exchanges of “hellos” and handshakes as you made your way inside the house. your mom taps your shoulder, pointing to her feet to signify taking off your shoes. simply nodding at your mother’s request, you sat yourself down on the steps of the two story house, untying your shoes while adjusting your socks in the process. 

while you were doing that, you overheard a third voice near the dining room as well as your mother’s remark whenever she sees something nice and cute like a pet. thinking nothing of it, you continue to fix up the worn socks you had as you hear the rush of steps on the wooden floor. your eyes catch something moving on your right side and as you turn your head to the left, a girl who looked to be about your age was sitting next to you. 

“sorry, did i scare you?” the girl questions, setting herself on the stairs placing her gaze towards you.

“n-no, it’s just that i didn’t know that you were here in this house too.” you responded, covering your startled state by fake coughing while turning away from her stare. 

“so you actually thought that screech was from my mom?” the girl asks, straightening her legs on the stair steps; putting more of her undivided attention to you.

“well…yeah, but i couldn’t really tell exactly whose scream it was.” you mumble sitting upright slightly turning your body towards the girl next to you.

the dark haired girl makes eye contact with you, also slightly turning inward to face you; mirroring your seated posture as well. you slightly suck in a quick breath through your parted lips, never breaking the innocent gaze you and her were sharing together. your mind ran a quick analysis of her features: her dark brown eyes, the subtle chubbiness of her cheeks almost mimicking a hamster, the way her lips were flatlined with both corners angling up to give a derpy smile. you couldn’t understand it back then, but this girl had an aura early on, almost entrancing you entirely at any given moment. 

“you’re not as shy as you look.” the girl says. “anyway, your face was so funny when my dad was talking to you yesterday about our window.” 

you furrowed your brows together following her statement. “wha- wait you saw?” 

she hummed, nodding her head in response.

“my dad isn’t the type of person to get mad, but you looked so scared.” she answered. “i was at the top of the stairs when the whole thing happened.” 

“i- i guess i was too caught up getting a lesson from your da-”

she lightly laughs at your explanation. “it’s ok. he knows that it was an accident so there’s no need for you to get scared.” 

“i wasn’t scared!” you counter, trying to come up with a good reason why you looked liked that. the girl leans a little bit closer trying to hear your poorly constructed alibi, but your mind couldn’t come up with anything to pass. 

you sigh, slouching your body forward in defeat as the girl beside you simply smiled at your distressed state. you return eye contact with her soon after. 

“i’m sana by the way.” she says.

“i’m y/n.” you reply back as you quickly look down at your mismatched socks. 

“y/n? that’s a cute name.” she notes, her voice beaming with a bright tone.

you scoff at her observation. “my name isn’t all that, but i’ll take your compliment.” you say cracking a quick exchange of soft smiles.

“kids! dinner is ready!” your mom yells from the dining room behind the stairs.

“coming!” you and sana both say in unison as you and her made a break to the kitchen.

—

what followed after that fateful dinner would become a six year friendship between you and sana. to say that you two were inseparable would be one hell of an understatement. you and her were basically attached at the hip all throughout the school years.   

there was never a dull moment between you and sana, the days were always filled with random antics, laughs, impulsive decisions to procrastinate on homework by getting something to eat, or even doing anything and everything in her house or yours. aside from your parents in addition to Dex, who was practically your day one since kindergarten, sana was always there for you no matter if it was about school, soccer, or whatever crazy adventure life decided to throw at you. she was there with you through it all.

sana knew everything about you. from the ideal snacks you’d like to eat, what your skincare routine items consisted of, the music you would listen to on the way to tournaments, your favorite player’s top 10 essentials, study habits, the inconsistent sleep schedule; she’s seen it all. you also have the same case when it came to learning more and more of sana’s habits and lifestyle. what she prefers on a rainy day, the fact that she likes to take pictures of things that were cute or intriguing; her go-to order of coffee she would usually get when cramming school work together, and even the way she celebrates even the smallest accomplishments jumping up and down in elation. 

what first started as differences between you and her turned into common interests, the bond that was shared grew even stronger. those post game meals, watching a show together through one pair of earbuds, walking and eventually driving to school - even sleeping over at each other’s houses just to keep company. the priceless moments you spent with her didn’t have to be special, it was already enough that you were willing to do anything with her and sana definitely felt the same way with you. 

you and sana always appeared to have a bubble encapsulating you two at school. most classmates and friends would usually give space to ensure that they weren’t interrupting something. not that you or her cared anyway, but from an outsiders’ perspective, it's a different story - and it gets the people going in conversation: 

“sana and y/n would make a good couple.” 

“they’re always together...” 

“y/n is so lucky to have sana!” 

“what a perfect match.”

blah blah blah blah you’ve heard the lot of it. 

so let’s set the record straight, you and sana never actually dated each other during high school. despite that shocking revelation, the situation itself seems too good to be true. you’ve spent a significant amount of time together, know every detail about each other’s lives, and no secrets are harbored between you two; but this is midway through your last fall break in high school, and surely something must’ve clicked by now right? wrong. 

most of the guys and girls at school would kill to be in your position with sana. it was already accepted that she was leagues above anyone else and it wasn’t even a close race with the other popular girls at school as well. you a similar set of criteria with sana: top of the class, you were the best player and captain of the soccer team, well known with the various teachers, good with other students, and just the ideal model that most people should aspire to be on and off the soccer pitch. too bad much can’t be said about your love life since it’s virtually nonexistent. 

however, that all changed when you started to see sana a little bit differently. the realization didn’t come to you right away - eventually, you start to see small signals going off in your mind in both the physical and internal aspects of sana’s being. 

you didn’t notice it at first glance because of how natural it was to see sana being clingy or touchy with momo and nayeon; come to think of it, now even dahyun from econ class was now the latest addition to her list of victims in physical affection. she had that effect on others that made them feel like they have known sana for ages. none of them come close to you though. your classmates have only seen the superficial version of sana, the version that everyone was naturally accustomed to seeing on a daily basis during class. despite that, it was a much different story at home. 

the real sana, your sana, you’ve seen the emotions she held in behind closed doors and its just you two. even for a girl like her who’s always seen as an overpowering ray of sunshine, she too has her moments of despair. that was apparent during the time when she lost her cousin to a tragic drunk driver accident roughly about two years ago. you were nearly forced to drag her to the service, but she eventually came around. the loss was already tough on her as it is since she got sick soon after that. since her mom was busy with nursing and her dad usually working the graveyard shift, she was always home alone if you were also backed up with soccer practice or school work.

but in that week when she got really sick, you thought it’d be a good idea for you to stay over at her house to keep her company; not that your parents really minded nevertheless; for her sake and wellbeing, you dedicated yourself to care for your longtime friend. 

the first night was probably the roughest part of that week. you immediately bolted to her house after practice when you received a text from her mom to see how she was doing. when you arrived at her house and stepped into her room since the funeral, it was difficult to see her in that bedridden state; she was a wreck, slightly malnourished, almost pale. it pained you to see her like this - despite that, she still had that little sense of bubbliness to her that made the situation a little more bearable to handle as she flashed a faint smile, 

“i guess this is what i get for not eating and sleeping?” sana mumbles, her voice coarse that was almost ineligible to hear.

“everyone handles their grief differently, so in a way yes.” you sigh as you set the tray of warm soup on her nightstand. 

you got a closer look at her face when you sat next to her on the bed, adjusting yourself as sana propped herself up after turning on the lamp. your heart ached at the sight your mind was registering. her eyes that were once beaming with light were no longer there; instead, they were half-lidded, almost lifeless. the eyebags right under were very apparent with her hair clearly disheveled from being in bed. 

“thank you for the soup y/n.” sana says with a faint glee in her expression.  

“don’t, sana,” you quickly say, patting her head, “it already hurts me to see you like this.”

sana pouts at your statement. 

“the least that i can do is just be here for you.” you utter, “i won’t ask for anything in return.” you flash a smirk only for her to return the same look. 

“well, i should probably get going.” you say in a lowered tone. “i still have to finish up my project with Jackson and i-” 

as you got up from sana’s bed, you felt a hand grasp your wrist. looking back, you see sana facing down with a sense of loss translated through her body. your heart rate spiked for an instant as you tried to conjure up any sort of thoughts possible to help determine what was unfolding in front of you. 

a very small sniffle could be heard, breaking the tension and silence that was filling up the room.

“stay…” sana murmurs softly, “please.” 

your mind freezes at her sudden request. this was the first time you’ve seen sana in this state before, and there was one thing that was certain your heart was telling you: this was really bad. you were one choice away from either making her overall condition worse - but this potential choice was also an unforeseen opportunity for something that you had never thought of doing with the girl living next door to you. 

in a prolonged second, the next set of actions that transpired would eventually be the set of seeds planted for your true intentions down the line. 

you shift sana’s hand from your wrist to your hand as you sat back down on the bed, facing her again, meeting with her eyes as they were on the verge of tears once more. 

“okay.” you whisper softly as you grasp her hand slightly tighter, “i’ll stay.” you say, leaning forward so that your forehead could meet hers. 

sana let out a small breath of relief through her nose, delighted at the words you said which eased the pain a whole lot more than she initially thought. after placing her forehead against yours, she lightly closed her eyes as a single tear fell down from the left side of her face. her face became warm all of a sudden when you put your hand on her left cheek, wiping the tear away, melting at your loving touch for a slight second. 

“thank you…” sana whispers to you. 

soon after she said that, you wrap your arms around her, hugging her tightly. sana pauses at your action for a brief millisecond, thrown off with what you were doing; instead of pondering about it, she fully gives into your embrace as she slotted herself into your chest. her arms coating your clothed back with her hands placed perfectly on the crook of your neck, allowing herself to be fully comfortable with showing these emotions to you for the first time.

—

intimacy was something that sana had no shame in showing, she had that knack for being affectionate to her loved ones in any way possible. even when hanging out with friends, it would always end up with her being all over someone for the most part; and even when watching from afar, she would give small glances to you as if she’s trying to make you jealous. but in the end, you would tilt your head and give a small smirk back at her, acknowledging the fact that what she’s doing is indeed working, except you won’t yield to her that easily. 

you were a different case for sana. the understanding that you two had was way past the verbal aspect to a point where you or her could say so much just by looking in each other’s eyes. sana just felt right at home with you, a perfect compliment to her energy and vibes. the yin to her yang. you had no problem with reciprocating the things that she does whenever its just you two. from hand-holding, her grip on your arm, your arm wrapped around her waist, and pressing both of your faces together when taking pictures just to name a few. 

all of those sweet moments were special to you, and surely sana thought the same. they could be called dates, they could be called hangouts, it didn’t matter at all because you’d be spending them with the person who’s had your heart for the longest time now. 

“you’re staring off into space again.” 

a voice breaks your daze into the distance as you’re brought back to reality, sitting along a set of tables outside of chaeyoung’s family owned cafe. you blink and look over to your right side of you, seeing sana sitting next to you staring, her head on her fist with a puzzled expression on her face. 

“that matcha latte isn’t gonna finish itself ya know.” she says. you look down and smile, realizing you embarrassed yourself for the third time today. 

“sorry.” you say as you finish the last of your latte in one swig. sana mirrors your action, drinking her cinnamon scented macchiato. both of you gulp down the last of your tasty beverages and place your cups on the table. 

“you do have something on your mind don’t you? sana asks playfully. you shake your head in response to her question, “well not exactly.” 

“yes you do.”

“no i don’t.” 

“y/n, we both know how this goes.” sana declares, knowing that it was pointless to hide something especially if you’re keeping it from sana of all people.

you sigh in defeat, looking at the rows of cherry blossom trees set outside of chaeyoung’s cafe before focusing on sana again.

“it’s about the youth academy, and the exit trial…” you started off, “even though it’s been two weeks already, i’m not sure how well i-” 

“stop y/n.” sana demands, shaking her head, “that wasn’t how you felt when you came back from the facility; i know you did great so act like it.”  

“i know, i know. ” you sigh softly, placing your hands on the table. clasping your fingers together to stop them from shaking. “but you gotta remember sana, this trial is for a potential contract; on an actual team. i’m within touching distance of my lifelong dream, but what if it doesn’t work out?” 

sana shakes her head in disagreement, grabbing your hands with her own. you shift your left hand and place it over hers, gently rubbing the top of her thumb as she did the same for your right hand. 

“you supported my dream of becoming a cosmetologist, now let me do the same for you.” sana declares, “all of those practices and games will finally be worth it in the end. the best and only thing that we can do is just wait.” sana has seen the highs and lows of your soccer journey and while she didn’t fully grasp the sport until a year after she met you all those years ago, she knew how much this meant for you to go pro.

“i want to be there for you every step of the way.” 

“you’ll always be my first fan….” 

those words echoed in the back of sana’s mind as she kept her eyes fixated on you, while you were still rubbing your thumb on her hand. you chuckled softly as you grabbed her left hand, setting a kiss atop of her middle knuckle. she blushes at your sudden action of affection as you look back at her and smiled. 

“you’re the best sometimes you know that?”

sana lets out a cute giggle, one that was reserved for you and only you, “i know i am. what else is new?” 

“nothing much really if i were to be honest with you.” you reply, still lightly grasping her hand as you stare at sana’s face once more. 

sana leans her head over to the right side, hand still latched onto yours. “your overwhelming sincerity never ceases to amaze me.” she says, gazing into your eyes before trailing off into the dazzling features of your face for a few seconds. 

you pull your hand away from her as you cross your arms together, not convinced with her genuine complement. sana dips her head down laughing at your amusing action as she tries to pull your arm off. before she could even break your crossed arms, you pull away slightly while also diverting your attention away from her intentionally, making her slightly annoyed. 

“are you saying that my lovely appeal doesn’t work on you anymore?” you ask looking back at her with a moped face. 

“i never said that it didn’t.” sana responds instantly. “i should ask the same about you?”  

“we both know that you’d beat me in a flirting competition anyway.” 

“you wanna try again pretty?” sana teases. 

“i think everyone knows that i’m the only one that can withstand your tempting charms.” you argue as you place your elbow on the table with your head on your fist, smirking at sana who was slightly baffled at your statement as you felt a faint blush tap your cheeks. 

“that i can confirm.” sana replies, surrendering to your reasons. the moment between you two is interrupted as you see your phone vibrate on the table. you look over to see the notification of a missed call, it was your mom. it followed up with a text that you looked at closely to read, your eyes widened at the message. 

“mom just called, she said to come home right now.” you said to sana who nodded at what was happening. the both of you stood up as you grabbed sana’s hand after you set the chairs back with the table exiting the cafe together. 

—-

sana knew that you always had a gentle side to you. behind that sturdy, hardened exterior was someone that defined the epitome of sweet and so much more, all bundled up into one person. she was aware of how ambitious you were about your studies and athletics, and a little bit of that mentality of yours rubbed off on her as you both leaned on each other for support when times got tough. the way you spoke to her, how you acted, even the actions that you did was everything that she ever dreamed about having was with you. she wanted more and even that wasn’t enough for her. 

you both were already mindful of the idea of crushing on each other. even if you two didn’t admit that there was something, nothing ever came to fruition because of how platonic everything was between you two so far. 

the car ride home was always a smooth breeze. aside from the fact that sana is your passenger princess, it was always a good time in your matte black tesla. sana would always take off her shoes or sandals, placing both feet on the dashboard and setting the seat all the way back only for her to forget to reset it every time she leaves the car. you didn’t think much of it however since you took every opportunity to place your hand with hers or even on her thigh, and she didn’t mind either. sana found you attractive with playing soccer already, but with everyday activities such as driving, sometimes she couldn’t function properly. 

you end up backing into the driveway of your house not long after seven minutes. sana gets out first and waits for you at the fence that connects her house to yours while you grab your soccer bag from the hood, humming out loud while looking at the sky. you get something from the driver's seat real quick before you walk over to sana again who was on her phone.

“texting your long distance pen-pal again? wasn’t the username kim somet-” 

“it’s kimchouzaki.” sana answers. “she just sent me a care package from japan so it should be coming in a little bit.” 

“i wish i had a pen-pal who did that for me, but with soccer related stuff.” 

“aw don’t be sad, its ok.” sana purses her lips together at your remark. “you should go inside, i don’t want to keep your mom waiting.” 

“i’m sure it’s nothing bad, but i’ll-”

“let you know if something happens?” sana asks finishing your sentence. “you know me so well.” you gleam as the both of you laugh together. another long pause of tension consumes you and her for the twentieth time today.

neither of you were complaining however as you stared into each other's eyes, conversing in silence to the point where it could be the ending moment of a k-drama episode. 

“so…see you later?” sana asks as you inhale sharply, looking down at your feet before returning back to her face. “yeah. i’ll talk to you later sana.” you say as she begins to take a step away from you, fleeting moments of opportunity sleeping away right in front of you. before your heart takes another ache, you take another quick breath of air.

“wait…” you started off saying, sana stopping in her tracks as she faced you again, tilting her head in question. “before you go,” you grab her wrist and pull her in for a quick hug, arms wrapping around her back as her arms find themselves on your waist. 

“thank you for listening earlier.” your voice getting quieter. “i really needed that reassurance from you.” you finish off saying as you place your head on top of hers. you hear sana’s breath shudder against your chest, relieving the little stress you two had combined together. few seconds pass as you unwrap your hands from sana and give her a couple small inches of space between you two. 

“i do care about you y/n…it’d be crazy of me to say that i didn’t…” sana muttered in a small millisecond of sadness. “this is as scary for me as it is for you.” she said looking up at you, her face just inches away from yours. you pout your lips into a small smile, “i’m sure everything will work out, so don’t worry too much okay?” you softly ask as you place both hands on her shoulders, massaging them to ease the anxiety away from sana’s body. 

“alright i’ll leave you now, i’ll text you if something comes up.” you say as you adjust the soccer bag on your back. 

“sounds good!” sana beams returning to her normal state of bubbliness as she tiptoes to plant a kiss on your cheek. you cutely smile at her sudden action, “if what’s inside is what i think it is about, that kiss was for good luck!.” she yells as she makes her way towards her house.

you kept your eyes on sana, waving at her as she got further and further away, eventually going past the door to her house and closing it. soon after, you look down in content, smiling at what just took place a few moments ago. 

“that girl really is something.” you say to yourself as you make your way up the steps to the front door. a quick movement of opening the door and heading inside, you take off your shoes and place your bag down on the floor and walk towards the kitchen.

“ma! i'm home!.” you yell out as you turn to the dining table to see both of your parents and your best friend dex, who also was your personal agent managing the business and logistical end with the soccer teams. sitting across from them was a woman in a well-fitted dress layered with a blazer, holding a small card in her hand. you eyed the card the woman was holding a little more closely as it resembled a club badge facing towards you. it didn’t take that long for you to put two and two together and the first words you heard from dex all but confirmed everything that you assumed. 

“hey y/n, i have some really good news for you.” dex began saying. your eyes shot open at the thought that was processing in your mind at an instant. 

you couldn’t wait to tell sana about this after. 

[lilac-5ky]

The one where he carries you home after a fight (Toji xFem!Reader)

A/N: My 7AM sleepless demons wrote this, not me.

warning: mentions of alcohol

Series Masterlist

“Thanks for coming, Toji. She wanted us to hit Roppongi next.”

“No problem.” Toji mutters as he lifts your limp body over his shoulders—arms thrown over his neck and knees buckled around his torso.

He nearly winces at the overwhelming stench of tequila emanating from your breath, praying that the wetness seeping through his shirt is drool and not vomit, though that’s more like wishful thinking. You are wasted. Completely and utterly drunk out of your mind to the point where you can’t differentiate the setting or those around him.

“Mistah, drop me off at the next station,” you slur with your eyes closed, pointing somewhere on the horizon before nodding off again. This was the third time you repeated that motion.

“How much did ya make her drink?” Toji doesn’t ask so much as accuse the two women, who are quick to shut him down with the dirtiest of looks. Nothing new. Your friends never liked him, and the feeling’s mutual.

“Make her?” Utahime huffs, rolling her sleeves over her elbows. “She’s the one who dragged us out on a Tuesday night. If anything, you’re the one to blame—you pushed her to it!”

“Senpai, calm down already.” Shoko lowers her friend’s fists. Out of the two, she’s the better one at acting like she tolerates him. “What did you fight over, anyway?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

With the way you stormed out the door in your finest high-heel shoe, black party dress, and red lipstick combo, he’d expect your lovers quarrel to make headlines by midnight.

However, they both shake their heads negatively.

“Who knows?” Toji flashes an oblivious smile before he gets you going. You were so angry at him earlier, and in all honesty, he did cross a line or two, but it doesn’t feel all that important now. Come tomorrow, this will become just another entry in your record of petty arguments to look back on and laugh at.

You’ve made it halfway up the slope that leads to your crappy apartment building when he catches you flailing around on his back like a fish fresh out of water. He slots his hands into the crevices beneath your thighs, applying enough pressure so that you won’t fall.

“Rise and shine, sleepy-head.”

Your slow blinks turn rapid the second you realize your feet aren’t touching the ground and you’re piggybacking on a stranger. “W-Who are you?”

“Ya don’t remember?” Toji rolls his eyes with a loud tsk. “What was it again? Mister Taxi? Mister Killjoy? Or Mister Buzzkill?” He goes through the different names you bestowed on him in your sleep.

“Mister… Buzzkill?” Your jaw drops slack on his shoulder, only for your palms to clap at his chest in excitement a minute later. “Mister Buzzkill, I remember! You kidapped me from my friends and spoiled our fun!”

“More like your friends got sick of your ass and called me to pick up the pieces.” He argues. “Hold on tight if ya don’t wanna fall. Climb’s steep from now on.”

Strength returns to your arms as they cage his neck. “Where are you taking me, Mister Buzzkill? Are we going to party?”

“Don’tcha think you’ve had enough partying for one night, princess?” He grunts. “We’re goin’ home.”

“Home? Whose home?”

Toji’s starting to miss the you that nags him about not soaking his dirty dishes. Alcohol always chips away at your mental capacity, and while he wants to be understanding, he can’t understand that which he’s never experienced for himself. “Our home, dummy.”

The epithet doesn’t faze you in the slightest. “Are you going to exploit me?”

“Prospect makes you happy?” You hum in return. “Fine. You can pay for the ride once we make it home.”

“But…” And you sound so sad that he cocks his head to peer at your face, glassy, puppy eyes welling up with fat tears that make him wonder whether he said something hurtful again. “I don’t have any money. My husband said we’re out of money ‘cause he—he gambled it away.”

The cogs in his brain are put in reverse, reminding him of the cash he snatched from your open wallet with the intention of waging it on a guaranteed victory and the little white lie you took at face value. You didn’t even give him the chance to explain that the bills were still in his pocket because the race was called off, and he let you run off to your friends without offering a single apology.

“I’m sure we’ll work something out.” Toji squeezes your thighs reassuringly. “Ya can pay me back in kind, too.”

“But my husband—”

“Your husband is a shithead.” He spits out, hoping that his remorse registers without leaving behind any actual trace of his words.

“You are so kind, Mister Buzzkill. Unlike him—my Toji.” The fingers of your one hand pull on your wedding band until it comes off. “Wanna marry me again, Mister…Toji?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Toji catches the wedding band right before it slips from your fingers to the street. Part of him wants to scold you for being a scatterbrained nuisance, but the part of him that finds even your plastered form endearing comes out on top.

He slides the ring around the ring finger of his ring-less hand and pieces your hands together, holding onto them until you finally reach the front door and you’re sober enough to call him by his name.

“A’right, we’re here.” Toji declares once the key’s inside the hole.

He calls out your name and shakes you softly, but there’s no answer coming from you other than a single embarrassingly loud snore. He lets go of your legs and slowly puts your feet on the floor before hoisting them up in the air again, shifting to carrying you into bridal position. Your hands reach around his neck on their own volition, and he swears your lips curl into the softest smile when your nose pressed against his shirt.

He sighs, parting the hair that’s fallen inside your agape mouth.

“What am I gonna do with you?”

[jarofstyles]

Ultramarine- Indigo 7

Hello! Here is a cute part of Indigo, I'm sorry she's a slow burn but I really love them so I don't wanna rush them <3

Check out Patreon for early access to the next part and 150+ Exclusive writings

Indigo Masterlist

WC- 2.8k

Warnings- mention of trauma and bullying (brief) and sexual tension ;)

----------------

Y/N was grabbing lunch with him. 

Harry’s hand ached, the 5 hour session being particularly grueling regardless of how used his muscles were to the gun. He used arthritic cream on it and his wrist as he took a break in his office, finally checking his phone. As impressed as he was with the woman who had come and sat for 5 hours, he’d wished she wanted a break when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. H was giddy and anxious to see what Y/N was saying- she was the only one who texted him during the day besides Niall with stupid tiktok links and his Mum sending photos of her cats. 

When he’d opened it up to see her question, he didn’t hesitate to agree. It didn’t matter if he hurt, he wanted to take any excuse he could to see her. 

Y/N; Hiiii! I know this is super last minute so do not be afraid to say no but did you want to grab lunch at around 2:30? 

H: Absolutely I do. Sorry for the late reply, I was finishing a tattoo. It isn’t too late to say yes, is it? 

Y/N: Oh, amazing :) And no, not too late. I’m kind of bored today, I finished a project and told myself I needed to relax but… I feel restless and I missed you a little bit.

Harry felt himself flush at her response, knowing if anyone saw him at this moment they wouldn't recognize him. His smile was wide and face as pink as he collected himself, grateful that he was in his own office so he could freely feel. 

H: Only a little bit? X 

Y/N: Well if I said I missed you a lot I’d be a weirdo, wouldn't I? We just saw each other. 

H: Well call me a weirdo too then, I suppose. Because I did. 

H: A lot, if you couldn’t tell. 

Y/N: You are very cute. I’ll be there in a few :) 

—-

“Yeah, it’s kinda fucked.” Harry sighed as Y/N took his hand into her own from across the little table. “Usually I love a long session but I’ve been doing them a few days in a row. S’my own fault, but I was hoping for a tap out for once.” He laughed through his nose before it turned into a groan, feeling small thumbs begin to rub over his palm. Y/N pouted ever so lightly, moving in slow circles on the skin and digging in slightly before meeting his eye. 

“You’ve got to take care of yourself.” The scold was lighthearted but he could see it on her face. She meant it. It made his chest flutter a little that she cared enough to do that. He was used to basically being on his own, mostly by choice but because it was easy for people to fake concern to get gossip- but he knew Y/N meant it. Her gentle massage on his hand, trying to ease his aching was a nice touch. Her half-drunk smoothie was in front of her, leaving her fingers cool to the touch and another nice addition to the soothing touch. “Shouldn’t wait for them to tap out. You should schedule them in smaller increments so you don’t put too much strain on your poor hands.” Y/N’s eyes met him for a moment before looking away. “They’re too pretty to be hurting.”

He had been surprised by the gall, if he was honest. Y/N had been a bit more shy when coming to this sort of thing but he was mentally preening, not able to hide the smile curling on his lips as he flexed his hand in her grasp. “Yeah? Think I’ve got pretty hands?” He hummed. “Got a bunch of calluses. Some scars. My nail polish is chipped.” Was he fishing for a compliment? A little bit. He wanted a few of them, especially when she had seemed to like his best tools. 

“Of course. Just shows you work with your hands, know how to use them.” She stated. “It’s something a lot of people don’t know how to do anymore. The scars add character, and the nail polish is cute. It can always be redone.” She flipped his hand over but continued the slight massage, looking at his long, nimble fingers stretched over her wrists. He had a few rings on them which she knew he took off while tattooing, his fabric bracelets slightly worn besides the silver cuff on the non tattooed wrist. Harry liked to decorate his body and that was obvious. He’d told her he sometimes struggled with expression verbally, so she had a hunch that he used this to express himself. “And I also love the eyeliner thing. It’s attractive too.” 

She tacked on the compliment and his smile grew into a grin, shaking his head as he squeezed over her hands with a laugh. “Laying on all the compliments today, yeah? D’want something from me?” All she had to do was ask. The shivers in his body made him more than willing to hand shit over on a silver platter. His eyeliner had been a few years ongoing, a simple charcoal pencil smudging around his eyes. Apparently it brought out the green even more and he did have a few colors. Perhaps one day Y/N would want to do it for him. 

“No, no. Just figure people don’t do it as often as they should.” She sighed, dropping one of his hands to take a sip of her smoothie. The contact felt good. Especially since he kept a grip on her hand and swiped his thumb over the back of hers, the gentleness a stark contrast to the chain around his neck, metal on his face and ink on his skin. He was the opposite of what someone would expect, and somehow that made Y/N yearn for even more of him. 

“Well.. Thanks. But I’d prefer you to be the one doing the compliments. I know you’re not full of shit.” His smirk made her scoff but she merely continued sipping before moving on. Surely many people meant the compliments they gave him but she knew that he wouldn’t believe them regardless. That was the thing about growing up with that sort of trauma. When you were bullied growing up, seen as a butt of a joke, it was harder to accept people’s genuine kindness. It saddened her immensely, but this wasn’t the place to unpack that. 

“You’d have to be dead to not see how attractive you are, H. But I don’t want to give you too much of an ego boost or you’ll leave me in the dust.” Her foot nudged him under the table. “I wanted to ask if you wanted to come over this weekend? I was thinking of trying out a few cookie recipes and I need a baking assistant- or at the very least, a taste tester.” She offered, trying to hide her nerves. They were at a weird crossroads of developing relationships. Not official, not exactly fully comfortable enough to be shooting plans the day of but still craving their company quite strongly. They weren’t seeing anyone else, at least she hoped so, but they didn’t have a label. 

“Are you kidding?” He barked out a laugh. “Of fucking course I do. Used to help my nan back in the day in the kitchen. Christmas breads and sweets galore. You’ve got an old pro on your hands.” Was he vastly overvaluing his kitchen skills? A bit. He knew his way around decently enough, but he wanted to get that smile on her face- which succeeded. 

“Oh, lovely.” She chirped. “Then yes, I’d love for you to come over. We’ll get something to eat because m’not sure either of us are going to want to be in the kitchen for more than the cookies.” He watched her nose wrinkle making his heart skip a beat. There were tiny Y/N mannerisms he wanted to get to know. This one in particular he found to be stupidly cute, each time it happened making him smile internally. 

“Mhm. I understand. We’ve got a kitchen quota we don’t want to max out.”

—

“Where do you think you’re going?” A hand on her waist stopped her from taking another step further, Y/N grinning to herself as she paused in her step. She had done it just to see what Harry would do, and so far she had been correct. Her hopes had been granted. 

“Hm? Home.” She grinned up at him, eyes not able to hide the mischief in them as she moved back towards him. “Is there a problem?”

“I think we need to establish a few things.” His voice dropped, crowding her back against her car. Y/N had started this but felt the air get sucked from her lungs as her back pressed agaisnt the cold metal of her door, eyes widening slightly as she was peering up at him with far less smugness as before. “I don’t like leaving without a proper goodbye, hm? And you know what I’m missing, yeah Darling?” of course she did. She had been aching for it just as badly, the tiny one she got in greeting not even half of the one she needed now, but she wanted to make him work for it a little bit. 

“What’s that?” She hummed, biting her lower lip to try and control the grin threatening to break out on her face. The uncontrollable urge to giggle as he seemed to clock the look on her face, shaking his head at her and clicking his tongue while tilting her head up to meet him. It was the closest she could get to a swoon, sure there were little hearts in her pupils as he tapped the bottom of her lip and tugged it from her teeth. 

Christ. 

“I think you know.” He muttered. “Cruel, cruel little angel. What d’want from me, hm? Do you want me to beg?” His eyes scanned her face. “M’not one to get on my knees for that reason, but I think I could do so for you.” 

Y/N’s knees felt weak as he pinned her with his stare, a quivering in her stomach making her blink rapidly at him. Get on his knees? She could only imagine what he did on his knees and the image of him peering up at her with his mouth tucked between her thighs and her knee over his shoulder, working to get his tongue up inside her made her feel hot all over. The mental image was precisely his goal, she found, as his grin rose back and morphed into a smirk as she barely held back a whimper when her lip was stroked by the thumb in question. She had played with the lion as a sweet little lamb, and found herself right in his jaws. 

“N-No. Don’t have to beg, but I think it would be cute.” She cursed internally at the stutter, showing her weakness front and center as his face got a bit closer to hers, nose brushing the bridge of hers before moving down to the tip. Being this close made her dizzy, the sweet spice of his cologne and the mint of his gum overwhelming her. The man trapped her against her car, getting closer than she had been to a man in public, but she was pathetic. Internally she was gagging for it, tilting her head up to try and catch his mouth-

Only for him to pull back just enough to miss. A spark in his eye made her want to stomp her foot, the man teasing her more than she had anticipated. Y/N had tried to get the upper hand but it was obvious that the more comfortable he got, the more power he would wield with her. She had been a bit of a fool for thinking that a man like him wouldn’t turn this over, but she had felt like trying her luck. 

“Cute? Think it would be cute?” He muttered under his breath. “Well, I’m glad you think so. But I know what this is, little angel. Prettiest little Sunflower, trying to tease me.” Realistically, Harry knew she hadn’t a clue about the true power she had over him, but he would let that remain a secret for a bit longer. “What I meant, by a proper goodbye… Is that I’d like to feel these pretty lips before you leave me.” There was an audible hitch in her throat, making him hold back the smile, ghosting his lips against hers. “You did something to me… m’convinced. Put a spell in your lipgloss or somethin’ like that. Made me crave it. I’m more of a gentleman these days, because the first thing I wanted to do was lick into this pretty little mouth when I saw you today. I controlled it, but I can tell it’ll be a problem later on down the line. I need something sweet to hold me over, y’feel me, doll?” He tapped her lip with his thumb, gently tugging it down before it snapped back up. 

Y/N could barely breathe. Sometimes, she found, Harry had these bursts of being pure sex appeal. It was broken up by cute, soft and shy boy, but when he got in this sort of mood she found it hard to keep her vision from swimming. A floaty feeling, making her swallow thickly and nod in a jerking motion as she tried to get up on her tiptoes to catch his lips only to be deprived again. This time she did make a noise of frustration, brows furrowing as she looked at his hooded eyes. It wasn’t fair! 

“Oh, m’sorry Sunflower. Couldn’t let you have it that easy when you were about t’leave me without a kiss. Got a mean streak in you, but I’ll take it. You’re sweet and tart, like a Cherry.” He laughed, leading her arm to loop over his neck. “If you’re good to me, I’ll be good to you. Give you what you want, maybe even more.” She was rewarded, finally, with a tiny kiss to her pout before pulling back.  “But if you want to play games… You’ve gotta remember that m’a nasty competitor.”

Y/N could believe it. Harry oozed ‘win or nothing’ energy and she had tested it now, feeling how quickly she was going to fold. That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to test this out when she had more resolve, but she had felt similarly to him the whole time. She wanted him just as badly, and playing with fire wasn’t cutting it right now. The only burn she wanted from him was a big of beard burn between her thighs. “M’sorry.” She whispered. “I’ll be sweet.” 

“I heard a silent ‘for now’ after that, but that’s good enough for me.” He rewarded her heavily. Kissing her fully, capturing her lips between his own and pulling her into him as he did so. Harry kissed just how he looked. Intense, hot. She let out a little noise feeling his tongue brush past and the cool metal of his tongue piercing hit hers. It was another reminder of how he would definitely be one to blow her mind when he got on his knees for her, because Harry didn’t seem like the type to do anything half assed. He had the ability to make her feel like she was boiling inside and the only thing that could cool her down was his touch. 

It was over too quickly, her thighs clenching together hard as she looked at him with bleary eyes. His face was self assured, a little smug and she was trying to recover. A squeeze was given to her chin, making her clear her vision as she was left a little unsatisfied. But would she ever really be truly satisfied when he took away his mouth? She could kiss him for hours and still feel like she wanted more. Their date was proof of that. 

“See? I can be sweet when you are. Rewards.” His confidence blew her away, barely able to recover when he pressed another firm kiss to her mouth without giving her time to react. “Now go on and go get some supplies for our cookies, yeah? Text me when you’re there and when you’re home safe. I’ve got another two appointments.” He wished he could cancel them and just go with her but he didn’t want the rep, and also didn’t want to cling to her. As tempting as it may be, he wanted to start this right. 

Y/N’s kiss still tingled on his lips as she drove away. He knew he was deep in the inky indigo waters of infatuation, but he didn’t think that was a bad thing. He’d learn to breathe underwater.

[bts5sosempire]

the tyrant (viii)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: sukuna ryomen x reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5,852 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: old time period, mention of arranged marriage, polygamous marriages, slow-burn yandere, power imbalances, peer pressure, mentions of infertility, etc. 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "you were the apple of Sukuna’s eyes, the one who brought him solace and everything. The only thing you were incapable of was giving him a child, an heir he wished to spoil like he did to you." 𝐚/𝐧: I AM FINALLY DONE! Went pass the word limit istg. But hope y'all are ready what y/n is planning. 👀 btw, please like ❤️, comment in the "comment" section 📝 for tagging, and reblog 🔄 if you wish. Forgot I edited some parts in different chaps too, so if you see minor changes in them then I was fixing them.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Another few more months with the year ending, and another would mark the end of five years. Despite being bedridden, it had made you uneasy since spending the luxury time doing nothing had made you naught. Yumi and the personal servants who you had personally hired for your inner circle inside the castle had been keeping you posted up about your businesses from the outside. Everything was going well.

Holding the reports over the fire, it lights up when the corner catches, "I'm gonna leave for a bit." You told Yumi, who was alarmed by you.

They started to panic, "You already received your reports saying all is well; you shouldn't move around a lot." Yumi tried to sway your mind, but you had already stood up from your bed and in front of your long mirror.

With your arms stretched out, the personal servants you hired from the outside who knew about your secret come to your aid. They swiftly took off your attire and replaced it with your pseudo outfit. You rarely snuck out, but today you feel rebellious. Staying in bed may get you sick in staying in bed.

You turn around to grab Yumi by the arms and put her in your futon, "Stay here and be good." With a soft smile, you open the door and poke your head out and look around for a particular male valet. Outside, your room was quiet; everyone was prepping for dinner now and cleaning the dining area to feast later. "Where are they?" And right on cue, their eyes met yours when appearing from a corner, and they understood immediately when you nodded at them.

With the quick perception of their view, their feet race towards you. "Everyone is busy; it should take about two hours at most." They informed you with a bow, their gaze not meeting yours.

"Good," coming out of your room, your feet glide across the polished wooden boards as they tail closely behind you. Behind every castle are secret walls; you happened to know it by accident during your research days as becoming Seijuro Hajime. It somehow comes in handy now.

After making swift turns around the halls, you stop right in the middle of a wall that is made of a stack of jagged stone slabs building on top of another; its color that was once in the shade of grey birch is now darkened with tints of green. Its gap of lines was filled with green and yellow moss and heavy, unruly vibes hanging from above. The area you'll frequent quite a lot is an abandoned wing rumored to be a gorgeous garden but is now defiled by aging neglect. The large pond that was filled with colors of Koi fish is now empty with weeds and putrid water that is left behind by the rain. Chip redwoods of a bridge leading to a roofless gazebo that represents the heart and main attraction of the pond. Overall, everything is in bad condition.

Your fingers smoothly ran along every crevice and protruding bump of each slab, and it wasn't until you reached the smaller rock with a small mark that could go unnoticed under the human eyes if no one was paying attention to it. Faintly remembering the details at the back of your head, you push the rock, which caves into your strength.

There was a low rumble from within the walls, and debris fell from above the shaking forces. The wall split into two, and faint mechanic whirring gears could be heard. Torches mounted on the wall spring into life as each illuminates the dark long descending stairs ahead of you. Red wooden beams were worn for ages, also holding the tunnel. A faint smell of wet, sticky residue lingers in the air.

Well, that's ominous. You turn around to face the valet, and they bid you a half farewell, "Stay safe." Nodding at them, they press another adjacent block to the opening block, and the doors come sliding close.

You descend the stairs and follow one pathway until you reach the middle, where it diverges to three; if you remember, you should take the one on the right. It also says in the blueprint that there is a trigger for activating traps; right in the center is a hanging bell above. If the bell is cut loose, all the mechanisms within the walls will run. You eye the old rusted bell that is darkened with a barely color of copper resembling it.

°

"Did you miss me?" Someone throws themselves and wraps their arms around your neck behind you. You place a hand on top of the table to save yourself from toppling forward face-first into the food. The cup of warm tea of amber liquid spilled over your nimble fingers. Their scent entered your nose, and it was the same person you bumped into before. "You know you're very hard to find; I scoured the whole city." Sliding their arms around, that now occupied your arm, they sat beside you as if they were your lover.

Personal space for you is also gone.

You patiently set the cup down and grabbed the rag near the portable stove that warmed the teapot. Wiping away the spilled remnant, you inch away from the clingy woman by loosening your arm, but she only tightens it with a pout. For some reason, you don't think you understand the choice a young woman like her makes to try to be cute to get their way. I mean, you're a woman. That's why you're probably immune to it.

In the first place, you only came out here to be a spectator since, within your report, there should be two high clans born male heirs trekking through the city that Sukuna rules from Yuichi. But you doubt you can complete your task today if you don't do anything.

"It's rude not to look at the person talking to you. Do you know who I am?" They tugged your arm. "My older cousin runs this city, and I could have your head, too, you know?" It looks like it will be hard to get your attention, "My cousin is Sukuna Ryomen."

Upon hearing his name, you tried to remain indifferent, but you only let out a small huff of a laugh. 'This should be interesting to pass the time.' The woman thought throwing her cousin's name around would add weight and make her cave in, but it seemed to be doing the opposite effect. Without her knowing, you decided to amp up a charming facade. "The Sukuna Ryomen?" You turn your head to face her, and the coy smile that split across your lips made the woman frown. Why aren't you scared of her? "Do you know," you stare into those pomegranate eyes that share the same color as Sukuna, "throwing your cousin's name around isn't safe too? You're making yourself a target for-" your eyes roam around the room. A few people were looking your way, and the woman noticed it too and flushed red, "-those to take advantage of."

"If only you looked at me when I asked!" Kiriko fumbles out an excuse, and her face becomes hotter and red.

This makes you decide to toy with the woman. Since she has a relation to your supposed husband, it would be easy to probably get the information right if you knew how to ask. Although you think you wouldn't be able to, it's not hard for you to play around with her. "From what I heard, he isn't a good man."

"What do you know about him?" She bites back.

"He plays favorites with certain people, and there's this special wife he's rather fond of." You quip to get a reaction from her, and it seems to hit the mark. "I saw her a few times, and she's lovely that many of these city and village folks adore her. Got to say she's a woman after my own heart if she wasn't married."

"You shouldn't like her!" Kiriko jealousy spouted, and with a tug of your arm towards her, you thought she might yank it off its socket. "She might be pretending to be nice to make people like her! You should like someone genuine like me!" She declared, and this made you snort another laugh. A woman jumping the horse, it seems. You don't know what she has heard about you, but it is pretty amusing. "What? You don't believe me?" Now she sounds offended.

"It's not that I don't believe you," wanting to tease her more, you swoop in closer to her, "but I don't believe in tarnishing another person just on baseless rumors or what they have or heard against her." Kiriko shrinks back from the sudden closeness. She was quiet, and then you turned your attention away from her. "Sir," you raise a hand to pay for your tab. Once they're near, you drop the payment into their outstretched hands.

Sliding your arm out of their hold, you lighten up your pace with the woman chasing after you. "Wait!" They shouted after you, and you made eye contact with a nearby seller who understood what you indicated. The seller grabbed a bucket of water and poured it onto the ground right after Kiriko was close enough to be after you. Kiriko shrieks out when the lower half of her attire is wet. "Watch where you throw that dirty water, you peasant!"

"Ah, I'm sorry, Miss." They awkwardly apologize.

Kiriko bites the bottom of her lip and looks at your back; you don't even turn around to check if she's alright. She watches your figure disappear into the heads of an endless crowd with a little bit of resentment. She'll make you look her way no matter what since she wants to take you back to her homeland as a spouse by the end of her stay, even if it's by force.

[at a random inn]

"So what's the deal?" You suddenly appeared by Yuichi's side, who got slightly spooked.

"You got to stop doing that," the man told you; he put a hand over his chest. You only laugh and cross your arms before looking below from the second floor. Yuichi saw you spectating two males who stood out like a sore thumb in the crowds of primary cotton colors clothing of grey, dark grey, and brown. "I thought you weren't going to come?"

"And miss this glorious sight?" You humor Yuichi but cut it short too. "I must return to the castle soon, or my covers blow. So who are they?" Motioning the two rich strangers talking lowly to one another, Yuichi tilts his head slightly toward you.

"The one in deep indigo is Totsuwa Iriyu; from my sources that I have people gathered around, his family used to serve the Emperor before they fell from grace. The funny thing is your husband was involved with their family, and there were speculations that he took them off from the Inner Circle of the Emperor Hoshu." Yuichi explains, and you thought that might be something Sukuna would do. "And the one in dark green is Mugetsu Rintoru, and he's that buddy, in the deep indigo best friend too. He also has a problem with your husband too."

"Everybody seems to have problems with Sukuna; I'm unsurprised." Amusement dances across your lips, "How long are they planning to stay?"

"Approximately up to three weeks since they did get an invitation from Sukuna." Now that made you raise an eyebrow.

"Guess invitation isn't what is going in their mind too; nobody comes here in Sukuna's land with no pure thoughts since he is the most sought after when it comes to wealth. And revenge." You then un-latch your arms and pat Yuichi's biceps. "I'll approach them in my time, but keep an eye on them."

°

Your servants all scamper away when Sukuna walks through the hall; they all refuse to look up but still greet him in acknowledgment. But the one that felt like they were getting a heart attack was the one who was your spies. Sukuna had come to pick you up for dinner quite early. They all gave each a look to see who would intercept him. There was a back-and-forth motion of 'No, you' between the servants. But it wasn't until Sukuna positioned himself in front of them they all hesitantly looked up.

"L-Lord Sukuna, Lady (Name) is still resting." One squeaks out in fear; despite being hired by you, they still fear Sukuna.

"Move aside," he commanded.

"She wishes not to be disturbed, My Lord." The same person quickly interjected.

Sukuna clicked his tongue, "Do you wish to die?" He glowers down at them, and they all shrink back. "Now. Move. Aside." Sukuna said each word with heavy and daunting syllables, and the servants sidestepped demurringly. If their heart could leap out of their chest, this would be the best time.

Before Sukuna could open the door, it slid open, and there was you. "What's with all this commotion?" You don't need to look at your servants who tried to stop Sukuna lets out breaths of relief. Sukuna peaks over your head and sees books lying on your table.

Sukuna: "Thought you were resting, no?"

You: "I did; I woke up a while ago."

Without further ado, you try to bypass Sukuna, but he takes good of your hand. You wanted to rip it from his hold without causing much fuss, but he tightened his grip. "You seem well enough now; your colors are back." He took steps with you side by side.

"You are already starting to make me sick," exasperation released from your voice when you tugged your hand again, and Sukuna tutted at you.

"There's that tone that I've missed," he purrs, and if he's successfully getting under your nerves, he's doing a great job. You were clenching your jaws. "I've got something to show you after dining too." From his tone, Sukuna was rather excited; it was only a slight pitch lighter.

[excution field]

A heavy fur coat was draped around your shoulders. You don't understand why he brought you here right after eating. Most of all, the execution ground. You got a hand to cover the smell. Sukuna leans heavily behind you with his arms encasing you; somehow, this feels familiar, like that one day. Once again, you attempted to shrug him off, but it always made him want to be closer to you.

There was fresh blood over the dried blood; even the stench of death couldn't be erased from this place. You never really visited the site; this was the first time in five years you had set foot on the ground where innocent sinners came to die by Sukuna's final resolution. "I like you to be the first to witness something that could lead me to more winning conquest." He said, leaning his head low and letting his lips touch your ears; Sukuna's breath fans over one side of your face. You silently tilt your head to look up at him; questions linger in your eyes.

Sukuna was jittering in excitement, and this was something. You rarely see him like this; he can be proud and loud within his moments. This is something new. He's barely contained.

Sukuna lets himself be away from you, which makes you inwardly happy. "Bring it out!"

It didn't take two frightening retainers to bring out a wooden craftsman box. Sukuna flipped the lid open, and inside, it was presented to be some long metal rod with wood attachments. You were observing not too far away from Sukuna. Sukuna lifts it out of its case and settles an aim. "Get the prisoners too." You recognize that black powder from anywhere when Sukuna pops the lid open and pours it into the opening of the barrel. Then he used a rod to push the powder more profoundly into the narrow tunnel before setting the breech on fire.

"What are you doing?" You ask him; somehow, dread-filled your chest when you saw three people lined up and tied to a thick wooden pool. You can hear their whimpers from where you're at.

"You'll see," was all he said; Sukuna leveled the weapon up and above over his shoulder as he aimed again, then pulled the trigger with a steady finger.

BANG!

The sound made you jump; you instinctively covered your ears in fright with your heart hammering, as did the people far and near to witness. Smoke came from the weapon, but it was pushed away and dissipated into the atmosphere by the wind. What you were looking at wasn't the weapon itself but the person tied to the wooden stake. Their head was blown clean right off, just from this distance where Sukuna stands.

Is this what he wanted to show you? The future? How it's going to be in his hand?

"Did I spook you? Sorry," Sukuna carefully put the weapon back into its case and walked toward you; he took your hands from your ears and slotted them into his own. Your eyes wouldn't move away from the headless corpse; it was stuck wide open, witnessing the scene. It wasn't until you blinked again and pulled your hands back from his hold then your curiosity overtook.

You: "What did you do to them?"

Sukuna: "It's obvious what I did, didn't it?"

You: "Yes, you did. I'm asking what kind of weapon was that."

Sukuna glances over his shoulder before covering the view by stepping to the side when you try to take another look. "I must admit, the Portuguese did come with something this time. It's a Matchlock rifle. It's one of the prototypes, not permanent yet."

"A rifle? You can kill someone from this distance?" Your furrowed brows and contorted face of confusion almost make Sukuna lose composure. This is undoubtedly the first time in a while that you have been interested in something and was willing to talk with him, without sassing back, of course.

"Even further, too," Sukuna confirm. "But like I said, this is just a prototype, not yet decided. I want to talk to the Portuguese and have a room ready for one of their men to stay behind and modify the rifle with me."

You: "Why modify it when it's already deadly enough as it is?"

Sukuna: "Not deadly enough to my liking."

°

You were back to your room and became a sitting duck again. 'If Sukuna could get that weapon, then we're screwed.' When evolution for weapons couldn't get any better or worse, you almost felt worried. Sukuna would indeed be able to conquer land much more and faster, but with that rate, even the death of others he's going to take isn't going to remain stagnant anymore.

More bloodshed and the lives of others will continue to bleed over this land of Japan.

"Get this letter to Yuichi as fast as possible tomorrow during your shift outside; we need information." You fold the letter with deft hands and give it to a male retainer. "Be careful."

"Lady (Name), you have a gift from Sultana Aida." Yumi hands you a box, and it is wrapped neatly. "It was sent earlier when you were in the...field."

You took the box and unwrapped the red sash around it. Sultana Aida has sent you self-care items, especially body oil, and cream. The scent was sweet and fresh, not overpowering enough to give you a headache. The oil inside the clear bottle was in a rich hue of gold, and the body cream was sealed tightly in a jar too. Sultana Aida had a penchant for making perfume and women's essential needs. You met them over a year ago during a foreign meeting.

"Send a gift back to her." You told Yumi, who nodded and went outside to where there is a room where you store all your possession and gifts.

[night time]

There was a fluid snap of your doors being open and closed; the person who always comes into your room as they please is Sukuna himself. Through the bronze mirror, you could see Sukuna in his loose attire, which exposed the skin of his partial chest once he was close enough to where the lantern light could reach. You applied the body cream you received today to your neck before Sukuna settled himself behind you and wrapped an arm around your waist and chin upon your shoulder.

You froze for a quick second. Sukuna closes his eyes in bliss to take in the scent. "This smells nice." Even if he notices your discomfort, he doesn't care at the moment, not right now. He nuzzles his nose closer until it presses against your neck, and the warm breath of his seeps through your skin and into the thinness of your night clothes. You close the lid over your body cream and set it aside.

"What do you want?" Your eyes remain on the mirror, which shows how relaxed Sukuna is; he got you in between his legs as they were propped up to where his knees were bending. There was a deep inhale from him.

"I can't even be here in my own home?" He inquired, "I'm here to spend the night with you." That made you decisively rip his arm off around your waist.

"No, you're not," you shot back and marched away from him to create a distance. "You have plenty of women in your harem who wanted to spend time with you," on the other side of the room, you defiantly look at the man, who gives you a lop side grin.

"I'm not bedding you, not right now." Sukuna restates your thoughts, "Just sleeping side by side." Your face was stoned, but it was enough for Sukuna to tell that you didn't believe him when your brows twitched. There was a 'huh' from you, and you were gunning for the door, and in a flash, Sukuna had you in his embrace again. Another momentarily struggle from you when you start to kick and tell him repeatedly to let you go. "Don't," he whispered huskily into your ear, "I won't do anything, I promise." The man carried you by the waist with both arms and settled down with you in a slump onto the large futon.

Sukuna loosened his arms, and you slithered away to the other side of the bed and got under the cover with your back turned to him. He wanted to push the boundaries, but he wouldn't. Getting under the surface, too, he remains still watching the slope of your curves highlighted by the sheet and your back rising and falling. Sukuna gathered your hair that was pools around the gap in between you both and played with the ends; he let them loop around his forefinger before running a thumb over the silk feeling of it. He then brings the strands to his lips and kisses them to bid good night to you.

Then the light went out.

°

You roll over in bed and bring the blanket under your chin to snuggle in deeper. But why did something feel heavy around you? There was difficulty opening your eyes, and when you did, sleep didn't completely fade away as drowsiness was still evident. If it weren't for the hand patting your back to lull you back to sleep, then you would've done so. "Go back to sleep." With a heavy grave tone that slinks into one of your senses, the haze of sleep washes away. Angling your head up, you see the fondness in Sukuna's eye and push him away in shock with an 'ack,' and Sukuna only rolls onto his back in bed. The man almost laughs at your reaction. Quickly sitting up in bed, you didn't realize how bright the room was when your face was scrunched up and brought the bed sheet up to your chest. Even outside was quiet.

Sukuna almost forgot you make so many faces during sleep and even when you wake up, although not this much. There was a yawn from you as you covered it with both hands, then you swept your hands through your hair. "It's almost near ten if you're wondering." He repositioned himself again on the futon, laying on his side with one leg propped up while he used one hand to support his head under his chin.

"Get out," voice groggy; you stood up from the bed to prepare for the day, but Sukuna reached across the bed and brought you back down.

"You should sleep in more; you look adorable when sleeping." Sukuna teases you, and by instinct, you try to tear your wrist away, but this further fuels him to bring you into his arms and lock you up. Cradling you, he brushes a few strays of hair out. The push and pull you both had is almost desirable to other women in the harem. Sukuna in the morning looks different, nearly too humane for your liking. When he brushes the hair aside, he lingers his hand on the apple of your cheek and brings his lips to kiss the top of your head. Your reaction was like a cat sprayed with water, always struggling. "I almost forgot; good morning to you too." The body scent you had acquired sticks to you so well that it is only what pheromones entirely throughout the night. Maybe this is the scent he likes, besides your natural scent.

"I took some time off from my affairs and decided to tend to you." If you look offended, you do indeed; anything he does for you sounds like an offense. The foreign topic of him trying to soften you up always seems helpless, but Sukuna has time to try everything; a man like him is never out of ideas.

"I don't need you to," glaring at Sukuna, his smiles widened even more, and you took the liberty to push his face away when he closed up again with your other free hand.

[afternoon]

He was serious when he said he wouldn't leave you alone. You wanted to be by yourself, but he made it difficult. Not only had he dismissed everyone who served under you and told them that their service wasn't needed for the day, but he was also hand-hogging you.

Sukuna grabs your hand, and you forcefully pull it away; he does it again, and you repeat it. This childish play continues until he grasps it tightly, forcing you to walk side by side. "Let go." You wiggle your hand, trying not to lose composure, and Sukuna swiftly plays with your fingers and separates them from interlocking his with yours to tighten the hold.

"No," that one-word answer from him had you wish you could disappear into the air magically. "I made a promise, and I intended to keep it." Sukuna brings you even closer as you bump into his arm.

You both were walking to nowhere, only letting your feet guide you and him around the fortress ground. It wasn't until Asuna's head appeared in your view that Danzo's tugged his mother's hand to tell his mother he wanted to visit you quickly.

"Danzo?" You call from a few feet away, and the little boy brightens. He lets go of Asuna's hand and runs toward you at full speed, and knocks himself into your legs. Danzo smiles happily at you, and you use your free hand to pat the boy's head. Asuna greeted you and Sukuna while lingering where she stood. Her eyes trail to your and Sukuna's hands which are interlocked tightly. As a spectator, the scene ahead of her almost makes it seems like a perfect family of three should be if Danzo were yours, even though you were awkward in showing affection to Danzo in front of Sukuna. She kept seeing you side-eying the taller man, who was observing every millimeter of interaction. Asuna's son was very fond of you during the first meeting, even if he had misunderstood you for being a character from a book. Although you don't mind interpretation, you were rather genuine in your exchange with Danzo.

"Have you been good?" You readjust the multiple layers of collars of Danzo's clothing, fixing any creases. Danzo nodded rapidly with a hum.

"Use your mouth," Sukuna spoke up, and you again side-eye him. Danzo's little body tensed up at the sound of his father. You pretended to wiggle your hand in Sukuna's and elbow his side purposely, and he saw a subtle disapproving eye and a frown from you. You were peeved with his tendencies. Why be a grown man picking on a child, especially his own? Even his half-brother was treated almost the same.

Before you can open your mouth to comfort the child, multiple voices enter the yard. Out and emerge from the corner is Eisha with her daughter and Sena accompanying the crown matriarch along with a few minor concubines. Everyone was locking eyes with each other and stopped their idling talking. Eisha (along with Sena) picked up on how close you were to Sukuna, and a knot formed in her chest when the apparent physical contact of hand-holding was the first thing she saw. A tight-lipped wry gambol set on her lips as she greeted Sukuna and ushered her daughter, Eri, to do the same, so the rest followed suit. But her eyes flickered to Danzo's last second; he was also close. Eisha knew that Asuna's son wasn't a thought in Sukuna's mind as he was just one of the many children he sired. Still, it tickles her interest why he was so close when her daughter wasn't granted the same physical closeness but a mere glance.

"Greetings Lord Sukuna/ Father." Then the rest greeted you, besides Eisha, due to ranking. You give the rest acknowledgment with a thin nod and adequately greet Eisha only. "What brings you all out here, Lord Sukuna?" She inquires with pique curio sitting at the back of her mind.

"Thought it would do Lady (Name) good for some fresh air." Then Sukuna turns the question to Eisha, "And what are you doing out here? You are frail and susceptible to the cold, which could worsen your health."

"I'm glad that you ask Lord Sukuna," she then pulls Eri forward in front of her by the hand gently. Almost as if she wants Sukuna to acknowledge the child. "I came out here with Eri for a walk after her studies." There was only a flat 'oh' from Sukuna, and from how he sounded, it lacked interest. Even Sena picks up on the tone, and that pricks a nerve. If Sukuna doesn't even care about her two previous children, then why would he care about Eri at all? Even in your presence, he doesn't seem to show filial affection towards them.

"I see; carry on with your walk then." Sukuna quickly dismissed them, but Eisha wasn't willing to let go.

"If I could, would Your Lordship, Lady (Name), and Concubine Asuna allow us to join your route?" Eisha wouldn't allow you and Asuna to be alone with Sukuna. And behind her back, she made a hand sign which the lower-ranking concubines understood and made a quick excuse to leave the yard. So now that only leaves her, Eri, and Sena. What Eisha did, didn't escape Sukuna's vision; that only made him take a deep and intolerable sigh inwardly.

All he asked for was one day with you without interruption.

For Asuna, she thought this timing couldn't be any worse with the visible tension brewing. She could tell that Sukuna's mood had floundered a bit since, after all, he was only out here to be with you. Then she focused on you, which she could say for once; your mood seemed to be in sync with Sukuna, although you wanted to get rid of him.

°

Two weeks later, two figures on separate horses rode up and stopped by the entrance.

"So this is Sukuna's mighty castle, huh?" Mugetsu's keen eyes search every nook and cranny of the building to see how well the fortress is built. Then there's Totsuwa, who already feels the regret setting in. He only accepted the invitation out of sheer impulsiveness and hatred for the pink hair man, and now the feelings somehow dissolved once he made it to Sukuna's Hell doorstep. It was easy for Totsuwa to imagine himself slaying the demon and reclaiming all his honor, power, and glory that Sukuna had muddled; he even talks significantly about it in his drunken stupor at an inn a week back.

"Don't be a chicken now, Iriyu," Mugetsu teases his best friend, "we might be able to learn more about our enemy." Somehow that doesn't sound comforting to Totsuwa, even when their tone is meant to lighten him up.

Getting off their horses, they handed the reins to a stable boy and looked for someone with deep pink and white hair. It wasn't hard to spot them when they were wearing their white garment. "Hello, Lord Mugetsu and Lord Totsuwa; I am Uraume, Lord Sukuna's retainer." They greet the two men with a proper bow, "If you would please follow me, I'll guide you two."

Mugetsu tapped Totsuwa's arm a few times, "They look pretty," he whispered, eyeing Uraume's back, "if only I wasn't married and they weren't your buddy's retainer, then I would've gotten them."

"Please, for the love of God, shut up!" Totsuwa whispers right back to his friend. "You always say that to every pretty woman you walk by!"

Mugetsu: "I can't help it, though."

[sukuna's office]

"Whoa..." Surprise color Mugetsu and Totsuwa when they saw not just the room but you seated a foot away from Sukuna. Rumors about the favorite wife do hold.

"Stop ogling at my wife," the pink-haired man snapped, brows drawn together into a scowl with the corner of his lip quirking up, and a tongue click could be heard. Sukuna wasn't sure why you insisted on being here; he would let you join any other meetings, but why this one? He doesn't know. There was a smidge of hesitation presenting at the back of his mind even though he tried to push it away logically; it always came back up. However, Sukuna wouldn't let it show. During the last two weeks, you and he had an on-and-off time together, the same usual push and pull. Still, you somehow had inserted yourself into his schedule willingly today with the promise of being interested in politics.

Sukuna had warned you it would be boring to dissuade you from this meeting, but you brought up a point, "You were the one who allowed me to visit your meetings, but now you won't let me?" Point taken, and now here you are. In the logical aspect, this allows Sukuna to spend time with you. Albeit not the way how he wanted it. But he couldn't brush away the nagging thought that it didn't feel right for you to be here.

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[hellishjoel]

blue collar man

4.1k /  joel miller x f!reader

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Summary: Your boyfriend Joel is up to his ears busy with his contracting business. Tired and sore, he comes home to learn you’ve made the rest of the night all about him. 

Warnings/Information/Heads-Up: Fluff, mentions of sex (but no actual sex), mentioned age difference, fluffy fluff fluff because blue collar man Joel Miller deserves it! He’s running a biz-ness! 

A/N: based on this lovely request! I hope I could bring your request to life, I breezed through it so fast because I love him, he’s baby. 

“Thank you for today.” He murmured into the pillow. You barely hear it, but even if you didn’t, you feel it in the way he holds your hand and keeps your arm settled around him.  “Thank you for everything you do, Joel.” You whispered back, your forehead on the top slope of his back as you take in the smell of his body wash combined with the lotion, his body falling slumped in your protective hold. 

Joel had found a lot of success with Miller Contracting over the summer months. Business was booming and his early mornings until late nights were dedicated to working on multiple projects to get things done on time for his clients. Joel worked on referrals mostly, so when he finished a client’s remodeled hill country home in late winter, the client had raved over Joel’s professionalism and hard work to their friends and now he had a list of upcoming projects. 

Truthfully, you didn’t know much about contractors until you started dating Joel. You quickly began to understand the vastness of his duties. One day he could be working on home renovation projects where he was doing demolition like removing the walls or floors, electrical and plumbing work, flooring installation, even down to the last coat of paint. 

Other opportunities were commercial like on a small office building downtown where he did site preparation, set the foundation, worked on the beams and columns, all the way up to finishing the roof. Whatever he couldn’t do himself that was a bit more specialized, he hired subcontractors to work on like heating, ventilation, and air conditioning. 

What he hated the most was landscaping projects. He’d have to do the design layout of a large backyard garden and plant trees and flowers or work on seeding grass if it was a particularly hot Texas summer. Then he would add irrigation systems like sprinklers, pathways for people to walk on, pergolas for outdoor hosting, finishing it off with pretty and unique outdoor light fixtures. God forbid the client wanted a pond. 

“Do you know how annoying koi fish are? They just… stare at ya while you’re tryin’ to work.”

You had grown to love the handy man that Joel was. Before you were moved in to his place, your shitty little apartment needed so much love that your asshole landlord never took the time to come and fix. But Joel would. That was his form of romance. He didn’t bring you flowers or chocolates on the first dates. Joel was replacing your leaky shower head and tightening your jiggly door knobs. He also managed to match the paint color on your walls so he could cover up the scrapes he made after he railed you into your mattress so hard that the frame made a few chips. 

You were so happy to see his business getting the high recognition it deserved, however, Joel was taking quite the beating from it. You could tell by the way he slinked back into the house at the end of the night, his frame hunched over and walking with a slight limp. 

He was sore, muscles aching and knees screaming at him. His joints were swollen by the end of the day and his sweaty, sticky skin ached for a refreshing shower. 

The hardest part was always trying to shut off his mind when he got home. He was already thinking about the next day. What didn’t get done on time, what shipments of supplies were expected, how the delays would set the project back. He needed a break. 

“Can’t take time off right now, baby. I’ve got deadlines to meet.”

There was this one specific project that was giving him hell. He called it the Astor because it was on Astor street. Every night this week he had come home beyond late because of the problems with the Astor. First it was that the project was exceeding the client’s budget, so they were giving him grief about that. Then it was labor shortage stuff, not being able to get people out there which then in turn caused timeline delays. With the client out of the country most of the time, Joel was receiving little to no communication from the owner. He was fighting permit and regulatory issues with the city, every day it was something new that caused a headache behind his eyes. 

His dedication was admirable, but you knew that him being so physically and mentally clouded wasn’t good for him or for Miller Contracting. 

You didn’t know shit about contracting, but you did know Joel. 

You had texted him earlier in the day to drop whatever he was working on no later than 5 o’clock in the evening. You never did that, never told him to leave work early. But the last thing he wanted was for him to come home and have you upset with him. That was worse than any project issue. 

Tonight would be about Joel. Anything you could do to make the stress melt away, you would try. 

Joel pushed open the front door once home, a heavy sigh leaving him as he closed the door back in place and set his lunch box and keys down on the entry table. 

“Joel?” Your voice echoed from the kitchen. 

“Hi, baby.” His voice was low from the lack of energy.

Joel slowly moved down on one knee, a heavy breath exiting through clench teeth as his kneecaps throbbed while he untied one boot, then the other. They were covered in dust even down to the creases, steel toe covers making his feet sore. 

“Hey, how was your day?” You asked as you grabbed a dish towel to wipe your hands with before tossing it on the counter, greeting him halfway as he made his way through the living room. 

You were up on your tippy toes for a kiss, not wanting him to have to bend over and exert himself. He hated when you treated him like an old man, but with this job, you always teased him that it was coming sooner rather than later. 

He kept his hands to himself, knowing they were a bit greasy and sweaty. His overgrown beard hairs tickled your face as you peppered him with a few extra kisses, one of his eyebrows playfully raising. 

“Was fine. Did you see what I texted you?” He asked as he looked down at you, watching as your fingers grabbed the hem of his shirt, helping lift it off his head. 

“Mhm. The HVAC guys didn’t show up until noon even though you scheduled them for nine in the morning. Did you see I texted you back? Five hours ago.” Your teasing tone made him crack a smile. 

Joel was bad at texting. Typical guy thing, typical older guy thing. He said he wouldn’t even have a phone if it wasn’t for work and if Sarah didn’t insist on how texting was the new way of communication. Even though you texted him ten minutes after his initial one, his phone was already back in his pocket and he had long forgotten about your conversation as he returned to his work day. 

His response came out in a chortle, a heavy breath through his nose since he was too tired to chuckle. 

“Sorry, baby. Just wanted to complain, I guess.” He said as he watched you fiddle with his Miller Contracting shirt that had a worn in hole by the neckline. He went to reach for it, wanting to toss it into the dirty clothes bin, but you were quick to hold it to your chest. 

“I’ve got it.” You said as you went to give him a soft kiss to the open plane of his chest, smiling at the salt and pepper chest hair he was sporting. It looked so good on him. You walked off to the bedroom and did it yourself, grabbing him a fresh shirt for the rest of the evening, a pair of boxers, and his worn dark plaid pajama pants he liked. 

Joel’s curiosity had gotten the better of him. A heavenly smell was drawing him into the kitchen, his eyes lighting up at the sight before him. You had green beans in a frying pan and a gravy softly bubbling in a sauce pan. Then in a skillet was the most perfect looking chicken fried steak, the coating coming to the perfect crisp. He pulled the oven handle open just an inch to see golden biscuits rising. 

“I put clean clothes on the counter in the bathroom, go shower, handsome.” You said before returning to the kitchen, frowning as he found his dinner before you had a chance to plate it. 

“Joel.” You playfully scolded, pinching at his hip. “You’re ruining your own surprise.” You teased as you shooed him out of the kitchen, hearing an audible grumble in his stomach. It made you sport a proud grin. It was his favorite meal, said it reminded him of his mom’s cooking growing up with Tommy. 

“I’m making mashed potatoes, too.” You said as you drained the water the potatoes were soaking in, putting them in a new bowl and getting out some milk and butter. 

“You’re makin’ me hungry.” He hummed with a small, tired smile as his hands came up loosely on your hips. 

His hands on you instantly made you grin, gently shaking your head at him as his head came to rest by your own. 

“You’re distractin’ me.” His low voice carrying the weight of his day. 

“No, you’re distracting me.” You made clear as your elbow playfully dug into the core of his stomach. 

“Go shower, please. You smell like drywall dust… and paint.” 

He rolled his eyes with his smile still lingering. 

“Yeah, okay. Thank you.” He said as his lips dropped down to place a sweet kiss of sincerity at the base of your neck, a shiver rolling up you as you let out a huff and returned your focus to your five-star meal. 

You heard the water hit against the shower wall and his small radio crackled to life, finalizing the last touches to Joel’s favorite dinner. 

Joel came back to the living room in the clothes you had set out for him, his hair slicked back wet from his shower. God, he looked so good. 

“Here.” You handed him his plate, seeing his lips part in excitement. His stomach let out an audible rumble. He probably didn’t have a spare minute to eat his lunch today, poor thing. 

The two of you settled on the couch, Joel expecting you to turn on one of your shows since a new episode came out today. 

“Do you uhm.. Maybe wanna watch one of those movies where they’re flying the jet planes? You said you wanted to show me it a while ago.” You offered, glancing over to see him already inhaling his food with the fork scraping across the plate to not let a single bit of gravy escape him. But your offer made him pause. 

“You wanna watch Top Gun? You hate Tom Cruise.”

“Well, yeah, he seems kind of like a douchebag, but it’s okay.” His eyes narrowed on you as he thought about your offer but ultimately shook his head, shrugged, and kept eating. 

“‘t’s fine, you can put somethin’ on.” He said as he stabbed a green bean, smeared some mashed potatoes on it before putting it past his lips. 

You took a deep breath and issued him the remote control. 

“You pick something tonight, honey. It’s your night.” 

That caught Joel’s attention. His head whipped a little to fast towards you, his thick eyebrows furling at the concept. 

“‘t’s not my night. It’s a Thursday.” 

The look you gave him set him straight. 

“Okay, okay.. It’s my night.” He declared in playful defense, taking in a deep breath through his nose and opted for some old Western show he liked. You didn’t care much for it, but Joel did. 

Once you two finished dinner, plates stacked on the coffee table and discarded, your head was on his shoudler and your hand ran slow, soothing circles over his chest. You could feel him breathing deeply, relaxing with you. 

You asked him questions about the main characters, showing genuine interest. Even going as far as to add a dramatic gasp when a shot was fired from a cowboy’s revolver which made him let out a hearty laugh. 

“You’re so full of it.” 

He was talking with a huge grin, you could hear it in how he spoke, and it warmed your heart. 

Towards the end of your night, your hands were in yellow dish gloves as you washed your plates from dinner, sliding the clean ones between the dividers of your drying rack. 

Joel slipped his strong arms low around your waist, his burly shoulders pressing into your own as you nearly toppled over with his presence

“Thanks for dinner tonight. Hit the spot.” He said as he kissed your cheek then on a spot where your jawline met your neck, right by your ear. His beard hairs tickled. You could feel that they were freshly trimmed now, he probably felt a lot better.  

“Night’s not over yet.” You hummed, a playful smile on your lips that he was quick to take notice of. 

“Oh?” His voice dropped an octave, rolling your eyes a bit as you dug your elbow into his stomach for the second time tonight to put some space between you. 

“Okay, cowboy. Relax. How about you go to the bedroom and take your shirt off. I’ll be there in a sec.” Your choice of words were still leading him in a different direction, you almost felt bad. But it was funny watching him get worked up. 

After finishing the dishes and blowing out the eucalyptus scented candles, you peaked into your bedroom. Joel was still cautiously removing his shirt, moving slow as to not disturb his aching muscles. You hated seeing him come home every night like this, as if his body had just been in a fight and taken a brutal beating.

Joel undid the clasp of his watch, the band and watch face dirty and making digging a  bruise into his wrist, but it told the time. He felt better after his shower, having made it a steamy one to relax the stinging in his upper neck and shoulders as well as his lower back. 

His belly was good and full, happy to have something homemade rather than a quick pizza in the oven or just a cold bottle of beer before bed.  

You were taking care of him tonight. Not that you didn’t every other night. He was actually giving you the time to take proper care of him. It felt off at first, taking on all the attention he usually reserved for you after long days. But maybe it’s what he needed. 

His head turned as he felt a warm pair of arms circle just above his plaid pajama pants, your soft fingers undoing the knot he had tied in the front of them. 

“I would’a taken my pants off for ya if you’d just ask.” His tone taunting, stepping out of the soft material before spinning in your arms and attempting to scoop you into him. 

“Lay back, goofball.” You said with that gleaming smile of yours. Made his stomach twist. Whatever you had planned, you obviously wanted the lead on. 

He did as instructed, happily falling into the comfort of the mattress with ease. 

“Close your eyes, please.” Your voice was sweet like honey. He’d follow it into the shadows, into hell, more likely into heaven since it’s where Joel thought you belonged. 

He could already fall asleep, though it was no later than eight. He felt the bed dip first at his legs, your body shifting up to sit by his hip. His hand naturally felt out for you, his warm palm holding you at the curve of your lower back. 

When Joel was given the okay to open his eyes again, he was surprised to see a few candles lit around the room, the golden glow adding a bit of ambiance. 

He watched as you squirted a few pumps of a lotion in your hands, circling it up in your palms to make it a little warm before you started to lather it into his calves. 

The sensation made his breath hitch. You were giving him a massage? He sat up on his elbows and watched the white-ish cream get all wrapped up in his dark leg hair. 

“Darlin’-”

“Shh.”

He tightened his lips, feeling a bit futile all of a sudden. There was a pause before he spoke again. 

“Don’t have to do this for me.” He insisted, his eyes on yours, but you were focused on adding subtle pressure to his calf muscles. 

“Know I don’t have to. I want to. Lay back down.” 

You wanted to. You wanted to take time out of your evening and bathe him in attention. You had cooked one of his favorite meals, and to perfection he might add. You also let him watch a show he wanted to watch, something he knew you didn’t have a taste for. But you were intrigued anyway, to show you cared. 

He was so comfortable and at ease, the problems of today didn’t seem to matter much anymore when you were here to greet him so lovingly. 

Your fingers kneaded gently into his skin, Joel’s eyes dipping closed as he began to sink deeper into the mattress. Of course he couldn’t just do nothing. He had his warm palm splayed on your back where the shirt you were wearing was riding up a little bit. You smiled at the gesture. No matter how much effort you tried to dedicate to Joel, he was still showing his care even when he was dead exhausted. 

You worked the lotion up into his thighs, the slight tug on his hairs making his face crinkle a little. You dared not to get too high, again, not to give him the wrong idea of where the massage was heading. It was okay to be just attentive to his needs for tonight. You could relax him in other more sensual ways another time. He needed something a little deeper.

You leaned down and peppered sweet kisses up his torso and over those salt and pepper chest hairs you admire so much, stopping just at his lips with a small smile. 

“So handsome.” You praised in a whisper, kissing him with a grin on your lips.

He hummed softly and moved his hand to gently cup the back of your head, keeping your kind presence in his proximity just a moment longer. 

“I’m getting too old for you.” He whispered back in a teasing tone, making you bubble up a laugh in your shared space. 

“You’ve always been too old for me.” Your thumb gently glided over his chin and admired a small white patch just at the base where his neck sloped down. “But I’ve never minded. Because you’re a good man. A hard working, blue collar man. It’s very sexy.” You teased with a smile, happy to see one blossom on his lips as well. 

“Thanks for treatin’ me so good tonight. This week’s been…” he let the sentence die before shaking his head. 

“I know, Joel.” You said with a small nod before pressing a gentle kiss on his lips again before sitting up straight. 

“Wanna roll over and I’ll do your shoulders?” 

He let out a breathless laugh as he looked up at you. “Please.” Like you had to ask. 

He wasn’t used to this sort of treatment, but boy, maybe he should start asking for it. 

Joel moved to lay on his belly, letting out a short groan in the process that made your chest flutter. 

You let out a short huff before you straddled his back, topping yourself right on his butt after getting a short groan from Joel for being on his tailbone. 

More lotion was squirted into your hands before you started to apply it across the landscape of his back. 

“We should do a skincare night.” You said, feeling his body shudder at the cold lotion. 

“Uh what?” Joel’s voice muffled against the comforter, his head to one side so he could see you just out of his peripheral.

“You know what skincare is, you see me do it every night.” 

“I don’t know what the he-ll you’re talkin’ ‘bout.” He said, his words stuttering as you pushed particularly harder in his lower back. Jeez, it was knot after knot under your fingertips. 

“Ugh, Joel!” You whined as your motions paused. 

Joel had a habit of doing this. Declaring he had no idea what it was that you were talking about, making you tirelessly explain for several minutes, before he goes ‘Oh, why didn’t you just say that? I know what that is.” It made you roll your eyes each and every time. 

“You’re handsome, but you don’t listen.” You hummed out before cupping your hands at his shoulders and doing circles with good pressure, your upper body weight being put into his stern muscles. 

“All I heard you say is that I’m handsome.” He moaned into the sheets, a blush creeping on your cheeks at his comment, but also his heavenly moan. 

“It’s.. where you apply skincare to your face. You know, using a cleanser, applying an exfoliator, moisturizer..”

This was when Joel started muffling random nonsense into the sheets and you playfully pushed into his crying shoulders harder until he let out another long groan of discomfort. 

“Okay, okay, I know what you’re talkin’ about. Skincare. I don’t need it.” 

You tutted, shaking your head as you held in a laugh. 

“Everyone needs it. Every. One.” You said as you leaned down and kissed the back of his head where his curls were starting to form. 

“Especially you, Joel! Your pores are so big, you’ve got dust and dirt getting all in there. And it’s been so hot outside, your skin’s drying up. Gotta take care of your skin baby.”

“Why? So I’ll look young agian?” He teased as he reached a hand back and squeezed your hip as well as he could from his position. 

“Because it’s good for you. Makes me feel good after a really long day.”

You could feel his eyes on you, a throat hum leaving his lips. “Thought I made you feel good after a really long day.” 

A huff left your lips as you were back to doing circles into his shoulder with your thumbs. “Shut up.”

The last of the lotion had sunk into his skin, the massage hopefully healing more than just his dry skin. 

Night’s like this with Joel were rare, but exceptionally special. He had energy to talk to you about everything under the sun, something you didn’t expect to transpire with your age difference at first. You discussed your mutual plans for the weekend, a barbeque at Tommy’s house. Joel was insisting on you wearing your new bikini, green to match his beautiful eyes. He could be such a horn dog. 

He wanted to stay up as long as he could, but the long day he endured couldn’t help but put weight on his eyelids. His words turned to mumbles, his arms snaking around your waist in his silent gesture to fall asleep with you. 

You shook your head with a small, tired smile, your hands planting themselves on his forearms to put a stop to his motions.

“Turn around.” You whispered, the notion making his tired eyes pop open with a “huh?” leaving his parted lips. 

“You heard me, old man. Turn around.” You said as your hand roamed over his warm hip. 

Joel assumed you didn’t want to cuddle tonight, maybe he was too warm for your taste despite the fan running above the both of you. 

Joel’s chest tightened as he felt your warm body return right behind him, a bashful grin on his face. 

“Are you tryna big spoon me?” His southern accent was dripping heavier than usual with the tiredness stringed in it. 

The question erupted a giggle from you, Joel feeling you kiss over his taut shoulder blade. 

“I don’t know how well I can big spoon you.. You’re so long.” Your arm tightened around Joel’s waist anway, his big hand finding yours as your fingers interlocked. He felt grateful in this moment, albeit a bit shy about the position. He was used to being the big spoon, it was different for him to be on the receiving end. But it was warm and settling, he couldn’t deny that. 

“So I’m uh.. I’m like the ladle to your big spoon?” Joel asked. He could feel your grin on his back, your legs tangling with his own. 

“Yes… you’re the ladle, but even the ladle needs a big spoon.” Joel’s blinks slowed until his eyes were closed, heavy with sleep. 

“Thank you for today.” He murmured into the pillow. You barely hear it, but even if you didn’t, you feel it in the way he holds your hand and keeps your arm settled around him. 

“Thank you for everything you do, Joel.” You whispered back, your forehead on the top slope of his back as you take in the smell of his body wash combined with the lotion, his body falling slumped in your protective hold.

[tightjeansjavi]

his eyes still glisten

A/N: so, this is based off a real life experience that I and others have probably been on both the receiving end, and the giving end whether it was intentional or not. Healthy communication in all types of relationships is important, as are boundaries. We all make mistakes and hurt people sometimes, but the important part to remember is that as human beings, we feel. We innately want to do good, and sometimes these hard conversations need to be had. Remember to also hold compassion for yourself during a painful/stressful time. We always can do better, and be better. 🤍

~word count: 2.9k~

Pairing | Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: Joel is feeling neglected in his current relationship with you. He breaks finally when you are no show to a planned dinner date. You and Joel talk through your feelings and set healthy boundaries in your relationship .

warnings: angst, hurt, some fluff, miss communication,minor whump, comfort, arguments, light mention of alcohol consumption, uncomfortable conversations, boundaries being set, vulnerability, just two people trying to navigate in a relationship, resolution, no age gap, reader has no physical descriptions, +18 minors dni!

main masterlist masterlist

As human beings we often find ourselves being engrossed in our lives. It’s never often intentional, but it’s easy as sliced butter to inadvertently make everything about ourselves. Our jobs, our relationships, our opinions, our thoughts. When we find ourselves too focused on our own lives, we forget the important people. Our friends, our families, our partners. You’ve forgotten your Joel, and he’s not quite sure how much longer he can keep his voice silent.

It’s not that you’re a bad person, a bad partner, a bad listener, you’ve just fallen off the rails a bit. Joel knows that he too needs to work on communicating his feelings better. His problem is that he often finds himself bottling everything up for so long that it begins to chip away at his exterior, piece by piece. He’s hurting; but you don’t realize it. After being together for so long, the honeymoon stage eventually wears off. He’s always been there to listen, be the shoulder used to soak your tears in. You’ve been good to him, so good to him, but lately he’s been feeling neglected. He feels the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. The trepidation that maybe you just don’t love him anymore.

He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but there’s only so much he can take before he breaks.

“Sir, are you ready to order?” The waitress at yours and Joel’s favorite restaurant asks with a gentle smile. She’s stopped by the table a few times now.

Joel checks his phone with a heavy sigh. You're running twenty-minutes late, but he wants to give you the benefit of the doubt. He gives the waitress a small, polite smile as he shakes his head. “No, Just a few more minutes. My girlfriend is running late.”

“Of course sir, no problem. Would you like another beer while you wait?”

He nods tightly before she even has the chance to finish.

The minutes begin to tick by as he nurses his crisp bottle Miller Lite. He feels pathetic each time he glances at the entrance to the restaurant. His mind plays a cruel trick on him as he searches for your face in the other diners.

Where the fuck are you?

He scrolls through his messages between you and him. Searching for any context clues as to why you were late. He calls you once, twice, a third time. He can’t help the dread that begins to seep deep into his bones. His palms are clammy to the touch as he imagines the worst possible outcomes; you’re breaking up with him, you’re seeing someone else.

No. No. He chants silently to his callous thoughts.

You’re just running late.

He finishes off his second beer as he begins to feel the tears sting the corner of his eyes. He refuses to show his emotions in a public setting. He won’t break down here, like this. He fishes his wallet from his back pocket as he slaps down enough bills to cover both the two beers, and a hefty tip for his waitress.

Once he’s safely behind the wheel of his truck, he finally breaks.

You were in back to back meetings all day. You were exhausted, burnt out, frustrated to the max limit, and your dinner date with Joel was forced to the back of your mind. Subconsciously, work was beginning to become your top priority, while your relationship was pushed to the backburner. It was becoming hard to juggle it all. Your sense of work-life balance was depleting faster than you could keep up. At the end of an extinguished flame that was barely holding on by a thread, was your boyfriend. Your Joel.

It’s a moment too late when you’re smacked head on with the realization that you fucked up. Shit, what day is today? Thursday. Oh–fuck, Joel. Your own sense of dread forces its way into your system as you frantically dial his number. You barely hear your co-worker telling you to have a good evening as you rush out to your car.

He doesn’t pick up. You try again, and again, and again.

He’s purposely ignoring your calls and you can’t seem to grasp the reason as to why.

A sense of relief washes over you when you find his truck parked in the driveway of your shared home. The lights in every room are turned off. He usually keeps a few on when he knows you’re working late in the office.

He hears your keys jingle at the front door from where he’s sat at the kitchen table. He doesn’t budge. He sits there with a stoic look on his face, and his hands clasped in his lap. Remnants of his tears laid streaked across his cheekbones like two cavernous streams.

“Joel, baby? Hey, I’m so sorry about tonight. I was in back to back meetings all day, Eric was being a fucking cranky pants, again. I had to stay late to work on this project that is due at the end of day Friday.” It felt like you were talking strictly to yourself as you softly closed the front door behind you, and plopped your keys in the bowl on the hall table right next to his. “Joel?”

Your ears perked at the sound of the kitchen chair scraping across the tile as you rounded the corner. “There you are. I’m so sorry, baby. I–”

“Why couldn’t you jus’ call me, or send me a text message. I sat in the fucking restaurant waitin’ for you. I could have changed the time of the reservation had I known you would be workin’ late.” He answers flatly as his forefinger nervously begins to pick away at the skin along his cuticles. A nasty habit he can’t seem to break.

“Baby, I know. I didn’t have a ton of access to my phone, and I just got caught up in a lot of shit today. You know it wasn’t intentional, right?”

He swallows down the urge to scoff at your dismissive response as his eyes slowly focus on you. “Can you..not call me baby right now? I’m trying to have a fuckin’ conversation with you, and you’re completely dismissing what I just said.” He bites back out of pure frustration.

“Dismissing you? Joel, I just said I was fucking sorry. I told you that I was busy–”

“Yeah, I heard you. You think I'm not busy too? Yet, I still take the time out of my schedule to communicate with you, because it’s the considerate and bare minimum thing to do! You couldn’t just take five fuckin’ seconds to send me a text?!”

“Joel, I never said that you weren’t busy too? Can you please not put words in my mouth? I was in back-to-back meetings. I barely had any access to my phone! What are you insinuating here? That I'm just making up excuses?!”

“You’re tellin’ me that you had zero time to communicate to your boyfriend?! I’m not insinuating that you’re makin’ up excuses, because that’s exactly what you are doing right now. All I'm asking for is some communication. Do you know how fucking pathetic I felt waiting around for you? I just wanted to have a relaxing evening with my girlfriend. I’ve been looking forward to it all day, all week, and it’s like you don’t care.” His voice cracked at the end. He felt utterly defeated as he scrubbed a hand across his face with an exasperated sigh. He hated confrontation. He hated fighting with you. It ripped his heart to shreds to see the way your face immediately fell from his words.

When you couldn’t muster up a response, he took this as his opportunity to get everything off of his chest.

“Look, I don’t want to hurt you, darlin.’ That is quite literally the last thing I want to do, but i’m at my fuckin’ breakin’ point here. You’re the most important person in my life outside of my brother, and lately I've been feeling neglected in our relationship. I don’t think you mean it intentionally, but these past few weeks I have been hurting. I know I should have communicated this to you sooner, but lately it’s been all about you. I know you’re busy at work. I know you’re stressed and frustrated with some of your co-workers, but what about my day? What about the projects that I have been working on? What about my stress? What about..me?” His eyes glistened like two shiny marbles under the warm glow of the overhanging kitchen light.

You were taken aback. It felt as if a freight train had collided with you and smashed your body down into smithereens. You hesitantly pulled out the kitchen chair across from where he was sitting before you slowly sank down. “Joel, I had no idea that you had been feeling this way at all. I truly thought that things were okay between us. I’m sorry I didn’t read between the lines and picked up on your change of mood. I’ve just been so caught up in myself lately, that I haven’t created the time for us to just sit down and communicate like this.” You softly spoke as you clasped your hands along the smooth finish of the wooden table.

“It’s not just about reading between the lines, I have some responsibility in this as well because I can’t just expect you to know exactly how i’m feeling if i’m not taking the time to communicate it to you. I don’t want you to feel like you need to internalize everything I'm sayin’, okay? I jus’ have done a disservice to us both for keeping this shit bottled up for as long as I have.” He murmured as he moved his hands from his lap and rested them along the table.

“How..else have I been making you feel lately, Joel?”

You watched as he took a deep inhale through his nose, before exhaling shakily through his mouth. You saw his lower lip wobble with uncertainty as his still glistening eyes met yours.

“Truthfully? I jus’ feel like I ain’t as important to you anymore. Like I could just get up and leave one day and you wouldn’t even notice that I wasn’t there. I feel like I'm always there to listen, and comfort you, but you don’t do the same for me. I feel like I constantly am seeking reassurance that you actually still want to be in a relationship with me. I feel like it’s a one way street, and my car is about to spin out because i’ve lost all capability of steering. I feel obligated to tell you the things that you want to hear, in fear of hurting your feelings unintentionally. I feel like i’m constantly putting my best foot forward in the relationship, and in the same breath, I’m trying to hold it together with some expired fuckin’ glue. I feel like I've been putting my everything into us, and I'm just becoming an afterthought to you.” Admittedly, it felt good to get everything he was keeping pent up off his chest finally.

“Joel, you are so important to me. I absolutely would notice if you just weren’t here one day. I’m sorry that I have been making everything about myself lately. I promise you it’s not in an intentional, or malicious way, I've just been getting sidetracked, and I haven’t been taking the time to focus on us and our relationship. I completely understand why you are feeling this way lately, and your present feelings towards me are completely valid. I haven’t been the best partner to you, and you shouldn’t feel like our relationship is a one way street. It should be a two way street, and I regrettably have lost sight of that.”

He had half expected you to blow up in his face over his vulnerable admittance. He had his own baggage from past failed relationships, so that unhealed side of him wanted to believe that you were just complying out of spite. The healed side of him was a gentle reminder that you were human too, and that mistakes are made, and people are hurt, but the most important fact was that you were listening to him. You were validating his feelings and holding yourself accountable.

“Darlin’ it’s okay. We’ve both been shit communicators lately. I think it's something that we both need to work on, don’t you think? Earlier this evening when I saw that you called, I was purposely ignoring you because I was feeling angry, hurt, and I was feeling bitter. I know I should have just taken the call, but I also didn’t want to explode on you either. I was at that point, and before anything could be said, I needed to calm down and collect my thoughts. I let my emotions get the best of me sometimes, and that’s also somethin’ i’d like to personally work on within myself.”

“Yeah, we can definitely use some touching up in that department. I need to start taking your feelings into consideration more. I’m glad that you didn’t pick up your phone, because honestly? It probably would have gotten ugly. I also think that lately I have turned you into my personal punching bag, because I'm constantly throwing my work drama onto your shoulders without even thinking about asking if you’re in the headspace to take on my emotions. I just open my mouth and spew, and I need to be more considerate on how you're feeling at that moment. I know we can always vent to each other about our frustrations, but maybe a boundary should be set?”

He slowly reached for your hands across the middle of the table as his fingers slotted through yours. He gave your hands a reassuring squeeze, followed by a soft smile.

“Yeah.” He rasped warmly, “I think it would be good for us to set some healthy boundaries. Sometimes I just don’t have the emotional capacity to take on your frustrations, especially if I am feeling particularly down on myself, or just in a general mood. With that, I really think it would be good for us to think about the positives as well y’know? Maybe we should try to not let our frustrations completely take over the vibe all the time? Cause honestly, I do find myself seeking your comfort and support when I find myself needing it most, but with that, I also need to remember that you might not have the emotional capacity to drop everything for me, and that is okay. We both have lives existing outside of the relationship, I jus’ think we gotta find that balance that works for both of us.”

You gently squeezed his hands back as you attentively listened to everything he was saying. “Yes, I agree that sometimes we both don’t have that emotional capacity for one another. Perhaps a level of consent can be established? Just a simple, ‘hey, i’m really frustrated right now, can I please tell you how i’m feeling?’ That way, it doesn’t just feel like we’re venting without checking in with one another first?”

“I think that is a great idea, darlin,’ why should consent and boundaries only be applied in the bedroom? I think it’s beneficial to have it present in all aspects of our relationship. I also would appreciate it if maybe we start having these conversations more? Maybe they can be like weekly check in’s to see how we're feeling? This might be considered to be a little lame, but it’s almost like we’re scrapbookin’ our feelings? Maybe that ain’t the right word for it, but I jus’ want our line of communication to be open, y’know?” He could feel his once tensed up nerves begin to gradually settle. His heart no longer felt like a twisted coil now that you both were communicating.

“Yes, we should make a point to sit down and make the time to have these conversations. It might be a bit tough at first, but I think we can manage it. I get what you mean with the scrapbooking comment. It almost brings a lighter element to it? Plus, we don’t have to just talk about the frustrating stuff. We can talk about all the fun and exciting aspects as well. Joel, I just want you to know that you don’t have to bottle everything up before it becomes too much for you to handle. You can always talk to me, and I can’t promise that I will always be readily available, but I will actively put in the effort to be there for you, just like you have been for me. You and I aren’t perfect. No one is. No relationship is flawless, but I think with a bit of nurturing, we’ll be alright.”

Your own eyes began to glisten as you listened to the familiar scrape of the kitchen chair along the tile as he padded over to you. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, as his own looped tenderly around your waist. He nearly crushed you to his chest from how tightly he was hugging you. He really loved you that much. You were his girl after all.

“I love you, honey. Thank you for taking the time to listen and acknowledge my feelings. I appreciate it so much, and we’re gonna be alright. We’re jus’ hittin’ a little speed bump right now, but we haven’t lost control of steering entirely.” He nuzzled his face into your cheek. You could feel the bristles in his beard gently scratch your skin as he squeezed you tightly.

“I love you so much, Joel. Thank you for being honest with me, and I promise I'll do better.”

“I know you will, baby. S’okay. We’re all just human at the end of the day.”

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[saltsicklover]

Title: Not a Cyclone, But a Monsoon

Part 1 of 2 - Completed

Find Part 2 HERE and my Master List HERE

A request based off of THIS prompt, from the lovely @inkandarsenic

Romantic Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Platonic Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x Fem!Reader

A few uses of Y/N

Word Count: This part: 6k+ Total Fic:20k+

Rating: R

Warnings: Talks of death, minor character deaths, labor, loss of a child in utero, abandonment, drinking, talks of God and destiny, swearing, general military talk and lingo, descriptions of food and eating, coughing fits, talks of violence, actual violence, blood, vomit and throwing up, mention of near death experiences. ANGST

---

I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE REPOSTED OR TRANSLATED

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. Six years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The Officers Club, better known as The Flight Line Bar sits on post in Miramar, frequented by the big brass and educators at Top Gun. The whole place glows with amber light from the buzzing light fixtures that hang from the rafters, dusty and hot to the touch. This half of base, on the far side of the air field has yet to be updated, evident by the chips in the glasses and the inconsistent flickering of the halogen bulbs. The wallpaper is peeling; discolored around the old neon signs that have slowly begun to fizzle out. If it were any brighter inside those four walls, one might be able to see the discoloration of well walked floors and one too many spilt beers.

Two loan pool tables sit in the center of the bar, their felt faded from use and tearing, flanked by a couple of dart boards, their cork crumbling from age. The patrons look about the same, old and wrinkled with age, lines worn into their faces that read closer to distinguished than wary. That's what the military does to a person, wears itself straight into the skin and makes a home there, the ghosts of lost wingman and battle buddies still looming in the whites of their eyes. Too many memories are stuck in the deep folds of their uniforms, worn in around the elbows and shoulders, the creases worn from friction- salute after salute.

It's really a hard to believe that people still frequent The Flight Line Bar. After all, there are so many better places for the students of Top Gun to meander into, just off post where they don't have to risk rubbing shoulders with their instructors- or heaven forbid, hit on their guest lecturers.

After all, It's all fun and games, flirty touches and smooth words until you're slapped with a SHARP report.

The students always figure out the good places to drink after class, shortly after their arrival after one too many moments spent inside the crumbling bar. The drinks are good in taste, better in price, but not worth it at the risk of saying just the wrong thing to just the wrong person.

The new recruits arrival happens like clockwork, and it's a ritual the newly minted Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson loves to witness. He has been watching the little ordeal for the last four years, with each new Top Gun class, even choosing to mark the date on his calendar after having almost missed an incoming class last year.

The new Top Gun recruits wander into The Flight Line Bar in gaggles. Most still clad in their uniforms if they had been lucky enough to get issued a drinking order. The wide eyed aviators would file up to the bar, uneasy looks on their faces as they took in the ranks drinking around them. If the Flight Line Bar was a small pond, the Top Gun inductees are guppies surrounded by some very big fish. One year, a young aviator even tripped over the base commander's seat and was met with a glare that even Cyclone would have been nervous to stand on the receiving end of.

The recruits each drink a beer, the brave ones chancing a second, before they're heading for the door. Cyclone loves to see the discomfort that would roll off of them the moment they crossed the threshold back into the parking lot. Some would even shiver, which always seems to pull a hearty laugh out of the Admiral.

This year, however, Cyclone is met with a very different scene before him when he himself broke the threshold of the Flight Line Bar. Having been stuck in a meeting with Admiral Kazansky, Cyclone ends up arriving later than the usual crowd of recruits. So, when he finally wanders in, he is met with the fleeting glances of some top brass, but no new eyes. He can't fight the way he almost deflates; after the shit day he managed to barely claw his way through, the one thing he was looking forward to were the wide eyes of the newest, freshest meat that Top Gun managed to recruit.

As if today of all days wasn't hard enough to begin with.

Instead, it looks like a regular Friday night, which wouldn't do the leg work needed to actually flip his day around for the better. But he's already there, the drinks are cheap, and he really, really needs a drink. So, he orders with a silent wave of his hand, the borderline elderly man behind the bar meeting the wave with a nod of his head. Cyclone plops down unceremoniously onto one of the rickety barstools. It almost sways under his weight, however it does creak weakly as he settles. His temple meets his knuckles as he lets out a deep sigh as the beer being set down in front of him. Cyclone can only manage a nod to the bartender before lifting the glass to his lips.

The question of why he still drinks here, in this lousy bar, floats through his head for a moment, but he doesn't put fourth the energy to grant himself with an answer. Maybe it's the cheap beer and half price shots. Or, maybe the fact that he doesn't have to fight off the happy hour drinkers or the five o'clock somewhere partiers that seem to be carried in with the wind. Again, he doesn't entertain the question long enough to form an answer.

Cyclone doesn't even have to glance around the bar to know the crowd this Friday night hosts. Top brass, tired officers, and disgruntled wives, each drinking their own bad days away.

The glass feels about a hundred pounds and it meets the bar top with a loud thunk, the amber liquid sloshing around inside. A bit of foam sneaks over the rim, running down the crack in the glass. Cyclone scratches at it with this thumbnail, wondering how the hell the bar is still getting away with using nearly broken glassware. The thought doesn't last long, not many seem to this evening, and he is bringing the impossibly heavy glass back to his mouth for another sip.

As he tips it back a little further this time, the sulking woman a few seats down catches his attention. If this were a normal Friday night, Cyclone might make bets with himself on just why a woman might be crying, in this bar, all alone. He might puzzle that she is a soon to be ex-wife, her spouse making the choice to cheat on deployment. Maybe she is a daughter, or a sister, or a cousin, her base escort hiding in some other corner of the bar, or of the base. But tonight is not a normal Friday night, regardless of the absence of the new incoming class or not.

The Admiral can't help but watch her lazily out of the corner of his eye. She brings a shitty bar serviette up to wipe at her cheeks, sniffling as the paper touches her skin. Cyclone should feel guilty about how much the sight comforts him. At least, he thinks, someone else seems to be having just as bad of a day as he is.

Then, she catches him staring, his beer lost in the space between his lips and the counter. His fingers are sticky against the chilled glass as he holds it there, still watching her. Cyclone doesn't look away, no point in it now. Then, she breaks the disillusioned bubble forming between them with a sniffle and a hiccup.

It's not a pretty sound, but then again, the sight of the woman in front of him isn't exactly pretty either. After all, it's hard to be pretty when snot is rubbed up over the tip of her nose, catching the light as she sniffles again. Her hair is akin to a nest, like her fingers have been making their way through it over and over again until it is more mess than style.

"I'm sorry, Admiral, Sir," Her voice is straining from holding back tears. There is snot dripping from her nose again, and she wipes it with another flimsy napkin. A half effort is made to sweep back the hair in her face, her well kept fingernails catching in newly formed knots as she pushes it back. The woman doesn't break eye contact with him, even as the sight of him begins to swim through her newly forming tears.

"Hey, kid, it's okay, don't worry about it," His eyes meet the fluttering neon sign behind her, not wanting to lock eyes with her again. It lights her in a halo of sickly blue and Cyclone can see the fizziness of her hair in it's light- it's a half distraction from the way she is still looking at him with those tears in her eyes. He can't stand it when women cry, not after watching his wife, June, sob through her entire pregnancy. It's really the way their eyes glaze over- that helpless look where he can just tell they are fighting with everything they are worth, deep down knowing that it might not be enough. Though, it warms his chest a bit to call her "kid", like he has always been meant to use the term.

The Admiral's brown eyes go misty, locking onto the chipped portion of his glass as the memory of his wife, six months pregnant, stuck in a hospital bed as hot tears carved their way down her face invades Cyclone's memory like a plague. He will never forget the crimson staining her cheeks from the exertion as she fought. And fought. And fought. The way her skin was more chapped than smooth from the constant flow of tears- the way the light would catch the shininess of her skin from the petroleum jelly that he lovingly spread over her weeping skin.

She didn't make it home.

Neither did their baby boy.

And now, as this woman sits a couple stools down, crying in a way that's anything other than gentle, corralling her sobs into the fence of her chest; her face that same color he used to be so used to seeing, that same damn sheen to her skin and Beau feels sick. His eyes snap down to her hands and he watches as her fingers push through the soggy material of the napkin, a sight that makes him grimace a bit. Gross is not the word to use to describe a crying woman, that is fact he has to remind himself of, but the way her fingertips slipped right through that soggy excuse of a napkin is damn close. Cyclone schools his mouth into a tight line, knowing that anything he might say could make both of their day's spiral downwards even faster.

"Admiral," Cyclone wills himself to look her in the face, but his pupils dance around, not locking in on one spot too long. The frizz of her hair, then over the puffy skin under her eyes, then back up to the buzzing neon just over the top of her head. Anything to keep from looking into the woman's eyes. He manages a nod in her direction, rewarded with a hiccup from behind her glass.

A couple more used napkins are tossed up onto the bar, adding them to her steadily growing pile. Her beer is cold, and she can feel it travel all the way down, chilling her burning insides with each swallow. Cyclone takes a drink of his too, waiting for her to continue her thought. He closes his eyes as he tips back the glass, the image of the crying woman in front of him replaced with one of June, and he's not really sure which is worse.

Thunk goes the glass again.

"Can I ask a favor?" Her tone is so sweet, yet so, so sad. He thinks of June, then he nods, his body doing the motion for the sake of his heart, even though his brain is screaming at him. He was taught a long time ago that there are people who don't just ask for favors, specifically strange women in bars, new recruits, and the big brass. But, the woman looks about the age his son should have been now and his chest constricts with the realization that he could have been sitting here drinking with him if things had turned out different.

"How can I help you, kid?" The glass is hitting the bar top just a little bit too hard again, the splinter in the glass growing a millimeter. It's quickly covered by the large pad of Cyclone's thumb.

"I- well, I'm supposed to be here celebrating my Mother's leg-legacy," Another sob-full hiccup breaks up her sentence. Cyclone waits patiently for her to finish. She wipes at the tip of her nose with the back of her hand.

"And, she really liked to shoot whiskey," The explanation is coming out too wet and not at all concise, but Beau is nodding along anyway. The woman is rubbing at her eyes again, this time with her fingertips. She carefully runs her nail along the underside of her waterline, trying to catch the new tears before they streak down her cheeks with the rest of them. It doesn't really work, or even if it does, Cyclone can't tell. New tears fill up the spaces the freshly wiped away ones once occupied.

Despite the unclear delivery, Cyclone gets the message. Ordering two double shots of Tennessee whiskey, his wife's favorite, Cyclone offers his best sympathetic smile to his new drinking companion. Then, as the whiskey is being poured and he is shuffling over to the bar stool next to hers. That one creaks and sways too, but he tries not to pay it too much mind.

"What's your name, kid?" There's that warmth again, breaking through the tightening feeling in his chest.

"Lieutenant Y/N "Monsoon" Mitchell," Monsoon raises her shot glass to Cyclone, offering him a nod. It's such an informal introduction but both are thankful for the lack of salute, the lack of military theatrics, tradition, that they are usually stuck to upholding. After all, what is tradition except peer pressure ringing through from years past.

Cyclone knows her, well, her name, this recruit- on paper at least. Suddenly he feels a bit worse for feeling less alone when he spotted her crying.

"Beau "Cyclone" Simpson," He raises his own glass, moving to tap them together. It's a risky move with the state of the glasses, each sporting chips in their rims and hairline fractures down their side. They share sullen, makeshift smiles, neither putting any sort of heart behind the expression. It's a knowing sort of thing, the look they share, one that says I won't say anything if you won't.

"To my Mama, Lieutenant Maria Davis, the best damn medic the USS Vinson ever saw," Monsoon's toast is simple, but she means every single word. Beau's mouth turns up at the corners, nodding to her in acknowledgment of a good job.

"And too my wife, June, and our baby boy, god rest their souls."

The bottoms of the glasses hit the table before the rim makes contact with their lips. The alcohol goes down with a burn, but it's a welcomed sensation. Anything feels better than swallowing grief and there's too much in the air right now. Cyclone chases the shot with a gulp of his beer. Monsoon doesn't. She rests the cool glass against her warm cheek, squeezing her eyes shut. It's a refreshing feeling, almost like she is being rinsed from the inside out.

The alcohol settles deep within them. She is buzzing, he is a bit queasy. Neither need to say a thing about it. It kind of feels like church- like a well spoken sermon where one sits in the pew the furthest from the crowed, tucked away in the back, poking holes in each lesson the preacher delivers. After all, it's not really God's plan, is it? More dumb luck than divine circumstance. Yet, they are both still there, sitting on stool that could give out at any moment as the lights above them buzz and the world feels a little smaller.

"I was watching the class today. You're a damn good pilot, Monsoon," Beau speaks after a few beats of silence, not quite sure what to say. Go with the truth, right? It would be rude to move back to his original seat, especially after the woman next to him just got control of her tears, so small talk is the next best option. She cracks her eyes open, trying to read the expression that follows the compliment. It looks genuine, if not a little proud, so she nods.

And then the world is a bit smaller, still.

"Thank you, Admiral, sir," She sets the glass down, gentler than he has done the whole night, "That means a lot, coming from such a talented pilot as yourself, sir."

And then Cyclone is chuckling, his chest vibrating. That feeling being the closest thing to godly he has felt in a long time, but it's more Zeus, more Jupitar, than it could have ever been God. Monsoon's words are so genuine and it catches him off guard. Most people who say something like that are trying to kiss his ass so hard that there they all but wear marks on the backside of his trousers.

"Are you getting excited to graduate? The ceremony is next week, right?" He asks, bringing his eyes back to the neon behind her. The light above them flickers, neither one acknowledging it. There is a sort of kinship between the way their souls feel and the state of the bar, where living feels like the flickering of a light, tonight.

"Sir?" The question comes with a tilt of her head, her fingers wrapping loosely around her beer. He watches the condensation drip down the glass, the water disappearing behind her fingertips.

"To graduate," he explains like it's the clearest thing, "To finish Top Gun,"

"Oh!" Monsoon almost chuckles, but her soul is too heavy. She settles on a small smile, as kind as she can manage.

"I don't graduate for another six weeks. Today just wrapped my seventh week here, but halfway done does feel good," He can tell she is holding something back with the way her eyes are pinched at the corners, the smiles on her lips straining a bit under her words. Monsoon looks like she almost doesn't believe the words that are leaving her own mouth, but when Cyclone catches her eyes again he can see that look again, I won't say anything if you won't.

"Oh," Beau's hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck, all of a sudden feeling like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "In that case, you are one of the best pilots I've ever seen,"

The words fall from his tongue like they are the simplest thing in the world. His eyebrows are still raised as he downs the rest of his beer. He contemplates Monsoon's career in his head, attempting to think back to files he knows are sitting on his desk, but the alcohol swirls the statistics together in his brain.

"Thank you, sir,"

"Is your father planning on coming to your graduation?" The question is so simple, the next plausible question after toasting to her Mother's life. Monsoon bristles at the question, her expression becoming impossibly more tight, pinched.

"He's uhm," The foam in the bottom of Monsoon's glass is the most interesting thing in the room. Tears are flooding her eyes again, and she's turning back to the shitty bar napkins in the even shittier dispenser. Cyclone knows his question hit a nerve based on how she is frantically pulling napkin after napkin out of the dispenser; and the Admiral's guilt swims to the surface. He is sure that the horizon of it can be seen in his iris's, if Monsoon were to look past the evident sadness that has made a home there. He's pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, blue in color and perfectly folded. He offers it to her and it's taken with a slightly shaky hand.

"M.I.A. or AWOL?" Cyclone asks. There's a bit of humor to his question that neither of them comment on.

"He went AWOL when I was seven," She doesn't take her eyes off the popping foam in the bottom of her glass, "Then I suppose he went M.I.A. three years later, when he stopped sending birthday cards,"

Cyclone hates the way her shrugs are all noncommittal and vaguely unbothered. He would have killed for a chance to raise his child, hell, he would move the Earth if that meant he even had a chance to do something. The fact that a man would walk out on his family, on his own child, it makes him sick. There is still something else Monsoon isn't saying; the way she chuckles is almost wax poetic with the way she rolls her eyes. Cyclone raises an eyebrow at her as he gestures to the bartended for two more on tap.

"I was in Admiral Kazansky's office today," She chuckles again, eyes glassy and unfocused. Cyclone slides the new beer over to her. He brings his up to his lips as she breathes deeply, trying to order the words together in her head, words she can't believe she is about to say out loud.

"There's a fucking picture of my father on his desk," Then she is downing the beer in quick, deep gulps. It's half gone before she sets it back down. Cyclone's brain is working on overdrive, swerving the hazy clouds of intoxication, searching for the mental picture of the Admiral's desk. Monsoon is chuckling in quiet disbelief, picturing the damn photo on his desk, her father and the Admiral shaking hands during their time at Top Gun. It makes her sick, really, but she doesn't need to say it based on the way her face feels, all contorted and ugly.

"I didn't even want to be a fucking pilot," Cyclone doesn't know if she is speaking to him anymore, or if the words are meant for her half empty glass. Hell, the way she speaks them they could be meant for the universe, for Khaos, for the air itself. There's a chip on that glass too, in the smooth side if of it, where it tapers down. He watches as Monsoon rubs her fingertip over it again and again and again.

"What did you want to do?" The question is leaving Cyclone's lips before he can stop it, common sense kicking in too slow. He is kicking himself.

Then, her thumb is stopping.

"I wanted to be a RIO," The glass is lifted to her lips again, her eyes rolling at the mere thought, "I wanted to fly with my Dad,"

The laughter that leave Monsoon's lips is dry as autumn air. Her lips crack too, under the stretch of her half hearted smile- one that holds no joy, it's all lukewarm and apathetic. He watches the skin of her lips crack and separate- it looks painful, and Cyclone has to fight not to grimace at the sight. Blood slowly begins to leak through the new flesh wound, bright red as it crests over the fullness of her bottom lip. He remembers watching the same thing happen to Maverick in the back of a helicopter as the wind whipped around them. But then, Maverick wore a truly joyous smile, one that rounded out his cheeks with a rosy hue that went deeper than the wind burn.

Then it hits Cyclone like a ton of bricks- like pulling 6 G's in a fucking barrel roll. Mitchell. This girl in front of him, this broken, fatherless girl is Pete Michell's kid. As if Cyclone needed another reason to hate the reckless man.

Beau wants to punch Pete Michell so hard that the only thing the man can make out in his field of vision is stars. Either the ones in the sky as he is planted with his back in the dirt, or the ones that would no doubt sparkle behind his eyelids. He wants to watch as the other man bleeds from the nose, the lip, the inside of his mouth. Cyclone can almost see the way the blood would pool in the spaces between Maverick's too white teeth, turning them a sickly vermilion. He would take a little too much pride watching the blood drip out of the corner of Pete's mouth, or down the crest of his chin.

Hell, Pete Michell, bloody, is a justified sight in Cyclone's book.

But that wouldn't help her right now. So Cyclone takes a breath, calming the flames of anger, of Hades that often lick at his legs, at his hands, whenever he so much as thinks about Pete "Maverick" Mitchell.

He's a bastard, that much is for sure. And it doesn't seem that Monsoon needs reminding of that fact.

"Well, kid," Beau is hunting, hurting for the right words, "If it's not wrong of me to say- your talents would have been wasted as a fucking RIO, especially for that son of a bitch," That gets Monsoon chuckling. She wants to ask if her grandmother was really that bad, but she doesn't make the joke. Though the laugh sounds a bit strangled as it untangles from the dense pain in her chest, Cyclone is happy to hear it. Something small swells in his heart at the sound.

Somewhere, deep in the cavernous spaces of his soul, a broken part of him feels like a father for the first time in years, even if it isn't exactly proper and the woman in front of him isn't his kid. Cyclone feels like a father, not even in a pseudo sense of the word, but truly like a father, and the feeling warms him from the inside out. It overtakes his whole body, leaving him almost buzzing.

Now it's his turn to chuckle. It's sour with pain and longing, but it's still there. Like joy is trying to crawl it's way out, lukewarm and dripping wet.

"Well, Admiral, sir," Monsoon's voice is a little lighter now, sweeter maybe. Cyclone is watching as she's pulling her coat over her shoulders, "Thank you for the favor, and the drink,"

She's nodding her head in the direction of the half full glass still dripping with condensation.

"Thank you for remembering them with me, too," They share a knowing smile, it's a little broken but it is still warm. Again, it's one of those I won't say anything if you won't looks shared between the pair. They lock eyes one last time before Monsoon is turning on her heel, ready to head right out of the front door.

For just a second Cyclone wonders if Monsoon will shudder with relief in the same way the new Top Gun recruits usually do, or if something as simple as that will effect such a skilled pilot. He wonders if anyone will be there for her on graduation day, or if she will be stuck alone in the seas of families and friends- just like he was all those years ago.

I won't say anything if you won't. Yeah, that's not a chance he's willing to take.

"Wait," Cyclone calls after Monsoon, his voice a little too loud and not at all hesitant enough. Monsoon chances a look back, confusion written into the furrow of her brows. He becons he back with a wave of his hand. Cyclone pulls a business card from his front pocket. "I am going TDY, but I should be back for your graduation," The words don't make sense to Monsoon, and neither does the card that he's presenting her between his two fingers. She is cocking her head to the side again, eyebrows furrowed. Cyclone tries to not notice how much she looks like her father.

He notices anyway.

"Email me, remind me of the date, and I'll be there," He is presenting her the card again with a shake of his wrist. Then, she reaches out, grabbing it with nervous fingers.

"Oh, uh-" There are new tears forming in Monsoon's eyes at the words, the card now swimming in her vision. "Thank you, sir,"

"Oh, better yet," Cyclone plucks the card from her fingertips, a move that may have been considered crass but Monsoon can't help but find a little bit funny. Cyclone quickly scribbles down a phone number in messy loops of blue ink, the numbers taking up a little too much room on the back side of the card. Then, he blows on it carefully to make sure the ink won't smudge before handing the card back out to her in the same manner as before.

"Text me the reminder, so it doesn't get lost in my email," Cyclone's smile is so kind and there is a ribbon of hope, a glimmer, really, shinning through the lightest parts of his irises. Monsoon can barely hold back her tears at the sight, and so the card becomes the most interesting thing in the room, held between her shaking fingertips. "You deserve to have a parent there, kid,"

Those are the last words they share that night. They don't need to say anything else. After all, how do you explain the want to stand in as a lost family member? Beau would never admit just how much he's dying for a kid to support, to cheer on and celebrate. Monsoon knows the feeling too, the want to be a daughter who isn't seen as an inconvenience, a burden.

The next time they see each other, Cyclone is sitting in the front row at her Top Gun graduation, a small bouquet of calla lilies on his lap. There is a proud smile on his face and the moment Monsoon sees it there are tears in her eyes. She wonders if this is the feeling she had been missing out on, a father's pride, his love. She tries not to dwell on it, even as walks across that stage.

When the pair meet in the crowd, Cyclone doesn't hesitate to pull her into a hug, one that may not have been professional or regulated, but he feels a weight come off her shoulders the moment he pulls her in. He feels a little more whole too. The hug is short, quick, really, but there are tears in both of their eyes when they pull back.

Cyclone has so much pride for her, and God, Monsoon can feel it. From the way he beams at her to the way he shoves a camera into the hands of his battle buddy, tucking her under his arm. Both clad in dress uniform, posing for the camera as she holds the flowers against her chest to try and quell the beating of her heart. They both sport tears in their eyes, cheeks round and plump red as they smile too wide.

That photo makes onto his desk a week later, displayed in a beautiful mahogany frame.

USS Stennis. Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Four Years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The first time Monsoon calls him Pops, it's an accident. She got shipped out to an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Pacific. The tour is lonely. She doesn't know the team, the group who have been stationed there for the last six months, and they weren't overly keen on the 'new girl'. Monsoon made it through three months before she started to feel like a part of the team. It's a conscious choice, really, to keep working at fitting in. But in the end that team, those people, they aren't her family and they aren't going to remember her after she ships back stateside.

Emails to and from Cyclone kept her going, as he reassured her that life on the carrier isn't easy on anyone. He urges her to try and make better friends with those who hold a more permanent position on the vessel, so she does her best to take the newbies under her wing. If she wasn't welcomed, that was out of her control, but she can sure as hell make sure that the newbies are.

The plan starts off a little rough, the new sailors unsure of the overly friendly Lieutenant amongst the standoffish seasoned crew of the vessel. But days turn to weeks, trust is earned and the long days and nights onboard get easier to swallow.

Then, Cyclone gets shipped out to the carrier for a briefing. He can't help the rumble of excitement that tracks through him. He might get to see Monsoon, his kid, and he's going to do everything in his power to track her down on board. 

There is too much joy on his features as he touches down on the carrier. Too much joy for the briefing he is getting ushered into. It drags on longer than necessary as they hash and rehash out plans for missions. He knows he should care, he really does, but it's not like people's lives are on the line this mission. It's all practice runs and jet maintenance, and how could anyone expect him to focus when his kid is on the same vessel and he is just fucking sitting there. Cyclone barely sits still, knowing the clock is ticking down on his time aboard and if this meeting goes on any longer than planned he is going to miss his chance to see Monsoon.

Around suppertime, Monsoon is heading to the canteen, desperate for some sort of nourishment. It has been a long day, trial after trial, and thankfully for her, she's fairing better than some of her other wingmen. At least she hasn't puked over the side of the carrier since her first week aboard.

She guides one of the newer pilots, Story, down the stairs from the flight deck, her stomach rumbling as they go. The new Lieutenant on board hot on her heels as they make their way down the stairs.

"I know, Story, but you're going to get through this," Monsoon's voice is low as they wind their way through the tight hallways of the lower decks. "You're a good pilot, there is nothing you can't do. So what if you need a little more practice. That's why we're out here, right?"

The younger man hums in agreement, disappointment scribbled all over his face. They are both coated in sweat, Monsoon's hair sticking to her sweat soaked skin. She craves a shower almost as much as she craves food. Her body is weighed down with flight fatigue as she drags her feet.

The halls of the ship begin to smell more and more like hot biscuits and butter the closer they get to the mess hall. Their stomach's rumble in unison at the smell wafting down the hallway. Monsoon is rounding the corner with her front turned towards Story, not bothering a glance in the direction her feet are heading. A second later, her back meets a hard body, a grunt coming out of her mouth at the impact.

Story goes white at the sight of his new friend running straight into an Admiral. Monsoon doesn't like the look on his face, he looks like he's just seen a ghost, or maybe prophesied a murder. So she turns around slowly, so, so slowly. Her eyes are scrunched as she turns. There is already an apology on her lips as Monsoon peeks to see just exactly who she just ran into.

Eyes go wide, and smiles break out over their faces.

The need for food, a hot shower, and sleep dissipate from her body as she looks up at the man in front of her, joy overtaking.

"Pops!" The name comes out a little too quick, catching them both of guard. Monsoon's cheeks flush dark with embarrassment, realizing what she just said and who she just said it to. Without warning, Cyclone is pulling Monsoon into his chest, wrapping her into a warm, tight hug, just the kind of hug a Dad would give.

"Hey Kiddo,"

TAG LIST

@its-the-pilot

@t4medicroe

@inkandarsenic

[forbidden-sin-bin]

By Your Side | Chapter 2

Summary: You meet with the man who made Infinite, Eminem; Or as everyone calls him Marshall, for the very first time. 

---

“The hell do you want?”

You were taken aback by his aggressive demeanor, wondering what you did to provoke his annoyance. “Hey, take it easy man.” You raised your hands to show surrender. “I don’t want any trouble-”

“Then why’d you stare at me?”

You blinked.

“Uh... what?”

“You were staring at me.” He repeated, a little bit slower this time like you were hard of hearing. “You stare at people, means you’re looking for a fight or you’ve got a problem with them.” The guy huffed, looking a little less miffed. “You don’t know that?”

‘Sounds like this place is way too goddamn sensitive.’ You mentally quipped, still, you kept that to yourself.

“Nope.” You popped the ‘p’ as you lowered your arms. “I do now though.”

He hummed, tilting his head at you inquiringly. “A’ight then, so what do you want?”

“Looking for a guy named Eminem.” You replied. “Or, you know, Marshall.” At the mention of both his artist alias and actual name, his brows raised in surprise for a moment before furrowing.

“That’s me. How’d-”

“The guy in the store told me that you had the cassettes for Infinite and all. Mind if I can snag a copy of your album?” You interrupted quickly.

His face morphed into a variety of emotions in a matter of milliseconds, ranging from surprise, to a glimmer of hope, and then back to suspicion and a mask of cynicism that he was so used to experiencing. 

He was expecting disappointment, and he was long prepared for it as he gave you a scowl.

“Look, if this is a fuckin prank or something, just say it now.”

This time you had return the sour expression, half annoyed at his negative attitude, the other half confused as to how he came to that conclusion.

“Seriously?”

Marshall shoved his hands in his pockets, lifting his chin up to glare at you in a defensive manner. “I’m serious. Why the fuck would you wanna buy my album? There’s stuff like Kid Rock in that store ‘n shit. And how the hell did you know about it?” He shrugged, nodding towards your attire. “As far as I know, cause I know you ain’t from here, you had someone tell you about it.”

He was observant, that’s for sure. Yet his matter-of-fact tone like he already knew the situation and how it was going to end made your eyes flash with anger and chip harder at your patience that was running thin.

Not like you were a very patient person to begin with.

“And you think whoever told me is asking me, a total outsider that’s not from here, to pretend to be interested in buying Infinite?” You scoffed, hardly believing your own ears right now. “Actually, I saw the poster in the store myself, believe it or not; And no, this isn’t me feeling pity or some bullshit like that. I want to buy it cause I’m interested; I ain’t fucking with you buddy.” 

The two of you stared each other down, neither letting up. You were beginning to have second thoughts, if he was so sure that you were messing around. ‘That’ll be his loss anyway.’ You thought, narrowing your eyes.

Finally, Marshall threw his hands up in an ‘oh well’ manner.

“A’ight. If you say so.” He motioned you to follow him as he fished his keys out of his pocket. “Didn’t answer my question though.”

You followed him close behind. “What, you mean why would I wanna listen to it?” He nodded, and you shrugged. “Well, call it my gut instinct; Out of all the album covers I saw, it was yours that caught my attention.”

“Uh huh... And?”

“And... I guess I had a feeling it might be worth listening to.”

“Even more than, oh, I dunno... Vanilla Ice?”

You gave him a disbelieving squint. “You serious? Nearly ruined hip-hop for me.”

Marshall didn’t say anything, but you swore you saw a ghost of a smile on his face, and you mentally gave yourself a pat on the back before asking:

“I really don’t look like someone who would be into rap music, huh?” This time, he actually broke into a brief grin. 

“Fine, you got me.” 

Unlocking the trunk of his car, he lifted the lid wide open, revealing a messy pile of cassettes, vinyl's, and CD’s, all of them Infinite. You in turn had already fished out the required six dollar cost that’ll pay more than enough for your new addition to your collection. “You know what? You’re pretty chill, my bad man.” He admitted.

You grinned, glad that you’re getting along well with him despite the rocky start. “All good, honestly I can’t blame you.” You paused before adding with a smirk. “Well, not too much, anyways.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Oh, so that’s how it is.” Raising his free hand, he stuck his middle finger at you playfully. “Well fuck you too.”

This time, it was your turn to laugh as you returned the gesture. ”Likewise.” Letting the obscene gesture stay in mid-air for a few moments, the two of you cracked up, looking away as you both tried to stifle your snickering.

“Okay, okay, seriously.” You managed to calm down and gave him a crisp ten dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

Marshall raised a brow as if you were crazy. “You sure ‘bout that? I mean, I ain’t gonna say no, if you were expecting that.”

You shook your head, smiling.

“I’m serious. This isn’t a charity case or anything; just think of it as a future investment.” You winked, hopefully in an encouraging way and nothing else. “I got a good feeling you’re gonna go far.”

“Well then,” he took the bill out of your hand. “At least you’ve got more faith in me than my last manager-” He was about to hand you the cassette until a familiar voice hollered from behind you, making the both of you jump.

“MAMAAAAAAA!!!”

“Oh shit-!” Whipping around, your heart dropped to your stomach as you saw Quinn practically half-hanging out of the car window, arms flailing as he waved to get your attention. You could hear the voice of your mother shouting: “Quinn! Get down from there!”

At that point, you already knew she was holding into the edge of his winter jacket, trying to yank him back into his seat.

“Uh- hold that thought.” You sheepishly gave Marshall the finger guns as you began to walk backwards, jabbing a thumb behind you. “I’ve got somebody who needs me-”

The boy waved you off. “I ain’t going anywhere, go get your kid.” you gave him a thankful smile as you turned tail and practically sprinted towards the van.

“Quinn! What are you doing?!” Grabbing him by the shoulders, you gently pushed him back into his seat. “That was really dangerous, you know!”

Your mom finally let go of his jacket. “Look, he already wants to leave!” Forcing your temper down, you leaned into the open window, letting her angrily chastise you with a stony look on your face. “Are you done? Can you get back into the car, or are you going to idle around this place and waste your time?”

“I was talking to someone-” You were cut off just as soon as you tried to explain.

“Well stop talking and let’s go!” Your mom snapped as your dad was just as ready to hop onto the bandwagon of yelling at you into listening.

“Y/N, get in the car.” He warned. “Now.”

Clenching your jaw, you whipped back around and walked a few paces away from the van, hands clenched in fists as you fought to keep your rage in check. 

Once in a while, you’d let it slide and keep your head down to avoid having to drag it out any longer. Having to hear it often  - and sometimes you really didn’t know what you did to make them scold you - was tiring.

If it weren’t for Quinn quite literally in the middle of the conflict, you would’ve blown up at them by now. But no, you couldn’t. You shouldn’t. You have to do it for him; You have to be better.

Taking in a deep breath, you strode back to the car and once again leaned into the window. Before they could say anything else, you simply announced:

“I made a friend.”

It wasn’t a lie, but to say Marshall was a ‘friend’ was a bit off. Either way, it made both your mom and dad shut up a little bit. It had been a while since you actually mentioned anything about friends, if you had any.

Your parents stared at you incredulously, not exactly understanding what you were trying to imply. “What does that have to do with anything?” Your dad demanded.

“It means: It’d be rude to just hop in the car now without saying goodbye to my ‘friend’, while we just ride all the way back to our hotel doing absolutely nothing until tomorrow. And by the way-” You gestured to the child pressing his ears shut with the palms of his hands. “You can yell at me later, okay? You’re scaring him.”

Thankfully, that seemed to have quieted everybody for now as they all looked at Quinn apologetically as he slowly lowered his hands. “Hey, baby... I’m sorry about that.” You patted his head comfortingly. “What did you want to call me over here for?”

The toddler looked back innocently. “I wanna go outside, please?”

You stared at him, exasperated. ‘Well, at least he gets right to the point.’

“What do you say?” Giving the child a stern look on your face, making yourself clear that you weren’t happy with how he handled that situation.

He looked down. “I’m sorry.”

“Uh huh. And?”

“I won’t do it again.” He mumbled. 

You sighed, stroking his hair. “Thank you. That’s what I needed to hear.”

Glancing inside of the car, you waved to your parents. “Just for a minute or two. The whole place is safe, don’t worry.” Smirking a little, you added: “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Not bothering to wait for their response, you swung the side door open and lifted him into your arms. “We’ll be right back!” You called to them as you kicked the side door shut and repositioned him into being held sideways like a plank of wood. “Alrighty mister, it’s time to fly!”

Quinn giggled joyously as you spun around a few times before setting him down, taking his hand in yours. “You wanna go say hi to one of my friends?” You asked him. He nodded, already more focused on avoiding the cracks in the ground than actually listening. 

Leading him back to where an amused Marshall waited, the sheepish feeling returned as you rubbed the back of your neck with your free hand. “Sorry about that,” you started. “I, ah, hope you don’t mind my nephew tagging along.”

To your surprise, Marshall’s demeanor completely shifted. You watched as he bent down, smiling warmly at the suddenly shy toddler hiding behind your leg.

“Hey little man, what’s your name?” He held his hand out, offering him a handshake, but Quinn burrowed his face into your side.

You patted his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay baby. He’s not gonna hurt you, I promise.” You reassured him soothingly. “Why don’t you introduce yourself? Think of it like it’s the first day of school and you tell the whole class your name.”

Quinn was quiet for a few moments before he slowly turned to face Marshall, sticking an arm out. “Mmh... Quinn... Am’ four.” He managed to mumble out before hiding again, though he still stuck his hand out, and Marshall gently took it, doing a little handshake. You shared an amused look with him, holding back a laugh as you both knew he looked more like a three year old than what the child claims.

“Well it’s nice to meet you Quinn.” He replied in a soft tone, one that you didn’t expect. “You got a nice name y’know? My name is Marshall, but you can call me Eminem.”

Hearing the name of one of his favorite chocolate brands, the toddler stuck his head back out. “M & M’s?” His eyes glimmered with wonder, initial shyness beginning to fade away. “Like the chocolate?”

“Yeah!” Marshall grinned. “Do you like them?” The toddler nodded. “Woah, me too! Isn’t that cool?”

You watched the two interact silently, trying not to grin. ‘Who knew a guy who acts and dresses like a gangster could do so well with kids.’ You thought as you leaned down to join the conversation. 

“Be careful honey.” You reminded him as Marshall let him see his pierced ears, tilting his head to the side so he could touch the golden hoops.

Having completely forgotten his timidness, Quinn brushed his fingers across the earrings. “Did they hurt?” He asked, admiring the shiny metal.

“A little,” he admitted. “But only for a little bit. After that, I’d completely forgotten.” Quinn nodded along.

“Mama’s got earrings too.” Both boys looked up at you. “Right Mama?”

“Right...” You trailed off, not knowing if you should correct him. 

‘I really shouldn’t have let him get away with that, calling me something that I didn’t earn the rights to.’ You thought, holding back a sigh.

“That’s your mama, huh?” Marshall asked him, to which the child eagerly replied with an “Mm hm!” 

“That’s cool, she’s a cool mom, ain’t she?” They shared a nod, which you held back a laugh. “What about your da-”

“HEY!! Hey, you wanna hold onto my music player baby?” You cut in, bitter ice rushing into your veins at the mere mention of Quinn’s dad. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice your panic as he was more eager to interact with your sacred walkman, bouncing excitedly.

You showed him the music player, holding it above his head as you laid out the ground rules.

“Alright, if you wanna hold it, promise me this: Do not drop it, do not wander off, and you have to be very, very gentle with it. Promise?”

His tiny hands reached for it. “I promise!” 

Finally relenting, you gave him the walkman as he held onto it like a priceless treasure.

“You wanna sit here buddy?” Marshall patted the edge of the open trunk, giving you a quick look that clearly meant he wanted to talk to you. You gave Quinn a nod as he looked to you for permission, and he reached his arms out to him as he was picked up in a manner that only someone who dealt with kids before could do.

“Now you’re a big man.” He patted the toddler’s head before turning to you, moving closer so he wouldn’t eavesdrop.

“What was that all about?” He asked, frowning.

You sighed, putting your hands into your pockets. “Well, first off, he’s actually my nephew.”

“Huh...” Marshall furrowed his brows. “So, where’s his mom?” You saw this was coming, but that didn’t stop you from wincing a little.

“Gone.” 

“What do you mean go- oh.” His face turned to one of realization. “Oh shit. I’m sorry.”

You shrugged in a vacant manner. “It’s all good.” You quickly changed the subject, praying he wouldn’t bring up either parent any further. “You’re pretty good with kids, have you got any younger family members at home?”

He smiled, almost shyly. “Yeah, I got a little brother, Nate.” He looked down, trying hard to contain his sense of love and pride. “And I have my little girl, she just turned one last Christmas.”

‘Ah, so that explains it.’

“Definitely says a lot about you, y’know.” You returned his expression warmly. I’m glad I bumped into you when I did, I put in a damn good investment.” 

“Aha, cause I know how to handle kids, or is it really cause of my rap skills?” Before he could hear your reply, he suddenly added: “Speaking of handling kids, you say that’s your nephew, how come he calls you mom?”

“Well-”

“Also, where’s his dad at?”

Giving him a grimace and a look that clearly showed you didn’t like to even think about the damn topic, his face turned to realization and disgust as he put the pieces together.

“Shit, he a deadbeat?!” There was heated snarl in his voice that matched the fiery rage lighting up his eyes. “Fuckin pussy jus’ fucked off and left his baby?!”

While your nod was a satisfying confirmation, his thoughts on this coward of a man weren’t. He turned away from you, muttering out insult after insult behind his breath before composing himself.

“Goddamn, I’m really sorry you have ta’ deal with that. It’s his loss, your boy’s a sweet kid.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” You replied, stealing a glance at Quinn, making sure he was still right where you left him. Sure enough, he hasn’t lost interest in your walkman at all.

“Well, there’s your answer. And judging by that look on your face, you want to ask me why the hell he calls me mom, eh?”

“Took the words outta my mouth.” He looks at you expectantly. “Well?”

You paused, feeling sheepish once again as you rubbed the back of your neck. “I mean - you know - I told you before, he’s my sister’s son. So... him calling me ‘mom’, well you know-

“-But you’re still his mom.”

You blinked in surprise, Marshall’s face turned into a slight frown.

“He sees you as his mom, and you take care of him like a mom.” He affirmed. “Doesn’t make your sister any less of his mom, but if he calls you mom, it’s cause you are his momma.”

There was silence after that, but not in an uncomfortable way; It was a few seconds of contemplative quiet, the occasional sound of cars passing by and Quinn’s fiddling with your walkman being the only background noise that gave way for a good time to consider his words.

Perhaps pausing one too many times before you finally found the words, you eventually replied: “You’re probably right.” Again, another pause as you kept your gaze to the ground, hands in your pockets. “Honestly, you’re probably the first person to tell me that; Doesn’t make me feel any better though.”

“I getchu.” Marshall nodded in understanding, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at your downturned face. “An’ I don’t blame ya, wouldn’t be surprised if your parents beat yo ass if you ever brought that shit up.”

The two of your shared a nearly humorless chuckle.

“Either way, don’t take my word for it.” He added with a shrug. “I just think he’s a real lucky kid if he gets to have a mom or aunt like you, fuck anybody who says otherwise.”

You shared eye contact, though this time it was out of mutual comprehension for each others’ situation, rather than uncertain intent of potential hostility.

While it was a pleasant interaction between two strangers, you both knew your conversation was coming to a close. After all, you had a plane to catch tomorrow morning, and he had a job to do to pay the bills and put food on the table.

“Speak of the devil,” You muttered as you heard the obvious noise of the family van’s engine creeping. “I ain’t gonna keep you for much longer, you probably-”

“-Yeah, yeah.” He was quick to finish, suddenly feeling awkward. “Shit, it was nice talking to ya. But- yeah - I got stuff to do, working on my next album-”

“Oh shoot, really?” It was a sudden knee-jerk reply, likely feeble in attempting to make the moment last a bit longer. “Damn, you know when you’re gonna release it?”

Marshall made a mix between a grimace and a pondering look as he made the guesswork in his head. 

“Probably... maybe late this year or early next year. Gonna try somethin different, like, ‘fuck everyone’ kinda different. How ‘bout you?” He inquires.

Tilting your chin in acknowledgement, you replied: “Yeah, I got an audition coming up in a few days in New York. It’s supposed to be some sort of minor role in this… fighting movie? Not too sure yet.”

“Oh, word?!” Marshall looks a little shocked, eyes wide. “Shit, I got a movie star buying my album. That’s dope.”

You huffed an amused chortle. “Hey, don’t get your hopes up yet. I’ve got a couple dozen other people I need to compete against if I ever want to get another callback or a test screening.”

He replies with a confident glint in his eye. “You’ll make it, like I said: Fuck anybody who says otherwise.”

You grinned. “Fuck anybody who says otherwise.”

He holds out his hand, and you return it with a firm clasp and a shoulder bump.

“Hey, you know whether if your next album is mailable or not?” You asked, and he raises a brow quizzically.

“I mean, you could ask my manager if you’re that desperate? You got a pen’n’paper? I ain’t usin mine...”

Like a remote controlled button press, you reached into the inside pocket of your hoodie and whipped out your notebook, pen clipped to the cover. “Does this technically count as an autograph?” You thought aloud, to which he laughed.

“If it is, you’re the first one asking for it.” Taking the pen and notebook from your hands, he flipped to a blank page and quickly jotted down the contact info. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

As he handed your notes back, you quickly glanced down to skim over his writing, seeing the name ‘Paul Rosenberg’ on it. Noticing another name at the bottom corner of the page, your brows raised, intrigued.

“Slim Shady?” You read out.

Marshall tilted his head up proudly. “My new alias; Gonna be the side of me that holds nothin back next album. Jus’ you wait.”

You smirked, giving him a look of approval. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Quinn broke focus off of your walkman as you called for him, letting him know it was time to head back. Shuffling himself off of the car trunk, he toddled his way over to you, taking your awaiting hand, taking the walkman back and putting it in your pocket.

“Nice meeting you Marshall.” You gave him one last nod, which he returns with a faint smile, before you leaned down to Quinn’s ear. “What do you say to the nice man?”

Quinn turned to face Marshall, looking a bit sad, but far less shy than he was initially. “Thank you...”

Marshall chuckled, giving the toddler a pat on the head. “No problem lil’ man. You take care of yourself, aight?”

Nodding, Quinn waved as you slowly led him back to the van. “Bye!” He eagerly waved with his free hand, not breaking eye contact until he heard the door of the van open, and he climbs into his booster seat obediently.

Buckling him in, you slide the door shut and go to climb in on the other side, but not before turning around to call out to him one last time.

“Hey Marshall!”

“Yeah?”

“Remember me once you’re famous, okay?”

The surprise on his face was one to remember, just as much as the loud and joyful “HA!” he lets out; One that he really needed, before hollering back:

“Only if you remember me once you’ve made it big, baby!”

Your face breaks into a massive grin that you couldn’t remember ever doing in ages, as you give him one last salute.

‘I’ll be holding you to that… Slim Shady.’

——————

A/n: IT’S DONE. IT’S FINALLY DONE, HOLY SHOT.

*me literally saying that chapters would be quicker when I posted chapter 1*

*five months later*

*me, sweating like a sinner in church*

HHHHHHHHH-

I’m Canadian, the amount of apologizing is normal don’t worry-

But for real. I’m so sorry. Thank you all so much for your patience. I hope I was able to deliver and that it was worth the wait. I promise you guys, the reason it took so long was me constantly rewriting the conversations you and Marshall were having. I needed it to feel right, and I’m still feeling it’s not completely right, but it’s maybe right enough.

If you read this far, thank you very much and I hope things will be much better and quicker from here on out!!! &lt;3

[gravedigginbbydoll]

pencil shavings and shared smiles {pt.1}

Fem! Teacher Reader x Teacher! Eddie

Masterlist Next

AN: Heyo! So I was watching Abbott Elementary and got sad, so there’s that. Hopefully, this will be a multiple-part thing but do not expect regular updates. I am a busy gal, lol. Also not heavily edited!

WARNINGS AND CONTENT: Minors DNI!!!, Noncanon, Hawkins AU, Normal Hawkins, Rumors about Eddie, Eventual Smut, Very fluffy, Outcasts and Bullying, Mentions of Loneliness, Flirting, Fem!Reader, use of Y/N, older! Eddie, short-haired Eddie, 1995/1996 Hawkins, F! Reader has a dark past, angst.

Summary: The last thing anyone expected Eddie Munson to do once he graduated was to go off to get an Education degree. Now he’s approaching 30 and the coolest music and drama teacher in Hawkins. Enter you, a new teacher at Hawkins Middle School. You moved to the little sleepy town of Hawkins from the city, hoping to give kids joy in learning while also settling into a calmer town. You meet Eddie while moving your stuff into your classroom, and he piques your interest. But people talk, and you can’t help but wonder…Is he the monster they claim he is?

You walk through the doors, arms heavy with the large box full of posters and decor for your classroom. You walk briskly through empty hallways, cursing yourself for not asking the nice older woman working the front desk for some assistance. Finally, you turn one of the labyrinth hallways into what should be your hall. English. You sigh out of relief. For such a small town and school, you felt as though the hallways went on forever. You’re about to turn into your room when you hear rambunctious laughter and shouting from a nearby hallway. Your curiosity is peaked. It’s late in the summer. Most teachers are here to set up, but some are home, enjoying the days before the school year starts. 

You scurry to put your box haphazardly in your classroom, the only one devoid of posters and books. You then walk as quietly as you can in your heels, the soft clicking against the tile almost silent with all the excitement in the classroom. Finally, finally, you reach a point where you can peek into the door, seeing the back of a man dressed in a dark flannel, the sleeves rolled up so you can see the tattoos littering his skin and rings on his hands, his nails painted a chipped black. His hair is wild and wavy, cut shorter on the sides and longer on top. He speaks animatedly to a group of young kids, all of them seemingly 13 or 14. They look at him with stars in their eyes, and it tugs at your heartstrings. 

“So upon the last blow by Lady Eda,” He gestures to the petite girl to his left, her hair in colorfully beaded twists, her shy grin with a mouthful of rainbow braces. The rest of the kids sit on the edge of their seats, awaiting the following words. “The mighty and powerful dark wizard is laid to rest!” The kids erupt in joy, shouting and jumping out of their chairs, a few members hugging the petite girl you assumed was ‘Lady Eda.’ The mysterious man clears his throat again, and the kids rush to their chairs and sit intently. “You are cheered on by the crowd of townspeople, all leading you to the tavern, where you sing and dance the night away. The town is now free of his evil. Congrats, heroes.” He speaks warmly in his raspy tone, the kids in front of him beaming and seeming to burst with joy. “And with that-” He puts down a folder and folds up some journals, “We finish the campaign.” He gets up, showing you the distressed and torn jeans and combat boots on his lower half. “Now get out of here, twerps. I’ll see you with the new fish soon. You can show them the ropes.” The excited chatter continues; the kids grab their bags and stuff their things in them. They all hurriedly leave the classroom, finally noticing you and seeming to tone their excitement, nodding a ‘hello ma’am’ to you, except for ‘Lady Eda.’ She sticks behind, enveloping the man in a tight hug as he chuckles and hugs her back, leaning down and gently telling her to enjoy the rest of her summer. She nods excitedly, running out the doors after her friends, barely noticing you. 

You peer out of the shadows, knocking on the door frame, seeing the man gather up his stuff and mutter at a volume so low you almost miss it, “Fucking Doyle.”

You furrow your brows and smile a bit, amused by the mystery of this man and his evident hatred for a teacher you knew was in your hallway. “I’m no Doyle, but it’s nice to get a feel for who I should avoid,” you joke, your tone light. 

The mystery man attempts to stand up quickly from his bent position of picking up things, hitting his head on the edge of a desk, “Oh- I- Shit!” 

You fight a smile, biting your lip at this man who’s quite a character. You expected mostly bored housewives and businessmen in Hawkins, but it was shaping up to shock you quite a bit. 

He carefully got up this time, holding a hand against his head and spinning on his heel. His big brown doe eyes and a slight smattering of freckles make your heart jump a bit. He had smile lines and a shy smile, his facial hair short and scruffy. You feel your cheeks heat. Fuck. You didn’t expect a young man around your age who was so damn attractive at Hawkins Middle School, of all places. 

His face broke out into a shy crooked grin as he walked towards you, a hand held out towards you. “Hi. I’m Eddie Munson. You can just call me Eddie. I teach music and drama. I also run the DnD club here- that’s what the kiddos were doing here.” 

You shake his hand gently, feeling the calloused fingertips against your palms. “Hi. I’m Y/N Y/L/N. You can call me Y/N. I’m teaching English. I’m down that way,” you point back towards your hallway. 

He nods, smiling, removing his hand from yours gently. “Well, nice to see someone younger than the dinosaurs in that hallway.” 

You snort, feeling heat creep across your skin immediately and covering your mouth. “Sorry- Is it really that bad?” 

He nods, and his face molds into a false sorrow and pity expression. “I heard that Mrs. Winnow was around at the birth of Christ.” 

You snort again, another laugh bursting as you smile at Eddie. “You’d think with that kind of life, she’d be teaching history, wouldn’t you?” 

Eddie grins devilishly, shaking his head. “Nah, she’d immediately make all the other teachers obsolete. They need their jobs.” 

You grin, your heart pattering with joy at the young coworker. You were glad to find someone in a similar age range. So far, you only met your neighbors in your rundown apartment, who were around 40, and a few coworkers, who were above 50. 

Eddie cocks his head at you, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossing his chest, covering his distressed Metallica concert shirt. “So, you’re new to Hawkins, huh?”

You laugh humorlessly, sighing, looking up at him. “That obvious, huh?”

He smiles softly, an expression reading I’m sorry. “Eh, most of us grew up here. It’s not a town that people are really flocking to. So what brings you here?”

You fiddle with a loose thread on your blouse, biting your lip. You don’t want to say too much, so you shrug and smile. “I wanted some change from the big city. So I closed my eyes, spun around, and pointed at a map. Lo and behold, fate decided Hawkins.” 

He nods and still has a crooked smile as he turns, grabbing up his messenger bag full of items you assumed he used for the campaign. “Well, let me know if you want to meet some living humans, not fossils. I have a few friends here, and none are quite at retirement age yet.” He grabs a piece of paper he had about, jotting on it quickly, then handing you the parchment, smiling. “My number. In case you want to take me up on the offer.” 

You pocket the number, looking up to thank him. You look up, and his back is turned toward you as he exits the school, lifting his hand and waving while calling over his shoulder, “Bye, city girl! Good luck with the fossils.” 

You fight a smile as you walk back to your classroom, your fingers brushing the parchment in your pants pocket. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once you set up your classroom, sweat dripping down your forehead, you realize you have no books for your bookshelf. You frown, biting your lip. The classroom looked terrific, with posters for books you felt were classics and a few inspirational ones. With soft lamps and lights along with the desks arranged, you should be satisfied. You curse yourself, knowing a teacher’s salary is not enough to splurge on books, but you can’t help but hate how only the textbooks are on the shelf. You head out of the school, determined to get more leisure reading books for your future students. 

You head to a local bookstore, fondly named ‘Hit the Books.’ An older man with small glasses is behind the counter explaining to a very disinterested edgy teen how to use the register. You look at the expansive store, surprised how it could stay open in such a small town with so few customers. Next, you head over to the Young Adult and Children’s section. You grab a few books, holding them in your arms as you walk from aisle to aisle. Eventually, your stacked up to your chin with books, struggling to hold them. You hear a chuckle behind you and cautiously turn, waddling like a penguin to avoid spilling novels everywhere. 

There stands Eddie, his grin clear as day. He’s missing his flannel, now just in a short sleeve, his tattoos in full view and adding to his grungy look. “You need help? It seems like you’re carrying a library there.” 

You feel heat travel across your skin and shake your head, backing up a little, “I got it-” You almost trip, Eddie catching you by your shoulder, and his eyes twinkle with amusement. 

“I think I’ll help anyway,” He grabs half of the stack of books, his own at the bottom. You spot ‘Merlin’s Woods,’ a book you recognized as one that had been among the fantasy books for teens and children. You fight a bit of a smile at this, Eddie helping you to the register. The young teen girl lights up at his appearance, her thick black eyeliner exaggerated by her wide blue eyes. The older man, however, looks on in a bit of disdain, making you frown slightly.  

“Mr. Munson! How’s it going?” The young girl asks, clearly more alert than before, ringing up your books along with Eddie’s. You’re about to interrupt her and let her know you’ll pay for your own when Eddie squeezes your hand without looking at you, smiling and catching up with the girl. Eddie then looks at you after paying, a smile on his lips. 

“Do you need help lugging out this library to the car-”

The older man, still gruffly bothered by Eddie’s presence, shoves a box in the young girl’s arms and hands Eddie his book. “Don’t worry, Mr. Munson; Julia can handle it.”

The young teen Julia looks at the older man in protest, her brows furrowed. “Mr. Munn, I’m supposed to work the -” 

He cuts her off, holding up a hand. “Shush. Go help the missus with her books.” 

She groans, mumbling as she stacks the books in the box. You look to Eddie, his smile faltering as he looks at you, holding his book. Something tells you the bookstore worker does not like Eddie. Something else tells you that Eddie knows. You open your mouth to say something before Eddie clears his throat, glancing at Mr. Munn. 

“I guess I better head out. I’ll see you around,” He says softly, smiling at you gently before turning and quickly jogging to a motorbike outside. You watch him sling a leg over the bike and drive away, feeling a twinge of hurt and sadness. It may not have been your fault, but you couldn’t help but feel for Eddie. 

“Careful with who you surround yourself, Miss. That Munson boy is trouble. He may have straightened out a bit since heading to college, but he is still a bit delinquent. Be careful,” The old man gruffly tells you, pointed looking at you over his glasses. “You look like a nice girl.” You feel your skin prickle with disdain and heat travel from the back of your neck across your chest. Nice girl. You hate that phrase. It meant docile. Obedient. You ignored the older man’s stare, turning towards Julia. 

“C’mon, my car is out here.” You lead the young disgruntled teen toward your modest, rundown car, opening the trunk. She huffs as she places the box in the back, clearly heavy for her small frame. You close the trunk and turn towards her, about to utter a thank you, when she stares hard at the floor and kicks a small pebble before sighing. 

“Mr. Munson isn’t a bad guy. Just so you know,” she softly says, looking up at you, her big eyes full of sincerity. 

You nod and smile softly, “I figured. But do you mind me asking why Mr. Munn is so set against him?” You tilt your head at her, and she huffs out a breath, annoyance at the older man clear across her face. 

“Some dumb old rumors the geezer still believes from the ’80s. Mr. Munson was the town’s troublemaker and outcast. There are a lot of crazy rumors about him. I don’t think they’re true, but he never tries to disprove them. He came back to help outcasts feel safe at school. Give them a teacher to trust,” The young girl’s voice is thick with emotion, and you can picture she was one of the outcasts Eddie helped. It pulls at your heartstrings. 

“Well, thank you, Julia. I appreciate your help. And don’t worry, I won’t listen to the rumors,” You playfully wink at the girl as she weakly smiles and waves goodbye before retreating into the small shop. 

You climb into your car, starting up the engine as you bite your lip and wonder… 

Who really is Eddie Munson?

[lord-amaranth-12]

(Almost) every food/drink etc. mentioned in obey me nightbringer and shall we date

Notes:

I'll update with links to the sources soon just bare with me. Also please tell if the link arent working

Update: ill stop linking stuff for now

Update: i alphabetized everything (using https://onlinetoolz.net/alphabetical-order) and removed the ingredients for potions cause i will be moving it to another list. I also edited the layout abit to make it more readable

Update: ill start linking stuff now, have to get all out of my storage and posted here before i get full storage again

A

• Abyss crimson bee honey

• Abyss crimson wasp honey

• Alla death cream

• Artic butterfly scales

• Ash fall chocolate brownies

• Assam

B

• Backstabbing sandwich

• Barely cooked black tapir steak

• Bat leaves

• Bavarian cream

• Bell peppers

• Black cloud chocolate gâteau

• Black coffee of melancholy

• Black shark flavored gummies

• Black tapir casserole

• Bloody marmalade

• Bloody rice omelets

• Bloody soda

• blood-red velvet cupcakes

• BLT devil sandwich

• Blue rose crystal pickles

• Blue rose petals candied in crystal syrup

• Bufo egg milk tea

• Bufo egg milk tea hell poison honey flavored

• Bufo toad

• Bufo toad sushi

• Bulbul bird eggs

• Butter pancakes

C

• Castella

• Cat cookies

• Colossal jumbo surprise parfait

• Comfort candy

• Crazy ghoul hamburger

• Crimson bonito flake

• Crimson bonito flake dressing

• Crimson dogwood

• Crimson tea

• Crispy chicken nugget LXXXIII

• Crushed millefeuille

D

• Dark star fruit sandwich

• Death maggot sauce

• Death mask bat chips

• Deaths door sauce

• Deep-fried devil zebra skewers

• Demi-glace sause

• Demon salmon

• Demonic Sausage

• demon silk moth-flavored gummies

• Demonkiller remora

• Demonkiller remora sauté

• Demonus-infused chocolate

• Demon-luring seaweed salt kalbi chips

• Devil cabbage

• Devil cacao bean

• Devil canelé

• Devil chocolate

• Devil chocolate canelé

• Devil duck confit

• Devil flower fruit trifle

• Devil ham

• Devil lohas milk tea

• Devil moray sushi

• Devil salmon meunière sandwiches

• Devil salmon rolled sushi

• Devil salmon terrine

• Devil zebra bacon

• Devil zebra meat sushi

• Devilbee popcorn

• Devildom gummy Horror house flavored

• Devildom-style boneless pararucu

• Devildom-style vampire bat sandwich

• Devils soft serve

• Dragons mark pie crust

• Dreamfeather cookies

• Dreamfeather meringue cookies

• Dried bufo egg

E

• Earl grey cookies

• Eternal night herbal tea

F

• Family pack sushi

• Fish meunière

• flaming hot mushrooms

• Flaming toad

• Fluffy egg pancakes

• Fluorescent rich yogurt

• fried devil chicken

• Fruit of wisdom jelly

G

• Galaxy burger

• Galaxy fries

• Garlic anchovy dip

• Giant shadow sea cucumber cream pasta

• Glazed Shadow chestnut

• gold demonus

• Gold hellfire newt syrup

• grilled vampire bat

H

• Hamburger gummies

• Hamburger stake

• Hamburger steak

• Haunted hamburgers

• Havoc devil

• Havoc devil ribs

• Hawthorn berry powder

• Hell demon salmon

• Hell pudding

• Hell velvet parfait

• Hellfire chocolate pie

• hellfire curry rice

• Hellfire mushroom rooled cigar

• Hellfire mushrooms

• Hellfire rose

• Hells kitchen hamburger combo

• Heros herbal tea

• Horror's horror cheesecake

• Hunter sandwich

I

• Instant noodles (hell-sauce flavor)

J

• Juicy shadow hog rice bowl

K

• King-sized fried devil chicken

• King-sized hellfire curry rice

• King-sized poison bleu cheese hamburger

• King-sized shadow hog ramen

L

• Laughingshroom powder

• Little devils white sauce

M

• Madam scream's super sweet scones

• Magma butter

• Magma butter pasta

• Magma butter scone

• Mandragora powder

• Marinated bufo toad

• Melted cheese

• Mimic latte

• Mint chocolate chip

• Mont blanc

N

• Nightshade cream

O

• Ocean of cloud cake-parfait

• Ocean of Clouds cake

• Ordeal orange fondae

P

• paradise blue

• Pasta alla death cream

• Pickled vampire bat

• poison bleu cheese hamburger

• Poison strawberry

• Poison veggie juice box

• Poison viper worm al ajiilo

• Poison worm sauce

• Poisonous cheese burgers

• Poisonous cheesecake

• Poisonous marsh pudding

• Princess poison apple

• Promised glory donut (?)

• Purgatory mustard

Q

• Quattro Hungry Pizza

• Quetzalcoatl brains

• Quetzalcoatl brains soup

R

• Rainbow paw print chocolate

• Red riding hood sandwich

• RedxRed apple pie

• Region exclusive Devildom gummy

• RIP burger

• Ruby chocolate éclair

S

• Sabbat salad

• Salted hell rose petals

• Salt-grilled black goat bat

• Scorpion syrup

• Shadow caramel

• Shadow chestnut

• Shadow chestnut paste

• Shadow chocolate

• Shadow chocolate brownies

• Shadow hof stir fry in demi-glance sauce

• Shadow hog

• Shadow hog buns

• Shadow hog dumplings

• shadow hog ramen

• Shadow hog soup

• Shadow hog steamed bun

• Shadow hog stir fry

• Shadow pork ragu pasta

• Shadow tuna sashimi

• Silver birch sap

• Simeons special BLT devil sandwiches

• Siren bench caviar

• Smoked cocktraice glizzard

• Smoky black loco moco

• Spicy rainbow pizza

• spiderweb powder

• Sponge cake

• Stardust soda

• Starry-sky waffle

• Stonefish Meunière

• Strawberry shortcake

• Super-sized limited-edition beef

• Sweet and salty canned kraken assortment

• Sweet milk tea

• Sweet tears donut

T

• thick-cut giant devildom slug sauté

• Thunder sparkle flavored gummies

• Toe bean stamp salad

• Troll coffee

U

• Ultra D

• Unhappy Mega Combo

V

• Vampire bat

• Venti brashberry frappuccino with double whipped cream and extra berry powder

W

• Whole roast shadow hog

• Wicked cupcake

X

Y

Z

Not in devildom

A

B

C

• Camping meal (Witch camp)

• Cursed goat cheese tartar sandwich (TSL)

D

E

• Ema datshi (human world)

F

G

• Ginger ale (human world)

H

• Hamburger (mama's cooking) (levis animes)

• Herbal tea (celestial realm)

• Huckleberry (human world)

• Hyper chili dog (human world)

I

J

• Japanese giant salamander (human world)

K

L

M

• Mapo tofu (human world)

N

O

P

Q

R

S

T

• Tornado tomato (human world)

U

V

W

• White mochi balls in syrup (march comes in like a Panda)

X

Y

Z

Unnamed

A

B

• Barbatos's homemade cake

• Barbatos's homemade pudding

C

• Celestial tea

D

• Demon lords castle edition premium demonus

• Demonus with scorpion syrup and spiderweb powder

• Devilcats favorite food

E

F

G

H

I

J

K

L

• Leviathans homemade granola

• Lobster

M

• marshmallow

• Moryo Town's special demonus

• multi colored Jelly

N

O

P

• Popcorn Deaths door flavored

• Popcorn lava salt flavored

• Popcorn magma butter flavored

• Popcorn Tree sap caramel flavored

• Pudding from devilmart

Q

R

• Ramen infernal bahamit flavor

• Rare flower used in baking as a sweetener

• Really big chocolate bar

• Really big chocolate coin

S

• Salad from Sound Off, Symphony! Summer band camp storyline

• Sheep cake

• Star-shaped chocolate

• Sun and moon cookies by simeon

T

I

V

W

X

Y

Z

Characters

• "Little cake thingies"

???

• Chocolate mold

• Devildom miso

• Egg berry whole mil

• Marinated bufo toad

• Marzipan

• Meunièr

• Newt

• Surströmming

[shojoisms]

Growing pains.

akaashi keiji x fem!reader

Everyone always talks about the beauty of growing old, but no one ever talks about the anxiety that comes with it.

a/n: I got one final attempt left in me.

content+warnings: mentions of anxiety, some angst, vaginal penetration, birthday sex, cunnilingus.

Keiji never cared much for birthdays, serving no purpose but reminding him that he was getting older.

He might've even forgotten if it weren't for the happy birthday texts he received from the old Fukurodani squad and the gift Tenma left on his desk.

There's a bitter taste on his tongue when he reminds himself how half of them are either married or engaged, some even expecting children — it leaves Akaashi with a tinge of melancholy.

He's exhausted— eyes burning with the consequences of his desperation to meet a deadline that forced him awake nearly all night and left heavy bags beneath them that showed even more apparent the next day. His hair was disheveled, dark locks tousled messily against his head — and even his glasses had difficulty staying on his face and lay crooked across his skin.

As if his day couldn't be even more inconvenienced, the patter of rain pelts down to the ground. It's not a light shower but a heavy onslaught of thick raindrops, and Akaashi regrets not bringing his umbrella with him the more the water soaks him and drips from his hair like a tiny faucet.

Another day, he mumbles as he forces his legs to move up the stairs toward his home, his clothes dripping water with each step.

He fumbles with the pocket of his jeans; there's a rattling noise until he fishes out what he needs; his keys, shoving them into the lock of his door without haste.

"Happy birthday!"

Akaashi drops his bags, pupils dilating in surprise before they shrink to their original size. He wasn't expecting you here, at least not at this time. Akaashi faintly recalls the text message you had sent earlier — stating that you'd have to stay late at work due to a coworker's mishap.

"You're home," Akaashi's voice is soft, barely more audible than a whisper.

Home.

Akaashi doesn't dwell on the slip of his tongue, and it's not like you lived with him, although the thought is pleasant — he'd take note to entertain it later.

You look at Akaashi, your eyes softening in concern. Then, placing down the cake, you set it on the counter before making your way toward your lover. "Oh my goodness, you're soaked. Keiji, you look awful."

You help remove the soaking garments from him, throwing them into the laundry basket to be dealt with later when you leave. Akaashi's skin is ice cold against your own, causing you to fuss even more as you worry about his health and the potential hypothermia he may get.

You sigh. Sometimes you feel more like a mother than a girlfriend.

"Keiji, go shower before you get sick," There's no point in arguing; your tone leaves no room for rebuttal as you shoo him away. Your boyfriend merely nods, taking off his shoes and socks before heading to the bathroom.

As soon as you're sure he's out of earshot, you make your way back to the kitchen to get it as clean as possible before you cook a hearty meal.

You shake your head, clicking your tongue with a tsk as your eyes wander to his trash, the bin filled to the top with junk food — ranging from ramen packets, soda cans, chips, and even sweets.

Keiji, you're hopeless.

You hum, tying the trash bag at the top and putting the waste to the side. You'll take it out later. You grab another bag to replace it.

Now let's see, what's in the fridge, you murmur to yourself.

"Ah, nothing,"

You open the fridge in disappointment, eyes traveling to the half-eaten tub of yogurt, some Tupperware of food that you had prepared for him days ago, the few bottles of water, and finally, the one lone head of broccoli.

Jesus, Keiji, you live like a single man. You laugh. It's funny, you think, and it almost makes you wonder how he's managed to survive by himself for the majority of his adulthood.

You're thankful you stopped by the supermarket before heading here. Your woman's intuition kicked in earlier — something in the back of your head telling you that you wouldn't find much in his fridge.

You're surprised that even Akaashi has proper cooking utensils, but they only look like they haven't been touched in ages, the pots and pans having little to no signs of use.

You dice the vegetables carefully, cutting them into small cubes before dropping them into the hot, bubbling broth on the stove burner.

Curry, you've long decided. Something simple, something easy to clean up.

Although your boyfriend doesn't have nearly the same amount of seasoning as you, he barely has the basics, so you do what you can. At least he has an instant rice cooker.

You take a step back, the various smells of spices and vegetables wafting in the air quite pleasantly carried throughout the room by the stove fan. You suppose you have time to kill before the food is finished cooking.

You roam around Akaashi's home until you end up in his room. You can hear the shower still running through the wall. You take the time to go through his wardrobe, picking out the blue pair of pajamas you bought him last Christmas. There are signs of wear along the hems, the stitching coming undone in various places.

There's a warm feeling in your chest, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

I'll sew them up next time.

You place the clothing in your arms and peek your head into the bathroom. There's steam everywhere, and you can see the faint silhouette of Akaashi's body through the glass door. Without a word, you place the pajamas onto the edge of the sink before sneaking out.

+

Turning the knob, Akaashi hangs the shower head back in its holder. The last of the water hits the marble surface of the flooring.

He grabs a towel off the rack, wrapping it around his waist as he steps out.

He notices the pajamas set out for him and figures it's your doing. A small smile tugged at his lips, the tiny gesture making his heart flutter as he looked into the mirror.

And as fast it came, it's gone in the exact fleeting second. Staring into the mirror fills Akaashi with a sense of dread.

"I'm getting old, aren't I?" He says, placing his hand against his face while he traces the outlines of his newly formed wrinkles; a result formed from the process of aging or perhaps his lack of sleep.

There's a pounding in his chest, like a dull ache, and for a reason, he feels uneasy — his anxiety gnawing at his heart.

Deep breaths, deep breaths, Akaashi reminds himself that you're still here and waiting for him downstairs.

He pushes his feelings down, trying to repress them as much as possible before he faces you again.

+

"Keiiiiji! The food is ready!"

"It smells good,"

"Come, I've made you a plate," You gesture to the awkward giant, pointing at the place on the table you had set just for him. "Eat,"

He does as he's told, scooping the curry on his spoon before taking a bite. He hums, and you watch in amusement how his cool eyes light up as he takes another bite.

The texture and the fragrance pleasantly overwhelmed his taste buds.

The flavor has an indescribable taste, and he's not quite sure how to word it. Then, finally, he pinpoints it. It's love, he can taste the amount of love you had put into the dish, and that's when it hits him — your cooking tastes like home.

Akaashi's not quite sure why his cheeks felt wet, and he doesn't remember when he started crying or why, for that matter.

"Was my cooking so bad that it moved you to tears?" You tease, trying to lighten the mood. No matter how lame your jokes were, they still did enough to steal a smile from your lover. But this time was different. As soon as you realize the seriousness of the situation, the smile on your face instantly drops as you watch more tears stream down Akaashi's face.

"Keiji," Taking his face between your palms, you stroke his cheeks with your thumbs. "Keiji, what's wrong,"

"It's been a long day," The crack in his voice doesn't go unnoticed, the pain in his tone tugging at your heartstrings. You swallow the lump in your throat.

"Keiji, you've been overworking yourself again, haven't you,"

Akaashi's always been a hard worker; even in high school, he'd stay up for hours on end to study for exams; neglecting his well-being and focusing more on his studies than his happiness.

You've chalked it down to the fact that he's over-exerting himself, but in reality, you could've never guessed that he felt like his life was incomplete.

You being the only thing that's ever been consistent, Akaashi feels helpless — like everyone's moving forward, and he's stuck frozen in time.

Even he fears the day you realize he's not what you want, moving on in your life and leaving him behind to wither in the dust.

Akaashi doesn't say anything as he wipes his tears, placing down his silverware. "Ah, I'm sorry. I guess I'm just tired."

"Are you sure, Keiji, you know you can talk to me about anything,"

"I need to rest. I'm sorry,"

There's a pregnant pause before you hum, and you suppose it's better not to pry — your boyfriend will open up when he's ready.

"It's alright. We can cut the cake tomorrow."

You take both plates, scraping the remaining food off them and into the trash before putting everything away, when you're finished, you take Akaashi's hand and lead him to his room.

+

Akaashi rests his head against your lap while you run your nimble fingers through his hair. He hums, feeling the tips of your digits soothingly massage his scalp with enough gentleness that has him relaxing underneath your touch.

You look up at the window, by now the skies are beginning to darken, the clouds engulfing even the stars — staring at the clock, you're surprised by the time.

"Keiji, it's getting late. I think it's time for me to be heading home,"

But before you can get up, you're stopped.

"Stay,"

Akaashi reaches for your wrist, holding onto it like a vice before he pulls you into his embrace. "Please," There's a hint of desperation in his voice as he wraps his arm around you, forcing you flush against him as he buries his face into your neck.

"Fine, I'll stay for as long as you need me," you say, Akaashi's grip on your wrist loosens enough for you to free yourself. Taking this opportunity, you wrap your arms around him — tracing circles into his trapezius.

He hums in contentment, “looks like you'll be staying forever."

"Keiji—" You giggle, your boyfriend digging his face into the crook of your neck as he peppers you in an onslaught of kisses — making sure to leave no inch uncovered. "It's getting late. You should get some rest. We don't have to do this tonight,"

"But I want to," His voice is muffled against your skin, and he shifts his body so that he's pressing against you. The heavy weight of his body forces you into the mattress causing the bed to creak from the combined heaviness.

"Besides, I think it's my turn to take care of you,"

That's all Akaashi said before he pulled away, the bed shifted even more as he sat on his knees. Large hands grab your waist, forcing your body closer to his — he lifts you up.

Half your body rests on the mattress, while the other is in the air. Your dress was bunching up around your waist as Akaashi brought your covered cunt to his lips, your legs flailing on either side of his shoulders.

"Keiji," you whimper, feeling his lips press against your cunt. He parts his mouth around your mound. His tongue runs across your panties, and he can taste your slick through the thin material.

He has a firm grasp on your hips, keeping you in places as he moves your underwear to the side with his nose — this time, he traces your folds with his tongue, collecting all you slick on his appendage before delving inside your hole.

Akaashi had always been skilled with his tongue. So it wasn't long before he had you seeing stars — your thighs quiver around him, and desperately you grip at the covers, bunching them up underneath your fingers.

Your mouth parts open as you moan, your orgasm racking through your body.

Your jaw goes slack, your eyes firmly closed as you bask in your post-orgasmic bliss. You don't even register when your butt falls gently against the bed, nor the prodding sensation against your thigh until Keiji places a hand upon your cheek — forcing you to look at him.

"Keiji," You breathe.

He gently kisses your lips, "Relax for me, love."

You nod, your brain still hazy from your first orgasm. You can hear your lover fumble with his clothes as he pulls down his pants, taking his boxers with them.

As soon as he frees his cock, he places his hands on your hips, tracing the thin band of your underwear before dipping his fingers inside and pulling them down until they're hanging off your ankle.

You cringe, feeling Akaashi's fat cock rub against your folds before he pushes the mushroom tip inside with little to no resistance. You whimper, feeling his girth split your walls in two.

As soon as Akaashi bottoms out, he waits for you to adjust before giving a shallow thrust.

"Are you ready,"

"Y—yeah," you weakly respond.

Akaashi's thrusts are slow but deep, his cock reaching further inside you with each rut of his hips.

Akaashi's a passionate lover, making sure you feel all of him — not that you're complaining, either. He was well endowed, and his sheer girth dragging along your walls filled you with such an immeasurable sense of fullness that not even your toys made you feel.

It felt like you were made for him, the way your hole greedily swallowed more and more of his cock — holding it snuggly within your warm walls.

Akaashi groans, a soft fuck escaping him as you involuntarily clench around him, "you feel so good," he praises.

Your moans increase in volume as the tip of his cock grazes over that particular spot almost teasingly. You desperately grind your hips against his in hopes of him hitting them.

And it's like Akaashi can read your mind. He shifts his hips just enough to pound against that spot, the tip of his cock hitting the sponginess with exact precision.

You're close, Akaashi can tell — he snakes a hand between your legs, allowing his thumb to rest against your clit. The poor neglected bundle of nerves resting between your puffy folds, swollen.

He rubs circles into your clit, eliciting more noises from you — the sensation only adding to your pleasure.

There's a coil in your tummy that only grows tighter and tighter with each thrust from Akaashi — it's almost unbearable.

"'S close," you slur, your head lolling back and forth.

Cute, akaashi thinks, there’s a glimmer of adoration in those gun metal eyes of his as he watches your face contort in pleasure — the pleasure that he’s giving you.

All it takes is a few more thrusts until the coil finally releases, specks of white clouding your vision as Akaashi drags another orgasm from you.

His ruts become sloppier, and you can feel his cock throb and pulsate inside you before a foreign warmth spills along your walls, painting them white.

Akaashi hips begin to slow down, but he's still slamming into you, determined to let you milk him for every last drop before he pulls out.

Akaashi rolls off of you, laying on your side. There's a curtain of silence that covers you both, although it's not uncomfortable.

Akaashi's the first one to break it, "I was serious when I said I want you here forever,"

It's not until you fall asleep and he can hear the faint sounds of you snoring that he realizes what he's been yearning for.

And in the morning, he's decided — he'll muster up the courage to finally present you with the box he had bought ages ago that he's been saving for just the occasion.

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — LET ME PAINT YOUR SKIES (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — moira, a frustrated geneticist in the throes of an impossible war against her superiors, meets a despondent young artist drowning sorrows at the bar. as it turns out, the latter is a particularly good listener, and the former is the type of woman you’ve only met in your wildest dreams .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — light angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, extreme slow-burn .

#. word count! — 11.7k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — sorry i've been gone so long, got busy w/ school and irl stuff :// feel free to hmu to play overwatch lol (i swear i'm not ass all the time!!) anways, moira kissers, this one's for you!!

This place is as rundown and decrepit as they come these days, —a hole-in-the-wall type of establishment with old, creaky stools and paint that chips off into the drinks from time to time. Fruit flies are more regular than most customers, and they provide little bits of extra protein to those either too wasted to fish them out of their shots or unfortunate enough to not notice them. It's incredible that this place hasn't been permanently shut down, actually, with health and safety hazards galore. . . And yet, despite all its undeniable (and very obvious) flaws, you quite like it here. It's where you come when you're stuck in a rut and need to drink away some sadness.

Sure, it's not the healthiest of habits, but everyone has their vices. This is yours, —but it's an occasional thing, for the most part. You go months at a time without so much as glancing in the direction of any alcohol whatsoever, and most times when you indulge, it's more of a social thing than that of a desire to get plastered. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as they say, and being an artist has its ups and downs. The highs are more intoxicating than any alcoholic beverage could ever be, but the lows hit you like a semi truck. They claw at your ankles and pull you down into the depths so mercilessly, as if feeding on your sorrow is the feast of a lifetime.

Thus, here you are again for the first time since mid-November of the prior year. It's been roughly five months since you've sat on this stool, ordering shots from the grumpy bartender who never remembers your name and doesn't care much about conversing with his customers. This time, however, a fresh face stands out to you. She'd come in when you were still nursing a whiskey on the rocks, insisting that tonight would be different, that you wouldn't leave with your head all foggy or your balance thrown completely off. You've since changed your stance on that, of course, —as one simply does when they're wrung dry of artistic inspiration and turn to seeking some sort of haven in an unhealthy vice.

Still, the woman at the other end of the bar has your full attention, even if she hasn't realized it yet. Even from her slouched position you can see that she's quite tall, —and equally as thin. She's dressed in more formal attire than yourself, a starkly white button-up and a pair of black dress pants as opposed to your own ill-fitting jeans and a greyish-blue sweater you'd picked up simply because it was seventy-five percent off. It's certainly comfortable, but stylish is most definitely up for debate.

Her foot taps against the bar counter, the toe of her black flats ringing out in little thumps that nobody seems to notice but you. She swirls a shot glass in her elegant hand, —her long, lithe fingers adorned with lengthy nails all painted a uniform shade of violet. Strands of short, ginger hair fall over her forehead, clearly unstyled after a long day. Whatever she's going through, you're sure it isn't pleasant for her to have ended up here alone on a Thursday night. Even so, you silently wonder if she's aware of just how attractive she is. In a sense, she's almost ethereal to you, with her extended limbs and sharp lines. . .

You reach for a napkin and are pleasantly surprised when the rusted dispenser sitting loose just a seat away isn't completely empty as it usually is by this time of night. Digging in your bag for a moment, you find an old ballpoint pen buried at the bottom. You try to take something to write or sketch with wherever you go, —but sometimes you still find yourself wholly unprepared for when inspiration strikes.

It takes a bit of scribbling before the ink begins to flow. Even then, it's rather choppy and doesn't come out in a smooth line. But, it's the best you have on hand, and so you're sure to use it to your advantage in whatever way possible (which isn't many.) Your gaze flickers between the woman at the end of the bar and the napkin you're sketching her likeness on in inconsistent ink. It's certainly rough, but it's the first thing you've drawn all week that you haven't felt the urge to light on fire, so you're considering this a win. 

You get a little carried away with the shading and the general environment, adding flowers that aren't there and little markings all around for some additional texture and pizzaz.

"Interesting," a low-toned, curious voice says from just over your shoulder.

You startle at the sudden interruption, nearly scribbling a horrendous line across the center of your sketch. The woman had been so silent in her move, (or perhaps you'd just been too engrossed to hear her make her way over) that you were left flinching under her looming shadow.

She seems fittingly confident for the aura she gives off, —like some kind of CEO.

"Uh. . . Sorry," you apologize, hoping the mood won't become too awkward. "This must seem pretty weird."

This is pretty weird, actually, and you can acknowledge that much. After all, when someone trudges to the bar late at night, it's not as if they go there expecting that some equally as frustrated stranger will see them and be unable to resist the urge to sketch their likeness on a painfully thin napkin.

"I've seen weirder," she replies, —and though you don't ask for examples of that, you're rather curious about what she'd give as some.

She sits next to you now, on the bar stool just to your left. Her knee brushes against yours as she does so. 

"You're an artist then, I presume?" She asks without missing a beat.

You nod, letting your pen drop to the bartop, giving her your full attention now. Something about her demands it (not that you're complaining.)

"Yep," you answer, though you can't bring yourself to sound particularly stoked by that admission at the moment.

She takes notice of that much too quickly for having just met you.

"You don't seem very pleased about it," she notes. "Trouble in paradise, perhaps?"

An Irish accent clings to her words; not a heavy one, all things considered, but more than enough to be obvious. It's quite attractive.

"Yeah, something like that," you say with a bitter laugh, —one directed more at yourself than her statement. "Nothing I'd want to bore you with."

She hums in acknowledgement, not trying to pry anything out of you that you aren't readily willing to share. That makes you like her all the more. 

"I understand that quite well," she seems to sigh. "I'm a geneticist, —seasoned and well-ingrained in my field."

That makes sense. She speaks with an air of confidence that you assume comes with not only age, but experience, and it's clear she's well-educated.

"Yet here I am, constantly being pestered and questioned by those around me," she complains. "They insist upon checking and checking and checking again for ethical violations, —as if any true scientist has ever been able to examine the fullest potential of life without bending a few rules."

You gather rather quickly that she likely just needs someone to vent to, and a stranger is as good as anyone else. Though you're sure it won't be long before she gets into specifics and you lose the plot entirely, you have no qualms about keeping her company for the time being. In fact. . . This might as well be just as much for you as it is for her.

"They say rules were made to be broken," you quip, hoping it'll be enough to keep her talking.

"I don't know that I'd go quite that far, —but what I will say is that being ethical will do no good if it leaves us plateaued and unable to advance," she says. "Humanity is shackled by so many things. I am searching for the key to those shackles, —searching for the means by which to unlock the true potential of human beings. Just imagine what could be achieved if every individual was consistently performing at their highest levels of functioning. Productivity would skyrocket, advancements that have taken decades in the past would come about in less than half the time. . . There's so much waiting to be discovered, and yet so many seem to want to stand in the way of that."

"I'm sure that's frustrating," you acknowledge. "Obviously I'm not familiar with your field, but it seems a bit counterintuitive to stunt your progress when advancement is such a crucial part of today's society."

At this point, you're just speaking and hoping something sticks. It'd be nice to have someone to share time with, even if all she does is rant about things you're nothing short of completely removed from. 

"Exactly," she practically hisses. "Sometimes, I'm utterly convinced that I'm surrounded by fools. Fools who haven't a clue what it means to strive for the betterment of humankind."

Truth be told, she knows you don't get it. She knows you're telling her what you think she wants to hear from you. . . But, at this point, it's enough. She doesn't have the patience to keep it all bottled up anymore, and your vague attempts at encouragement are something she's rather pleased by (for the time being, anyway.)

As a result, she goes on, and on, and on, well into the early hours of the morning. She drinks, but seems to hold her liquor so well that it hardly affects her at all. Or, perhaps you're just a bit sensitive in that department. Either way, she finds you to be a tantalizingly good listener, even if she lost you the moment she started detailing something about stem cell research and the possibility of using the brain's localization to its 'fullest potential.'

By the end of your time with her, you're drunk less on the drinks you've admittedly been nursing, and more on her. A woman of such. . . Confidence and refinement. Perhaps in great contrast to the artist at your core, who craves some semblance of chaos and passion that burns so hot you can feel it course through your veins.

It's only after you've parted ways with her that you realize you never caught her name.

You return to the bar several times after that, though you seldom have the urge to drink any of your problems away. Your long, strange conversation with that enchanting force of a woman weighs heavily on your mind. Her very likeness on its own had helped to chip away at your stunted inspiration, giving birth to new designs and a perhaps pretentious series of paintings in which long, slender fingers with sharpened nails painted a deep violet color held different types of flowers. A part of you wonders if she’d like them. . . After all, they were born only because you’d had the chance to meet her (and spend at least a good two hours staring at her hands.)

Now, however, you’re content with staring at the art displayed at this gallery. It’s clear many of the paintings are uninspired, simply taking the form of references, —which is all well and good, of course. . . But there’s a sense of romanticism missing from most of them that isn’t quite scratching the itch inside your chest.

You stand before one such piece; a beautiful painting of a teacup filled nearly to the brim with amber liquid. It’s accompanied by a few cookies, ones that look delectable in spite of their bland appearance. The scene is nothing revolutionary, but there’s a sense of warmth it exudes that the other works here lack, so you’ve chosen to camp here for a bit, if only to bask in its delight for a while longer.

“I don’t presume this is one of yours.” You’d know that voice anywhere.

Perhaps a bit too quickly, your head whips to the side, eyes immediately scaling upward. You meet the duel-colored stare of the woman you’d met at the bar, and the intensity of her gaze leaves butterflies tickling your stomach. She’s dressed much the same as the night you first crossed paths with her, but her hair is pushed back completely, —not a single strand out of place. She wears some subtle makeup, a bit of color on her lips and liner on her eyes. You couldn’t even begin to picture her in casual clothing.

You blink, clearing your throat as you remember that she was likely looking for a response.

“No, not quite,” you reply.

She hums in acknowledgement. Her hand almost looks empty without a glass in it, you note, but choose to say nothing of it.

“I’m y/n, by the way,” you introduce yourself, hoping that she’ll follow suit. . . Hoping that she’ll take it as a sign that you’d like to see her again at some point, even if just at random.

“Moira.”

You swallow. It’s a name that sounds so elegant, and it suits her completely. Before you can compliment it, she turns her full attention to you, no longer dividing it between the painting. She never seemed particularly interested in that one anyhow.

“Are any of your pieces displayed here?" She asks. "I'd be interested to see them."

You swear the smallest semblance of a smile quirks at the corners of her lips as she speaks now.

"No, unfortunately not," you reply. "The deadline was too tight, and. . . Nothing I'd created recently felt worthy of the spotlight."

Untrue. The few paintings you'd stayed up until ungodly hours to finish were more than suitable; but they were of her. Only her hands, thus far, but. . . You still felt the urge to keep them to yourself. That's why you'd lugged them back to your apartment instead of keeping them at your worn-down studio.

She hums in acknowledgement.

The conversation is running thin, and you feel your chest tighten. She’d gone out of her way to speak to you first, so you assume there’s some semblance of a spark here, even if only a little one. You yearn to keep it safe from anything and everything hellbent on snuffing it out before it even has the chance to burn brightly.

“How’s work been for you, then?” You ask, somewhat desperate to keep her talking.

Moira heaves a heavy sigh, —not so much at you, but at the mention of work. You take that as ‘less than stellar.’

“It could be better,” she replies bitterly.

It’s then that you let impulse take over. Working as an artist is the culmination of your life’s devotion and effort to refining your skills. . . But it can be a bit lonely. Usually, that doesn’t bother you much, —it’s a feeling that rarely bubbles up enough to even cross your mind; but since you’d met Moira, it’d been much more difficult to ignore. In the end, you took a chance, perhaps a bit rashly. And yet, it paid off.

“I’d be willing to listen, if you’d like someone to talk to,” you offer. “There’s a little cafe just down the block. I’ve heard the pecan pie is to die for.”

She stares for a few moments, as if eyeing you down like prey. At the very least, Moira seems to be giving some thought to your offer, and you consider that as good a sign as any. Eventually, she breathes out through her nose just loud enough for you to hear it (and make note of the amusement it carries.) A smirk tugs visibly at the corner of her pretty mouth, and this time, it’s not one you’d have to squint to catch sight of.

“Suppose I am feeling a bit peckish,” she notes, then tells you to lead the way.

You’re almost dumbfounded that you’ve gotten this far. It’s all too easy to abandon the gallery and travel with Moira to the newly opened cafe just a ways off. You’d stopped by a few times since its grand opening just a few months back, but had never ordered anything more than a simple drink. You’d also never taken the time to sit down and enjoy the sweet atmosphere of the establishment, always rushing about too frantically to even consider the possibility.

This time is different. You sit with Moira by a large window, tendrils of sunlight pouring in from above, creating long shadows on the table between the two of you. She orders a simple cup of dark roast, but decides for the both of you that the pecan pie does, in fact, look too heavenly to pass up; so she requests one slice with two forks.

She tells you about her day, —about her work and her ongoing struggles to convince her superiors that she knows exactly what she’s doing and should be permitted to do as such. You still don’t understand most of it, but you make sure she knows she has your full attention nonetheless.

And then she makes the decision to turn the direction of the conversation.

“How has life as an artist been treating you since we last spoke?” She inquires.

You’re almost thrown off by the sudden reciprocation of curiosity. Between the both of you, you’d simply assumed she was leading the more interesting life, and had been completely content to listen to her spew her frustrations while sipping on coffee for an hour or so.

Still. . . It felt nice to know she cared about your own ventures, if only out of politeness. (Though, really, Moira didn’t seem like the type who’d ask a question she didn’t care about receiving a genuine answer to for the sake of saving face.) 

“Better,” you smile softly. “I was struggling to find inspiration, —worried that everything I was producing was just bland and uninteresting. But, after speaking with you, I started digging myself out of that rut. Since then, things have steadily been getting back on track, so I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Moira hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m happy to have helped, though I’m not certain I truly know what I did to spur any of your artistic inspiration,” she admits.

“You’re alluring,” you tell her without thinking the compliment through. 

You qualify: “Unique. Very visually striking.”

She raises an eyebrow at the sentiment, then offers you a low chuckle in reply.

“Is that why you asked me here?” She questions, though she doesn’t seem perturbed by the idea. “To be your muse of sorts?”

Your heart thumps a little louder in your chest now, though you’re not sure why.

“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head a bit, “—but I’m sure that’ll be a secondary benefit.”

Will it ever. 

“I take it you simply enjoy my company then?” Moira continues.

“Precisely,” you nod. “It’s exactly that.”

She stares at you for a moment longer, her eyes all but boring holes into your own. In a good way.

Finally, she cracks an amused smile, and mumbles: “Likewise.”

At that, you’re certain you’ve won the lottery. You talk with her a bit more about a variety of things; what it’s like to be a full-time artist, about her nails (press-ons, apparently, —you could hardly believe the notion), —about how right everyone was about the pecan pie. She disappeared before you could say a proper goodbye, paying the bill and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin that she left at your seat while you were in the restroom. You grin to yourself the whole way back to your apartment, letting the day’s events wash over you like the evening tide.

Just before you turn in later in the night, you send a quick message to her phone thanking her for paying the tab and telling her that next time is your treat. She responds in almost record time, and you let yourself believe for a moment that maybe she’d been waiting around for you to reach out since she’d left the cafe.

Looking forward to it.

As late spring turned to early summer, you kept in contact with Moira, if only passively. She was a busy woman, unsurprisingly, and despite the continued conflict with her peers and superiors, she remained wholly devoted to her work and ideals. It was easy to recognize that you came second, —if you even made her list at all.

But that was okay. It didn’t weigh heavily on you as it might have if she were anyone else.

You saw her only a few times here and there over the weeks, returning to that same cafe to chat for a bit over coffees, venturing to a steakhouse on the far end of the city for a night of fine dining, and attending an opera performance with her after she’d been given tickets by a work colleague as a regifted-gift when that individual had no interest in attending themself. Each time, you saw a new side of Moira; getting to know her better, getting to experience the many shades of her. 

It was mid-June when you heard your phone buzz late at night, vibrating against the oakwood of your bedstand. On the off chance it was Moira contacting you at such a strange time, you shot upright, startling yourself awake in the process. You snatched your phone off the surface, squinting at the brightness only to realize it was a completely unrelated, automatic notification from an app. But you sat there that night, your stomach tied in knots, that device clutched a bit too tightly in your hand, only to realize something all at once.

You were falling for her. For Moira. And you were so certain that that was a terrible idea.

You laid awake, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong in the face of this newfound revelation. Really, had anyone else had a say in the matter, the more shocking part of it all would have been that it took you so long to put two and two together. —She’s addicted to her work, utterly devoted to her job. That had long been established. Any plans you sought to make with her had to first be run through her hefty work schedule; the one that was so bizarre and so obscure that you’d given up trying to make sense of it a week into your acquaintanceship.

Any relationship you could hope to forge with her would be a lowly affair. Her first love was destined to be science. Still, you rationalized that Moira wasn’t much unlike you, in that sense. You too were deeply devoted to your career, thinking of it often, keeping your art at the forefront of your mind more often than not.

Even that aside, there was so much that could go wrong here. If she were to feel the same way, which seemed so unlikely to you that even considering it felt like something akin to a cruel joke, —it was more likely to be fleeting than anything else. Yet, a part of you still wanted it. . . Wanted the push and pull, the long weeks of her undoubtedly forgetting that you even existed, just to fall back in her arms at the first sign of affection. Foolishly, a part of you still wanted the late nights and early mornings, —wanted to feel your own heart break as you watched her slip out of your bed through hazy eyes, leaving you lonely without a proper goodbye.

Obviously, you were getting miles ahead of yourself.

Still, the fact remained that you liked Moira. . . You just weren’t sure what exactly you were supposed to do about that.

The summer heat became sweltering before long. Moira traded her long-sleeved dress shirts for short-sleeved ones in the same color and style, and you began to stare not only at her hands, but at her arms now when the two of you found time to get together. You’d sit and listen to her frustrations, —always about her working life and how it was so difficult to deal with being stifled, told that she couldn’t do this or that because someone had deemed it inappropriate by their own standards.

Admittedly, you still didn’t get it. Her work was so different to your own, and in the end, she didn’t really get yours either. But, each of you managed well enough. Your relationship was symbiotic. She had someone to vent to, you had someone to lust and desire for, someone to get your inspiration pumping. . . And that was good enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You did your best to drown your feelings out. There was too much at stake, what with Moira being your closest friend in the city, you assumedly being hers (since she often made note that you were the only person she spoke so candidly with,) —and you didn’t want to disrupt the balance the both of you had created together. It worked, and they say what isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed.

But it was breaking you, little by little. It was something you could ignore at first, until ignoring it became much more difficult, and you defaulted to stuffing it down on purpose, forcing thoughts about the bow of her lips and the dips of her waist into the back of your mind. If she ever caught sight of your wandering gaze, she never mentioned it. Still, you were prepared to chalk it up to admiring her frame for artistic purposes, and Moira likely would have bought that without much thought otherwise.

And then came the banquet, —the gathering, the party— whatever the hell it was. You didn’t really know what it was about other than that it had to do with Moira’s work, and that in itself was enough to signal to you that you probably wouldn’t have been able to make much sense of it anyway. She’d asked you to attend alongside her, saying that it would go much smoother with someone there to talk to (presumably so she could ignore everyone else that would be lapping at her ankles, vying for her attention.)

Whether her colleagues liked or disliked her and her methods, it was surely undeniable that Moira was intelligent and could provide insight into just about anything (within reason.) Thus, she’d requested that you come along as her so-called “plus one.” It didn’t help that when you mentioned that you’d likely be out of place at such an event, she responded by assuring you that many of the scientists would surely be taking their partners and spouses along with them.

“So, this is your way of asking me on a date?”

It was a joke. You gave a sly smile to project that, and it seemed that she understood the intention. You just hoped she didn’t catch sight of the desperation that lingered in the back of your stare, —desperation born from the desire to cross every line known to man and then some. 

The worst part is that she didn’t deny it. She seemed unphased by the proposition even, telling you to “call it what you’d like.” And you would, albeit not to her face again. In your mind, this was a date. Perhaps one of convenience more than anything else, —but a date nonetheless.

When the time comes, you meet Moira just out front of your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her sleek, black car in person. She’d made mention of it before, (only when you’d asked first), but your get-togethers with her had been within comfortable walking distance of most things in the city. This time, however, the venue was a bit further out, and because the occasion called for fancier clothes, Moira decided driving there would be the best option.

You watched through the slightly tinted windows as she reached over the passenger seat, her long, slender arm easily reaching the inner handle of the car door. She pushed it open for you, and you got in, feeling like some kind of moviestar. It wasn’t often that you saw a car as expensive and luxurious as hers around your admittedly worn-down apartment complex. It was even less often that you got to ride in one.

“Wow,” you note, slipping your seatbelt on, “I figured you’d drive something nice, but this is really something else.”

She lets an amused tuft of air escape her nostrils.

You turn to look at her now, taking her in as the last rays of dying sunlight spill down from the sky. She’s in a nice suit, as expected of her, —one that compliments her lengthy stature noticeably even in a sitting position. The fabric of her blazer is a deep, crimson red, a few shades darker than the scarlet iris of her right eye, and it’s paired with a black undershirt and black dress pants to match. Her hair is slicked back, and her hands are hidden under a pair of black gloves. She’s almost too stunning to be real, you think as she seems to examine your own attire.

Though Moira pays you no compliments, the light smirk that curves her lips upward ever so slightly says enough.

“I’ll have you home before it gets too late,” she says. “This is more for appearances than anything else. Those matter much more than one might think in the scientific field.”

Unsurprisingly, she seems less than excited about all of this, and you temper your own expectations as a result. It wasn’t so much the event itself you were looking forward to, —it was just getting to spend time with her that really lit your fuse, so to speak.

“I’ve got nothing better to be doing,” you note. “I’m yours for the night.”

Maybe that was a little too forward. As soon as you’ve said it, a part of you wishes you hadn’t. . . But Moira gives you a little hum in reply, throwing you a final glance before fixing her eyes ahead, and that’s the end of it. You like to think she was pleased with that admission, though. The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable sense. She seems to be in neutral spirits in spite of her distaste for the final destination, and you’re glad for it (not that you mention it.) 

The venue was about as extravagant as you would expect; chandeliers hanging from the ceiling in the party hall, well-dressed staff members carrying platters of red wine and bubbling champagne, weaving their way through the guests with surprising grace and elegance. You can’t help but think to yourself that you’d never survive a day doing their job.

Moira snags the both of you some wine.

“Can’t help but think this is a bit nostalgic,” she comments as you put the rim of the glass to your lips to take a small sip.

The dark red liquid almost matches her outfit.

“I guess so,” you smile sheepishly. “It’s been a bit since we first met, and that’s the last time we drank together.”

“Indeed.”

She takes her own sip now, her lipstick clinging to the glass. You let yourself stare for a moment, gaze caught on her mouth. . . You let yourself wonder what it’d be like to pull her in, match your hand to the curve of her neck, —kiss her, taste the wine on her lips. It’s a bad idea, of course, but. . .

You just can’t help it.

“I suppose I should give you a proper thanks,” Moira notes after a few moments of silence. “I’m sure this kind of event isn’t much like anything you’d be used to.” 

“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head.

She appreciates the candid way you answer, not trying to soften the blow for the sake of saving face. Your honesty is part of your charm.

“Lucky you,” she notes. “These things are practically the bane of my existence. They’re just glorified circle-jerks, —everyone squanders their time meeting here to drink alcohol and grit their teeth while they speak with colleagues they haven’t seen since the last one, even though they promise to keep in touch every single time.”

You get the feeling she’s quite pleased they never actually go through with that. The very prospect seems more like a threat than a broken promise.

“Sounds. . . Fake,” you answer lightly.

“Utterly synthetic,” Moira says, venom lacing her words.

She really isn’t holding back tonight, and there’s a certain luster that comes with it, —the kind that makes your insides twist into pretzels. Though she’s seldom the type to be vulgar for the sake of it, her gloves seem to be off tonight. Metaphorically, anyway. The actual gloves on her pretty hands are still there, tightly fitted to her elegant fingers. You’d be a tad more bitter about the view they steal away from you if not for how nice they look on her.

“Worse off, you may think idle workplace gossip would be less common in a career such as mine, —but you’d be wrong,” she tells you. “The amount of nonsense they spew never ceases to amaze me.” 

And here you thought it was an impossible task to impress her. Imagine your shock when you found that a tried and true way of doing so was just to spout off pointless grains from the rumor mill. . .

“Seems hellish,” you remark.

You shiver at the mere thought of it, your eyes surveying the loose crowd now, looking for anyone who seems to be questioning your presence at Moira’s side or making assumptions about whether you really belong here. You don’t, and that just makes the anxiety worse. Another sip of wine down the hatchet, but your worries don’t go down with it the way you’d hoped they would.

“Hellish may be a bit of an understatement,” Moira mumbles sourly.

“Really though, a proper thank you for coming along is in order,” she sighs. “If you have anything you’d like in return, do tell. Money isn’t much of an obstacle, —within reason, of course.”

Unsure of how to say that all you really want is for her to pull you in and let her body meld into your own, you give her a little nod and a polite smile instead.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

She seems pleased enough by your confirmation, swallowing down the rest of her wine in a few ungraceful gulps. The way her throat contracts as she tips the glass back sends a shiver down your spine. Everything she does is so mesmerizing, and at this point, it’s just unfair. No one person should be able to captivate you; mind, body, and soul the way she always has, even from the very start. Sitting at a rundown bar, standing tall before a painting of tea and cookies, —drinking down blood red alcohol under dazzling chandeliers and crystalline lights that dance off her eyes like fireflies in mid-July. 

You stand by as the night drags on, going much too slow for Moira, and far too quickly for you. It’s clear she’s not content to just be by your side here, and that hurts a little more than it should. She has another two glasses of wine and leaves a lipstick stain on each of them. . . And she doesn’t know just how much you’d risk for her to leave that same mark anywhere on you. 

For the briefest of seconds, you consider asking that of her in return, but you banish that thought to the shadow realm just as quickly.

A few fresh faces greet Moira with varying levels of that synthetic politeness she’d mentioned not long ago. Seeing it in real time is like looking through a kaleidoscope of disgust, and you have to force a scowl off your face. You try your best to zone out when they come around, figuring that you’re not supposed to be privy to whatever information they’re sharing, —and that you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway. Unless they were suddenly struck with the urge to discuss color theory or artistic interpretation, you were pretty certain you wouldn’t be of much help. Moira’s field of expertise was worlds different than your own. 

“Doctor O’Deorain,” a pretty blonde woman greets, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a little black dress clinging to her body in all the right places.

Moira regards her with less hostility than the others, her expression softening a bit.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up,” she continues with a familiar giggle, losing the formal nature of her address. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you were offered in exchange for your attendance.”

If she’s comfortable enough to joke with Moira, you assume she’s known her for long enough to have built that kind of comradery. Maybe it was just a hunch of yours, but you’d have been willing to bet that Moira didn’t ease up to people very quickly. You like to think you were a slight exception to the rule.

“More like what they threatened to take away if I didn’t,” Moira answers, that characteristic bluntness still present in her tone, —but it’s softer with this woman, for one reason or another. 

The blonde laughs again, seeming content in the redhead’s presence. Jealousy prickles at your heart, making you feel utterly ridiculous. Her blue eyes finally travel to where you’re standing, as if she’s just now realizing that you’d been standing there the entire time.

“You brought a friend along?” She inquires, her kind smile never fading. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Moira beats you to the punch.

“Lover, actually,” she corrects, one of her gloved hands sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer and nearly knocking you off-balance in the process.

Your throat goes dry, face falling into an expression of panic, but you gather yourself before the blonde woman can take notice. Though you have no idea why she’d lie about such a thing, you can only assume that Moira has her reasons, and the last thing you’d want to do is correct her in front of a colleague, —even about something like this. You’ll probably never see this woman again anyway, so no harm, no foul. (Well, maybe some harm to your heart, but what else is new.) 

The woman seems shocked by even the idea of it. 

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” you say with a forced smile.

It’s not that she isn’t kind or easy to talk to. She’s both of those things, actually, and you can admire that (and you do.) But you’re still reeling from Moira’s sudden concession, and making small talk is the last thing on your mind. 

The rest of the conversation is a blur. You do your best to fall into the background, hoping that each of them might just forget you even exist. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, beating something dangerously close to out of control.

The feeling of her hand on your waist all but burns itself into your flesh. 

By the time they’ve said their goodbyes, she’s taken it away. But it’s far too late to fix the damage she’s done.

Moira never does explain herself that night, and you don’t have the nerve to ask. Questions are ripe on the tip of your tongue the entire ride back to your apartment, but you sit in silence just as you did before, —albeit much less comfortably.

It’s then that you’re forced to acknowledge the crueler parts of her. . . And yet, you fear, you’re still falling for her anyway.

Communication is brief and inconsistent over the rough week and a half following the event. You send a few messages out of nicety, hoping she might choose to spark up a conversation. . . But she doesn’t, and you chalk it up to her being busy with work. At least, that’s the story your rational mind would like you to believe. The part of you that you’d like to shut out completely warns you only of the possibility that you’re being overbearing, and it’s pushing her further away.

You begin to worry that it’s now or never. If things continue as they are, Moira might as well just be another person who only contacts you when it’s convenient or they’re feeling a little nostalgic and want to hear a whisper from a ghost of their past.

As a means to counteract that possibility, you decide that it’s time to put that favor from Moira to good use. Best of all, —it’s utterly free of charge.

She agrees to meet you at your little painting studio to provide some assistance. Upon arriving, she walks around and gazes long and hard at each of your pieces, —finished and unfinished alike, sparing you the flurry of compliments she’s sure you’ve heard a million times over. If she were anyone else, her silence might have been a bad omen, but you know her well enough to understand that she means well.

“I’m not certain I can really be of any help,” she says, giving you a sidelong glance over her angular shoulder. “I enjoy art, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to create it. I leave that to the lot of you who’ve crafted your skills and put in the time.”

“For many of us, —myself included— inspiration is just as important as skill,” you reply. “These days, it’s been running a bit dry. But I was hoping you could get the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”

Moira thinks she has a good idea of it.

“And how, pray tell, should I go about that?” She asks. “Do I just need to sit here and pose?”

“Actually,” you say, hoping to rip this off like a bandaid, —because you know it’s bizarre and that she might well say no, but you’re sick of wondering about it.

As it goes, you’ve prepared for the worst, but you’re hoping for the best.

“I’d like to paint on you.”

She looks at you evenly, as if she’s not shocked by the request at all. You’re more surprised by her lack of a visceral reaction than she is by your requisition.

“Interesting,” she notes, though it doesn’t sound like this is particularly intriguing to her, “—where, exactly?”

“Just like that?” You laugh. “No hesitation? You’re just gonna let me do it?”

“That’s dependent on the where,” she replies, an amused smile thinning her lips out. “If I’m right to assume you’re keen on keeping this within a certain boundary, I see no real reason to object. I do owe you, after all.”

Above most things, Moira is practical. She sees this as repayment, not only for your attendance at her working banquet, but also for the many afternoons, evenings, and nights she’s talked your ear off, sharing her own disgruntled feelings over coffee, steak, and whiskey neat respectively.

You offer her an appreciative smile, as if she’s done something so loving for you out of the kindness of her beating heart.

It’s more out of obligation, you fear, but you’re fine to ignore that for now.

“Will an arm suffice?” She asks.

“Maybe two,” you answer cheekily, and she doesn’t object.

You grab her a wooden stool to sit on, one much less rinky-dink than the barstool she’d sat on the night you first met as you go about procuring your materials; paints, brushes, —the necessities for this kind of ordeal.

“Can you roll your sleeves up a bit more for me?” You request.

“Would it be easier to just discard the shirt?” She asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. Yes, she’s probably right in some sense. . . That likely would make this process increasingly easier in a pragmatic sense, —but you’re certain seeing her in such a state would do numbers on your heart that you’re not sure you’re really equipped to handle.

“I. . . I suppose so,” you nod.

You try not to stare as her elegant fingers undo the buttons of her shirt with ease, like she’s a master of the craft. Her back arches ever so slightly as she slips her arms out, long and limber as they fall to her sides and she keeps the mess of white fabric balled in her hands now. Her bra is a stark black, the kind of deep shade that really contrasts with every inch of her pale, porcelain skin. You swallow nervously at the sight of her, taking the shirt from her hands to drape it over an unused easel.

She seems to have no reservations about this. Maybe it’s because she’s simply confident in every aspect of herself, —or maybe it’s because she trusts you enough to remain stoic in the face of it. You don’t ask, and Moira doesn’t tell.

“Any ideas?” She says instead, “—For the artwork.”

“I was considering something floral and nature-themed,” you answer, focusing in on that aspect of the ordeal so as to forget that she’s sitting in front of you like this, so much of her on display for your eyes only.

“Butterflies with carnations,” you add, “—or daisies, perhaps.”

“I’m impartial to hyacinth myself,” she notes.

It’s not so much a suggestion for your art piece as it is something Moira simply wants to share with you. Still, you think it best to run with it, and you give her a slightly lopsided smile.

“Hyacinth it is.”

She watches with curiosity as you go through the motions, —mixing colors, cleaning your brushes between them, dabbing them dry. It’s not often that Moira has the luxury of watching something like this in person. . . In fact, now that she’s thinking of it, she’s not sure she’s ever witnessed an artist work firsthand at all. In her lifetime, she’s seen innumerous things she would personally describe as incredible, —and unbeknownst to you, this is one of them.

“This is actually quite relaxing,” she says. “Like a massage. I don’t fancy those much, I loathe the thought of a stranger touching me so extensively, —but this is nice.”

You offer her a small smile.

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I knew it was a bit of a strange request, and I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning me away, but I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to allow it.”

“Perish the thought,” Moira shakes her head slightly. “If anyone knows about unconventional methods, it would be me. I know better than most that in order to reach one’s full potential, sometimes it’s necessary to step outside the proverbial box.”

That wasn’t quite your mindset going into it, but if she was ready and willing to place a perfectly good excuse for this in your lap, then so be it. Truth be told, you were simply a conduit of passion to your very core, and in a perhaps distorted sense of the word, this was romantic to you.

You hum in acknowledgement.

“While you’re here. . . Can I ask you something?” You inquire.

Though it feels like your heart is in your throat now, you manage to keep your hand steady enough to continue your work with little disruption.

“You can ask,” she says, “though my ability to answer might waver depending on what the question is.”

“At that event. . . You told that blonde woman we were lovers. Why?”

It’s been eating at you since it happened, in more ways than one, and now seems like as good a time as any to get it off your chest. You steal a peak at Moira’s face, noting the way she remains completely composed, even in the face of such an off-color inquiry.

“So I did,” she says plainly, certainly not the type to deny responsibility or deflect accountability for her own actions. “It’s an unfortunate fact for me that my colleagues can be quite. . . Eccentric. And by that, I mean they often poke their noses in the affairs of others with something similar to reckless abandon.”

Her brows furrow now as she thinks about it, clearly agitated.

“It’s not uncommon for them to pry into my personal matters, and I was hoping to quench their overbearing interest in my romantic life by giving them a glimpse into it, —if only a false one. Like I said before, everyone there is in it for themselves. It’s all synthetic. . . An act they put on to please one another a few times a year. That night, it was my turn to do the pleasing.”

“That makes sense,” you acknowledge.

Of course it did. You weren’t expecting anything less from her of all people.

“Did it work?”

A low rumble of brief laughter resounds from her chest, —husky and divine.

“Like a charm,” she tells you. “I’m sure they’ve found another staff member to harass with their incessant yammerings about intimacy and partnership.”

“You’re not a fan of those?” You ask, and the question is punctuated by the quiet ripples of your paintbrush through water as you clean it.

Moira is silent for a few moments, as if pondering on your inquiry.

“I don’t. . . Dislike intimacy,” she replies, —though she doesn’t sound as sure of that response as she normally would have had the two of you been discussing anything else.

“Rather, I don’t dislike the idea of it,” she corrects quickly. “In practice, I suppose that’s a different story. I don’t offer my trust like candy, and for me, intimacy only follows trust.”

“I’d argue this is quite intimate,” you note softly, blending two shades of deeper purples together on her bare skin. “Does that mean I’ve won your trust?”

You fear you’re pushing your luck here, but can’t stop yourself from asking. Eventually, Moira lowers her chin a bit, seeming amused by your line of questioning.

“I suppose so.” 

Bingo. 

If nothing else, that was your win for the day. If nothing else, —Moira trusted you. . . And that was more than enough for the time being.

You thrive off the high of that evening for the next several days. You don’t even worry when things go silent on Moira’s end. It’s all too easy to simmer yourself down now that you know for certain she trusts you, —and it’s almost elating to hold that information so near and dear to your heart. She invites you for a drink that Saturday night, in the cooling heat of summer, and you jump at the first opportunity to see her in person again.

This time, the bar isn’t quite so run down. It might just be the fanciest one you’ve ever set foot in, and the outfit you wore that you were worried would come off as overdressed now feels like the opposite. Things like this remind you of just how different you live in comparison to Moira. . . It’s easy to forget that she’s quite wealthy, and though you’re well past your struggling artist phase, you’re far from living the way you imagine she does day in and day out.

She’s not keen on discussing work tonight, so you sit around nursing lemon drop martinis with sugar-lined rims, hanging off her every word like the admitted lovesick fool that you are.

It’s nothing profound, nothing inherently important in the grand scheme of it all. . . But it’s nice to know that her favorite season is autumn, and it’s nice to know that she can play a bit of piano. It’s then that you really understand just how much little things really do matter, even within the finite days we’re given. Especially within them.

Just like your drink, it’s slightly bittersweet.

You talk with her well into the night, eventually forgoing the bar to simply walk around under the stars and the city lights. And maybe it’s alcohol or that aforementioned trust she’s placed in you, —but she tells you that she misses her home on nights like these, and when she sees you shiver, she drapes her jacket over your shoulders and walks a little closer to you now. So close that the back of her hand brushes against yours, —once, twice, thrice— but the fourth time never comes.

Instead, she reaches out in between the hum of passing cars and the hollow breeze that swishes by, and takes your hand in her own. You don’t bother to bite back the smile that graces your lips.

That night, you consider telling her all the things you’ve been keeping bottled up inside, —all the time you’ve spent groveling over her and her unfair ability to captivate you like no other. But, a part of you is almost certain she already knows now, as if the poetry written in your heart has all but flowed right into her own from the lines in your palm.

As summer moves both far too slow and much too fast all in a single breath, Moira becomes a semi-frequent guest in your studio. Sometimes she simply watches as you work on canvas, and at others, she becomes the canvas herself. You have a little collection of photographs of her now, —posed according to your will, displaying her painted arms in the process. It must be hours upon hours now that you've spent gracing her skin with your brushes, listening to her tell you about her day; the good and bad parts.

She leaves out the finer details, not wanting to bore you with the intricacies of a job one could only understand through years of training and experience. Still, you know more than you probably should about her research, and you're there when the scientific community at large decides that she's a perfect fit for their next public enemy.

For how harsh the punishment is, you'd think she would have been more upset, —but she remained indifferent to it all, as if taking it in stride was the only way she knew how to cope with it. Moira asked that if you stumbled across any articles of her, you pay them no mind. . . And you didn't. Maybe that was a naive choice, but her work was only your concern to a certain extent, and you were already well aware that she was prone to bending ethical guidelines. At the end of the day, you knew her as a woman rather than a scientist, and that was that.

You have to admit, it’s a little tortuous seeing her so often, being constantly reminded of just how hard you’ve fallen, and yet never having the courage to act on it. You often hype yourself up, readying yourself to shoot your shot, —but as soon as Moira is actually in front of you, all the confidence you’d spent the prior day and night building up all but crumbles to your feet in pathetic little pieces.

You sit with her at that cafe again, sipping on lattes together in the early afternoon. She seems more relaxed today than she is most of the time, —like something amazing has happened, though she hasn’t told you what. If anything even happened at all. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she’s just happy to be here with you.

The new employee of the quaint shop slips you a napkin with some scribbled numbers on it, and you feel a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t too long ago that Moira gave you her phone number in much the same way.

“His number, I presume?” Moira inquires. 

You nod.

“I was wondering when he’d decide to make a move,” she laughs. “He’s had his eyes on you since you sat down.”

“O-Oh?” You utter, heat rising to your cheeks, “—Has he? I didn’t notice.”

You were a little distracted by the way she held the handle of her cup, though you’re keen on keeping that particular detail to yourself.

“Indeed,” she confirms. “So, any plans to take him up on it?”

“Ah. . . No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered and all, I just. . .”

“He isn’t to your liking?” Moira guesses.

She’s so nonchalant about this that it’s close to driving you wild.

“I don’t know that I’d say it like that,” you mumble.

“He’s not your type, then?” She revises.

“I don’t think I have any specific type,” you answer.

“Perhaps there’s someone else?”

Your face falls and it doesn’t go unnoticed no matter how quickly you right yourself. There’s no hiding that it’s the case now, —but you have a feeling she already knows as much. She’d known it for days, weeks, —maybe months. Maybe she knew you were falling for her before you yourself had the wherewithal to pick up on it.  

“Something like that,” you mutter, taking a long, drawn out sip of your drink.

Something like that. 

She doesn’t press it any further, letting it drop completely for the time being. You part ways as you exit the cafe, and while she spends the rest of her day in her lab, you meddle about your studio, unable to keep your focus steady enough to get much done.

Perhaps there’s someone else. . .

You sigh deeply, frustrated and overwhelmed. If there was ever a time when you wished she’d be as blunt as she always seems to be, —it’s now. A part of you is certain even rejection would hurt less than this; less than the unknown. You’re sick of sitting in this pit of misty grey indifference, stuck in limbo, always waiting for the right time (that never actually comes.)

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “Fuck.”

You feel pathetically underproductive, sitting against the wall in your studio as the sun begins to set. You’ve done so little, but your mind has been racing for hours, and there’s still no sure-fire way you’ve found to reason yourself out of this mess. Telling her how you feel is always an option, but there’s a risk there that you’re just not comfortable with as things stand now. Moira pushes and pulls, and you don’t know what to make of it.

She makes that choice for you, as expected of her.

When your phone buzzes, lighting up with her name on the screen, you’re close to jumping out of your skin. It says so little, but it makes you feel so much.

Dinner? 

Though you’re not particularly hungry despite having eaten very little all day, you quickly agree, if for no other reason than to bask in her presence and soak her in for everything she’s worth (which is more than any simple number could ever do justice, no matter how large.) For the sake of having an idea of how to dress, you ask where.

My place. 

And so it goes. You get her address and she tells you to swing around by 7:30. You’re there by 7:28, spending the last two minutes outside her door, preparing yourself for whatever is to happen next. This building is incredible, —clearly high-class and unsuitable for the average working person based on price alone. You’d expect nothing less of Moira. 

The outside pales in comparison to the inside, however. Her bookshelves are filled to the brim with titles, —some academically inclined, and others more for pleasure (though you’re not certain Moira would see much of a difference between the two.) She greets you in her typical attire, dress pants and a white button-up, although the top two buttons are undone tonight and her hair lacks any form of styling. You’re staring as she sits you down at a table overlooking the city, but you can’t help it, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. There’s something about her tonight that has your heart shivering in your chest.

“Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” she tells you. “Feel free to look around. I don’t mind what you touch as long as it isn’t broken.”

There’s a twinge of a smile on her lips and eyeliner slightly smudged beside her eyes. This is probably the closest you’ve come to seeing Moira in her rawest state, topping even the version of her you saw that night at the bar. It seems like that was so long ago now, but also feels like it was just yesterday somehow.

“You’re cooking?” You inquire.

“I dabble,” she replies. “It’s a necessary skill. I’m no Michelin star chef, mind you, but I can manage a proper meal.”

She hasn’t even set the food before you yet, and you already know she’s being far too humble. In the meantime, she pours you a glass of champagne, apologizing for the fact that it’s all she has on hand besides whiskey. You think nothing of it. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider this a date. . . And maybe you will, if only to yourself.

While she’s off in the kitchen, you run your fingers along the many book spines of her collection, imagining what she’d look like just sitting near a window in this place, a cup of tea resting near her, those elegant fingers flipping through pages. 

Dinner is mostly quiet, but delicious. As you’d guessed, she was certainly being humble about her own culinary skills. She takes your compliments with lilted smirks. Moira seems more comfortable here, which makes sense. . . This is where she lives, after all, where she sleeps and spends a fair amount of time (you’re assuming) when she’s not in the lab or off doing something with you. She keeps her space impeccably neat.

You ask about the things strewn about her place, —about some of the awards she displays on a shelf all to themselves. It’s pressed into a corner, like she isn’t much proud they’re even there. She doesn’t seem to mind telling the tales, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity; like she’s doing it to quench your curiosity rather than stroke her own ego. She gives you a few book recommendations after gauging your tastes, —offers to let you borrow her copies, and you tell her you might just take her up on the offer, even if you won’t.

“It’s a bit late,” she says at a quarter past ten, “I hadn’t meant to keep you so long.”

But she doesn’t apologize for it, and Moira doesn’t seem sorry at all. 

“I can drive you home,” she continues, “—or I could walk with you.”

She leans in a bit closer now, and you swallow nervously. You’re convinced you’re misconstruing something, but her lips are so near to your ear that you can almost feel them ghost against your skin.

“Or you’re welcome to stay,” she says softly, “if you’d like.”

You’re scared she can feel your heart hammering away in your chest. A part of you wants to just do as she’s offering, —stay the night with her, let her crawl under your skin, let her wrap you up in her arms and melt into her. But you’re not certain you’re ready for that yet. It’s a leap, and the both of you know what happens between adults when the lights dim and you stay over.

When you say nothing, she places one of those beautiful, elegant hands on the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You never really knew Moira could be that gentle. She waits, watching as your eyes flicker about for a moment, then leans closer; almost touching, but not. Like she’s waiting for permission or rejection. You meet her gaze, then let it flicker off nervously, and a smirk grows on her face.

Moira’s lips fall just to the side of your own, pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. She leans back, standing to her full height, letting her hand linger on your face before pulling away. You were hesitant, and she could feel it.

“Goodnight,” she says, —as if she already knew how this night was going to end.

She’s not upset, and you let yourself smile up at her.

“Goodnight, Moira.”

This thing with her is intoxicating. It’s like a drug, and it’s getting in the way of everything. You’re finding it difficult to even be in her presence now without your eyes wandering or thoughts sneaking off somewhere they need not be. You fantasize about her more than you’d like to admit.

And now, you know that she must like you to, —at least to a certain extent. There’s plenty you aren’t certain of, plenty you’ll likely overthink in the future, but. . . You want this. You want her. You’ve known that for weeks, and now the only question left is what the hell you’re going to do about it.

You tell yourself the next time she comes onto you, you’ll accept her advances more readily. You’ll ask for the kiss she silently offers, tell her you want to stay the night. . . Maybe you’ll take the initiative, grab her by the ivory button-up and stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against her mouth, even if it’s somewhat out of your character.

But then what?

What happens after, when the heat has cooled down, when the water’s stopped boiling, —when her dry luster has dimmed and you’re tired of being tossed to the wayside everytime she’s set her mind to something else? What happens when you’ve fallen down the list of her priorities and she has a million and one things to think about before she ever gets to you?

What happens when you run out of excuses to make for her. . . ?

And why doesn’t that seem to matter to you as much as you know it should?

You wonder if that’s what it means to love someone. . . To know that there are parts of her you’ll likely wretch at the sight of, to know that there are facets of her that you’ll find absolutely fucking repulsive, —and you’ll love her in spite of it, just as you do now.

Or maybe you’re just a lovesick fool.

She kissed you a few nights later in your shabby little studio. Your eyes had flickered from the roses you were painting on her arm to the glimmering red and blue of her irises that still shone even in the yellow lighting of the dying bulb above your heads, and then to the bow of her lips. Moira reached out, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, as if this was how she’d chosen to test the waters. Your stare was so tender, and even she, in all of her romantic ineptness, could see that you were practically begging for her to make the first move so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break the ice.

You felt one of her fingernails trace your jawline from chin to lobe, then back down again. She cupped your cheek that time around, her surprisingly smooth palm sitting warmly against your skin.

You’ll never forget the way she paused just then, or the way she met your gaze just to lean in closer, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips before she asked simply: “May I?”

And even when you were still uncertain of what that really meant, —uncertain of what she’d do in the moments that followed your approval, if only naively, you gave her a nod, because you trusted her.

Her lips were soft and imperfect, and her lipstick wasn’t the type she could kiss with and leave nothing of the remnants behind. The reddish-orange color left an imprint on your mouth, faintly, of course, but it was there. It served as proof that what happened wasn’t just in your imagination anymore. You felt your heart stutter when she pulled away, and your head was swimming.

Since then, you’ve gotten that same feeling more times than you can count. Sometimes, it seems to live in the marrow of your bones. You had it for hours on end the first night you spent with her, all but glistening in afterglow under your worn-out covers. She never complained about the quainter life you lived, even though it often paled in comparison to her own. Moira held you just the same whether on your creaky frame and dreary mattress or on the king-sized bed in her luxury apartment that overlooked the cityscape.

You get that feeling when she takes your hand in her own, —when she traces shapes and cursive letters against your flesh under humble moonlight. You get it when she peels you apart, when she looks inside your chest with a single glance, when she soothes your deepest flaws simply because she can.

And it’s not always perfect. Sometimes she’s snippy, sometimes you’re sensitive, and sometimes you sleep in the spare room of her apartment just to make room for your thoughts. Sometimes she doesn’t call when she knows she’ll be working late, and sometimes you don’t see her for a few days when her workload piles up too high and she shacks up in her laboratory. Sometimes she forgets to make the most of every moment, and sometimes you shut her out when you know deep down that you shouldn’t.

But there’s always love to be found, —no matter where you are. She attends company banquets with you on her arm, just to show you off like a prize. You sit and watch her with stars in your eyes when she cooks, when she reads, when she paints the press-on nails she wears like claws for protection. She makes your coffee for you in the mornings, memorizes the way you like it, and keeps the additives on hand (even when she drinks hers straight from the pot.) You make her your greatest source of inspiration, filling in page after page of her likeness, never tiring of a single thing.

It’s not always easy. Love never really is, —not even in most of the movies these days. But as Moira crawls into her bed, —your bed—, the bed you share now more nights than not, her hair ever so slightly longer now than on the night you first met, she drapes a thin arm over your waist and welcomes your warmth, pulling you closer, smelling faintly of the perfume you gave her for her birthday, —you’re certain some things are not just meant to be, but are meant to be maintained: and this love is one of them. 

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

Hobie Brown's Living Room on the S.S Anne Ark

Hobie's living room on the houseboat complete with graffiti, boatcats, and a juke box he's customed himself.

(In depth explainer below - click for higher rez)

Diane took this photo early in the morning while Hobie was still sleeping upstairs. It seems like Moto the cat is already up. [Light mentions of my Spidersona Disco-Spider Diane below] The S.S Anne Ark (get it- AnArch?) is Hobie's home, and arguably his favorite place in the world.

Gifted to him by an old geezer Hobie used to work for, he's been living on Anne for 4 years now - since he was 16.

And this is his living room.

Hobie is by no means a homebody, but when he is home, he spends most of his time here - reading, writing songs, and listening to music.

The Living Area -

Feel free to imagine a LOT more junk here. The living room floor is always covered with his projects - songbooks, or patches, zines - whatever art he's making then. Cause Hobie is always making art. His couch might as well be older than him - and he found it on a curb in Tower Hamlets, called a few favors, and somehow got it in here. But it's the most comfortable thing you'll ever sit on.

The Music/Recording Area -

Almost every song Hobie has recorded or written in the past 4 years has been here. Hobie keeps most of his music equipment in the wooden cabinet and the good stuff that can't fit gets put on display. There's a microphone rigged to the ceiling and mixing equipment for recording. Hobie's motto is the louder the better, and it's a good thing the windows are re-enforced, because his speakers are loud enough to make the glass rattle. There's also a vintage jukebox that Hobie had bartered for a couple years back. Now, he loves tickering with it. He's swapped out the old 50's songs for something more his taste tho.

The Kitchen Area -

Hobie can cook, and he loves it, but being a street kid for so long, he's hardly ever gotten in the habit of doing it. Hobie's kitchen is sparce, partly because the boat is off the grid. His cupboards are mainly full of books and shoes, and his oven is rarely used. However, he has a grill on the back deck - and that's where he does most of his cooking. Once Gwendy came around, Hobie got a lot more into cooking, the kid seemed like she needed a homecooked meal. Hobie mainly eats cheap street food - street kid habits -frequenting fish n' chip places and kebab shops, and yeah, he calls the dude behind the counter 'boss' or something. He also eats a lot of food from convivence stores, like packaged sandwiches and cold pastas. Because they're easy to carry, and when he was younger, they were (literal) life-savers. The taste gives him nostalgia. The thing he makes most in the kitchen is beans on toast. Diane finds it disgusting, which Hobie finds hilarious.

The BoatCats

Hobie is a man of many cats. He looks after the dock and alley cats, catching fish on early mornings (yes, he fishes) to give to them before he has breakfast. All of them have names, and none of them have collars. And Hobie loves them all. Those that are a bit older, weaker, or just want to - get to come live with him as BoatCats. Pictured here: Left - Moto (Personality: Feisty, Calm, Curious) Right - Pierogi, also known as Rogi (Personality: Cuddly, Talkative, Friendly) Hobie does not care much for their genders, and doesn't check.

More about The S.S Anne Ark (I'll be posting an explainer with the outside, layout, etc)

The S.S Anne Ark is a modified wide-beam canal boat. Completely off-the-grid, and DIY'd by him, it's Hobie's pride and joy. The Anne Ark is three levels tall - a 'ground' floor, and upstairs, and a locked basement below the deck. Pictured is the living room. To the left - beside the windows - there is a hallway that leads to Hobie's workshop and the basement Hobie choses to firmly keep private. Not even Gwen, Pavi or Diane have been down there. To the right behind the cat tree is the stairs up to Hobie's bedroom. (You walk up those stairs, hit the landing, turn and go up again.) The Anne Ark has two 'bedrooms' and one 'bathroom'. Hobie's bedroom is what was once the control room, gutted and converted. The second bedroom was once a small equipment space. The small bathroom is up there as well - but it's more of a wet room, with a shower and toilet. There's a sink to wash your hands on the second floor outdoor deck, but it's either that or the kitchen sink.

But that's Anne Ark! And after years of squatting and homelessness as a streetkid, Hobie considers Anne his forever home. And he takes pride in that.

He tries pride in opening Anne's doors for others too - kids in the same spot he was, who just need a little help.

Other little facts about Anne Ark:

Hobie's leather jacket is on the couch. He has multiple, he can't be walking around in the same jacket as Spiderpunk 24/7, right? He has a couple, and the ones he stops wearing, he donates. He usually starts a new one when the last is too cover in patches to continue.

The Anne Ark changes colors.

Diane throws rager after-parties on Anne Ark after the band's shows. She has her own apartment she loves to death, and doesn't sleep over often - maybe staying a weekend or two a month, or crashing after a party. In turn, Hobie hardly ever sleeps at hers. Mainly because her place is merticulously pink, and she says he messes up her throw pillows. He disagrees with the idea of unusable pillows. And with her own crib and bed a portal jump away, they don't feel the need to bunk together. Non-conventional relationship and all that. [Insert scene of Barbie being like 'why would you wanna stay over?? :) This is MY dreamhouse lol <3 ]

________________________________________

So uhhhhh, that's his living room.

I tried to get it as genuinely close how it looks in me paracosm (i JUST learned that word), based on how Diane sees it. All of this is based off of headcanon and I see it when I'm in the space.

Some things may be left out for sake of space and simplicity - but this is mainly it - as accurately as I could reasonably get it.

If you read this far, THANK YOU - I really appreciate it and it genuinely means a lot! As usual, you will take this photo of Hobie, and pretend this is normal behavior.

Bye.

[sturniolotrip-samandcolby-lover]

Chris sturniolo -focus

Pairing -domChris x British reader fem

Summary -When you decide to show your boyfriend you favourite British show , he gets bored and decides to test how good you can focus .

Warnings - smut , swearing , fingering, unprotected sex, p x v intercourse , slightly Dom Chris ,Dirty talking ,bulge kink , cream pie , praising,multiple orgasms.mentions of spanking , mentions of rough sex , mentions of masturbation. Thats all I think let me know guys if I've missed anything.

Author note -use of y/n , first person and not proofread .

Word count -2k

"Chrisss it's starting" I shout to my boyfriend of 1 year , dragging out his name while he leaves his bathroom and makes his way over to the bed."I don't get why you love this show so much ain't it just about people baking" he replies to me as he lifts the thick blue quilt up so he can get into bed , allowing the cold air to hit my side I'm instantly overwhelmed by warmth as Chris lays beside me ."oh no it's so much more then just people baking , it's a competition , it's entertaining and most importantly it's funny when things go wrong" I say with overenthusiastic excitement describing my favourite show ' the great British bake off' ."sounds like it's even more sterotypically British then you are , what are they going to do in the breaks eat fish and chips with the queen" he says with a awful fake British accent laughing "babe the queen is dead" I say shocked by his choice of words "oh shit yeah" he says linking an arm around my waist as i roll onto my side facing the laptop , I feel Chris make himself comfortable behind me spooning me from behind with my back against his chest .I press play on the screen.

The theme song starts to play and I do my basic girl thing ofo doing a happy little dance eating a deep chuckle from Chris ."you and this show I'm starting to think you love it more then you love me" he whispers in my ear giving me a quick kiss onto my neck."hmmm possibly" I say with a smirk on my face winding him up .*wack* "oh really" Chris says smug as he smacks my ass i can almost hear the smirk in his voice.Resulting in a squeal and laugh from me .We watch the first quarter of the show in a comfortable silence as the adverts start I hear a sigh from Chris as his deep breath hits the back of my neck causing me have instant goosebumps.

He shuffles behind me so that his head is higher up then mine , bits of his hair tickling my cheek "you know what" he says with his voice in a deep whisper I can't help but feel butterflies in my stomach ."you look so beautiful right now" he says kissing my forehead .I feel my face get hot as I blush at his compliment " good job it's dark in here or you'd see me looking more red then a embarrassed lobster but thank you , you look beautiful too" I move my head so that I can reach his lips and I meet them with a light kiss , that both Chris and I smile into .We hear the show begin again so we both draw our attention back to it .

*5 minutes later*

We're still silent as we continue to watch the show when I feel Chris hand move under the waistband of the grey joggers of his that Im wearing, I try to focus on his laptop but the feeling of Chris's rough hands against the peachy flesh of my ass is slightly distracting."hmmm you're so warm mama" Chris talks into my ear more to himself then me.He rubs my ass cheek with his hand and I get deja vu from last time his hand rubbed my ass was last week when he caught me touching myself, Chris decided to teach me a lesson by spanking me and rubbing my ass to sooth me ."I must be that hot " I joke to him pretending to flick my hair , earning a laugh from him .I feel his hand start to move over my hip and close to my exposed core , causing me to let a small whimper of anticipation earning yet another laugh from chris."what are you doing y/n?" He whispers into my ear so innocently as if he doesn't know what he's doing .I keep my mouth shut knowing that the next noise that falls out of my mouth would be a moan ."answer me baby girl" chris says in a demanding tone ."trying to focus" i say through a breath to him ."shall we see how good you can focus mama" he says seductively "what do you me-" im cut off when his hand lands on my pussy with a quick smack."keep focusing on the laptop baby girl and you can cum and if you dont well take a wild guess who isn't coming tonight" He says to me finishing his sentence with another wack to my pussy , I nod my head signaling to chris that i understand."good girl" i hear him say as his fingers move up and down my slit getting coated in my juices ."so wet for me already and ive barely touched you" chris says causing a moan to fall out of my mouth .

"Please Chris , please" I say between breathless moans ."awe what is it baby" he says to me in a mocking tone "please just so something" I respond "well since you asked so nicely" he says in the same mocking tone as his fingers find my clit rubbing in quick circles I throw my head back against his shoulder as the instant ecstacy builds with every move of Chris's fingers "remember focus baby else you're not cumming tonight" he reminds me as my legs start to quiver around his hand."fuck..." I moan out closing my eyes thankfully that Chris was still behind me else he would of reminded me again to focus ."you're so good Chris" I squeal out "look at you already on the brink of cumming and I've not even went inside of you yet" I hear Chris say , sounding distant as I feel my release coming fast "please Chris please I need to cum I'm gonna cum" I say throw pants and moans ."go on baby be a good girl and cum" he says into my ear as his fingers move faster then they was previous as I feel my release overwhelm my body as I'm left a shaking , moaning mess while Chris continues rubbing my clit as he helps me ride through my orgasm ."so good mama , you look so pretty when you cum" he says as he pauses his movements "you're so pretty you're going to do it again " he continues all the attempt of focus has gone out the window as one of Chris's arms reach over me slamming the laptop shop his fingers that are still rest on my clit dives straight into my pussy as he pushes one into earning a instant moan " so tight baby even after I've already made you cum once you're tight" he says to himself more then me as he pushes a second finger in , plowing me he starts of deep and slow as his pace speeds up .The sound of my pussy wetness filling the room , Chris's fingers move so fast and so deep I can hear him talk to me but no words make sense I can't even place words myself I just have moans and whispers falling from my mouth as my second orgasm of the night builds up faster then the first one did ."so wet baby I can feel you clenching around me , do you wanna cum girl" he asks me hypothetically "yes god yes please Chris can I cum" the words leave my mouth in a embarrassing whining sound.Chris uses his spare hand to spread my shaking thighs as they try to close around his fingers , "gotta stretch you out ready to take my cock" I hear him says as he places a third finger into my wet pussy .He fingers go deeper and faster curling to touch my gspot as i throw my head back again as swear words, moans and Chris's name repeatedly falls out of my mouth as i cum for the second time tonight .Again he doesn't stop his actions until my body goes limp against his .He pulls his fingers out of me as i hear him sucking my juices off , i move around in his arm so i could face him when im greeted with his lust filled blue eyes staring into my dazed ones as he sucks his fingers clean of my juices .

"You good baby girl" he asks me I nod my head in agreement to him ."good cus you're gonna do it one more time " he says as he rolls me over already taking my jogging bottoms off."Chris I don't know if I can" I say tiredly to him "you can baby just one more time , cum around my cock let me fill you up mama " he whisper to me grabbing my chin so he can move my head so that I look at him ."okay" I say to him "I wanna watch you cum again" he says as he holds me legs up and open and rest the head of his dick at my entrance before he thrusts in stretching me perfectly, we both let out moans , with our mouths open and staring into each others eyes. He starts thrusting into , fucking me mercilessly .I feel his cock go deeper inside of me I move my hand over to my stomach when I feel a bulge it's Chris dick he's so deep inside of me that he's actually made a bulge in me ."feel this" I say to him between moans as I grab Chris's hand and move it over to where he dick is making itself well known in me."fuck im so deep in you" he said still holding my face so our mouths are touching as we speak were that close .

Chris never slack in his movement as he continues to thrust into me at a inhumane speed , I'm left almost screaming against his mouth showing the Chris that I'm near my release."you're shaking baby" Chris states with a smirk as his hand that is still holding my leg up reaches further up and rubs my already over sensitive clit fast and nearly coming " keep your eyes on me baby , I wanna see your pretty face when you cum on my cock" he says and that's all that it takes for me to release myself over him "good girl such a good girl" he says to me as he helps me ride out my final orgasm ."please Chris" I say to him as my body is exhausted after my orgasms Chris shows no mercy and continues to fuck me relentlessly "what baby" he says in the same mocking tone from earlier "cum Chris please fill me up I want to feel your load" those last few dirty words are all that is needed as its chris time to moan into my mouth as i feel his long hot strings of cum coat my walls .He stills and pulls out of me leaving us both a panting mess as he kisses my now sweaty forehead "im so proud baby , you took me so well".are the last words i hear chris say before i fall asleep with my head against his chest .