#Honey and a plate of plain ones
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Photos from tonight’s little mini post Rosh Hashanah / Shabbat charcuterie! Not pictured: blackberry semi tart hard cider I wound up using for the “wine”
#kazoo noises#conversion tag#Judaism tag#tw food#a bowl of grapes a bowl of some pomegranate seeds a bowl of cubed cheese (sharp white cheddar and Gouda) and a plate of apple slices with#Honey and a plate of plain ones#And the candles for dessert (jokes)#I also wanted to include the pomegranate carnage lmao
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hi pookie can I get an mcyt with reader that bakes?? Like they'll just come in on stream and give mcyts a fucking platter of baked goods lol
-🎀 anon
oooo yes omg!! thank you 🎀 anon! <3 got the whole gang in here for this one LOL
MCYT ; "in my baker era"
includes ; tommyinnit, ranboo, badlinu, nihachu, quackity, foolish gamers, slimecicle, & cellbit
warnings ; language, mentions of drugs
masterlist
TOMMYINNIT
"Hi y/n- oh, thank you, darling!'
literally has the widest smile on his face
shows off the goods to the stream
"do these have any drugs in them? me n charlie are trying to sell drugs, y/n. we need more stock"
you hear charlie screaming through tommys headphones, "we need the grain, y/n! we need THE GRAIN"
bro is munching away on those cookies holy shit
he feeds chat as well dw
RANBOO
"Hey babe! Oh, thank you!"
does a whole 360 of the plate for chat 💀💀💀💀
"Oh my God, these are so fucking good"
"guys, y/ns in their baking era. can you write an album about that? please become Taylor swift for us"
"BAHHAHAHAH"
literally takes a picture as per usual and posts it to Twitter LMAO
he gets some fans to send you recipes you should try for a serious baking stream LMAO
BADLINU
"Hey love- oh, hi!"
all smiles and shit, he swears you have a sixth sense to know when people are hungry
"guys, y/n made me some bisexuality cake!" He giggles, showing off the tri-colored cake on the plate
he was making a video with harry, tubbo & tommy so everyone had their facecams on
it was like a three tier cake you made and cut out a slice for him
the inside was just the bi flag and the outside was plain white with some fun icing piper testing
he tries it and it's SO MOIST AND SOFT IT IS PERFECT.
there's just 5 raw minutes of him telling you how amazing this fucking cake is LMAO
QUACKITY
"Hey, I'm streaming ba- ohmyfuckinggodthankyou!!"
does a 360 of the plate for the camera
"Holy shit these look so fucking good, thank you so much, y/n"
he's literally just streaming on the qsmp with roeir and fit and he like games and eats the damn cookies at the same time LMFAO
"Dude I feel like I'm high, these are so good, what's in this shit?"
"cocaine"
"WHAT!? DID YOU JUST DRUG ME? GUYS, MY PARTNER DRUGGED ME, HELP"
you're just playing into the bit dw
best red velvet cookies he's ever eaten
CELLBIT
"Hey darling, what's up?"
you hand him the little strawberry shortcake and he just looks at you like 😍😍
turns to his stream and shoves the plate up to the camera all happy like "Oh my God look what they made for me!"
he eats the entirety of it on stream and asks you a bunch of questions
like how you made it, where you found the recipe, etc
he shares it with you too 💔🫶
NIHACHU
"Hi honey! Ooo, what's this called?"
"Chocolate mousse. it's a little thick because it's my first time making it but let me know if it's good"
she holds that little glass like it's her child
she tries it with a tiny spoon you gave her and she's like "oh my God this is amazing, y/n/n"
shows it off to the friends she's streaming with too
"send them more recipes guys, I wanna be spoiled with sweets!"
"thank you nikis viewers!! love you all"
FOOLISH GAMERS
when I tell you this man's face LIGHTS UP.
"you made me fudge? oh my God! I love you"
literally spends the next 15 minutes talking to you and gobbling the fudge down
"since when do you make fudge??"
"since I wanted to try" you shrug
"you should totally make some more... when you're not busy and if you want to!"
"Thank you y/n! everyone say thank you!"
SLIMECICLE
"Oh, hi y/n! thank you so much"
does a 360 for stream
"when did you find time to make this? I thought you were at work????"
"special treat" you shrug
you watch him run across the qsmp and go to ems bakery to sit inside and eat it 😭
he keeps you on stream for a while cause chat loves you n stuff 🫶🫶
#lowkeyrobin#mcyt preferences#mcyt x reader#mcyt oneshot#tommyinnit x reader#quackity x reader#ranboo x reader#badlinu x reader#nihachu x reader#cellbit x reader#foolish gamers x reader#gn reader#gender neutral reader#charlie slimecicle x reader#slimecicle x reader#niki nihachu x reader#freddie badlinu x reader#🎀 anon
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After watching the Hot Ones interview I have a headcannon that Logan (hasn't tried it yet) CANNOT handle spicy food 💗😭 Ororo and the reader make some dinner for the whole gang at the mansion and Logan is going pink and seeing spots lmao "bub i can't feel my lips" sjdjjfkdks and rogue is fanning him as Ororo gets him some icecream 😭
Oh poor logan 😅. I wrote this as soon as I saw it ngl I just really loved it and had alot of motivation for writing lol I hope you like it <3 request are still open as always And let me know if you'd like to be tagged! There's no warning just fluff! Please like, comment and reblog if you do enjoy my work, it means the world when you do this!
Ororo was excited to try this new recipe and was even more excited for everyone to try it once it was finished. She asked you to help with getting everything ready for the night, and you were excited to help in any way that you could. A few hours went by, and once everything was ready and everyone was gathered around the table, it was finally time to try the food!
Everything was going fine. The food was actually really good, a bit spicy, but nothing awful. You were sitting across from Logan at the table and felt him tap your leg with his foot from under the table like he usually does when he wants your attention during these family dinners. You looked up and gasped. "Logan?!" Everyone looked over to see what was going on, and they gasped as well.
Logan had gone pink, was close to going bright red right in front of you, and he looked as if he was sweating. "Bub... I can't feel my lips." Rogue leaped from her seat and started fanning him. You got up and rushed to get him a cool rag to put on his neck. "Don't get up! I don't want you to pass out Lo, " you yell from the hall. As you were gone, Ororo noticed that Logan was blinking rapidly as if he was trying not to pass out.
Ororo got up and took the plate away from him before replaced it with a bowl of ice cream. "Eat this instead, I'm changing that beer for some milk."
You came back and placed the rag on his neck softly and started to help him eat the plain vanilla ice cream since he seemed to be shaking. "Honey, why didn't you tell me you can't handle spice?" you asked, and Logan nearly whimpered. "I didn't think it'd be this bad." He took small bites and rested against you as he ate.
Scott started laughing, and Rogue stopped the fanning, ready to yell at him for Logan if he needed her to. He let her because he did not have the energy to handle Scott for the time being. Logan closed his eyes and continued eating his ice cream as he tuned out Rogue yelling at Scott for laughing at his pain.
Who knew spice would be what took out the wolverine?
Taglist: @usergeta
@mahi-tamashi
@100percentlazybonez
@lanassmarty
@western-pyro
@misscrissfemmefatale
@marit332
#the wolverine#wolverpool#logan wolverine#wolverine imagine#wolverine x reader#deadpool and wolverine#deadpool#logan x reader#logan howlett imagine#logan howlett#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett headcanon#james logan howlett#james howlett#hugh jackman imagines#hugh jackman x reader#hugh jackman#logan x fem reader#logan imagine#logan howlett fluff#logan howlett fanfiction#wolverine#logan james howlett#xmen#xmen fluff#xmen imagine#marvel imagine#marvel fluff
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CASTLES CRUMBLING.
Memories of you are both cathartic and painful when he visits your grave.
ft. Kaedehara Kazuha, Xiao, Scaramouche/Wanderer, Lyney, Neuvillette x gn! reader.
cw/genre: angst.
if you enjoy this, reblogs and comments help more than likes !
✧ KAEDEHARA KAZUHA
Autumn. The time of year that brought warm memories to the wandering samurai despite its chilly winds.
Shades of scarlet coated Inazuma’s grassy plains, like a rain constituted by droplets of dawn light when the maple leaves swayed to the ground.
And amidst this scene, you.
You, who danced to the tune of the foliage floating in the breeze; you, who snuggled his red scarf closer around your neck when he wrapped it around you, taking in his sweet cinnamon-like scent; you, whose hand used to fit perfectly in his, as you ran your thumb over the scarred skin under his bandages.
Kazuha finds himself staring at those now. He remembers all too well how you used to wrap them around his hand. Your lips brushed over every indentation in his burnt skin, overwriting storms with sunlight and blue skies.
“All healed now.” You sing-sang, the tenderness of your kiss over the wrapped scars.
It feels empty now, his grasp, still searching for you every morning, but you’re out of reach.
Even now, as the wandering poet’s head rests against you, he can’t quite feel your touch.
“Hello, my dove.” He begins, fingers brushing over the dendrobiums surrounding you. Moondust lashes kiss his cheeks when the sunsets in his stare cloud over, the image of your smiling face behind his lids. “It’s already autumn, remember how you called it our season, my angel?” He softly says, turning his head slightly, so that his forehead partially leans on you. “The leaves are turning red already, I’ve picked some for you.” Kazuha utters, as he gently threads them around the stone.
Hard. Cold. So unlike the warmth you radiated. He sighs, opening his eyes, tender hearths to warm your paralyzed heart.
“I’ve been writing too…” Dampness pools around his lashes. “Haikus, poems, because I know you love them, hummingbird…” The samurai’s voice cracks, vision blurry, as he traces the letters of the name he used to breathe in between kisses.
Your name. The only one that will forever echo through his sweetest dreams, double edged now.
Droplets of molten moonlight slide down Kazuha’s cheeks, colliding with the earth separating you from the world.
“We will meet again, my dove.” He vows, kneeling on the grass, moist by his tears. “In some corner of the next life. I promise, love.”
As he stands up, retracing his steps, the wind picks up.
Kazuha clutches his red scarf closer to him.
Your scent still lingers.
✧ XIAO
Spring had never felt so cold.
The sun over Liyue’s mountains is too dull; the glaze lilies appear closed off; the days feel too long.
The conqueror of demons makes his way through Guili Plains, his steps slow, as if that would keep away a cruel reality that’s set in stone.
He’s coming to meet you, and yet he’s never felt so far away from you.
In the few steps that separate the yaksha from you, an infinity of memories and bittersweet dreams seem to wash over him. They mingle with the scent of morning dew over qingxins bloomed anew.
Qingxin. What he used to call you.
“Xiaooo!” You cooed, a smile sweeter than the treat you offered him alight on your lips. “Dessert’s ready, love.” You called, offering him the plate of delicious almond tofu.
It was always his favorite, especially the one made by you.
His cheeks took on a tint not unlike the lipstick marks you left on him when you felt like teasing him, peppering his face with your honeyed kisses. You always used to chuckle at the sight.
“Qingxin…” his voice quivered, in awe, gaze of gold widened, sparkly. “There is no need for you to go through this trouble for me…”
“Nonsense!” You cut him off, hands cradling his cheeks. “I love making your favorite food for you, baby.”
Now he brings one of his own scarred hands to his face.
It’s so cold in comparison to your comforting warmth.
Yet even colder is the grey hue of the heavy stone that comes into view: the one marking the spot where you were laid to rest for good.
Slowly, resigned to the inevitability of reality, the vigilant yaksha reaches you.
Even though he knows he will no longer have you.
Xiao’s whole form trembles when he leaves the handmade butterfly over your gravestone. Its petal wings are all crooked, his grip vice-like in his anguish.
Now the flower-made insect will never fly again. A crystal bubble, lit up on his darkest nights, inside which dreams warm and sweet were recounted, as long as the adeptus stayed in your embrace; now shattered, only sharp fragments left to pierce his heart.
“I’m sorry…” is all the demon conqueror can manage as greeting, the moment he sits before you, head hung low.
The karma he bears had never crushed him this badly.
✧ SCARAMOUCHE
Winter squalls leave nothing but ashes behind.
The layers of snow have started melting, decrepit twigs following, the aftermath of a furious gale, death in its wake.
The wanderer seems to verse in the bony hands of it often, after all. This life, this world… they only ever took from him, shattered mirrors as the only remains of promises to never come.
He rests the back of his head on the frigid stone. He doesn’t care about the last remains of snow seeping into his very crafted bones.
Scaramouche’s hand closes into a fist, dirt and melted ice on his skin.
“They took you away too…” The puppet breathes, inexistent puffs of his words sifting against the blackened skies in the cold. His indigo gaze is clouded over, despite stars littering every corner of the midnight above.
A lie.
Make believe. Like thinking he could be happy for once.
Turning around, Scaramouche presses his forehead against what’s left to symbolize you.
“Why?” He asks, teeth gritted, to stop the helpless quiver of his lip. “Why you too?”
The softness of your human embrace takes ahold of his memories, as you both lay beneath the endless firmament above.
“Have you ever wished upon a star, Kuni?” You asked, your warm fingers combing through the distant nights contained in his shiny locks.
“Pft, are you serious?” He used to retort, the mirrored galaxies of his stare coming into view as his eyelids opened.
“Very.” You stated, without stopping your movements, eyes never leaving the starfields above.
“Why?” He asked, focused on your profile, as if a part of him knew how ephemeral instants like this would become, committing to memory the only constellation that lit up his hollow heart.
“Because it’s nice, to hope, to believe in things… wouldn’t you agree?” You smiled down at him, tender hands cradling the coolness of his jawline.
“Huh, if you say so…”
“You know I’m right!” You chuckled, poking his cheek playfully, his nose scrunching up in feigned annoyance.
“Ugh, whatever.”
“Make a wish?” Your fingers found his in the night breeze, entwining together, the warmth of a small sun just for him.
“Fine…” He sighed, closing his eyes, lashes of concealed dreams leaning on his perfect cheekbones.
“I wished for forever with you.” He croaks out now.
An almost god brought to his knees by the treacherous fate written in devious stars.
His vision blurs, headed skyward, the universe above, a multitude of molten wildfires to him, raining down in flammable rain, his own tears the match to ignite them.
The failed god weeps. Winter burns.
✧ LYNEY
“You never know what can happen in the blink of an eye.”
Those were the words the magician once uttered, as your eyes lit up in wonder. He believes to recall it was a summer night, when his dusky gaze set on you for the first time.
Beaming and shining with excitement, you marveled at his sleight of hand, as the lumidouce bell on the performer’s hand vanished, only for its petals to have tinted in rosy shades of rainbow when the bloom next appeared in your hair.
If anyone had told Lyney, in that moment, that you’d end up putting his heart under spell, he wouldn’t have quite believed it.
But thinking back on it now, the time spent next to you certainly feels like mere seconds.
A peculiar figure sporting a top hat makes his way towards Fontaine’s graveyard.
His steps are monotone, the usual cheshire-like grin on his visage is nowhere to be seen, and in his hands, flowers abound.
Lumidouce bells.
The color of goodbyes, separations.
And the summer nights under which he used to kiss you.
“Please, Lyney! I want to see another one!” You begged, hands clasped together, eyes reflecting the last rays of the setting sun.
Your lover hums, his gaze, the backdrop against which the sunsets in your stare sparkled.
“Well, mon coeur,” the magician leaned forward, “I’ll have to charge you for it this time, you know.”
You pouted, marcotte colored lips irresistibly sweet, a bite of sugary peach in the heat of an early midsummer’s night.
“Close your eyes, my rose.” Lyney breathed, in the little dusk-lit millimeters separating you two.
“Okay.”
Warmth flooded around him the instant his lips enveloped yours, akin to fairy lights in the coziness of a familiar room, fiery arrows that linked two hearts. Your lover’s hands cupped your jawline, spells written in the caress of his gloved touch over your skin.
A new breed of magic, with the sun dipping behind the nation of hydro’s mountains to give the lovers privacy.
When he next opens his eyes, the allure has faded.
No trace of you remains, save for the emptiness and cold beside him.
And the only nightmare he can’t undo; your tombstone all too palpable, too real.
“You really never know how everything can change in the blink of an eye, huh?” Lyney utters, his voice raw, hoarse.
Despite the lumidouce bells’ petals shifting from dusk to dawn the moment he lays them to rest over you, the magician feels like he’s shooting arrows made of shadows; there’s no fiery beacon to light up this night.
The curtain closes when he steps away, rainbow roses bleeding and lonely in his wake.
The sun has set.
✧ NEUVILLETTE
Off-key birdsong and steely skies.
Those are Fontaine’s Chief Justice’s companions today.
Alone, he sits next to the ghost of someone he used to adore.
Someone he still loves.
Crystalline amethyst eyes scan the horizon. Even the seas seem turbulent today, relentless waves colliding against jutting rocks, as if by persistence alone they could cut through them.
The wailing ocean mirrors Neuvillette’s actions; as if by staring in the distance, he could somehow conjure you up back into the world, on forgotten dreams and pieces of flashbacks alone.
“It looks like it will rain soon, my dearest.” He softly says, the words lost in the monsoon overcasting the heavens.
Naturally, no answer follows, except for the agonized cry of a fallen sparrow.
The Iudex of Fontaine sighs. An upheaval in the blowing mistral combs through his hair, the sensation unlocking the pages of a diary once rose-colored, now only scattered petals over a lake that’s gone still for good.
“Isn’t the weather so nice lately, Neuvi?” You chirped, knees folded over the azure flowerbeds. Your hands were carded through your lover’s long locks, silver seafoam running almost hypnotizingly between your fingers.
Sunbeams glittered all around you when his eyes opened up to you, enigmas from the depths being laid bare for you alone.
“It is, darling…” He trailed off, one of his hands touching the side of your face, eliciting giggles from you.
Pink dusted over the pallor of his cheeks whenever you did that.
If only all days could be sunny, if only he could have kept the symphony of your laugh forever playing…
The sea’s surface turns charcoal, undulating with the low whistling of uprising gales.
Dark spots start appearing over the stone where your name’s been eternally put to sleep.
Beneath the blindfold, Justice mourns.
It’s raining again.
#astronetwrk#genshin impact x reader#genshin x reader#genshin impact imagines#genshin impact x you#neuvillette x reader#lyney x reader#scaramouche x reader#wanderer x reader#kazuha x reader#kaedehara kazuha x reader#xiao x reader#genshin impact angst#neuvillette angst#lyney angst#scaramouche angst#wanderer angst#kazuha angst#xiao angst#genshin impact#genshin impact fanfics#genshin impact x y/n#neuvillette x you#lyney x you#scaramouche x you#kazuha x you#wanderer x you#xiao x you#genshin imagines#genshin angst
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DESIGNATED DRIVER
—oldman!Logan x namelessfem!OC
SYNOPSIS: “Hey driver!” Tits, yeah—counts two of 'em. What Logan can't quite shake isn't the drunk-off-her ass's $20,000 tit job, or even the way his passengers embarrass themselves with shameless come-ons, stupid amounts of money. something else, entirely—a pretty little thing all done up in makeup and curls, wishing she were anywhere but third-wheeling a drunk hen party. "Sorry about my friend, she's—" "Didn't even notice her, honey."
warnings: this is so offensively long, I'm SORRY. flirting, drunkenness, flashing, maybe some oldman!logan inappropriate thoughts, maybe a kiss, general shyness/awkardness of that girl, language, not proofread, mentions of oral sex, OC has blue eyes.
a/n: and finally, after many weeks, it's here. not entirely sure how i feel about this, it's very self indulgent. let me know what you think, and maybe there needs to be a part two?
There’s a lot of things about this fucking limo that Logan hates.
For one, you couldn’t ask for a shittier lease agreement, and if such a hellish thing dared to exist, Satan holds the pink slip. Two years ago it had seemed like a good fucking idea, leasing some long black experimental piece of Chrysler shit that was heavy off the line and a low fatass—hot as fuck though, with chrome plated lugs. Midnight metal flake showed every piece of God’s earth, the color of sin. Washed the fucker every other day. Couldn’t make green with a dirty rig, and he was an anal retentive sonuvabitch like that to begin with. And the interior, fuck that, it would tell secrets it showed every damn piece of filth that fell into it. Paid or otherwise.
This shitpiece had a tendency to run hot and burn crude, but, she got the groceries—brought home bacon, if that was even still a thing in this century. Toss up between this and the Navigator the color of bad ideas, he’d flipped for the Chrysler. Industry standard, turned heads, attracted the upper echelon. No intention of hauling around fucktards into the suburbs—black paint looked good under Vegas neon on the strip.
But the biggest fucking thing he hated about this rig— fucking privacy partition. Busted worse than a fat lip and had been since the jump. Any serious driver, that would’ve been the first thing to check. Separate him from the sin—hot piece of ass that slid into the backseat looking at him like he’s dinner, a couple too deep in on the red to think straight, the fucker on business hiding his wedding ring in his dick pocket as he picks up an STD.
The first God-awful time he’d went to use it, the damn thing had all but stood up and shrieked in his ear. Grinding gears, the knock of a seized electric motor—scared the shit out of the handsy blonde who’d been trying to get his dick wet since the moment she’d dropped into the back of the Chrysler, tits all but popping from what looked like at least a size too small black—thing. Hadn’t been a dress, he’d seen plenty of them slide in and out—she’d made a spectacle of showing off the little lace number squirreled away for the right price. And it wasn’t that he’d been preening for a look, wasn’t his style—but when it’s right there. Plain as the nose on anyone’s face, and he’s been chaste as a priest for fucking years. It taking up all the glass of his rearview, looking like a felony—the devil had all but welded his attention between her legs.
”Looks like you’re stuck with me, hm?”
Fucking partition. A business-only kiss landed two hundred green ones between his abs and the elastic of his Calvins. A handful of hours of rack and many shotglasses later had put him on the scent to hell, the damn dealership. Four hours from the border, four hours from any kind of work—he’d all but flown the thing into the service bay. Demanded a new partition. And, Logan had been laughed out of a lot of places the last two centuries he’d been sucking air—laughed, jeered, driven out with pitchforks. Circumstances aside, it all ended the same. Vamoose, pissed off his rocker.
An astronomical estimate later, with the fucked-in-the-rear-end isn’t covered by warranty—his fist had collided with the service writer’s nose faster than his patience had evaporated for the blonde. All but jammed the prick’s deviated septum up into his brainspace—Logan had felt it between his knuckles. Only thing keeping his patience held together, keeping the claws in, the man’s crunching cartilage had given him a high not much removed from amphetamine—it had felt good. Feel some asshat’s blood on his hands, staining his skin. See it hit the floor in fat, thick drops. Feel the warmth of it fade as he brushed it away, coppery scent an idea beneath his nose so familiar it may as well pay rent.
Didn’t get his partition, though. Just a bad taste of customer service and the satisfaction of seeing a grown man cry.
Logan isn’t a man to complain—never did change the cards dealt you at the gametable of living. Better to shut up and play, make due with what you’ve got than wish away opportunities. Sure, an almost-lemon of a leased Chrysler with a busted partition wasn’t great, but, it wasn’t that long ago that he’d have given his right nut for the chance to work, much less actual green. Put up and shut up had been the mantra since he’d all but popped out of his mother, and it had, for all intents and purposes, kept him this side of the dirt. Sucking air and feeling, if nothing more—and what was surviving, if not sucking air and feeling?
Doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.
Music that’s been muffled most of the ride tonight suddenly isn’t, the back door of the rig flinging open, a wide arch, revealing the world beyond. Neon bleeds across the black leather of his interior. A smack of humidity rushes in, almost immediately fogs the passenger windows— he keeps it ass-in-winter cold, A/C all but screaming full bore. Likes it that way, keeps him awake. Keeps them awake, he isn’t hauling anyone’s ass anywhere because they fell asleep in his seats.
And while he isn’t startled—there isn’t fucking anything that could scare him, he doesn’t think—Logan’s spine pulls into a straight line against his seat at the sliver of night outside the door. Alarm bells sound off in the back of his head, eyes narrowed on the rearview—hand all but lava, hovering over the gearshift. He’s been here before, on the jump. Ready to rock and roll, ready to kill—should killing need be. He’s lived two centuries on this edge, this cliff. Walking the line between reflex and ready. It’s almost carved into his skin, alarm—comes as naturally as the crest and fall of his chest.
Logan relaxes a little when a peek of skin slips hurriedly into the back seat, familiar stiletto heels. Air in the limo immediately snaps to an all-soldier attention, flustering—like a disturbed hen rustling her chicks. Something isn’t right, isn’t stable—nuclear, almost. Dangerous. The car shifts a little with incoming weight as one of the night’s passengers whisks into the back. Curl and makeup and the familiar whiff of peaches escorts her in as she pulls the door closed, all too quickly for this to be a normal, unbothered arrival.
Her. Muscle in his jaw ticks off, it takes willpower not to wriggle in the front seat, shift his weight a little. Usually it helped shake off the hot weight of sex rolling around the base of his gut, desire. Carnal things he’d learned to live without, suppress. Animalistic and snapping at his spine like frothing wolves. Most times, it was easy to not notice—girls, women, came and went in their short dresses and makeup. Pretty to see, but venomous little things. Maneaters, trouble on stilts. None of them were pretty–pretty in the way that mattered, pretty souls. Ugliness shot behind their eyes like bullets, low and cold. Dimes and dozens, nameless and unnoteworthy as they slipped him tips, batted their lashes, kissed him like he was their plaything because who’s he to fight a pair of tits? Forgettable is understating it.
But her? He hasn’t been able to unglue her piercing eyes from his brain matter. And, he’s tried—like it or not, he’s tried bailing water out of this canoe, a canoe that’s been hallowed and empty for God knew how long. But it’s like emptying water back into the ocean—it only comes back, heavier and heavier.
No dice. Close, but no cigar–unlucky bastard.
She’d slipped into the limo before the night had even been an idea, one of three who’d decided to split fare for a sober ride. Pharmacy, first, for little more than IVs of electrolytes and fluids—never had seen girls guzzle so fast, but, whatever. Mile-a-minute chatter he hadn’t even bothered to pace had kept them busy most of the ride into the metroplex, and Logan should’ve prayed they’d ignored him. Kept his fat trap shut and just let them guide him, but God, no. He’d asked—asked for directions. Where they were going.
Had asked, and fuck him, that had sent things off with a bang. As if they hadn’t realized he’d been there, all three of them had locked eyes with him in the rearview, surprised thrown over the air like a stifling blanket. Heartbeats later, awkward and thick, one of them had leaned forward. Arms over the seat, showing off everything God had given her as she’d all but pumped her bedazzled phone in his face as if it were a shotgun.
He’d clocked her noticing he wasn’t wearing a ring. Was jacked as fuck under an two-undone button shirt and jacket that fit him like sin. Deliberate choice, but–she’d all but started drooling right there on his lap, hungry like a starving man at banquet.
Asking God for some shred of mercy had done little—the look on her face. He’d never forget it, had seen enemies look at him with more mirth and pity. Shit. Hungry, in the eyes. Desperate, like a dying woman choking on her own libidol. After rattling off the address, it would've been faster if he’d just hit the brakes and sent her flying forward through the window. Skulking back into her seat as if it were an X-rated shot, she’d eye fucked him hard until she’d been dragged back into hushed, schoolgirl conversation. Gross.
And that was it, the beginning of the end. Eyes glued to the back of his head like some kind of anchor—Logan could’ve tasted them from here. Was hell trying not to make eye contact in the rearview, feeling their gaze hunting him like wild banshees. Spiking adrenaline, heady plumes of pheromones. Arousal, unlike anything he’d ever wanted to scent—stunk up the air like God knew. Half-starved vixens, all low and bedroom eyes, begging for trouble in all the right little ways that leave men slobbering fools. Had they been parked and out of the Chrysler, the two of them would’ve been on their knees, if not on his cock.
He’d blasted the air again, because the air in the damn car was so thick he would’ve cut it in halves.
Low lashes, smoky eyes. Lips the color of cherries. Tight black dresses and heels higher than heaven, they’d been dressed to kill—maybe a little less. Lobotomize, maybe. Cut out hearts, certainly—blue ball, absolutely.
Pity the bastard who gets the taste of these tarts, pity, and probably mercy.
Bachelorettes, he’d guessed off the gun. Correctly, too—not two blocks from CVS and out came cheap accessories. FUCK ME may as well have been written in lipstick on Stuck-In-the-Middle’s forehead, he assumed she was the future betrothed. By the look of her, much less the smell, she’d been aching for tonight. Primed and desperate, like an oil-starved pistol. Clawing for it, walking the heat of the desert for change. Something else, something new, something dangerous—cock. Dick. Be it Tom, Harry, or some other poor fool—Logan could clock it from anywhere. She’d been sitting on this for a hot minute. Maybe since she’d been born.
And Logan’s uncertain who to pity more—her or the mediocre cock she’s about prowling for—the lopsided tiara, tacky dimestore BRIDE sash out of a CVS bag were just warning signs. Red flags, if you were smart about it. Darkness in her eyes would make any man second guess the two carats on her finger, if men weren’t animals. And they were, every one of them—and she’s far too drop-dead to not demand attention, to not homewreck and ruin some poor, unsuspecting fool’s evening.
Watching her slip those two carats into her handbag, he’d just shook his head.
Silence to stir the dead had followed after they’d eye fucked him into celibacy. Blissful, sweet as the Nile quiet. A creak of movement, the slip of skin on leather—her. Short brunette curls with highlights, icy blues. Defined collarbones in a hardly-strapped dress, big earrings. Sparkles, everywhere, blended into makeup that’s been on awhile but still looks good. And she, she isn’t like the rest—not by a mile. How she moves, the way her lashes flutter. Doe-eyed and sweet. Doesn’t smell like sin, the kiss of color on her cheeks isn’t blush, either.
Peaches, this one smells like fucking peaches. Something floral.
She’s sweet. Saccharine, sugary. Like everything Logan’s forgotten. Pretty, in that girl-next-door kinda way—the way he’s always noticed, the way nobody else ever does. And what a pretty thing like her is doing in the back of his sinwagon, riding with Jezebels, hunting for trouble—he’ll never know.
Hours before this, she’d leaned forward, pretty hands on the back of his seat. Done up nails that looked fake, but not cheap. This close, he could see her contact lenses replacing nine-to-five frames, the permanent little indentations on her nose were unmissable. Ocean eyes smiled at him through the glass of his rearview, as if it were a game. Good at it, she won—he blinked first.
Offered him a little half smile, that dust of color on her nose darkening to an almost strawberry. When his eyes hit hers again from the road, icy blues ramped up like pulsing neon, unlike any he’d ever seen in two fucking centuries. Difficult to think, he’d had to realize he was holding his breath in the pocket of his cheek, hot against his molars. She’d reached across the back of the seat to gently nudge him with her elbow—hey. It should’ve sounded like something you gave to horses, but it was—considerate.
Nearly fucking polite.
You got the address okay, sir? If his tongue hadn’t swollen to the size of his balls he’d have dared to laugh at her. Sir. If he thinks hard, Logan can’t remember the last time he’d been seriously called sir, from a place of consideration, behind the ribs. He’s been alive for hundreds of years, seen a lot of shit and blood, but has been called a professional and crisp sir all but five times in his existence on God’s planet.
Shaking himself out of it, he tells himself she isn’t the first pretty skirt to grace the leathers of his Chrysler. To look pretty and smell good, to stir up his cold blood. Wouldn’t be the last, by far. Part of his marketing was that he was safe. Stuck around, even when the witching hour faded into bleeding colors of morning. Fair & There, as if he were a fucking marketing guru.
She’d slipped out of the limo with her friends even though he’d wanted her to stay. Wanted to smell her and look at her all night, mull over all the things in his life he’d abandoned. Think about how, maybe, in some other world, bend of time, something that sweet could belong to him. But, she’d thanked him. Obviously the designated sober of the night, she’d arranged to text fifteen minutes before they wanted to leave in case he wanted to get a drink or took another gig.
I’ll be here all night, and that wasn’t a lie. The flask burning a hole against his heart had enough whiskey to last him until morning, another bottle tucked under the seat for safekeeping. He was safe, he was there, and too damn tired to even try to think about driving around the city on a time schedule.
It’d been two hours, parked under the neon at the curb. Not even midnight. Normal clients would just be breaking stride, setting paces. At the gate, snorting like stallions in heat. Rutting like animals, working the game. Nothing he didn’t know all too well, he’d lived his wild years a lifetime ago—he knew what sex and booze, a good time smelled like. Could clock it every time, wasn’t daft. Had witnessed his fair share of back-alley fucks, the straightening of a hemline. Crooked buttons and tented-out slacks.
Tonight wouldn’t be different, he assumed—well. Had assumed. Which, as the saying went, made him an ass.
Her heartbeat from the frontseat is almost tangible, hard and fast. Jackrabbit—as if she’d dropped it in his hands, bleeding and raw all over his fingers. Logan’s eyes fall away from the rearview for a beat, ticks back to her when she slides across the seat. Straightening the end of her dress, which hits below the knee–or would, if she were upright, but now pulls at her thighs. And the way she fiddles with it suggests it’s shorter than it was earlier in the evening, when sin was exciting and didn’t slap like a bitch.
Tucked in against the opposite door, looking out tinted glass like it’s a skyline worth seeing, not just a lot of nothing. And something’s off, he can feel it in the little pulses of electricity of the air, the heat in her blood. Anger. The tick tick tick of frustrated fingernails on the edge of the window. Upset. It buzzes in her blood, which he can feel thumping against her bones from here. Slick scent of sweat between her thighs, swirls of alcohol and pyrotechnic smoke mixed with fairy dusting drugs. It’s enough to make him shift, crack the window.
Long gone are the peaches and florals, now she just bleeds with heat and virility enough to stir the gods. Fucking perfect.
How long’s it been, old boy? Dull pangs in his cock make him shift up in his seat, stir some blood into his feet. Eyerolls, gaze hitting the pavement out his window, sick fuck. Just a girl, just like the rest. Reaches inside his breast pocket for a cigar and a light.
And as much as he wishes it isn’t true, Logan can’t quite shake that she ain’t just a girl—not by a shot, long or short. He’s seen a thousand of them, sure—seen and tasted and fucked senseless. Yeah. But—none like this. None that make him burn at the drop of a hat and a smile. None that twist his guts like a corkscrew, rip him open like he’s a fresh kill. He didn’t even know her name, anything about her. He swore to God he wasn’t this type of man, couldn’t be bought with some pretty eyes and cherry lipstick. Happened to wet-behind-the-ears boys only ever hoping their balls dropped into manhood, not guys like him. Not men that had seen a thing or two, not men who had sampled the female sex from every fucking era the last two hundred years had presented.
Not men with demons, not men with metal bones and rust spinning through his cells like Satan’s blood. Not him.
But it doesn’t seem to matter, because her presence in the limo upsets his sensibilities like an earthquake. Seemed to fillet him like a fat bass, pull his ribs back to watch his heart beat. Everything he didn’t know, everything she could be—choked the life out of him, those wicked blues heavy as steel. If he weren’t careful, she’d see through him, like—like memories. And she, like everyone else, wouldn’t like what she saw lurking in his bones, in the organ behind his ribs.
All his life hiding who he is, years hiding from everything the world wanted to label him, only to—
Fuck. Yeah. Something’s off—is his leg bouncing? The fuck is that about? Fuck, fuck. His fingers card through his hair, cough aching in his bronchial tubes. Shit.
Another glance in the glass reveals she isn’t even looking at him, thoughts out the window in the shifting low lights of the limo’s interior. Maybe a million miles from here, but nonetheless—she’s everywhere, every damn where in the space of the Chrysler, this sinwagon that’s messing with his head. Everything about her. Her scent, her pheromones playing him like a fucking game, the heat along her spine. Blood in her veins, ripping through her heart, the pull and push of arteries and cardiovascular muscle. Mesh of her lungs, rising and falling. He’s tuned into it like it’s the fucking evening news.
And everything about this is wrong, his guts swim with it.
Fingering the cigar between two swollen knuckles, Logan ignores pain that zings. Rips through the adamantium in his arm like it’s starving, hunting for air. And Logan is maybe considering that he’s lost his mind, that it’s somehow taken up residence in his dick, when—-a sniffle.
Good fuck. Is she crying? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It’s magic, the little breathy thing girls do when they’ve been crying, but don’t want you to flag it. Witchraft, maybe. Men will never understand how they do it, cry without tears, but—it’s a thing. Definitely, confirmed by science somewhere, some egghead in a lab taking notes on female specimens and how they manage such emotion while still looking like she does. Vaguely his memories spin with all the girls he’s known throughout his life, and how every single one of them have this ability hardwired into their core being, mutations aside.
Biting the cigar between his teeth in the corner of his mouth, he flicks the lighter between his thumb and index finger, holding it up in line of sight. His head angles to look up at the rearview, a rough cough rattling the mesh of his lungs enough to trigger her attention. And sure enough, she has been crying—her knuckle gently brushes at the trails of tears all but neon on her face beneath the limo’s lights, eyes flicking to the rearview to meet his.
Coughing, he eases his back against the seat. Hot muscle burns a little as tension bleeds away, “You care if I smoke?”
And why he asks, Logan isn’t sure—he’s never asked before. Then again, he’s never had to ask, because it’s a standing policy to not smoke on a gig. Tonight, though, he needs something to do with his hands, to calm the magma rushing through his blood, the cold sweat bubbling up on the back of his neck. Staining his white fucking shirt. Even a blush from the grave and exhausted, slowly dying away from whatever is inside of him, he isn’t an idle man. If he doesn’t do something, he won’t be able to help himself—he can barely fight back the urge to not lose whatever sanity’s buried alive and get himself off, right here and now.
Anything to masquerade the scent of whatever’s slick between her legs. You are a sick, perverted fuck, Logan. True, probably. But it’s been years, a lot of years. And he hasn’t wanted a lot of women, hasn’t clocked many that he’d actually enjoy rousting up a fantasy over. And she smells like a good time, something he may not actually regret. That would be a first.
Tucking a little tighter against the door, her eyes close as she gently shakes her head. Curls flick around her features as she does, and she cracks her window before reaching forward to slip off both shoes. Logan had noticed them—yellow, bright highlighter yellow so jovial they may as well have smacked him upside his head. So out of place, but they were sexy as hell—he’d always appreciated a well dressed woman, and as impractical as they were, high heels did add a punch of something that made him a little hard in the dick.
“I do, but go ahead,” it’s a little sigh, one he’s all but five-star VIP familiar. “One of us should enjoy ourselves, anyway.”
In zero to none he flicks the lighter to life, burns the edge of the cigar until it’s hot. Thick, it rides his throat perfectly—chases that gut-twisting urge that’s coiled around the base of his spine like a viper. Through his blood it goes, ramping up the rust and poison and years that kill, and he heaves a sigh—falls back a little rougher against the seat. That ache in his cock twitches, but she retreats.
His eyes fall closed, heart settling down behind his bones. “You wouldn’t happen to sell those little bottles of booze in this rig, would you?” Makes him start a little, and Logan blinks. A little surprised, he angles to look over his shoulder at her, arm lifting to drape over the bench seat. Brow raised, she elaborates, obviously reading his expression. “You know, the luxury part of ‘luxury accomodations’?”
“Not a part of the deal, honey.”
“Ah, you don’t like money, then,” the corner of her mouth ticks up with a smirk when he shifts a little more in his seat to study her. He catches what she lays down, without thinking. “And I ain’t anyone’s ‘honey’, so don’t be an ass and assume. Please.” Blinking, Logan can’t remember the last time he felt his stomach actually lift with amusement—the little way she says her ‘o’s’ is dangerous, suggests the north–either Canada. Minnesota, Wisconsin. North Dakota maybe? Anywhere but this far on the border, the edge of the world. Interesting.
Fucking Calliban. Knew he’d regret the hard copy that albino had suggested, but, it was too little too late. Surprised, he manages a little growl of complaint before he leans forward, hand fumbling against the floorboard carpet of the passenger’s side. Knuckles nudge the bottle of Jack Daniels, and he grabs the neck of it before allowing it to dangle between his fingers. Amber liquid dances like a tornado through the bottle, sloshing against the glass like a dream.
Unstopping it, he pulls back a sharp drink of it. “Have at it,” it’s rough, raw. Irritation peeks through the teeth of it, but it’s more resigned than anything.
Leaning forward, her eyes hold his and she hesitates to snatch the bottle away, hand hanging in the air. She’s got lithe fingers, bigger hands—hands that look strong. His attention cocks slightly when he notices the callouses, the scars on her knuckles. They aren’t polished, nine-to-five office hands like ninety percent of the girls who pass through his service. Briefly he wonders what her fake nails would feel like curled against skin, but dismisses it when she plucks the bottle from between his fingers.
“Thanks,” her chuckle comes from her gut, almost a growl of relief that says finally! as she puts the cool class to her lips. Guzzles back a full shot. Rights, her cherry lips part into a small smile as she hands the bottle back, passing her thumb over left behind lipstick. “Good God that burns,” managing a little cough, Logan replaces the stop and pops it between his thighs. “But it’s good. Takes the edge off.”
I bet it does. He manages a growling mhm, settling back into his seat. Thinking that’s the last of it. Content to look out the window and smoke his cigar, not think about the heat ricocheting off the adamantium in his pelvis. How it stirs up his blood, how her voice is that perfect lilt of low and just high enough.
Head swimming with the mental picture of her beneath him, breathless and hot, he bristles to attention when her arms drape over the front seat. Very suddenly all Logan can smell is the heady smell of woman and sweat rolling off of her like a locomotive.
She mutters under her breath something Logan can’t quite track, bit the way she picks at a nail with her teeth, gaze anywhere but inside the low limo’s lighting, would imply negatives. And she could’ve started reciting the phone book, he wouldn’t have noticed—far too busy noticing cleavage and the valley of her collarbones to be able to think straight.
But his stare gets heavy, she notices the thick air that’s smothering the limo like a wet dream–her eyes find his, a little smile at the corner of her mouth when his flick away. Oh, good fuck. Her eyes bore into him through the rearview. Uncapping the Jack, he takes another sharp pull of it. It chases the warmth in the back of his throat, blooming in his chest like he didn’t know what.
More pregnant silence. She shifts against the leather, hot skin sticky against it. Reaching to put the car in accessory, Logan fiddles with the A/C. He clocks her swiping her heels from the floor, wrangling them back on her feet—hadn’t she just taken the damn things off?
“I should go get them before either of them do something they’ll regret,” her eyes cast to the clock on the dash, which isn’t terribly far from his ID information, which is offensively just there. “It’s late.” It isn’t, not really. Logan thinks this has to be the most conservative hen party in the history of such things, but his jaw clamps shut.
If he can bail them out of his car early, he may be able to catch a few hours of sleep before the early-hour rush. That hour when last call sends boozers into the streets, looking for rides. That’s where the money was, after all—and God knew he could use the dough.
Her hand floating over the handle of the door, as if she’s waiting for his consent. “Paid by the hour, darlin’,” and Logan does not miss the way darlin’ hits her—sharp eyes flick down to his mouth for a fraction of a heartbeat, a little plume of color lifting to the apples of her cheeks that definitely isn’t rouge. Blush, they called it now. She has plenty of it on her face, but it darkens something pretty in a way that, usually, would amuse him.
Instead, now, he just lifts a hand to slot through the openings on the Chrsyler’s steering wheel, ignoring the ache between his knuckles.
He can’t have arthritis, can he? Popping the latch, he twists out of the limo. Crosses around the front through the headlights to her side. A flick of his fingers and he pulls open the door, highlighter yellow heels spilling out to the pavement in that Hollywood way.
He doesn’t do this— he makes a habit not to touch customers. Usually his hand finds his pocket, as a rule. But for some reason, her eyes skating through the dark, panning around the street and the front of the club, lights the mesh of his lungs on fire. Offering her his hand, its appearance before her drops a rod through her spine—she straightens, blinking at it once before her fluttery lashes look up at him.
He wonders if the little flick of muscle in her jaw actually takes muscle memory. Looking at him with a look that’s uncertain, that’s you sure? heartbeats pass and make the moment uncomfortable. Shuffling his weight on his feet, his hand falls from the door and to his pocket, palming the lighter against his thigh. Phlegm and whatever else God created in the human body rattles around the poison in his chest, a low cough echoing off his bones.
It takes her a second to collect, looking between him and his hand. “By the hour. Right,” her eyes skate down his chest, over all of him, as if she’s making sure. Her hand slips into his too lightly to matter, as if she’s making an effort to limit contact—and that’s a good thing, because Logan is fairly sure the world had stopped spinning, the electrical pulses of his body kicking to overdrive at just how alive her skin feels. Senses heightened to infinity. He could count stars, maybe, with the way her nails deliciously press into his palm, rough and hard. Warm, the scent of peaches all but punches his lights out—he can’t even taste his cigar, body enamored with the way she smells, how her hand all but boils in his.
The fuck, Logan.
Stepping out, sharp eyes navigate the front of the club, and a blackhole of the universe suddenly opens between them when her hand falls away. Heels tick against the concrete as she turns to face him batting the door closed. Hands in pockets, he kicks back against the Chrysler. Waiting.
“Thanks,” her smile is small, eyes casting down to the filth of midnight on the concrete, “It shouldn’t be long.”
He shrugs, “‘S your money, honey,” is followed by a grunt as she nods, turns on her heel. Sashays back into the front of the club before flashing a wristband to the bouncer. Between the help eyeballing her in that dress and Logan unable to stop ogling just how it clings, highlights every curve of her, it’s a miracle either of them are still standing.
Reappearing fifteen minutes later with girlfriends in tow, Logan folds them into the limo politely, without incident. Giggling, traces of the night have painted both of her companions—long gone is the bride sash and dimestore plastic tiara. Replaced by smudged-and-attempted-to-be-fixed makeup. Teased hair, ruffled clothes. Nobody could miss that hickey for anything, it would take stock-market shattering amounts of base to cover it up—Mars would have a better time trying to see needles in haystacks. No amount of cigar smoke clinging to his clothes, sweat hanging out as an idea under his nose could cut through that unmistakably sweet musk of sex, sweat.
Before Logan can ask where to point the Chrysler, the other girl pops off an address from her phone to what is most definitely not their hotel, or anywhere remotely in the neighborhood of partylife. Brow raised, Logan peeks the rearview to see his companion whirl so quickly in her seat, he wonders how her head is still attached. Look on her face says everything words don’t, but she asks anyway—”Where the hell is that?”
Trying not to overhear, but it’s impossible, he fiddles with the temperature controls again when the one lifts the hair from the back of her neck. “It’s a hotel,” no shit, it’s the most expensive district in the area. Highbrows stay here—he’d picked them up on the opposite side of the metro, in the middle class accommodations. Sour bile splashes up the back of his throat, jaw setting–he knows what’s about to happen.
“No, really? And here I thought it was the frickin’ monastery,” lunging over her friend stuck in the middle, she plucks the phone from her friend’s hand—laughing hysterically, face flushed with alcohol and tipsy giggles, her jaw opens fully on its hinge. Rapt attention almost has his heart exploding, he nearly misses the stop sign—pops the brake a little hard.
She studies herself against the door, eyes flicking to him for half a second. Phone flipping screen first to her friend, she nods to it. “Who the hell is Mike?” Lowering the phone to her lap, her eyes skate between the two friends, hard. Heavy. Fast. “Oh my god. Don’t tell me—”
“It’s just a fling,” her name rolls off her friend’s tongue sourly, like cold venom. If Logan weren’t so invested in the outcome of this conversation he’d think it was almost melodic, a unique name. Fine and perfect for the sweet little thing currently erupting in his backseat. Too busy pacing traffic, his tongue skates along over his back molars, “don’t get your panties in a twist, honey. It’ll just for a few hours, to have some fun.”
“A few hours?” The actual squeak in her tone was laughable, “You’re joking—you’re actually kidding me. You can’t just go fuck some random guy you met in a bar, you’re getting married.” Offensive hangs in the words like a hot iron, branding itself into the atmosphere with weighty judgment enough to make her chest rise and fall with rapid, uneven breaths. “I won’t let you—”
Eyeroll extreme, Logan could’ve flinched with how much it snaps like a whip. “Oh my god, would you just chill out?” Looking to the other friend, who’s phone is still held captive on her lap, Logan bites the inside of his cheek. Like black cobras their chests fan out, both of them turning to cast frigid judgment to their third, who is pressed against the door to create distance from the very idea of the two of them. For fuck’s sake, “It’s just oral, honey—”
He snorted. All their eyes trip to him, but Logan is nothing if not suave—covering with a cough, he bites back a smile into his lower lip, looking down to his lap. Holy shit, they were actually having this conversation. In the back of his limo. If he weren’t so amused, it could be hot. Smokin’.
But the look on his companion’s face is too horrified, too innocent for him to take any enjoyment out of the topic of conversation flitting beneath the lights of the limo. It’s scandalousm, really. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, but, it just—it didn’t fit. Without knowing anything about much, he knows this isn’t her. Neon Heels, brunette curls. Lipstick barely upset, smelling like peaches of sweat. He could feel it in the very adamantium slowly flogging life out of his body.
Color drains out of her face, milkwhite like a ghost. He’s fairly certain she’d rather cut out her tongue and serve it to him on a silver platter than actually go through with such things. Logan knows a thing or two about life, he’s studied humanity for a lot of fucking years—he knew the good ones when he saw them. Pure, untouched.
Or, at the very least, good.
“Just oral?”
“Would you just stop, ok? Nobody is asking you to come up. Don’t need to be all, all pissy just because nobody noticed you at the bar,” and it’s hot, like acid. Cutting to bone. Logan watches the words cut like knives through the mesh of her chest, and if his collar wasn’t absolutely on fire, he’d have the audacity to smack some decency into whatever the fuck this chick’s problem was. “It’s not your thing. That’s fine. It’ll be just fine,” leaning forward, the bride informs him that once he’d dropped them at the hotel, he can take her back to their hotel. We’ll just Uber back in the morning.
“Fine by me.”
And it makes more sense, the longer he thinks about it. Explained the tears, the fluster in the atmosphere. Pushing the Chrysler through traffic, the tension in the atmosphere snaps like a rubber band—she doesn’t even flinch. In fact, her jaw clenches. Muscles ticks off bone, and she hands back her friend’s phone before falling back into the seat, eyes cast out the window like they’ve been welded to the darkness. Wind out of her sails, her elbow props on the windows ledge, subconsciously her hand covers half of her face. Quiet as death, unmoving as a sarcophagus.
Logan had never seen someone’s soul die while they were still alive, but he figures this was close.
Silence enough to make the dead uncomfortable follows for a few seconds. He focuses his attention on driving the limo rather than looking in the rearview, because noticing the look on her face, actually caring, is so far out of his pay grade that it’s laughable. To her credit, he doesn’t think she’s actually crying—hell would sooner freeze over, he reckons—but her brow is set in such a hard line, that he can almost read the regret on her face in red letter clarity.
Ensuing conversation about how the bride’s tits look in her hardly-there dress has him almost disinterested. Guiding the Chrysler up to the curb of the hotel, he almost misses "Hey driver!" that's more giggle than it is anything else. Eyes tracking to the rearview, Logan isn’t nearly as surprised as he thought he would be when she rips down the front of what was once, probably, an investment dress—tits, yeah. Nice ones, too—bought and paid for by the looks of it. Tits that size don’t just sit up at attention without a calculated surgeon’s hand.
“Like what you see?”
Puffing out a little nervous chuckle, his brow trips up. He shakes his head, amused. Erupting into a fit of snickers and snorts, their cheeks darken with heat. Falling against themselves, the two of them think they’re fucking hilarious as they begin to discuss the course of their adventure. May as well be full fledged pornography in the back of his rig, the things that fly—it sparks up his blood, empties his mouth of any moisture Jack Daniels may have rousted.
God couldn’t have brought up the hotel’s curb any faster, he thinks. Dropping the Chrysler into park, he angles to pop the latch on his door. Misses completely the moan of leather, the little rock of moving bodies shifting around the backseat.
Logan all but jumps when two hands come around him from behind. “Maybe you should come upstairs, driver—bet you could show a young bride a thing or two, huh?” Fuck, fuck fuck—hands that palm down his chest, snake under the buttons of his white shirt are hot. Hot, practiced. Soft and deliberate, one of their nails flick against his nipple, beneath his undershirt—he grunts back a sharp breath, head all but braced against the Chrysler’s hard headrest.
Adamantium kisses the flesh of his knuckles, and it takes effort not to let loose—more brainpower than he wants to admit, fighting back the reflex. Hand shaking on his knee, he inhales an uneasy breath and presses the heel of either hands onto his knees, biting the corner of his chapped lip. Hand drifting lower, almost to his abs, he snatches her wrist with a speed he doesn’t remember. Couldn’t, hadn’t, for as long as he can think back.
“Somethin’ tells me you know plen’y, honey,” his eyes narrow in the rearview. “Plus, I don’t do free fucks.”
She chuckles, pleased. “Who said anything about free?” Lifting her hand away from inside his shirt, he throws her off—cackling like the little witch she is, she folds out of the limo with her friend, “Very professional of you, driver,” he couldn’t miss the darkness in her tone if he’d tried as she winks at him from his window, “drive safe. Precious cargo, back there.”
Could’ve fooled him.
A wiggle of her fingers goodbye to her friend in the backseat, the hotel’s thick doors swallow both of them whole. Vanishing in a twirl of hair and makeup, Logan turns in his seat to consider his last passenger. She hasn’t moved, merely has kicked off her heels—but she has allowed herself to cry. Fresh tears fall down the length of her cheeks, but she doesn’t sniffle. They’re silent, powerful. Say everything words don’t need to—it’s a deep knife, one that bleeds. Logan can see the film reel running through her brain, on repeat. As if it has subtitles. A black and white horror show of just exactly what had happened, how she’d ended up here.
Curling a leg up under herself, Logan watches her shrink into as small of herself as she can, forehead resting against the cool glass of the limo’s window. And it’s tragic, really—someone who looks like that, reduced to a teary, smoldering shell of a person by mere words. Logan knew people were cruel, he’d seen the worst of humanity up close and personal. His own life was hell trapped in bones and flesh, his own history more horrific than anything Hollywood could dream up.
He drives. That���s what he does, that’s who Logan is now. A driver.
It’s another 20 minutes across town. And the ride is ominous, a mummified tomb that’s suffocating no matter how much air whisks into the limo from open windows. Trapped between wanting to say something and unsure of how to react, he relaxes a little when she finally slips earphones in—mindlessly scrolling a cell phone. Swiping at tears that ruin makeup she no longer cares about. Alone in her own little world of music and heartache, he watches the night fall away from her—her hair goes back into clips, away from her face. Earrings come off. Out come the contacts, replaced instead with glasses from the purse she’d left on the floorboards. Gum, more scrolling on her phone. Heels set on the seat beside her–finally her eyes close as she rests against the cool glass.
Gently rolling the Chrysler to a stop at the curb, she sits up. Breathlessly, she stretches a little, lashes fluttering behind frames that accentuate the shape of her face. And Logan doesn’t remember thinking anyone has ever looked good in glasses, but she topples such ideology when she beats him to the punch—she pops the latch on the door and steps out, barefoot. Heels tucked under her arm, purse hanging off her shoulder, she meets him at his door when he slips out of the front seat.
Handling cash had never felt so cold, bitter. She doesn’t look at him as she counts it into his hand, more than they’d agreed. Slipping the remainder of it back into her bag, she steps back, smiling at him softly. Resigned. Apologetic. Light from the overhang of the hotel sets off whatever shine is on her face, tear stains all but left behind—replaced instead with pink cheeks and sad, swollen eyes.
“Should be square,” she nods to the cash in his hand, “you can count it again if you want, I won’t be offended.” Briefly Logan thinks to care if her friends had managed their parts of the fare, but he dismisses it when she bites the inside of her cheek, tongue skating over her bottom lips as she shifts awkwardly on her feet. “Thank you so much for tonight—you have a beautiful limousine. The whiskey was great, thank you.”
Nodding once, he shrugs a shoulder. She’s buying time in that awkward little way people do when they’re not sure what to say, but think they have to say something. She doesn’t, wouldn’t ever—but he wants her to, strangely. Logan could stand here and listen to her come up with things to say the rest of the night, if he knew it wouldn’t deepen the color on her face, drive a little deeper the knife that’s still gutting her in the ribs.
Sucking in a sharp breath, her eyes track up to his from her feet standing on the warm concrete. “Listen, Logan—” she remembered his name, “I’m sorry about my friend. She’s really wasted, and it totally wasn’t alright for her to proposition you like that. It was actually gross—but that’s not who she is, not really. I’m sorry. She’s just—”
“—didn’t even notice her, honey.” He lies. What else is there to do but lie to this pretty little thing, bloodletting her own pride out at his feet? For a long set of years, Logan has believed there’s very little good left in the human species—very few people who are worth giving two fucks about. But she’s so galiant, defending some slut’s non-existent honor, drowning in her own humiliation and everything he can only imagine happened during a hen party gone sideways.
“Oh, uh, well—” oh. How she says it, the little curve of her mouth. That accented “o”. It’s enough to make him insane, honestly. He’s been with her two hours and can hardly think past the twitch of his cock, the little ache that niggles in the back of his head. Behind his eyes. It gets a little hard to fight, the snapping air between the two of them—for a man who knows what it feels like, it’s difficult. She couldn’t be more nonplussed. Which says more than it needs too, makes it all the more sweet. “Sorry, oh my gosh. I’m just a little—I don’t do things like this.”
And that is honorable, even if there’s very little honor left among the thieves of humanity. She is honorable. So saccharine and pretty it physically hurts him, drying out the back of his throat and knocking at his ribs like a damn jackhammer. Her eyes holding his, searching for anything else, are so deep and alive, bright in the way only Polaris could ever challenge—he suddenly forgets where he is, what century it is. How he got here, what he’s doing, reaching for the thin strap of her dress.
The back of his knuckle gently skips over her skin, the strap of the dress. And before Logan can even manage a breath, his hand moves under her chin, tips it up a little. Unmoving, her eyes widen like two bright moons, light catching them and opening them up like oceans fully unpassable to the known universe. From here he can feel her pulse flying through her blood, and couldn't miss the butterflies in her stomach if he’d been on a different planet. And maybe she’s never been appreciated like this—maybe she’s never felt seen.
Fuck, the things he could do to her. “Quit apologizin’ for bein’ sweet,” he manages a low rasp, the corner of his mouth ticking up with a little grin, “very few pretty things left in the world that’re sweet,” tipping her chin up a little further, his lips hover over hers. “And I bet you taste as good as you look, honey.” Tucking some hair behind her ear, he rubs one of her curls between the calluses on his fingers.
He gets back in his car, and Logan drives. Because that's what he does—he drives.
tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00 @th3mrskory @blossoming-hotch
#hugh jackman#wolverine#logan howlett#logan#x men#xmen#logan howlett x reader#mare writes#xmen wolverine#xmen logan#old man!logan#old man logan x reader#old man logan#wolverine x reader#logan howlett imagine#logan howlett fanfiction#logan xmen#logan x reader#logan howlett oneshot#logan movie#logan 2017
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the compression shirt conundrum ⟡ kmg
wc: 1017 | pair: bf!mingyu x gn!reader | genre: fluff, slight cringe maybe, suggestive | tags: grey sweatpants and compression shirt, some swearing, reader becomes a zombie for mingyu pp, giggly!mingyu, just teeth rotting cuteness, reader is significantly smaller, mingyu is called a giant, pet names: honey, baby, babe, angel
summary: when mingyu comes home wearing a compression shirt and sweatpants, you no longer have any thoughts in your brain and become a zombie for him
authors note: the day we see mingyu in a compression shirt, god help us all… this is unedited, might be trash lmk
It was a quiet night in. You had a movie on, your place was clean, dishes washed, and your super hot boyfriend was on his way home any minute now with takeaway for dinner.
Mingyu had texted you that he was craving army stew and asked if you wanted anything from your go to restaurant. Sessions at the gym often caused him to develop a massive appetite afterwards.
“Honeyyy, I’m hommeee,” Mingyu’s rang.
“Hey baby— Oh. My. God.“
Your boyfriend looked at you confused. From where he stood, you were gaping at him, and somehow melting into the couch? He swapped his gym shoes for his house slippers and attentatively approached you.
“What’s… What’s going on? I brought food.”
“Who needs food when I’ve got a Mingyu buffet.” Your eyes raked up and down your boyfriend countless times. After such a smooth sailing night, you finally encountered your first problem.
Mingyu was wearing grey sweatpants.
And a black compression shirt.
A while back you told him that you wanted to see him in this combination. You knew he’d be hot as hell, however this was better than you ever expected.
It was just a plain, solid colored long sleeved shirt that was skintight. Every valley and ridge of muscles were clearly defined. You could feel your mouth water.
“Woah, woah, woah! I’ve got food here!” Mingyu whined as you rushed up to him while greedily running your fingers all over his body. You had half the mind to smash your face inbetween his pectorals.
Mingyu escaped your clutches as he headed straight to the kitchen, the hunger in his stomach making itself more apparent by the minute. He was about to pass out from starvation. His Hoshi-hyung really put him and the boys to work.
You were right behind him, following him around the kitchen as he went to plate up the food for the two of you. Your gaze never left his body. Was hypnosis by Underarmour clothing a thing? You were about to climb this man like a tree.
“B-b-baby?” He stuttered, looking at you with concern. You looked like a zombie.
You appeared to be a perfectly alive and healthy human. However, Mingyu observed your raised arms, reaching for him; and noted that you didn’t appear to have any thoughts in your head. All that was needed left was for you to moan ‘brains’ repeatedly.
“Must… Suck dick,” you said in a deep gravelly tone, putting on your best zombie impression. “Must… Suck dick.”
Mingyu let out a squawk of laughter as he backed away from you. His ears bloomed red. His toothy grin almost had you breaking character, but no! You were dedicated.
“I’m flattered that you think I look good, but an ‘omigosh babe, you look really hot’ would be just fine. This is… Wild.” Mingyu was slowly exiting the kitchen, and you were following him with slow steps.
He didn’t expect the clothes to have this much of an effect on you.
Was this what it was like to be you when you wore lingerie?
“No thought in brain, only Mingyu. Mingyuuu,” you chanted.
Mingyu managed to dodge a swipe you made at him. “Who are you? Where’s my angel gone? Give her back to me!”
“Right here, just give me them babies,” you replied with your zombie voice. Mingyu giggled.
He took a step backwards, and then another. You copied him but at a slower pace. With a final step backwards, Mingyu spun on his heel and dashed around the corner and into the hallway.
He dived into one of the rooms before you could even take another step. He had disappeared in an instant.
You wanted to laugh. With how small your apartment was, it was a proven fact that it would be impossible for him to successfully hide.
You ‘became’ your human self again and strolled towards the general direction your lover ran.
“Oh Mingyu… Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
Mingyu cupped his face with his hands, reducing any chances of you hearing him breathe. He couldn’t laugh, but you made him giddy like a child. He was a grown man playing and seek after all.
All that could be heard in the house was the movie that was still playing on the TV, and the light scuffs of your house slippers against the floor.
You finally reached the bedroom you shared with Mingyu at the end of the hallway. Little did you know, he was hiding behind the door. Not hiding, but ready to attack.
You pouted, looking around. “Baby? I’m not a zombie anymore. Just horny.”
As soon as you made it all the way into the room, the door slammed behind you. Your breath was stolen when a giant shadow grabbed you and pulled you onto the bed.
You found yourself on your back, caged in by Mingyu. He had a hand on either side of your head on the mattress, and a knee on the edge of it between your legs.
“It’s just a pair of pants and a shirt,” Mingyu murmured as he bent his head to kiss your cheek.
His nose traced patterns on your face, heading down towards your neck to take in your familiar scent. He loved when you wore this fragrance.
“Just a pair of pants and a shirt?!” You parroted in offence. You threw your arms around his neck. “It is more than that. It is the masculine version of lacey lingerie! It is the sexiest, sluttiest outfit you could put on. You look sexy as fuck!”
Mingyu blushed at your words with a very, very shy smile on his face. He knew that he was attractive, but to have you enthusiastically praise his appearance made him proud of the effort he put in at the gym. Your opinion of him mattered most.
He kissed your head. “Thank you baby.”
“Kim Mingyu, if you don’t lay on this bed and let me worship your body I swear on your dog’s life…”
“Not if I worship you first. Who told you these fluffy shorts are my weakness?”
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Diner Girl. Eddie Munson x Fem! Reader. *Fluff*
Summary: Eddie stops by a diner after a gig at The Hideout. His waitress catches his eye and he's head over heels immediately.
Word Count: 1.9k
TW: Eddie being in love and flirty. Reader has one very specific description of having a dimple. Mentions of food and eating. Reader is witty and just as flirty as Eddie. Eddie being a total music snob. Love sick idiots.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eddie felt like he was going to knock out any minute. All of the adrenaline from performing at The Hideout tonight was wearing out, and he needed some sort of fuel fast, there was no way he was going to make it back home without falling asleep at the wheel.
He knew of a little dinky diner on the way back to the trailer park, Sunny’s Diner, that would be open at this hour.
The entire diner was empty other than a few of the workers back in the kitchen and a waitress cleaning one of the tables. Shitty disco music blasting from the jukebox in the front of the restaurant.
“Be with you in a second, honey!” A girl calls out from across the diner, quickly looking up to acknowledge him but looking back down quickly to go back to cleaning. “Take a seat wherever.”
Eddie slides into a booth at the front of the restaurant, grabbing the menu from the holder and scanning through it while he decides if he wanted waffles or a burger.
“Hi there, I’ll be your waitress for the night. Is there anything that I can get you right now, hon?”
Eddie looks up at the girl standing by him quickly, doing a double take once he saw how cute she was. “Uh, um.” He fumbles with the menu as he stares at her with, what he had no doubt, the stupidest look on his face.
She huffs out a small laugh. “Do you need a second?”
“No, no. Um, can I just get a coffee for now, please?” He smiles up at her, all of his teeth showing.
“Coffee hasn’t been fresh in hours, you sure?” She raises a worrisome eyebrow at him.
“Yeah it’ll be fine. Nothing that some sugar can’t fix.” Eddie watches as she walks away toward the kitchen, the cute little yellow uniform she was wearing catching his eye because of how nice her legs looked.
She had the cutest smile he had seen, a deep dimple on the left side of her face. Her hair covered her nametag and she hadn’t introduced herself when she walked up to take his order, so he had no idea what her name was, but whatever it was, he was sure it was as cute as she was.
A plain white coffee cup appears in front of him, waking him from his train of thought.
“Sugar is there in that little container. Do you want any creamer or anything?”
“No, that's okay. But I’m ready to order. Would you recommend the waffle breakfast plate or the cheeseburger?” He tries his best to sound smooth and suave.
She grimaces, biting back a smile. “Not going to lie, those hamburger patties are frozen, and probably have been since 1955.” She giggles. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that though.” She whispers to him.
Eddie laughs back, nodding his head and folds his menu back up. “Waffle breakfast plate it is then. Unless those waffles are from 1955 too, then we might have some issues.”
She finishes writing on her notepad, that cute little dimple showing. “No, the waffles are a lot better. We got those shipped back in ‘72. A lot more fresh.” She jokes before walking away again.
Eddie’s heart was fluttering in his chest, her eyes were just as sweet as the rest of her face and her voice. He absentmindedly reaches for the sugar packets on the other side of the table, taking 3 of the pink packets and sprinkling the sugar into the cup.
His mind was swimming with ideas on how he was going to ask her for her number, hoping by whatever higher power there was out there that she was interested in him. And hoping that she was single, although there was going to be no way in hell that someone as beautiful and sweet as her wouldn’t have someone at home waiting for her.
He takes a big swig from the cup, immediately gagging on the stale coffee and spitting it back out into the cup. “Fucking christ.”
From the counter he hears a loud giggle. He turns to look at the source of the laugh, finding the cute waitress hiding her smile behind her hand and a fit of giggles coming from her.
Eddie grabs the napkin from the table, wiping his mouth off. “Oh, is that funny to you? What kind of poison did you put in that cup?”
She comes from behind the counter, a steaming pot of newly brewed coffee in her hand. “I told you the pot hadn’t been fresh in hours. Not many people come in here after 8pm wanting coffee.” She swaps his tainted cup out for a new one, pouring new coffee into it. “Most people are sleeping at this hour.”
“Did you make that new pot just for me?” Eddie winks at her, getting more sugar packets and sprinkling them in.
She rolls her eyes at him, biting a smirk back. “Actually, I wanted some coffee too. I still have 3 more hours at this place and I need something to keep me awake.”
“You mean all these customers in here aren’t enough to keep you busy? Shit, you’re swimming right now.” He fidgets with the handle of the cup the longer she looks at him, feeling nerves in his stomach.
“A comedian.” She teases, making herself laugh. “I’m going to go check on your food, I’ll be right back.” She smiles again.
Eddie blows out a breath, rubbing his cheeks. He hadn’t felt this way about a girl in years, someone who was sweet, but could banter back with him and take a joke. He watches her at the pickup window, unintelligibly talking with the cook on the other side.
He had already planned in his head where he wanted to take her on their first date, that he would try to hold her hand - if she would let him.
“A waffle breakfast plate. I sweet talked the chef into putting some chocolate chips on top.”
“Oh, thank you.” He smirks at her. “You know, these waffles are huge, I might not be able to finish all of this by myself. Why don’t you sit with me and have a bite to eat? Maybe I can get to know you better?”
“Wow.” She laughs, shaking her head. “Does this whole cute puppy dog eyes and sweet smile thing usually work for you?”
“I don’t know, you let me know. Is it working?”
She stands next to the table for a few seconds before finally sliding in across from him. “Might have worked a little bit.” She responds, taking one of his forks and picking at one of the strawberries on the plate and popping it in her mouth.
Eddie drops his jaw dramatically, pretending to be shocked. “Hey! I wanted that one.” Eddie jokes.
***
“Don’t be a snob!” She laughs loudly. “Saturday Night Fever wasn’t a bad movie!”
Eddie rolls his eyes sarcastically before groaning. “Oh, please! The soundtrack alone was god awful. Add John Travolta in those ugly ass white bell bottoms.” He fake gags.
“You’re telling me you weren’t down with the disco fever? The Bee Gees? Earth, Wind, and Fire? Donna Summer?! Come on Donna Summer is a legend already. You never watched Soul Train?”
“Oh my god I should walk out of here right now.” He jokes. “You haven’t heard real music have you? Van Halen, Judas Priest, Skid Row, and the god of music himself, Ozzy Osborne. That’s real music sweetheart.” Eddie says matter of factly.
“Well Mr. Headbanger’s Bash, you’ll have to show me real music then since I’m so uneducated.”
Eddie all but jumped out of his seat at her bringing up seeing him again.
She turns her wrist to look at her watch, her face turning down. “My manager will be here in 10 minutes and will kill me if I’m sitting down eating with a customer. I gotta start cleaning up.”
“Oh. Well, do you get off soon then? Maybe I can give you a ride home, if you don’t have one?”
As she slides out of the booth, she smirks at him. “How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”
“Does this look like the face of a serial killer?” Eddie puts in his best smile for her, batting his dark eyelashes at her.
Her eyes roll in the back of her head at his cheesy line. “My car is parked in the parking lot. You can walk me to my car. I’ll come find you when I’m off.”
Eddie practically melts into the booth, his cheeks getting hot and flutters in his stomach.
***
“Alright, you Eddie Van Halen lookalike, you wanna walk me to my car?”
Eddie snorts out a laugh as he slides out of the booth. “Ah, so you do know Van Halen? You do have taste.” He follows her out the door, shivering when the crisp fall breeze hits his face.
"Yeah, Van Halen is hot.” She says purposely, hoping he got the hint. “So I have to ask you, you spent 4 hours drinking shitty coffee and eating waffles that came from a box. Our food and coffee aren’t that good, so what do you really want?”
“I think you know the answer to that question.” Eddie says shyly.
“No, no because I’ve been wrong about this type of thing before. Men come in flirting with me in hopes they don’t have to pay for their food. I want to be sure. I’m not falling for a pair of pretty eyes again.”
"She thinks I have pretty eyes." Eddie thinks to himself.
They walk up to her beat up black car, both of them leaning against the side of it.
“I want to take you on a date, if you’re interested. I think you’re beautiful, you’re funny. I want to get to know you more.” Eddie’s confidence is long gone from his body. It was like he was 14 again and asking a girl out for the first time.
She leans forward and kisses his cheek softly, internally giggling like a little girl that she had the guts to kiss him.
It took everything in Eddie not to melt onto the parking lot asphalt at the peck on his cheek. “I’ll uh, take it you’re interested.”
“Very interested.” She digs into the pocket of her apron and pulls out a piece of paper. “I’m expecting to hear from you by the time I have to come back to this dump tonight… But not before noon, I need to sleep.” She smirks to him.
Eddie unfolds the paper, seeing her phone number and address scribbled on one of the ticket she takes orders on.
“Yeah, I promise. I’ll call you. Scouts honor.” He holds up his hand, giving her the Vulcan hand gesture.
She furrows her brows at him, confused by the hand gesture. “You know that… you know what, never mind.” She shakes her head at him, grabbing her keys from her purse. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” She slides her key into her car, unlocking it.
Eddie reaches for the door handle and opens it for her, pulling the door back to let her in. “Ma’am.” He says with his thickest southern accent he could muster up.
She gets into her car, throwing her bag into the passenger side. “Well I’ll be waiting for your call then Van Halen.”
Eddie gently shuts her door, stepping back while she pulls out of her parking spot, giving him a small wave before she drives off.
“Holy shit.” Eddie laughs in disbelief that she was actually interested in him. He looks at the paper in his hand, pink ink scribbled onto the paper with the words:
Thank you for actually being sweet and making me laugh all night. I can’t wait to show you disco isn’t as bad as you think. xoxo ♡
#Eddie Munson#Eddie Munson x reader#Eddie Munson x fem reader#Eddie Munson x fem! reader#Eddie Munson x reader fluff#Eddie Munson x fem! reader fluff#Eddie Munson x fem reader fluff#Eddie Munson x reader fan fiction#Eddie Munson x fem reader fan fiction#Eddie Munson x fem! reader fan fiction#Eddie Munson fan fic#Eddie Munson fanfic#Eddie Munson fluff
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*:・゚✧reader shows abby what she's missing
warnings: pussy eating, dom!reader, inexperienced abby?, mentions of owen, ass eating, dirty makeout with abbys pussy from behind basically, abby is a part of the cream team and squirt squad
you had been in a weird mood all day: distracted, absent and frankly, engrossed in an image of abby with her legs spread and her head thrown back in pleasure.
to be fair to you, it had been a while since you had seen any action, and the conversation you and abby were currently having was almost as satisfying as sex itself.
you would never admit it to yourself (or anyone) but you were in love with abby- she was perfect. from her thick corded muscles to her long blonde hair... she was faultless.
then the thought of her asshat boyfriend popped into your mind and you were reminded of why you couldn't make a move.
"yeah...", abby started again quietly, provoking you out of your daze, "I mean, i don't cum every time but that's like okay, right?"
her head was angled down, looking at her hands as she played with her fingers, the shame and embarrassment was plain on her face.
"abs... you know that's not your fault. you've been with owen for years, he should know what you like and make sure you finish every time." you said, making sure that no one else in the cafeteria could overhear what you were saying before you bit into your apple.
abby's eyes flashed up to yours briefly before she looked back down and moved her empty plate to the side, laying her hands flat on the wooden surface of the table. "he can't help it though, sometimes I just can't cum."
you rolled your eyes and let out an irritated sigh before returning your attention back to your apple, trying to hold back the stream of insults that were about to fall out of your mouth- you hate owen.
"what? you disagree with me? you think it's his fault?" abby asked, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning on the table, briefly drawing your eyes to her bulging biceps.
"of course i disagree with you. owen seems as useless in bed as he is in the field." you said with a slight laugh, watching abby carefully as she dropped her head with a little smile.
"okay, he isn't that bad. like i said... i cum sometimes."
"abby... every time i have sex i make sure she cums... it's not that hard." you said, giving your eyes another slight roll as abby tried not to squeeze her thighs together at the thought of your naked body writhing with another faceless woman's.
"a woman making another woman finish has got to be easier though..." abby says, watching your face turn from a joking smile to an unimpressed frown.
"does owen have fingers?" you say, abby nods, "does he have a tongue?" abby nods again," then he can make you cum every time, honey."
abby shivers a little, rubbing her arms to hide the goosebumps as she again imagines you with a woman: your tongue swirling around a swollen throbbing clit whilst your fingers curl inside a creamy little pussy.
"he doesn't really use his tongue, honestly." abby admits quietly, her hands coming up to cover her eyes, hiding the humiliation of her abysmal sex life.
"he doesn't eat you out?" you say, unintentionally at a high volume, slamming your palm down on the wood and drawing the attention of a few passersby.
"shush," abby whispers, her eyes wide as you shrink back into your chair, realising your mistake, "and no, he doesn't, he says it's gross."
you try not to roll your eyes for a third time, but you're seething with anger, and can't help it. you can't help the growl that escapes your throat at the thought of abby's pouty upset face as she hears owen insult her.
"abby, sweetie. eating pussy is not gross," you start, grabbing her hands and holding them in your soft grasp, "in fact, its the opposite. it's intimate and it's satisfying and i love it, you know why?"
it takes a second but abby shakes her head, albeit hesitantly.
"because it feels good," you whisper, rubbing your thumbs across abby's knuckles. "whether im getting mine ate or im the one doing the eating... it feels so fucking good."
abby bites her lip and keeps her eyes locked on your eyes, unable to stop her mind from wandering again- instead, the faceless woman you're with is now her.
her thick thighs hug your head as you drive into her neglected pussy; licking and sucking at the perfect times and places, not leaving an inch of wet skin unloved.
"makes me sad that you don't know what it feels like, honey."
"can you show me?"
---
"oh baby, you've just been dying for this, haven't you?" you ask, landing a soft smack on abby's ass as she bends over for you, letting you continue eating it from the back.
her sweet pink cunt is on display, dripping thick white cream from such a perfect tight hole that you can't help but dip your tongue in again and start swirling.
your movements are met with a quiet whine as abby arches her back further, pushing her needy pussy into your mouth another inch. you use your hands to part her plump asscheeks before dragging your tongue all the way from one hole to the other then all the way down to her clit.
"both your holes taste good, just as i thought."
abby can't do anything but moan as she feels your tongue flick her clit harshly, before sucking the juices from it and spitting them back onto her sloppy folds.
you moan from the feeling of her clit throbbing on your tongue, and you apply a little more pressure and slide a finger into her pussy, feeling the tight clench and moaning again.
"such a good girl taking this, baby. you wanna cum for me?" you ask, briefly neglecting her cunt to talk before diving back in, moving your mouth from side to side, trying to suck everything into your mouth and maximise her pleasure. you release her clit with a light pop before returning to suckle on her pussy from top to bottom.
the throb on your tongue intensifies, and you can tell she is getting closer. you inch another finger inside her pretty hole and lick her clit faster, then abby is squirting on your tongue.
you try to catch as much of it as you can, swallowing quickly before going back in. at the end, your shirt and the sheets are soaked through, and you give abby a little bite on the ass... to which she yelps.
"ah, fuck."
abby flops onto the bed, the mattress gently bouncing you.
"so, what do you say?" you ask, pinching the bite mark on her behind jokingly.
"thank you."
"and who do you come to the next time you wanna cum?"
"you."
#abby anderson smut#abby anderson x female reader#abby anderson tlou2#abby anderson fluff#abby anderson x reader#abby tlou#abby anderson
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The Stars Re-Align, part 1
Frankie Morales x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst
Rating: M for Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 12.1k Warnings: Reader is given an age and a grown daughter. Starts out as Santiago x reader. Cursing, food/alcohol, meddlesome friends, mentions of military service (obviously), glancing mention of Tom's death, past drug use, off-page abusive relationship, panic attacks, complicated relationships, family drama. Summary: When your daughter and your boyfriend talk you into having a birthday party, you are not prepared for all of the surprises that come your way. Notes: A little love triangle and 'one that got away' vibe for your Feral Frankie Friday!
“Rachel!” Calling from the kitchen is an old, unbreakable habit by now, but dinner is almost ready and you know your daughter is in the living room studying. She has plans with her boyfriend tonight which means she’s getting her reading out of the way, and you’re proud of her for having such good habits and steady resolve. It’s not at all what you were like at her age, and you’ve worked hard to make sure that she has opportunities that you never could have. Being a young single mom was rough, but every second you have with your little-girl-turned-young-woman is worth it. “Supper’s ready, honey. Find your bookmark!”
“Sure thing!” There’s no point in reminding you that her book is a digital copy, no bookmark needed, but she dutifully saves the spot and closes her laptop. “It smells good.” She compliments, walking into the kitchen and over to the fridge to bust out the bottle of wine that had become a habit with dinner since high school. Nothing fancy, just a cheap sangria, but it was a ritual that both mom and daughter enjoyed. “Are you going out with Santiago tonight?” She asks as she gets down the glasses to pour.
“He might come over to watch a movie since you’re going out.” Your two-month-old relationship isn’t deeply committed or deeply anything yet, really, but you like him. He’s attentive, handsome, and funny, and deeply — okay there’s one deeply — good in bed. “Do you want the good parmesan, or the shaker can? We have both.” Spaghetti with onions, peppers, and sausage isn’t necessarily gourmet, but it’s a family staple. Something your dad used to make you when you were growing up in New York City and you have made for your daughter her whole life afterwards.
“Good parmesan.” She hums. “Let’s be fancy tonight.” Bringing the glasses over to the small kitchen table, she moves on to set out the silverware. A chore when she was younger, it’s now just become habit when you eat together. ‘Working together as a team’ is how you always phrased it and it’s something she loves about her relationship with you now. You’re a team. “I’m going to stay at Ben’s tonight, so you and Santiago can have wild sex.”
“Be safe.” She’s twenty-four, so you’re not going to quibble about her sleeping over with her boyfriend, but you do give her a meaningful look when you set down the plates on the table. “Don’t make me a grandmother and I won’t make you a sister.”
Rachel laughs, it’s the same statement you have been using since she was first dating boys after puberty. “But Mom!” She pouts playfully. “I really want a baby sister!”
“Think I’m getting a little too old for that option, honey,” you huff, but laugh anyway. “Ask Santa for one at Christmas.”
She grins at you, bringing over the basket of breadsticks that are an Olive Garden copycat. Plain frozen ones that you brush with butter and garlic salt. So many of the meals you have together are mocks of the restaurant meals she had wanted when she was younger and you couldn’t afford. As an adult, it’s humbling to see the lengths you went to in order to make her happy.
“You’re coming back tomorrow, though, right?” Though you typically aren’t one to make a big deal out of such things, Santiago had offhandedly mentioned to your daughter a few weeks ago that it was a shame you weren’t doing anything for your birthday and Rachel had jumped on board with talking you into a party. The backyard barbecue will be small, but a chance to meet your boyfriend’s friends and have a few of your own friends from work come over. “It was half your idea, after all.”
“Yeah, I’m going to be there.” She promises. “Oh, is it okay if I bring Ben?” She asks. “He’s got another party to go to if not, but he said he would rather spend time with me.”
“Yes, you can bring Ben.” He’s a few years older than Rachel and has had a very different life experience, but you like Ben Miller. He’s doing his best to make an honest way in the world and he treats Rachel with love and respect. And probably in ways that you want to know absolutely nothing about. “There’s going to be plenty of food. Santiago and I are managing that end.”
She snorts and shakes her head. “Of course you are cooking for your own party.” She huffs.
“Get sassy with me and I’ll send every stitch of leftovers home with other people,” you threaten, though it’s hollow and comes with laughter.
“Not like you won’t make enough to still bring home food.” She shoots back with a grin. If there was ever a party, you always made too much food. It might be pasta salad, but you and she would be eating it for a solid week after everyone had gone home.
“Nothing fancy,” you assure her even though you know she’s right. “Burgers and dogs. And veggie burgers for the few people that skip red meat. All the accoutrements. Santiago is in charge of the grill, which he’s very happy about. And I’m making that cheese dip you like along with my guac. Salsa is coming out of a jar despite protests.”
“Let Ben bring the salsa.” She volunteers immediately with a grin. “He’s got some recipe he got from friends he used to serve with.” She explains. “He was going to make it for their party but we can hijack it and bring it to yours.”
“Deal.” That’s one more thing off your checklist and you’re fine with that. “And the cake is coming from an actual bakery, not a supermarket. I do listen to your protests most of the time.”
“The buttercream is far superior.” She huffs happily and lifts her glass when you are both sitting down at the table. “To a wonderful birthday weekend.” She offers. “One you never forget.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” You tap your glass against hers and smile. “Forty-two feels like it will be a good one.”
******
“We have the cake, the burgers are all ready to throw on the grill. Fish is bringing the baked beans, Ironhead is bringing the potato salad and you said Rach’s boyfriend is going to bring the salsa?” He arches a brow in concern. “What do you know about this guy? Is it good salsa? Because I’m going to be offended if it’s Pace.”
“I was told he has a recipe from somebody he served with.” The Pace is in its jars in the cupboard where Santiago can’t be offended by it, and you slip past him to look at your checklist taped to the cupboards one more time. “Coleslaw is made, cheese dip is made, and you filled up the outside fridge last night so that’s all set. I think we’re okay. The last thing is the guac and that only makes a few minutes.”
Santiago slides behind you and wraps his arms around your stomach and hums. “So we have time to go back to the bedroom?” He asks playfully, even if he would haul you back there if you said yes.
“Only if you’re planning on disappointing me,” you tease, knowing he never has and never would. Not on purpose. Still, you twist to kiss away the pout that has certainly formed there. “People are going to be here any minute.”
“We could always tell them to go the fuck away.” He laughs as he suggests it and then the doorbell peels out right afterwards. “That’ll be Ironhead.” He predicts. “Will’s always early.��
“Is that his real name? Will?” You call back when Santiago goes to open the door. You can make guacamole with your eyes closed due to the fact that you’ve had this recipe longer than your daughter has been alive, and you go to the fridge to get the ingredients.
“Yeah!” He calls back over his shoulder before he opens the door to find his friend on the doorstep. The smiles are genuine, almost guilty considering the shit they’ve gone through for the past five months since South America. Grief and sorrow have pulled at them, but it also has finally started to let them live again. “You made it!”
“Of course I did. You didn’t think I’d miss out on seeing your ass do something domestic, did you?” Will ‘Ironhead’ Miller slaps Pope’s shoulder. “Nice place she’s got. You tried to move in yet?”
Pope chuckles quietly and shrugs. “Maybe in another month.” He jokes. “Gotta get in good with the kid first.”
“Right, the kid.” With another friendly slap, Will Miller steps inside the house. It’s well-appointed, clean, and obviously loved. “She coming today?” He thinks so, but he can’t remember. Although a barbecue and pool party seems like a kid thing. But somehow Will remembers the kid not being kid. Teenager? He can’t remember now.
“She spent the night with her boyfriend, but she’ll be here.” Pope nods. “Although she’s already said she won’t call me daddy but I can take her for ice cream.”
“Nobody ought to be calling you ‘Daddy’,” Ironhead huffs.
Santiago laughs and shrugs. “You’re right.” He admits, knowing that he’s not father material. One of the reasons you were an attractive option was that your kid was grown. He didn’t have to play daddy, although from what he’s understood, the dad was your first love and was too immature to stick around. “Benny didn’t ride with you?”
“His girlfriend’s got a family thing today.” Will shrugs slightly, but honestly he’s impressed. His kid brother is crazy about this girl. It’s six months in and he’s starting to use some very committed language — which is fucking thrilling to Will as it signals Benny finally starting to grow up where sex and relationships are concerned. “He’s gonna come by later.”
“That’s good. I want him to come and have a few beers. Fish should be here shortly.” Pope will be happy to see everyone, it’s better than just checking in and having a beer. This will be a good time to really catch up. “How’s things with Marie?” He asks Will softly, knowing that Frank has been a little closed mouth about things between him and his lady. South America hadn’t been great for their relationship, although no one really likes her, she’s the one who was dabbling in drugs and got Fish hooked on coke.
“She was throwing some fit last night about Fish being out with another woman.” Which is obviously bullshit. Frankie would never step out on the mother of his child. But living in the apartment next to Frankie and Marie means he overhears plenty of bullshit. “All he was doing was asking if she wanted to come today. So who knows what kind of mood he’ll show up in.”
“Shit.” Pope sighs and shakes his head as he escorts Will though the living room and towards the kitchen where you are. “He needs to just bite the bullet and leave her.”
“We all know that. But it’s Fish. Too loyal for his own fucking good.” Will hadn’t been expecting to see anyone standing in the kitchen, let alone you, and he clears his throat. “Um—sorry, ma’am. Soldier’s habit,” he apologizes.
“It’s fine,” you promise him, actually laughing at the sheer display of manners. “I survived my daughter’s teenage years. You want to know who swears more than soldiers? Teenage girls.”
It’s been a long goddamn time since Will has been around teenage girls, but he just nods politely and offers his hand. “Will Miller.” He introduces himself. “Santiago has talked you up to be some kind of Wonder Woman, and it looks like he was underestimating your worth.”
"That's very kind of you, Will." You take his hand and introduce yourself easily enough, reflecting momentarily that Santiago has pretty friends. Blonde and blue-eyed isn't your type, but good looking is good looking. "Would you mind helping us get the last few things outside? And the pool is open, I hope Santiago told everyone."
“Absolutely, ma’am.” Like any good solider, Will is going to follow orders and he immediately picks up the heavier items to carry outside. “You have a beautiful home.”
"Thank you." It's something you worked hard for, and you continue to work hard for every day. Everything in your life has been to make sure your daughter is healthy, happy, and well taken care of. It was a lucky break that you got a well-paying job in your field to boot. "And you don't have to call me ma'am. Though I appreciate the manners."
“We need to give her a nickname before Taz does.” Will snorts.
"Taz?" You haven't heard that name before, and it piques your interest as Santiago helps you set things out on the table on the deck.
Will chuckles. “Youngest in our team.” He explains. “Short for Tasmanian Devil. Brother’s like a whirlwind of stirring up shit.”
"Got it." The Army nickname thing had taken you a second to get used to, but you're on board now. It's a brotherhood thing, and you like that Santiago has such a tightknit group of friends still. It's not something you've really had much of in your life, so you're glad to see when it happens for people you care about it. "Well, I told Santiago, but whenever your friends get here just let them into the backyard. The bathroom is off the living room, but everything else worth getting at is outside."
“Yes ma’am.” He smirks slightly when he says that again before disappearing out of the sliding glass doors.
"Are all your friends polite and helpful?" You glance back at the man you've been seeing for the last few months and crack a smile. "I'm glad you invited them. It's about time we started to meet each other's friends."
“Until they are assholes.” He jokes, giving you a bittersweet smile. “We lost a friend half a year ago and it seems like we’ve had a hard time getting back in the routine. Thought this might be the little jolt we needed.”
"Then we'll make sure it's a fantastic day." He hasn't confided too much about his years in the service or about where he was before moving back to Florida a few months ago, but this is probably a large part of the reason why. Either way, you slip your arms around him for a comforting hug. It's the least you can do, when he's gone through something terrible and is willing to open about it a little.
“It’s your day.” He protests, turning and kissing your lips. “It’s supposed to be good for you, not me. We will have a few drinks, have a few laughs and then…” He waggles his brows. “Well kick everyone out and I’ll make you cum until you pass out.”
The hum that forms in the back of your throat is as pleased as it is dirty, and you kiss him once more before your doorbell rings again. "I'll get it," you nudge his nose with yours and step back, albeit reluctantly. "Go hang out with your friend."
People trickle in little by little. Friends from work, mostly, and the one mom from Rachel's school days that you stayed friends with despite Rachel and her son never actually having been friends. Eventually the text comes through from your daughter that she's a few minutes away and that makes you smile brighter than just about anything else today.
Pope pulls out his phone and texts Frankie, wondering when he’s coming – or if he’s going to come at all. He is worried about him, knowing that he’s under a lot of pressure. Marie blames him for losing his license and then going down to South America for two weeks when it was only supposed to be one. He couldn’t even tell her what happened and that was causing issues.
Had to wait for the babysitter. On my way now. Says the text that comes through a few minutes later, but there is a temporary distraction from waiting for Catfish: Rachel's car pulls up and parks outside the house, expelling both your daughter and her boyfriend onto the front lawn.
“Come on, Ben.” Rachel grabs his hand and rushes him towards the door. They are running behind because of the pre-party activities he had talked her into and while she’s not regretting that in the least, she wants to get inside and wish you happy birthday.
“Sounds like everybody’s out back, baby,” he steers her toward the fence surrounding the backyard instead of the front door, but when that brings him closer to the actual driveway of his girlfriend’s house he frowns — deeply — in confusion. He shouldn’t recognize the two vehicles sitting behind Rachel’s car and her mother’s, but there they are: Pope’s slick vintage Corvette right next to Will’s jacked up picked up truck. There’s no denying the two vehicles, he’s seen them together far too often. “The hell?” Benny breathes, but Rachel doesn’t hear him. She’s too excited to see her mom and moving them through the gate before he can hang back to do a double take at the cars.
“Mom!” Pope looks up at soon as he hears a familiar happy cry but then he’s immediately frowning. Watching as Ben Miller moves through the fence gate with Rachel. “What the fuck?”
“I told you she was bringing her boyfriend, didn’t I?” Santiago’s level of confusion is confusing in its own right, but you ignore it in favor of meeting your daughter at the edge of the porch to give her a massive hug. “Hey sweet pea!”
It helps that Benny looks just as stunned as Pope does, Will stopping short when he sees his younger brother and doesn’t hesitate to call out. “You made it!” He huffs out and shaking his head at his brother’s fickleness. “Girlfriend’s family already kick you out?”
“Nooo…” Benny blinks against the sunlight, having left his sunglasses in his truck. “You’re at the wrong party, assholes.”
The ball busting smirk immediately slides off of Will’s face, due to the knowledge that there is no way they could be at the wrong party. “Benny…” He glances at a stunned Pope and sighs heavily. “We’re at the right party.”
It only takes about a second more, but by the time Benny breathes “Ohhh shit.” He’s also cackling with laughter. “Are you telling me—” The younger Miller brother looks around and drops his voice for the sake of not embarrassing the girl he adores. “Are you telling me Pope is banging my girl’s mom?”
Will snorts and shakes his head. “Looks like.” He agrees quietly. “Hell of a birthday surprise.” He hopes that it won’t change your daughter’s mind on dating him, Rachel has been fantastic for Ben.
“Fuck….” Pope snickers quietly, shaking his head at the irony. He should probably go spell this out for you so you don’t take it the wrong way. No one knew. Even after hearing about Benny’s girlfriend for months, only Will and Fish had met her so far.
Rachel pulls back and gives you a beaming smile. “Happy Birthday Mom.” She hums, winking at you. “Santiago spend the night last night since I was with Ben?” She’s not been paying attention to the guys, too focused on you.
“We fell asleep watching our second movie.” It’s mostly true — true enough that you can play it off as innocent because you did technically nod off during the second movie — but the empty bowl of popcorn and wine glasses in the living room had waited until this morning to be cleared away once you hauled each other off to bed. “Did Ben have a fight last night or did you guys just go out?”
“No fight.” She shakes her head. “Next weekend, so we just got to go out. Although he wants to know if you would like to come to the fight.” You’ve met Benny and she thinks you like him, but she wants you to get to know him better. Which is why she had suggested they go to your party today instead of his friends’.
“If you want me to.” You don’t feel too excited to watch your daughter’s boyfriend get beat up, but you do want to get to know him better. Rach is so obviously head over heels for him.
“It’s up to you.” She smiles and looks back at Ben, curious to find Will here. “Um— what’s his brother doing here?”
“Whose brother?” Turning to follow her eyes, your head tilts slightly in interest. Santiago and Will are deep in conversation with Benny already. “That’s one of Santiago’s friends. Will.”
“Mom…” Rachel’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s Will Miller…Benny’s older brother.”
“That…” You swallow, slowly registering the situation as you watch the men interact. “That makes things interesting…” You’re dating a man who served with your daughter’s boyfriend…this is going to get complicated…
“Oh god.” Rachel bites her lip as Benny and Pope quickly break away and come over to the two of you. “So…”
“So, this is interesting.” You repeat the phrase almost disbelieving.
“Kind of a funny coincidence, huh?” Benny wraps his arms around Rachel and plants a kiss in her hair.
“I didn’t know.” Rachel promises you with a small shake of her head. “Shit, Ben. I can’t believe I didn’t know it.”
“I think I know why.” You observe, clearing your throat and accepting the comfort of Santiago’s arm around your waist as you look up (and up) at Ben. “I’m going to guess that your nickname while you were serving together was Taz?”
“Yeah.” Benny nods and looks back between all the other men. “Oh fuck, we’ve been just using our nicknames and they didn’t know.” He groans. "I'm sorry baby." He turns to Rachel with an apologetic look. "Pope was talking about his new girl and spending as much time as possible with her, so he missed the last fight you were at."
“It’s a little unconventional,” you admit, wondering what Santiago thinks of all this. “But not terrible, right?” As close in age as you and Rachel are, it wouldn’t be the first time you have had mutual friends. Just the first time you were ever dating mutual friends.
"He's a good guy." Pope assures you, like it's the first time you've met Benny. "And we can kick his ass if needed."
Benny snorts and rolls his eyes. "You wish, old man."
“Rach?” Your fingers run through her loose curls gently and you give her a questioning look. While this isn’t the day you want to have — after all, you do like Santiago — it’s ultimately up to her. Everything is and always has been in your life, and you made that decision for a reason.
"I don't think that you need to stop seeing Santiago just because he knows Ben." She rationalizes. "I think it's fine, what do you think?"
“Just as long as you’re comfortable with it.” That goes for the men involved, too. But they don’t seem to mind beyond being apologetic.
Rachel snorts and shrugs. "Just as long as they don't share sex stories." She giggles and shoots Santiago a smirk. "And we won't either."
“I was not planning on it, sweet pea.” You might be close, but that’s a step too far even for you. “Never ever.”
Agreeing completely, she walks up to Pope and gives him a hug. "So if you make my mom cry, I'll have my boyfriend beat you up." She teases.
“Got it.” She’s a grown woman, but he can’t resist the urge to mess with her thick hair, watching her face wrinkle in disapproval before she moves back to Benny, who smooths the familiar curls with care. “Now we just need Catfish to get here and we’ll have everybody.”
"I'm here!" A hand appears over the fence before he opens it, hat pulled low, and he grunts when he picks up the cooler full of ice and beer that he had stopped and picked up on the way. "Sorry I'm late."
“Fish!” Benny kisses the side of Rachel’s head before peeling off to grab the cooler from him and take it to the porch so his friend can catch his breath. He doesn’t see the tick in the tilt of your head or the way your eyes widen just a second later.
'Fish', or Francisco Morales, looks up and smirks at Benny when he grabs the cooler. Thankful, although he wouldn't make too much of a fuss about it. Getting older sucked and he's still feeling the effects of that workout he helped the other man do just two days ago when his normal sparring partner was sick. "'Bout time you made yourself useful." He huffs playfully and looking towards Pope to wave. Freezing with his arm halfway up in greeting when he sees someone that he had never expected to see before – you.
The way you shrink into yourself immediately is instinct. As much shock as anything else. But within seconds you’re stepping forward to block Rachel from view and shakily a demand an explanation. “What the shit is going on?” You hiss, though you’re not exactly sure who you’re talking to, you just don’t want to make a scene in front of your coworkers. They consider you to be such a calm, collected woman.
Frowning, Pope turns towards you, reaching out to touch your arm and stepping closer to you. "Babe— what's wrong? What are you talking about?" He follows your gaze back to Fish and he grunts in confusion. "Fish? He's another teammate. One of my best friends."
“Fuck.” Deflating on the spot, you feel like you could just collapse where you stand but that wouldn’t help the situation any. “We—we, um—know each other,” you explain quietly. “But it’s been a long time.”
Feeling like he's been kicked in the chest by one of those fucking mules, Frankie stumbles forward and murmurs your name softly. "I— what are you doing here?" He asks, frowning slightly.
“This is my house.” You wonder if Santiago even explained where he was inviting him, or if you have a nickname to their group just like they all do to each other. “I wouldn’t expect you to still remember my birthday.”
All the blood drains from his face and it falls into a wounded look. Realizing that you have to be Pope's girl. "I— remembered." He murmurs quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Seven billion people in the world. Figured someone else would have the same day too." It's almost a kick in the teeth, that comment of yours. Considering he had a fight with Marie because he had said your name this morning when he was talking to himself after waking up. You were the reason he had fought, again, with the mother of his child and she had pitched a fit and left. Making him wait on a babysitter so he could come to this party. To find out that it was for you. He's so fucking lucky that Marie isn't here. He clears his throat roughly and bites his lip. "Happy birthday, gatita." He uses the nickname from a million years ago and steps back. "I should go."
A press of overwhelming guilt and the instinct to stop him makes you reach out, grabbing his arm before you can stop yourself. “No. You shouldn’t.” You admit, even though it hurts.
"No," He shakes his head and gives you a wry smile. "I should." He sighs softly and looks over at Pope. "This is your girl, huh?" He asks, confusing the other man even more. "Keep her and take care of her." He tells him. "You'll regret it if you don't." He reaches for your hand and pries it off his arm gently, squeezing it before letting it go.
“Where’s Fish going?” Benny returns from the deck just a second too late, but just in time to watch Frankie leave again and see the bewildered looks on his friends’ faces.
"I don't fucking know." The entire day has been one big bag of surprises and Pope doesn't particularly like surprises. He turns towards you for some kind of explanation, although the nickname gatita sounds familiar, like Fish has mentioned it before. "You know Frank?"
“We grew up together.” It’s the best you can hiccup out before you take off like a shot, following Frankie through the gate. “Frankie!” He’s already down at the street, but he pauses when you call his name and it gives you time to catch up.
Waiting for you as you rush towards him, Frankie takes off his Standard Oil hat and scratches his hair. Struck by how nostalgic the moment is, waiting for you to catch up to him so many times once upon a lifetime ago. “Look, I’m sorry.” He sighs when you are closer. “I didn’t know, okay? I’m going.”
“I think you should stay.” Not as fit as you once were, you puff a little and put your arms around your waist. “We, uh—for Santiago, if nothing else. You’re his friend and I—I’m somebody you used to know.” And there is so, so much to tell him…
The idea that you might want him there makes him pause and he frowns slightly as he stares at you for a moment. “Only if you’re sure.” He still hesitates. “It’s your birthday after all.”
“It is.” And you’re not sure. You’re really not. But since he’s reappearing in your life almost twenty-five years later, the lump in your throat is winning over logic.
“Last time I saw you was on your birthday.” Frankie frowns, wondering how he could have been such a shit head back then. “Seems like the circle is complete.”
“Eighteen was a long time ago.” It was right before he left for boot camp, and you’d been pushing him to commit to you before he left. A stupid thing to do at such a young age. You know that now. But you were so stupid in love with him back then and there was so much going on.
“Yes it was.” He can admit that, biting his lip and shuffling slightly. “And I was an asshole.” He had broken his own damn heart, even if he hadn’t known it at the time.
“I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.” Squeezing your eyes shut makes you feel like your heart is going to burst, but the universe has decided that it’s time to finally time to come clean. “I was scared. And I’m sorry.”
“I was stupid.” Frankie has so many regrets from that time of his life, just compounded over the years and he almost steps closer to you, but he doesn’t. He can’t, he doesn’t have that right anymore. “I proved you right. I didn’t come back.” The argument is still confusing in his memory, just as much as it had confused him then. You had pushed to get married before he left and he had wanted to wait. It had become a sticking point and in his stubbornness, he had broken up with you.
“You didn’t come back and you didn’t have a cell phone…and then your parents moved.” With their only child moved on, Frankie’s father had accepted a transfer upstate from the Standard Heating & Oil Co that both of your fathers worked for. “I had—I had no way to talk to you. To—to tell you—” Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, surprising you since you thought you had cried every last tear you had over Frankie Morales.
“Tell me?” Frankie frowns and he does step closer, hating to see tears in your eyes again on a birthday. Especially because they seem to be because of him again. “Tell me what, gatita?”
“Fair warning.” Wiping at the corners of your eyes, you can’t quite look him in his even when you straighten out again. “You’ll hate me. And you probably should, at this point.”
“I don’t think I could hate you.” Frankie admits quietly, unable to even imagine a world where he would.
“You might.” Wiping your hands down your face and breathing out a deep, frustrated groan, you look up again to see the eyes of the boy who was your first everything looking back at you, and you crumble. “I didn’t have any way to contact you,” you repeat again, knowing you could and should have tried harder anyway. “And I was scared of losing you because — because I was pregnant.”
The way his brows pull down is instantaneous and he immediately puts his hands on his hips and twists around as he absorbs your news. “You— you were pregnant?” He chokes out, looking back at you with a wounded expression. “I— what? No? What— pregnant?”
“That’s…that’s why I was pushing you so hard to propose.” You admit, eyes cast down at the ground.
“You didn’t say a word.” Frankie shakes his head. “Why— why didn’t you tell me? If I had known—”
“I thought if I told you that you’d only run away from me faster.” Which, at eighteen years old, had seemed like pretty sound logic to you. “By the time I was scared enough to just want you there regardless, it was too late. You were…you were gone.”
“By the time—” he shakes his head, eyes wide and he swallows harshly. “What happened? Don’t— I— what are you saying?”
"I'm saying that you have a daughter." A fact which sticks in your throat now like you had tried to swallow a pinecone. "Who is smart, and kind, and headstrong, and stubborn as hell. But she's doing so well for herself that a lot of that stubbornness just slides right by."
Frankie blanks out for a minute, staring at you before he turns away. Grappling with his emotions as he bends over and tries to take a breath, groaning slightly in disbelief. “No.” He shakes his head, turning back to you. “No! Don’t tell me that!”
"I'm sorry." It isn't worth much, as apologies go, but you kneel down beside him on the grass and wonder if he'll be mad enough to strike out if you put a hand on his back. "I really am. You should have known a long time ago."
“Twenty-four,” he chokes out. “You are telling me I have a twenty-four year old daughter?” His face screws up in the regret and tears. “Please tell me you’re fucking joking.”
"I had no way to tell you." It's a lame excuse, or at least it feels lame, and you do rest your hand on his back but it's so gentle you don't even know if he can feel it.
“Oh fuck….fuck, fuck, fuck…..” Frankie moans, closing his eyes and his fists bunch against his thighs. “I-I-I— don’t— I can’t –”
"Frankie?" His breathing sounds panicked, and you soothe one hand in circles around his back. "Breathe, okay? Just breathe. Everything's okay. She—she's grown. She's raised. No one is asking you to do anything."
“I—I missed it.” He manages. “I missed everything.” Closing his eyes as he realizes that his trajectory of his life would have been vastly different if he had known.
Oh. It's the opposite. The exact opposite. He's not panicked that you're going to expect him to stay, like you thought he was. He's upset that he missed Rachel's childhood. "There's...there's still the whole rest of her life ahead."
“I— I should have been there.” He drops his head down even more. “Fuck— you must hate me. She must hate me.”
"It's my fault you didn't know. Why would I hate you?" As much as it has ever hurt to lose him, you've never actually hated him. Just missed him. Which isn't the same although they can be confused for each other. "And Rachel— Frankie, she knows the truth. That we were young and lost touch."
“Rachel.” He shakes his head, focusing on her name and it’s so goddamn familiar. “Her name is Rachel?”
"My aunt Rachel died right before she was born," you explain, wondering if he even remembers meeting your mother's sister a million and a half times at different family functions while you were together. He was always invited for every holiday.
“God.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, hating that he had been such a fucking idiot back then. “I’m so sorry.” He whispers.
"I am, too." More sorry than you can possibly say, but what else can you do at this point but try to move forward?
“So I managed to ruin another birthday of yours.” He pushes aside the grief and sorrow that is threatening to overwhelm him and locks it down. Compartmentalize, shutting down, it’s what he knows best. He can freak out about this later when he’s left.
"It's not ruined." It's awkward, and it's uncomfortable, and you're not really sure what to do now. But it's not ruined. "It's—it's not—I don't know what today is, but it's..." you sigh heavily and stand up again. "I don't know, Frankie. If you want to leave that's up to you. But our lives cross now, and I know...I know Rachel would want to meet you."
“Oh god. Is she— is she there? Here?” He asks, shaking his head. “Can I meet her?”
"If I wasn't going to let you meet her, I would have just kept my mouth shut about the whole thing," you needle him gently. Just wishing he could or would do as much as crack a smile. It seems desperately needed.
The huff, the quarter of a smile is almost involuntary. Almost in disbelief and he looks over at you with a heavy stare. “I want to meet her.” He tells you quietly. “If I had known, things would have been so different for us, gatita.”
"No use crying over spilled milk, I think." Twenty-four years of regret is a lot to process, but you nod in acknowledgement. Just a small motion of thanks that he is at least saying out loud what you suspected.
“Fuck.” He huffs again and uncurls his hands to wipe them on his jeans. “I’m nervous.”
"Telling you not to be seems cruel," you huff, though you're not sure what else to say. "No one planned this. No one saw this coming. It will be as much of a shock to her as it is to you. As—as it was to me to see you."
“Forty-two.” He shakes his head and looks back over at you in awe. “You don’t look a day over fucking eighteen.” It might be a small embellishment, but you look amazing and so much like the girl he has loved for so long.
"You're not so bad yourself." Santiago may be on the other side of that fence, but a part of your heart has always and will always belong to scrawny Frankie Morales from Brooklyn. Even if he isn't scrawny anymore – which is a thing you can't help but notice.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, centering himself before he nods. “We should go back.” He murmurs.
"I promise she's not scary." Although you'll understand when it is a complete shock to her. And to the others. "Just...let me tell her first? I ran after you so fast that I didn't explain to anyone else yet."
Both of you stand up and he scrubs his hands on his jeans again. “Sure, sure.” He agrees, knowing that it could be sort of a shock, even if she’s known about him her whole life.
"Remember to breathe," you advise him with a wry chuckle, even though it's good advice for you too.
“When I remember how.” Frankie snorts, slightly pacing in place as he glances towards the back yard gate.
"Come on." Nodding toward the yard, you take a step in that direction to see if it will spur him on. The urge to offer him your hand is misplaced, and you have to quell it by putting your hands in your jeans pockets. "We've kept them waiting long enough."
Frankie exhales roughly and trails along behind you, wanting you to take the lead. He has to tell you about Luna at some point, but he will do that after he meets the daughter he never knew he had.
“Sorry about that.” Once you’re on the other side of the gate again, you see Rachel standing in the midst of Santiago, Benny, and Will all looking concerned. “That was…unexpected? Shall we say?”
“Mom?” Rachel moves closer to you and frowns as her eyes slide back to where Frankie is hanging back. “Why are you upset with Fish?” She asks softly, looking back at the other three men and then back at you. “You said you knew him? When? I don’t remember you dating him.” Your dates had been few and far between, even rarer that she had met them, but she would have remembered someone called Catfish.
“I’m not upset, sweet pea. I’m just surprised.” It’s a lie, but a prudent one. You are upset, and it’s because your little slice of peace has been disturbed. But no one did that on purpose, so you’ll just have to live with it. “Why don’t we—we should talk about this inside.”
“No. Here. Now.” She has inherited her stubbornness both you and Frankie. And she’s eyeing the man she had met a few months ago and hung out with suspiciously. He looks like he’s about to be sick and she’s not above taking a baseball bat to his knees if needed, whether or not she had liked him before.
“Rach, I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” you murmur, looking around the backyard. Most people are milling about and a few are in the pool, but they obviously all know something is up.
Rachel stares at you for a minute and then she shoots Frankie a glare because you look so upset before she turns around and marches towards the house.
“You guys, too,” you decide, figuring it’s probably best to get all of this over with. Santiago is dating you, Benny is dating Rachel, and Will is bound to find everything out soon enough.
There’s not a lot of hope for him with the glare shot his way, so Frankie hangs back for a moment. Reconciling the fact that Rachel is the girl that Benny has been dating. His daughter is dating his friend. His friend who has been bragging about his girl to him. And their sex life. He’s going to throw up or punch Ben in the mouth.
Once everyone is inside, you check to make sure the bathroom is empty and close the sliding doors tightly. Everyone outside can wait. This is far more important. “Everything is okay,” you start, making sure that right off the bat Rachel knows you aren’t mad and Santiago understands you don’t hate his best friend. His best friend. Fuck. “It was just—as surprising as it was to find out Santiago and Ben are friends…this is an even bigger surprise.”
Frankie leans on the side of the wall, staring at the tip of his boot as he tries to wait for you to tell Rachel. He can’t blurt it out, she’s your kid. Not his— not really. He hasn’t done a goddamn thing to help raise her, but he has to admire the job you’ve done.
"The thing is, Rach." Blowing out a breath, you reach out for your daughter's hand and just pray she won't hate you. "You wouldn't remember when I dated Frankie. Because it was before you were born."
“Hermano.” Pope’s eyes widen and the nickname clicks. He knew he had heard it before. “Gatita? This is—” he whistles quietly. “Mierda.”
When Rachel still looks confused, you breathe deeply and try your best not to shake. Or to chicken out. "There are a lot of blanks to fill in along the way, but...sweet pea...Frankie is—" Oh god, you're going to throw up. You're absolutely going to throw up. "He's your father."
You could hear a pin drop, or a mouse fart, the room is so quiet. Every head snapping towards Frankie in judgement and he doesn’t pay them any attention, focusing on the one person right now that matters. His daughter.
"I don't understand." Rachel stands bog still, clutching your hand with eyes as wide as saucers as she looks frantically between you and Frankie. She had liked this man. He is a good friend to Ben. But now she doesn't know what to think.
“Your mom and I were high school sweethearts.” Frankie isn’t sure what you might have told her, but he’s going to tell her what he knows to be true. “More like middle school, but you know?” He shrugs. “I didn’t know she was pregnant.” He promises. “I swear I didn’t know.”
Will sighs from the other side of the room. “Oh shit.”
"Everything I ever told you about him was the truth." You had worked hard to always be fair to Frankie when you were raising Rachel, even if it led to never telling her very much about him unless she asked. "He didn't know, and I had no way of telling him. It's been...it's been twenty-five years since we even spoke to each other. So you can understand why I was surprised to see him walk in today."
“And he’s friends with your boyfriend and mine.” There’s a note of disbelief in her voice that Frankie doesn’t blame her for.
“We were on the same team for years.” Frankie explains. “I was their pilot.”
“That’s why we lost touch,” you remind your daughter gently. “He left for boot camp.” Considering Ben isn’t the first Army boy that Rachel has dated, you have always sort of had a suspicion that she was subconsciously searching for her dad in these men. It just never occurred to you that it would actually work.
She looks at him, almost accusatory in her gaze. “Why did you never come back?” She demands. “If you loved her, why did you just walk away?”
That makes Frankie wince, and he shoves his hands in his pockets again. “Have you ever done something dumb and been too goddamn proud to admit you were wrong?” He asks quietly, and Pope, despite his own feelings about the entire situation, won’t let Frankie’s daughter twist in the wind.
“He used to talk about his gatita.” He interjects. “Regretting not making up with her and wishing he could get in contact with her.”
“It was harder back then, honey.” The gentle reminder is important, because Rachel might not have grown up in a world of luxury but she’s definitely never known a world without cell phones or social media. “When I told your grandparents that you were coming, we moved. It was just a little further outside the city, but the place was bigger and the neighborhood was safer. Your grandma found a better job and— and with neither of our families still in Brooklyn, we couldn’t have found each other. Even if your dad had come back looking for me, or tried to call our old apartment? We wouldn’t have been there.” At least she hasn’t ripped her hand out of yours yet. You’re considering that a good thing “We were kids, and we made mistakes. Very big ones. But you know he didn’t leave because he didn’t love you.”
“I would have never.” He promises, his voice thick with emotions. He shakes his head and frowns slightly. He doesn’t know why he didn’t realize who she was to him now that he knows. She looks just like a perfect combination of you and him, with your nose, thank God. But her ears curl just like his.
“Oh god…” In trying to process everything, Rachel glances up and looks at Frankie’s hat again, groaning to herself and wiping one hand at the bottom of her neck just like he does — but neither of them ever noticed the simile gesture. “I always just thought the hat was a funny coincidence,” she admits with a huff.
“My hat?” He takes it off and scrubs his hair quickly before putting it back on his head. “Had it since I was a kid.”
The Miller brothers look confused, and you offer them a wilted smile with your explanation. "Both of our fathers, Rach's grandfathers...they both worked for Standard for forever. That's how Frankie and I met."
“Oh shit.” Benny frowns slightly and moves over to Rachel’s side, squeezing her hip supportively.
"I know this is a lot." It's a lot for everyone, but you're mostly just talking to Rachel. Your whole adult life has been lived for your baby girl and now emotions are unraveling at light speed. "But nothing has to change. You're a grown woman, sweet pea. And whatever relationship you want with your Dad is up to you."
“I’ve spent time with him.” She admits quietly. “After a fight of Benny’s.” She looks back at Frankie and bites her lip. “But I’d like to get to know him as my dad.”
"I know this just got sprung on everybody," you murmur again. The fact is that right now you have a yard full of people and all you want to do is disappear under your comforter and pretend it isn't happening. "But...life throws you curveballs, right?"
“Yeah.” Frankie huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling like his entire world has turned on its head. Wishing like hell he could snort a line but he promised himself he wouldn’t touch that shit again.
"We should give you guys some privacy." When Will finally speaks up, it's to motion to his brother and to Pope that maybe they should step outside. There are a lot of emotions creating tension in this room and they're not going to be made easier by having an audience.
Pope shuffles slightly, wanting to stay, but he also needs to think about this entire thing. The situation is blowing up and he doesn’t want to make things worse.
"Maybe you could throw the burgers on the grill? And we'll be out in a few minutes?" He had offered to be in charge of the grill today but that was before everything had gone to hell and now you have no idea what he's thinking. "And I promise we'll talk through everything, too."
“Of course.” He nods and doesn’t lean in to kiss you like he might have just a few minutes before walking in this house. Feeling almost guilty for the entire situation right now.
That missing kiss is enough to tell you that everything has changed. Santiago has never shied away from affection or from public displays, and this is exactly the time that a partner might have offered that kind of comfort. Whatever you end up talking to him about later, you're now prepared for him to end things. But you can't fault him for that. You had a baby with his best friend – even if you didn't know each other then.
“Baby?” Benny looks at Rachel, checking with her before he leaves.
"It's okay," she promises him, going up on her toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. "I'll find you when we come back out." And she's going to find a White Claw or six in the garage fridge, too. Fuck.
“Okay.” He shoots Frankie a worried look, not liking the despair on his friend’s face and shuffles to the door.
"I figured it might be easiest to just tell them the facts up front and then let all of us talk," you tell them both, now wondering if that was the right move at all.
“Yeah.” Frankie nods, understanding why you did it, but he looks over at Rachel with regret and waits for her to say something.
"Do you, actually...do you mind if I talk to Frankie—" Rachel hums awkwardly over it, before reconsidering. "If I talk to my father alone for a few minutes?" She sort of feels like they're ganging up on him, and while she has questions and she's sure that you do, too...hers are going to be very different from yours.
“I don’t mind.” Frankie glances back over at you for approval.
"I should go make the rounds outside." As much as you don't want to, it is your party and they are your guests out there. Most of whom noticed that something odd has happened even if they don't know what. Still, you nod and lean over to hug your daughter. "Come back out when you’re ready. Ben looked like he'll worry until you do."
“I will.” She promises and Frankie catches your eye as you glance over at him.
“Thanks.” He murmurs, thanking you for the opportunity to talk to Rachel. He knows you could have been very different with this entire thing. Blowing out a breath when you walk out and shut the door, he looks back at his grown daughter. “So hit me with it.” He tells her.
For a second Rachel is dumbfounded. She just stands and stares at him, but then her shoulders slump and she shrugs and she blows out a long sigh. “I guess I know the real reason my middle name is Francine,” she poses, shaking her head. “Mom said it was because The Nanny is her favourite show and I completely fucking believe that because she worships Fran Drescher, but I’m willing to bet that’s one of only like six lies she’s ever told me in my whole life and it’s actually because of you.”
“Francisco Alberto Morales.” He introduces himself to her quietly, nodding and trying not to be humbled by the fact that you gave your daughter a version of his name. Something to connect the two of you.
“And you guys were…you were together for a long time?” She knows the story. She’s heard it from you over and over again. But something in her feels like she needs to hear it confirmed from him.
“Seventh grade until her 18th birthday.” He frowns at the way that makes him sound, how callous it could be construed. He has just walked away after so long.
“And she wanted to get married.” Rachel prompts, needing these landmarks of the story confirmed for her.
“We had a plan.” He shuffles slightly and looks around the neat and well decorated home. You’ve done well for yourself and it shows. “I was going to get through boot camp and my ‘A’ school while she started college and then when I got to my first duty station, she would transfer to a school nearby.” His shoulders round when he remembers that last fight, the missing piece now clicked into place and with maturity, he can see that you had been terrified, not overbearing. “Her birthday, she blind-sided me with getting married.”
“She wanted to skip forward and get married first, and you didn’t agree.” She can see it from both sides, now. As an adult it makes sense why an eighteen-year-old planning his life would think his girlfriend was just trying to trap him — or even that she wanted the wedding more than she wanted him. “But…you never got married at all? Even after Mom?”
“No.” Marie isn’t married to him, he couldn’t do that even if he had been inclined to. She was still technically married to some guy in her past, or so she claimed. “But….”
“Oh god, don’t say Marie.” Rachel bursts out, talking before she can even think. “She’s awful, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. I didn’t feel like I had a right to say anything before but I totally do now and she’s abusive and terrible, and I will absolutely help you leave her if you need help. I’ll babysit Luna anytime and — oh my god Luna is my sister—”
Frankie shuffles and looks down at his feet. Marie hadn’t been at her best the first time that Rachel had come to the bar after the fight. She had been pissed off because his hearing had been postponed again and he wasn’t closer to getting his pilot’s license back.
“Look, if you’re happy, it’s whatever.” Rachel shuffles, not realizing she’s moving the same way as Frankie, and shrugs. She senses she’s hit a nerve. “I’ll still help with Luna whenever you need. I—I always wanted a baby sister…”
“She’s not bad.” Frankie had dealt with her for a long time and it seemed harder to leave than it was to stay. “That was a bad night.”
“If you say so.” She doesn’t believe him, but the very first day she meets her father isn’t the day to push too hard.
He doesn’t know what to say, so he looks around the house again. “Did you and your mom struggle?” He asks quietly.
“My grandparents helped.” The short answer is yes, but she doesn’t want to make him feel guilty. “We lived with them when I was little, then we moved down here when I was about thirteen. Mom got a job with Disney.”
Frankie nods, frowning slightly. He has his retirement and his Thrift Savings Plan from the military, which he will hopefully be able to not use once he gets his license back. He’s not in the best position to offer any kind of help, but he will. “You’re in school, right?” He asks.
“I’m getting my masters at UCF.” Rachel nods again. “I still live with Mom. Here, I mean. She didn’t make me leave or anything when I started college.”
She’s dedicated. Frankie knows that college, especially graduate programs, are expensive. “That’s good.” He bites his lip and wonders if the offer would offend her. “I have my G.I. Bill.” He mentions. “I can gift it to a spouse – which I don’t have.” He shrugs. “Or a child.”
It's a very sweet offer, but that doesn't really surprise her. She already knows Frankie is a sweet guy. "Save it for Luna," she tells him. "I have great scholarships, and that way she'll be able to look forward to school without worrying about student loans."
It’s feels like a rejection, even though he knows it’s not. He nods and clears his throat. “That’s good.” He has an odd sense of pride for her achievements, even though he had done nothing to contribute.
"What do you want to know about me?" There's probably plenty, but now Rachel feels a bit self-conscious. She's at least heard stories about him. All he knows about her is whatever Ben has told him.
“Everything.” The word tumbles out before he can stop himself and he looks embarrassed. “I— I want to know everything.”
"Everything is a lot," she laughs, but understands. She wants to know everything about him too. She's wondered about her father forever. "What if...what if we did some father/daughter stuff? I could come over and spend time with you and Luna or we could grab a drink sometimes? Just...exist together. And all the get to know you stuff will come in time?"
“Yeah.” He nods eagerly and smiles at her, his eyes crinkling and his face lighting up at the idea. “I like that. Any time. Any time at all.”
“Okay.” She’s feeling bone tired by all of this so she can only imagine how you and Frankie feel, but as Rachel moves over to the notepad on the far table to write her number down for him, she purses her lips slightly and tilts her head. Her thinking face. “Don’t…please don’t be too hard on Mom?” She asks, holding the slip of paper out to him a second later. “She doesn’t ever say it, but I know she’s missed you. And she worked so hard to raise me alone, she just…she deserves the world.”
“I’m not mad at your mother, querida.” He promises, taking the paper and looking down at it before he folds it up carefully and tucks it into his pocket. “I’m mad at myself.” He explains. “Too goddamn proud to admit I was wrong, and I apparently missed out on a hell of a life.” He looks up at her with pride. “And a hell of a daughter.”
“Well shucks, Paw,” she laughs, obviously very touched by the sentiment. “I guess we both have a bunch to catch up on. But we can do that.”
He snorts and huffs out a grin. “By the way, I’m going to punch your boyfriend in the mouth.” He warns Rachel. “So don’t go screaming at me when it happens.”
“Benny?” She makes an audible huffing sound. “What did he do?”
“You’ll find out.” He won’t say now, but he shrugs. “He deserves it, and he’ll know it.”
“Seems weird, but okay.” Men do weird things sometimes. She’s not so young that she doesn’t know that.
He chuckles and sweeps his head off his head again. “You look like your mother when you wrinkle your nose.”
“It’s funny.” She wrinkles her nose again but consciously, wondering if she really does look like you that way. “She always said I had your smile. And your ears.”
Frankie reaches out and brushes her curls back behind her ears and smiles. “You do have my ears.” He admits.
“Is it weird? She asks, stifling a laugh. “To realize that?”
“Surreal.” He admits with a sigh. “I don’t know what to think. I went from being too old to have a six-month-old, to being the dad to a grown ass woman.”
“I was teasing Mom about wanting a little sister last night,” Rachel admits with a groan at the irony. “Shows me right.”
Frankie smirks slightly and shrugs. “Isn’t life sometimes a kick in the teeth?”
******
“What a Fucking kick in the teeth.” Will pushes out a sigh in the backyard, cracking open the beer he grabbed from the cooler Fish brought.
“Yeah.” Pope frowns at the grill, pushing the perfectly aligned burgers with the spatula. “Who would have thought?”
"What are you gonna do?" It's not as though Pope has had a lot of time to think, but Will knows him long enough to know that the wheels are already spinning. They have all heard Fish talk about his gatita, and now that they know who she is? It at least warrants a reaction.
Pope glances over at Will before he looks back at the grill, his movements a little stiffer than just a moment before. “What can I do?” He asks rhetorically. “She was his first.”
"Just because she was his first doesn't mean that he has to be her last," Benny offers, not quite sure what else to say. They all know that Pope had been starting to fall for you, even if it had never been said. Now he is very obviously pulling back.
"No, but she would want him to be." He admits quietly. "She had told me about her first love. She didn't tell me his name." He says pointedly when Benny opens his mouth to ask the obvious question. "But she told me enough to know that she's still in love with him. And we know that Frankie never got over her."
"So it's not about stepping back," Will observes, sipping his beer in the hot Florida sun. "It's about letting them be together."
Closing the grill, Pope sighs, hands on his hips as he looks around the backyard and comes to his decision. "Don't you think Fish deserves to be happy?" He asks quietly.
"Of course he does." The idea that Will might think otherwise practically makes him clutch his proverbial pearls.
"And fuck knows we want Marie gone," Benny huffs under his breath.
"His gatita is the one to make both of those wishes come true." He's sure of it and he will bow out like a gentleman. It's the least he can do since the last half year of hell in his personal life is partially his responsibility. He had pushed Fish to come to South America. Pope looks back at both of the other men. "Want to help me fix Fish's life?"
Benny is the first to smirk, clapping his hands together and rubbing them dramatically. "You gonna pull a binder out of your ass or are we talking this one through?"
"First, I'm going to get really drunk and pretend like I'm not falling on a sword." Pope snorts, snatching the beer out of Will's hand and taking a drink. "Then, we're gonna figure out how to get Fish custody of Luna." He tells them quietly. "That little girl is the reason he's still with Marie."
"We just need proof that she's the one with the drug problem." Will mumbles, not wanting to say those words too loud. "And we need his hearing to go through so he can get his damn license back."
"Yeah." He sighs and points at Will. "Can you talk to your ex?" Pope asks, knowing it's a big favor. "She's still working in the DA's office, right? Maybe she can help us? Or know someone who can?" Being a paralegal isn't the same as being an assistant DA, but she knows people.
"I'll see if she can at least point me in the right direction," Will nods in agreement, knowing that as uncomfortable as talking to his ex-fiancée will be, it's definitely the right course of action. "She always like Fish. It shouldn't be too hard to get her to give an e-mail or phone number of who can help."
“Marie isn’t going be happy learning about Rachel.” Pope glances at Benny. “You know that.”
"She's going to be furious." Ben agrees, wiping his hand through his hair and blowing out a raspberry. "She's gonna think Fish kept it from her on purpose."
“Poor bastard looked like he was about to fall over.” Pope sighs. “I hate this.”
"We're gonna make it work," Benny promises him. "Sorry you got shoved into the middle of it, though."
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t and it actually really hurt that he was going to have to end things with you and pretend that he’s just friends with you, but his brother is worth it.
"Better to find out now than a year from now," Will offers, knowing it isn't a whole lot of comfort. But at least it's honest.
“Yeah.” You walk out of the house and he immediately turns to watch you. “Better now.” Santi murmurs, his heart aching.
******
Most people leave around dinner time, splintering off to nighttime plans or to go home to their families. Santiago, Frankie, and the Miller brothers stayed long enough to help you clean up and Rachel is loading the dishwasher when you realize Santiago has gone temporarily missing. On a hunch, you go down the hall to your bedroom and frown to see him there, tucking things back into his duffel bag.
"Decided not the stay the night?"
He hates that you caught him and he stands tall after shoving in a t-shirt and tamping down the guilty feeling. “It’s been a…surprising day.” He tells you. “Figured it might be better to change the plan for tonight.”
"Just for tonight?" You have a feeling you know the answer, but you want it out in the open. No questions or doubts.
His eyes slide away from you and for a moment, he falters. Wondering if this is the wrong thing to do. “No.” He admits, walking over to you and cupping your cheeks in his hand. “I am— was— falling in love with you.” He won’t lie to you. “But you’ve been in love with Frank for far longer than you’ve loved me.”
It's enormously frustrating for him to be both presumptuous and right. The last thing you want is to admit it, especially as tears press at the back of your eyes, and so a protest comes out of your mouth instead. "He's with someone else," you point out, knowing that someone mentioned it earlier. One of the Miller brothers, you think. "He's—he's—it's so complicated, Santi."
“I know it is.” His brow pinches together and he leans forward to kiss your forehead. “And if it’s too complicated, I won’t let you twist in the wind.” He promises. “But you deserve to find out if your love for him is still there.”
"This isn't how I saw today ending." Overwhelmed and next to tears was definitely not on the docket, but you're not going to beg him to stay. That's not the kind of girl you are anymore. You haven't been in a long time. "What a shitty birthday."
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Pope closes his own eyes and leans his forehead against yours. “I can stay if you want.” He offers in a whisper, feeling guilty all over as his resolve crumbles.
"You'd feel guilty if you did." He's a good man, that's why. It's part of what you liked so much about him when you met, and part of what's grown on you. "Like you were betraying Frankie."
“I would still stay.” He promises.
"You'd feel guilty and then you'd start to resent me." The defense mechanism of crossing your arms over your chest might guard you in spirit, but it doesn't stop you from feeling like utter dogshit in this moment. "Just...know that this isn't how I wanted things to go between us. That's all."
“I know.” He murmurs softly, the slight smile on his lips ironic. “I know, baby. I didn’t want this either.” He admits. “But I’m still going to be here for you. That won’t change.”
“Could I just ask you one favor before you go?” All things considered, it’s very minor and sort of the least you could possibly ask.
“Anything.” Pope would do anything for you, he’s proving that, but he wouldn’t deny you simple request if it’s in his power to take care of it.
“I don’t know if you’re going to see them at all tonight or not but just…don’t tell Rachel yet? She’s going to spend the night with Ben again and I know her. She’ll come straight home to be with me instead. I don’t want to ruin her night.”
He chuckles softly, aware of what that says about you as a mom. “You are a good woman.” He murmurs, leaning in kissing your forehead again. “I won’t say anything to her.”
“I’ll tell her tomorrow.” You promise him. It’s not that you want to hide things from her — it’s that you know she’ll act rashly out of loyalty to you if she finds out tonight. She might even break up with Ben, which is the last thing she actually wants or that you want for her.
“When you tell her is up to you.” He would never think that he should have an input on your relationship with Rachel or when you tell her. “Whenever you are comfortable.”
“Well…” A shrug and a half sigh are the best you can do, not really sure of what else to say. Maybe you’ll get on Pet Finder tonight and look for a cat. Or three.
“Oh…” Pope reaches into his bag and pulls out your gift. “I didn’t want to give this to you in front of everyone.” He tells you quietly. “But this is for you.”
“You didn’t have to.” Especially now. Especially with everything that’s happened today. But you still smile weakly and accept the bag. Yup. It’s gonna be me and three cranky, elderly cats. That’s my future. “I—um, thank you. It’s…very sweet of you. You’re a very sweet person.”
“No, I’m not.” Pope snorts as he steps back. “But you are worth the effort.”
Impulsively, it does make you want to ask why he’s leaving, then. But you know the answer. You know this is about you and Frankie having a past and that nothing is going to change Santiago’s loyalty to his best friend. What’s even more annoying is that you like that about him, it hits harder and hurts more. All you can say without letting the emotions through the floodgates is just to excuse yourself to grab the book of his that you borrowed because it’s downstairs in the living room.
Staring at the door, Pope sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket to text Will. Deciding that he needs a drink after the emotional rollercoaster of the day.
______
Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer
My Masterlist!
#Pedro Pascal#Pedro Pascal character fanfiction#Pedro Pascal fanfic#Frankie Morales#Frankie Morales x you#Frankie Morales x reader#Frankie Morales x female reader#Frankie Morales x f!reader#Santiago Garcia#Santiago Garcia x reader#Santiago Garcia x you#Santiago Garcia x female reader#Santiago Garcia x f!reader#Francisco 'Catfish' Morales#Santiago 'Pope' Garcia#The One That Got Away#Feral Frankie Friday#Triple Frontier#Triple Frontier fanfic#TF fic
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dad!steve eek!!! maybe some for kbd!? no rush, anyway love you!! <3
kisses before dinner au —mom!reader, 1.1k
Bethie squirms uncomfortably in your lap. “I’m sorry, mommy,” she says.
“Well don’t be,” you say, hand to her forehead and holding her back so she can see your face, how you’re not angry. “It’s okay. You don’t like it?”
“I’m not hungry.”
You don’t get it. Bethie hasn’t eaten anything all day. She refused breakfast, snacks, smoothies, and hot chocolate. The plate in front of her repulses her, no matter how gently you plead with her to try it. “Honey, I don’t see how that can be true.”
She’s in your lap because you’d been hoping helping her eat might make it easier for her. She was thrilled to sit in your lap, but not even slightly inclined to eat her mac and cheese, or any sides. You offer her a slim carrot baton shining with honey, wiggling it from side to side.
“Doesn’t that look yummy?” you ask softly.
She looks down at her hands.
You drop the carrot. You’re genuinely perturbed. Not easily panicked, this has thrown you off kilter. Beth has been picky ever since she started school, and you don’t mind, you’ll accommodate and feel sorry that she misses out on Steve’s chicken pot pie, but there’s a difference between being picky and having a total aversion to food she used to enjoy.
Avery tries to pretend she’s not watching. Steve doesn’t bother, frowning deeply despite the baby in the high chair beside him and Dove on his thigh, the two girls giggling about something. The rest of them have cheeks covered in cheese sauce and sticky lips, but your Beth…
Maybe it’s too much to have everyone watching, you think.
“Okay. Okay, let’s leave it for later, yeah? Will you help mommy with something? Is that okay?”
Beth nods emphatically. “Yes!”
You help her down off of your lap and take her little hand. “We’ll be back in a minute.”
Steve shakes his head, at a loss. “Sure,” he says, though his face says something different. What are we going to do? “Take your drink.”
You grab the glass if only to appease your worrier.
You and Beth leave the kitchen and the living room to sit on the stairs. There isn’t much privacy to be made in the house, but this will do. You put her on the step above you to sit eye to eye, and you take her little hand, rubbing circles slowly into the soft palm of it.
“Is there something mommy can get you?” you whisper. “Anything at all. Because you’re so big now, you know you need to keep yourself nice and strong with dinner. Yeah? You need to eat so you can have lots of energy. I know,” —you smile at her startled frown— “you said you’re not hungry, but it’s okay. We don’t have to eat all of something. Me and you could go have McDonald’s, or pizza! We could have something special. We could go get donuts. Anything you want, even if it’s only one bite.”
“I don’t know, mom…”
“Anything you want, baby. Even if we get there and you don’t want it anymore, or it’s not what you thought.”
Bethie decides in whispers that she’d like McDonald’s ice cream. You could cry. You almost do when you con her into eating half of ‘your’ cheeseburger on the drive home, her little feet swinging in the footwell as she licks ketchup off of her fingers.
You show Steve the wrapper when you get home proudly.
“Good job, mom,” Steve says, reaching for you in the doorway.
Bethie brandishes the cup tray of ice creams to her sisters in delight. They scramble in screeches to get there first.
“Wren!” Bethie cheers, wiggling an ice cream at her baby sister where she lays in a bouncer. “Mom, can I feed Wren?”
“Only the plain one, baby.”
“Yeah, I know. Wren, look! I have ice cream. You want ice cream?”
“Little spoonfuls,” Avery says, reaching for her own ice cream, big sister instincts quelled by excitement. “Oh my gosh, there’s fudge.”
Steve nudges your hip with his hand. “Hey, you okay?”
“That was a bit scary.”
“It’s just a bad day for her. She’s okay. Did you eat anything?” he asks, curling an arm behind your back.
“No. I got you a strawberry-kiwi smoothie, though.”
“Anything for yourself?”
You shake your head. “I knew Beth would only eat if I was eating it, so I had a bite.”
“You’re a genius,” he says, hugging you to his side. His shirt smells like detergent under your nose. “I kept your dinner in the oven. Only take a minute to heat back up.”
“Did you eat yours?”
He puts his lips to your cheek and doesn’t answer.
“This is nice,” you murmur.
“I know.” He rubs your back. You’ve never had to ask him to do it, he just grabs you up and sets about soothing an ache you don’t have. He’s always been like this.
“I can’t believe I had to sweet talk my six year old into eating fast food,” you say, watching Beth over the curve of his shoulder. She swallows a spoonful of ice cream and crinkles her eyes at the cold. “I never could’ve imagined this.”
“Thank god. You never would’ve let me date you if you did.”
You laugh and angle your head up for a kiss. “That’s not true,” you murmur.
He kisses you but seems more eager for a hug, hooking his arm higher up behind your back and cuddling you into his neck. “I’m not sure what we’re going to do,” he confesses, “but if you keep being that gentle? She’s going to be fine.”
You brim with a weird pride. Steve knows intimately the kind of parent that you are, and how hard you try, so if he thinks you’re doing a good job, you must be. “Dinner was great,” you promise.
Steve laughs. “I know. It was fucking bomb. Honey roasted broccoli? These kids don’t get how good I am. I could go pro.”
Dove wanders over with clumsy footsteps but better pronunciation. “Smoothie, daddy,” she says, holding his pink smoothie up to him with an urgent look.
“Oh, thank you.” He pats your arm and breaks away to bend down. “Thank you, gorgeous,” he says, taking the drink and smiling huge at her. She says something in garbled kid talk and leans in to give him a hug, and then she runs back to her ice cream.
Steve looks at you adoringly.
“How’d you give me four perfect girls?” he asks, knowing he’s cheesy, his smile turning teasing.
“A lot of hard work.”
“I can tell.”
#kisses before dinner universe#stranger things x reader#stranger things fic#stranger things#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x fem!reader#dad!steve harrington#dad!steve harrington x reader#dad!steve harrington x mom!reader#steve harrington x afab!reader#afab!reader#mom!reader#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington fandom#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington fic#stranger things fanfic#stranger things fanfiction#steve harrington fluff
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Build | Strangerville | Ziggy's Diner
Lot Info
Type | Restaurant Lot Size | 30x20 World | Strangerville Value | 94,857 Baths | 3 CC | No Packs | Unrestricted Ziggy's Diner is a classicly retro mashup of Googie and passenger train inspired styles situated in Strangerville Plaza.
Ziggy's is a compact restaurant and bar combo with a Strangerville twist: classic red booths and an elongated mid-century modern bar layout meets sci-fi inspired and 50's-kitsch inspired cluttered decor..
It's giving the diner from the movie 'Paul'. I hope. lol
Ziggy's has a fully customised menu featuring some Mountain States inspired comfort dishes and some American classics (full menu below the cut).
DOWNLOAD >>
Interior Tour
Bar
Staff Areas
Floor Plan
| hi my loves
hopefully you like this one- it was super fun to build and I'm finding my feet a bit more building for this save, i think!
it's been playtested (briefly lol) and should be fully functional and a smooth enough restaurant experience for your sims to enjoy.
i love Paul so much aha we watched it this past weekend and i was immediately like 'yup. gotta go do a strangerville build now.'
| dag dag fn. <3
Ziggy's Diner Menu
Drinks water ; lemonade ; milk ; orange juice ; coffee ; cream cola ; fizzy fruity drink ; pitch black ; root beer float ; soda ; tang and zing ; boiler room ; eapa ; juice on the rocks ; wrench ; galactic vita-water ; silent film ; sour punch ; sunset valley ; alien juice ; cupid juice ; space energy drink ; jet juice
Appetisers chips and salsa ; mac and cheese ; bowl of olives ; bread roll ; french fries ; whole wheat bread ; popcorn shrimp ; garden salad ; cheesy bread ; grilled plantains ; seafood chowder ; soft shell crab cake ; empanadas ; watermelon salad
Mains mac and cheese ; chicken nuggets ; popcorn shrimp ; baked potato ; hot dog ; lobster roll ; veggie burger ; chicken and waffles ; fried chicken sliders ; mushroom waffles ; sausage and peppers ; scrambled eggs with bacon ; seafood chowder ; tofu dog ; fish tacos ; hamburger ; fried fish ; pancakes ; aubergine Parmesan ; sweet corn pizza ; mushroom steak ; french toast ; vegetable chilli ; egg white omelette ; mushroom soup ; bbq ribs plate ; blackened bass ; gumbo ; steak
Dessert neapolitan ice cream ; rainbow sorbet ; vanilla ice cream ; alien fruit tart ; cream filled donut ; cream snack cake ; honey cake ; plain waffles ; rainbow brownies ; hamburger cake ; chocolate chip cookie ; apple pie ; banana cream pie ; pumpkin pie ; simcity cheesecake ; fruit cobbler
#the sims 4#ts4#simblr#sims#strangerville#elinorasimsbuilds#sims restaurant#ts4 build#ts4 lots#sims 4 builds#sims 4 interior#sims build#show us your builds#no cc build#no cc#cc free#cc free build#nevada#community lot#sims clutter
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Narumitsu sketches 😳
Links to help Palestine and other resources! 🇵🇸
[Plain text: Links to help Palestine and other resources! (Palestine flag). End plain text.]
[Image description: Colored digital sketch of Miles and Phoenix. Miles is wearing an orange maid dress with a while frilly apron and knee high socks with garter belts. He’s embarrassed and trying to pull the apron down. Miles, “W-Why is it so short?!” Middle image: Phoenix: ”Just say it one time—“ Miles, angry, “NO.” Right image: Miles’ body is facing away and he is looking back towards the viewer. He is blushing. Bottom image: Phoenix is sitting and drawn like a chibi. He’s excited and clapping his hands with a heart in his mouth, “YAY!” End description.]
[Image description: Colored digital art of Miles and Phoenix. Phoenix is wearing a blue shirt with gray sweatpants. He is scratching under his shirt and the back of his head. Phoenix looks tired and has a stubble. Miles is wearing pink silk pajamas and holding a tea cup and plate. He has his glasses on and bed hair. Trucy is off-screen and says, “Are you guys watching??” Phoenix: “Yes, honey. We’re watching…” Text on top left: 8:32AM. End description.]
Maid dress Miles cuz I saw that one official manga with him wearing it 😳🏃🏻♀️🏃🏻♀️ Phoenix is very happy UwU
Also, Phoenix is also happy to watch Trucy, he's just tired. He loves seeing Trucy show off her new tricks/ routines 🥺 I love the idea of Trucy waking her dads up to show off her magic tricks tho- she's just so excited!
#image description#described#ace attorney#ace attorney fanart#phoenix wright#miles edgeworth#wrightworth#narumitsu#art#digital art#my art#sketch#SinnaArt
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Only an Almost (X)
Chapter 10: Too Sweet
Hello!! Here is another chapter! This one is very fluffy!! (Surprising, I know) Also, some heavy make-out… let me remind you that this is not written for minors!
We are already halfway-through this fic, as it will be 20-chapters long!
I hope you’ll like this chapter! Please, tell me what you think!
*************************************
Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader, friends with benefits AU
Warning: No explicit smut or nsfw content, but there are sexual themes and heavy make-out sessions (it’s a friends with benefits AU, I can’t really escape it), so 18+ only!
Summary: Andrew has been in love with you for years, and yet he has never confessed his feelings. But a night out celebrating the engagement of his best friend changes everything. However, you don't seem ready to be with him just yet. You make him an offer that he can't refuse... but will certainly regret.
Word Count : 1549
Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist
Fucking adorable, that was what you were…
As you looked at Andrew with a grin on your lips, expectant, excited, a tidal wave of affection washed over his heart. A warm, peaceful, affectionate feeling that made him giddy, created butterflies in his stomach, made his heart speed up and a dreamy smile form on his lips.
You were trying to get a peek inside his cupboard, to see his brand-new harvest of honey. He had promised you would get some to take home, and had prepared a little honeypot for you. He wasn’t sure why, but seeing you this excited for something as simple as this was turning his heart into a puddle.
“There you go, this one’s yours.”
He handed the small jar. It was nothing special. A plain glass jar filled with honey. You were grinning as you took it in your hands.
“Thank you!”
You rose to your tiptoes to drop a peck to his cheek, and he couldn’t help but blush as he hurried to close the cupboard.
“It’s nothing…”
“It’s your honey! Of course, it’s something! You’ve worked hard to make it.”
“To be fair, the bees are the ones doing all the work,” he dodged the compliment, scrubbing at his cheek in a nervous gesture, feeling his cheeks get warm.
“True,” you admitted in a giggle. “But even if that’s the case, you’re still doing more than I would.”
“Taking care of bees isn’t that hard, you could do it.”
“I don’t know… I’m a little scared at the idea of being surrounded by bees.”
“You’re wearing a suit, it’s alright. It’s perfectly safe. Besides, you’re not harming them, so they won’t harm you either. Perhaps one day, I could teach you. And you could make honey too!”
It would be our honey…
“Hmm… still… I’ll leave the making of the honey to you, and focus on the eating!”
You opened the jar, smelled the sweetness of the nectar inside. You hummed, closing your eyes.
“Smells so good.”
You dipped your finger inside, licked it clean. Andrew struggled to swallow, looking away, trying to control himself.
“It’s delicious! God, Andy! This is so good!”
But Andrew wasn’t looking at you. Instead, he was looking outside, at the rain falling on his garden, holding on the kitchen counter, trying to forget the thoughts that had come up in his mind, the sins he wanted to commit with you…
“You know what would be delicious? Some fruits! Some fruits with your honey would be delicious!”
You opened the cupboard, picked up a plate, and then you reached for the drawer and picked up a knife. Andrew washed an apple and handed it to you without a word. You had spent too much time in his house for this not to be natural. You in his kitchen, making snacks. In silence, he filled up a kettle, still unable to look at you but hiding it well.
You took some mugs from the cupboard above his sink, rising to your tiptoes to reach them. It made Andrew grow a tender smile.
And it was easy. Being there, doing something so insignificant and domestic in his house with you… like you belonged there. It was obvious, the way you moved in this space he called home, like it was yours more than his.
He could picture himself doing this every day with you. Letting you in the spaces that were most private to him, the ones that made him feel safe. You belonged there. You belonged in the warmth of a home he would call his…
“I’ll let you cut the apple, or else you will criticize what I’m doing. I’ll make tea instead,” you told him, a playful smile on your lips, bringing him back to earth.
He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t deny that you were right. So, he picked up the knife and cut the apple into slices, the way his mother had taught him years ago, in another kitchen, in another safe place he called home.
You chose your favourite tea, there was always a stache of it in his home. Your favourite biscuits too. Your favourite ice-cream. Your favourite book. Your favourite movie. Your shampoo and soap had been added recently, now that you stayed for a shower. But pieces of you had always been here, you had always been here…
You put the pieces in a bowl, added a little bit of honey, just enough to make the fruit sticky and sinfully sweet. You gave a happy wiggle when you ate the first piece, not waiting for Andrew to give you a fork, and instead, picking it up with your fingers, making them sticky as well.
“Delicious!” you complimented him, making his heart jump.
This afternoon was lovely. It was raining hard outside, the sky a mournful shade of grey; but it was warm inside Andrew’s home, and you were happy and smiling, and joking around, and life was good for as long as you were in it…
Andrew didn’t think as he bent down, capturing your lips with his. He barely registered his movements when he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, a hand sprayed across your spine, the other holding firmly your waist. You let out a surprised sigh, and then you blinked your eyes closed, hands coming up to cradle his face.
You tasted of apple and honey, sweetness at its finest. Too sweet to be real…
Your lips were sticky with the juice of the fruit and the sugar of the honey. Andrew didn’t care. He didn’t mind either when your fingers ran down his neck to open the buttons of his shirt. He could feel the sugar on them too.
You broke free from his embrace, leaving him dizzy with your taste and your warmth against his body. He blinked down at you.
“Sorry, my hands are all sticky. Hang on.”
You washed the honey away, and Andrew waited impatiently next to you, opening and closing his fists, trying not to reach out, not to scare you away.
You were so beautiful…
“Better,” you smiled, showing your clean hands, and he smiled back at you without noticing.
God, he loved you so fucking much, and he couldn’t say it. But then again, he saw how your gaze softened, how your expression grew peaceful with tenderness. And he caught himself dreaming that this could be love, that you could feel the same.
It was stupid, perhaps, it was him forgetting about the major obstacle that was his career, and your fear of living a lonely life because of him. Still, as he looked at you then, he let himself believe for a second that one day, he could finally speak the words that rested for now on the tip of his tongue.
Still, your touch was soft when you took his hand in yours.
“Andy?”
He hummed, raising an eyebrow to encourage you to speak.
“Can we go to your bedroom now?”
You added mischief to your smile, it made him dizzy; thoroughly addicted to the sight too.
He gently pulled on your hand so you would follow him. You didn’t steal kisses until you were both standing in front of his large bed. And then your lips were back on his, you were freeing his hair from the messy bun he had been sporting. His hand slipped under your t-shirt and your jumper, spreading his fingers over your bare skin. Warm. Soft. Making his entire body burn with desire.
When his lips moved to your neck, you let out a moan, and he reckoned that this ought to be the sound of heaven, the perfect melody he had been looking for all his life.
“Can I be on top?” you asked in a tone made shaky by his fingers pulling on your bra.
“Whatever you want, honey,” Andrew mumbled into your skin, before attaching his lips to yours again.
You didn’t correct him, let him have the pet name. Perhaps your mind was as blurry as his while you kissed passionately, while your fingers finished to unbutton his shirt. The blink of an eye, and somehow you were shirtless, skin exposed to the air and to Andrew’s angry lips while you stumbled to reach his bed.
He lost his shirt before you gently pushed him on the bed, and then you were lying on top of him, and Andrew had to pinch himself to remember that this was real, no matter how many times he had lived this scene before.
You hovered over him, just a breath away, looking at him like you were admiring him…
“You’re so handsome, Andy…” you let out in a whisper, like a confession. It made his body slightly tremble.
“You’re gorgeous, Y/N.”
You shook your head, and he caught himself thinking that this look in your eyes held more than infatuation or physical attraction. Something closer to adoration, the kind of gazes he aimed at you.
You blinked, eyes glimmering in the light made dim by the rain outside. Your voice was deeper when you spoke, almost hoarse, as if tightened with emotions.
“Andy… I lo…”
But you stopped, left him suspended to your words. You let out a shaky breath, and instead of speaking, merely kissed him again.
#hozier#the hoziest#andrew hozier byrne#hozier x reader#hozier x you#hozier x y/n#hozier x fem!reader#hozier fanfiction#hozier fanfic#hozier series#fanfiction#writing#fanfic#series
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here for you - sjy
summary: you get sick and just want your boyfriend || warnings: mentions of reader throwing up || genre: fluff || word count: approximately 945 || a/n: i haven't written about my man in over two months omg
I woke up in the middle of the night, sweating. It wasn't me sweating because the room was hot, it was me sweating because my body was hot. Oh god, am I sick?
I tried to fall back asleep but I just kept repeatedly failing. All of the sudden, I felt the immense urge to throw up. I covered my mouth with my hand and quickly got up, going to the bathroom. it shouldn't come to any surprise that I ended up puking.
I was shaking afterwards and suddenly felt achy and had a huge headache. I'm sick of people saying throwing up makes them feel better, it never makes me feel better, I only ever feel worse.
I lie in bed after throwing up, tried to fall asleep, but I just couldn't. So, I finally just ended up giving up and going on my phone, preparing to just stay up for the rest of the night.
Once it hit eight o'clock, I got a text from my unknowing boyfriend, saying "good morning" to me. I texted him back, saying "good morning" back to him before telling him that I was sick.
I saw that he had read the text but he didn't say anything. I just sighed as I went back to scrolling on TikTok, not really knowing why he wasn't answering me but I just let it be.
All of the sudden, I heard the sound of my boyfriend's voice. Great, was I hallucinating now? Turns out I wasn't when the bedroom door opened and my boyfriend actually walked inside.
"Jake, what are you doing here?" I asked.
"Couldn't leave my girl suffering all alone." Jake teased with a soft smile. I noticed that he had a plastic bag in his hand, filled with stuff. He put it on my dresser before coming over to me, going to give me a kiss.
I put my hand on his chest, stopping him from kissing me. "Jake, you can't kiss me. You're gonna get sick." I said.
"Shhh, that doesn't matter. I need your kisses and you need mine." Jake told me.
I just smiled, giving in and letting him kiss me. He caressed my cheek as he pulled away from the kiss. He then brought his hand up to my forehead, feeling it.
"You're really hot, princess." Jake said, making me smile because even though I knew what he meant by that, it could've been taken two ways. Jake smiles back at me, already knowing what I was thinking, "Both ways."
"Stop it!" I playfully slapped him. "I know, I think I have a fever. I woke up sweating." I told him.
"When'd you wake up?" Jake asked.
"A few hours ago.." I admitted.
Jake gave me a look, "Sweetheart, you should've called me as soon as you woke up."
"No, Jake. It was really late and you were sleeping." I told him.
"Hey, you don't have to worry about that. I would've come straight to you either way. I told you, I can't let my girl be all alone, especially while she's sick." Jake told me.
"Fine." I pouted and Jake kissed the pout away.
"So, you just woke up with a fever?"Jake asked, wanting to know if anything else was wrong.
"No, I also threw up and I feel really achy." I told my boyfriend.
"Then let me make you something small to eat, you need to eat, even if it's something small." Jake said, caressing my face.
I wanted to reject that but I knew he wouldn't give in so I just let him go and make me something to eat.
Soon after, Jake came back into my bedroom with a plate of plain toasted bread and a mug of hot tea, honey mixed inside of it since he knew you liked it sweet.
He put the plate and the mug on your nightstand before going over, grabbing the plastic bag with the stuff he'd brought in it, and bringing it to where you were on the bed.
You watched as he put the bag on the bed and went through it, taking out some medication bottles and opening them, taking out the pills for you and handing them to you. You sat up in the bed.
"One at a time and drink your tea with it. it shouldn't be too hot." Jake softly instructed me and I nodded, doing as he said. When I finished, I put the mug down. "Was it the tea okay?" My boyfriend asked and I nodded.
"It was good. Thank you, Jakey." I thanked him.
"You're welcome, baby. Now come on, try and eat a little bit." He said as he handed you the plate which you put in your lap. Jake got on the bed and sat next to you, over the covers.
"What if I throw up again?" I asked, nervous that me eating will cause me to throw up.
"Then I'll be here. But, you seriously need to eat, your stomach is empty." Jake told me as he brought his arm up and put it around me.
I sighed as I started eating the bread. I was really thankful for him coming here and doing all of this when he really didn't have to.
For the rest of the day, Jake was taking care of you, he didn't leave your side much but when he did it was to make you some soup and more tea and to help you when you threw up again after lunch in your bathroom.
He was the sweetest boyfriend and you were happy that you had someone there caring for you while you were sick.
ᥫ᭡ link to my masterlist
#luciathcv#enhypen#enhypen x reader#enhypen imagines#enha#enha x reader#enha fanfiction#nishimura riki#enhypen niki#niki#lee heeseung#park jongseong#sim jaeyun#park sunghoon#kim sunoo#yang jungwon#stan enhypen#romance#kpop#fluff#jake sim#jake sim x reader#sim jaeyun x reader#enhypen jake#established relationship#sick fic#sick
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“Hello! I was just walking by and noticed you here.”
You had just left your last job, wandering the streets looking for a place to rest when you spotted a cozy coffee and pastry shop on the side of the road. You stopped in, ordered a coffee, and were currently sitting outside enjoying the beautiful day when the man walked up to you. You had seen this man where you had been, following you with his eyes around the gardens, but didn’t think anything of it at the time. A lot of others were also taking in their surroundings. He wore a simple white button down shirt and black pants, also his head was covered. He smiled.
“Oh yes! Hello! I remember seeing you around at the estate,” you reply. “Chrollo, was it?”
“Yes,” he says, looking down at the table in front of you.
“You’re drinking coffee? Would you mind if I joined you?” he was asking you but already began to scoot the second chair at the table closer to where you were seated.
“Sure, I don’t mind the company.”
The barista came out to greet him and the man proceeds to order a cup of coffee, black.
The two of you sit in silence and enjoy the view of the park in front of the shop.
“Are you drinking yours with milk?” he asks after taking a sip of his hot cup of coffee when it wqs served to him.
“Yes, it has milk and honey in it, my favorite way to have my coffee,” you smile back at him, and place your lips on your coffee cup for a sip. He watches this gesture closely.
“I never tried honey with my coffee. Do you mind if I taste yours?” he starts leaning into you while you’re cupping your mug in both hands.
You’re caught off guard a bit. ���Oh okay, sure! It’s delicious,” you hand him your cup. He grabs it from your hands, making sure his fingers make contact with your fingers, and he places his lips on your cup where yours have been.
“It’s delicious,” he savors it for a moment. “But I enjoy my coffee plain the most. I guess it is just habit.” He shrugs in a carefree way as he hands you back your mug.
After drinking in silence for a few more minutes he picks up a menu and glances through it. “Would you like to order something for us? I’m a bit hungry but don’t know my pastries that well. My treat!”
“Oh okay, that does sound nice. Thank you,” you say and he hands you the menu. “Well are you picky? What fruit do you like?”
“Not picky at all. I eat mostly anything. And something with berries sounds good.”
“Okay… do you like cream or pudding filling?”
He ponders for a moment. “Pudding.”
“Okay,” so you proceed to order two danishes, one cheese and one strawberry.
When the little plates are brought out he looks impressed. “They look so good! I can cut them in half and we can both share.” You say while grabbing your cutlery.
“No worries! You don’t have to. I really don’t mind eating after you. You can go ahead and eat first,” Chrollo says with a smile.
“Uhm, alright, if you don’t mind,” you pick up the strawberry danish and take a bite. Again you notice him not taking his eyes off of you.
“I need to ask,” you say, still chewing a bit while you place the pastry back between the two of you. “Is this fulfilling some sort of requirement for you?”
“What do you mean?” he asks you perplexed, but his eyes betray him when they shine with excitement.
“Bandit’s secret,” you tell him. “I saw it back there. Does us talking and sharing food together fulfill a requirement?” You look him in the eye.
“Yes… and no,” he responds, looking at you intently. “There are more of them. And I’m not trying to use it on you, so don’t worry. Back there was just another job.” His expression looks honest.
“Well… Alright… I will trust you’re being honest with me,” you tell him, eating another bite. “Do you want some?”
He takes the pastry from your hand, “I would love it,” looking content, he takes a bite from the same place you were eating. “Delicious.”
Both of you once again enjoy the silence together while eating. Once you’re both finished, he pays, just as he told you.
“Say, are you headed anywhere? If you don’t have any plans I would love it if you joined me for a walk in the park.” Chrollo says while waving his arm to the view in front of you. “I would love to spend some more time together… what do you think?”
You are feeling quite tired, but you have to admire his bravery in being so forward. Feeling flattered, you agree.
He stands up and extends his hand to you. You reach out and grab it, allowing him to lead you away…
#Chrollo#chrollo lucilfer#chrollo x reader#chrollo x you#chrollo lucilfer x reader#Chrollo lucilfer x you#phantom troupe#hunter x hunter#this has been on my mind while laying sick in bed…#Chrollo doing his pickup thing when finding someone of interest#he must be very good at it right??#might continue this later
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I love your bayverse Isekai AU, will there be any more snippets on the shenanigans with our feral wildling prime with equally feral newsparks and politically rogue sentinel actively failing and somehow successfully courting the said feral prime while simutaneously giving the metaphorical middle finger to the council regime.
You're standing in the middle of a pale desert. The white sand ripples without wind, and it's endless without anything in sight. A stark divide between the ground and dark sky. The stars are strange. Dripping like a child's clumsy first ventures into watercolors; saturated, vibrant hues fading into weak trailing brushstrokes. With enough concentration, you parse out the shapes of the stars, outlines squirming, moving back and forth, bleeding across the night like odd-shaped marbles.
Someone calls out, and you turn to see a fluttering-
______
You wake up, and the dream fades. The remaining echoes of crying easily meld into the newsparks' wails for your attention, even under Thundercracker's crooning engines, calm field, and fuel production. They look for you, blindly reaching out, fields refusing to settle until well entangled under your own and dozing on your chest.
______
Because you and information slugs don't mix, you're learning the old-fashioned way: direct practice.
And there's nothing in this current life nor your past human one that could prepare you for Iaconi dining etiquette and their culinary practices.
Sentinel is surprisingly patient and encouraging. Star Saber, on the other hand, is demanding and pompous as usual.
A few pieces of the cutlery are familiar in a vague shape-sense, like a spoon should be a spoon, but the spoons' handles have delicate metal leaves with tiny bundles of shiny berries. One grouping is so fragile that the shells jiggled as it rose from a well-hidden compartment from the table. Another clutch isn't round but more hexagonal. A blue hexagon-like raspberry with reddish fuzz.
There's also a tool that looks like a love-child between a well-used slinky and nunchucks and a doohicky that combined a two-pronged fork with a honey dipper.
There's nothing on the table that looks remotely close to honey or a sauce to use said dipper.
You deeply yearn for the simplicity of Thundercracker's cubes and her endless supply of snacks.
Biting the bullet, you commit to a spoon, and Star Saber exudes disdain as you try to scoop out the plain tofu lookalike on your plate. It jiggles and warps the moment the utensil touches it, and the berries, every single one, fall off. The hard ones bounce off, tinking across the table and floor, and the fragile ones splatter the tofu. A contained mess of color and sound clash as discordant strings and chimes overlay and warp.
Sentinel is then right by you. "Like this," he says, and he takes your hand to pick up the fork end, guiding you to twirl the dipper right over the plain tofu block. It quivers, and there's a lovely wind-chime noise before the entire thing flows upward, carving into long, unbroken chains by following the grooves, and artfully twirling backdown into a nest.
A plate of color-splattered noodles now sits before you.
Sentinel uses the slinky, applying the nunckuck ends to his thumb and middle finger and gently bounces the slinky over the noodles. The noodles slither their way into the middle, and after a mouthful is gathered, he brings the contraption near his face, flicking off the thumb attachment and the flexible tubing and 'drinks' his food as if it's a straw itself.
A sharp, ringing hum grabs your attention, prickling over your senses at vibrates in your field. When Star Saber stops circling the rim of the wine glass, the hum dies down as well.
"You failed when we entered." You stare blankly at the Seeker, and he clicks his glossa before explaining, "The most prominent member signals the rest to sit."
"But I waited for you because you're the most experienced!" Star Saber had literally spent weeks beating it into your processor about the teacher-student dynamic: who sits, who stands, who dismisses, and many other important, little steps of social nuance.
"Yes. If this was an educational setup, but this is a formal meal, it's the established Prime that signals to everyone else to sit."
You throw all caution to wind and reach over to the turn table in the middle. Sentinel laughs as you manually spin it until you reach your target: the deconstructed savory pies basket.
Star Saber remains unamused as you take a bite of the sphere, and spices flood your senses, coating your glossa with a hearty, thick gravy. The 'wrapping is supposed to be peeled, but it's completely edible and flaky layers.
It's a performance piece with the right sounds and gestures. The wrapping would gracefully unravel, and the contents reorganize itself into a sophisticated piece of art before settling into cups to be eaten one by one.
You find it more comfortable to eat the pie in one whole go. Star Saber deeply sighs at your atrocious manners and actually snaps at Sentinel when the mech decides to follow your lead.
#ask#transformers#transformers bayverse#bayverse#star saber#sentinel prime#sentinel#reader insert#isekai#bitlets#sparklings#cybertronian culture#cybertronian biology#humanformers#humans into Cybertronians#maccadam#my writing#im sneaking in femme!Thundercracker#sentinel is way more chill because he's a new Prime#baby megs and oppy are wailing for their older sibling/guardian/parent because they almost died on them
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