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tinycozycomfort · 1 year ago

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rest in the cup of my palms (part one)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter one: drawing from life

series masterlist | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: ellie volunteers joel to model for a drawing class on campus. you find someone worth dreaming about.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), unnecessary descriptions of joel being beautiful, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn, joel miller wins girl dad of the century via unanimous vote (for this chapter) -> masturbation (f), intense feelings of loneliness, existential rumination

word count: 7.2k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: some good ol' work up, necessary to explain the rated r plans i have for them. ive been terrified of writing a series but i'm also tired of editing everything down to be one-shot appropriate, so today we try. im full-swing into my fixation era and on my 'i cant be loved + ive known how to love you for 1,000 lifetimes' bullshit. this fic is as self indulgent as they come, but i hope you can enjoy it! and for those of you willing to trudge through this with me, i love you.

read on ao3

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.”

Susan Sontag - On Photography

───────

A halo of hot light falls through the pane of glass above the sink. Joel’s got one eye pinched semi-shut, trying hard to focus on not burning himself while he drains boiling water out of a pot of pasta.

When he woke up this morning, the blinds on every window in the house had been strung up to the lip. He’d barely gotten a hand around one of the strings in the glass frame above the couch before Ellie appeared out of nowhere to literally slap his wrist, ‘I’m drawing’. Still groggy, he tried to challenge her, ‘Do they all have to be open?’, to which she patiently explained—for what she probably feels is the millionth time—that she needed the extra light, and if she had them all open when she started, they’d need to stay that way until she was done.

So he left her to work, knowing she’s got midterms to finish, walking around with his eyes closed until he felt his way back into his bedroom. He came out once for coffee, and not again until dinner. This is their weekend.

Joel spoons out some of the food into bowls, leaving them to stay warm by the stove before he steps into the dining room. He stops himself half-way, hanging back in the archway to give his daughter another minute as the last shreds of strong sunlight start to wane out.

Ellie’s right where he left her: at the table, cross-legged in her chair with an eraser-less pencil held tightly in her fist. She’s hunched over a large pad of paper, the back of it lifted at an angle under a pile of old books and dog-eared tool catalogs. The sketchbook she uses as a reference guide is propped up on the corner of her left knee, leaned against the edge of the table. She rifles between two pages of it, eyeing some of the quick sketches—visual notes, as she puts it—that she took in class to help her navigate the larger, more detailed version with ease. Silent save for her short huffs of breath, she’s concentrated, wrist-corner lifted to not misplace any graphite. Her process is always the same; a little creature of habit.

She’s wearing her headphones, the cord winding dangerously low, threatening to dip into a cup of water she’d placed in the empty triangle between her lap—the same one he’d seen her with six hours ago. She hasn’t even touched it, still full nearly to the brim. He wonders if she’s gotten up at all. The girl works herself a bit too hard, he thinks, always falls head first into whatever project she’s working on, nothing if not like her dad. The corner of his mouth tugs up so tight it hurts. What is he going to do without her?

He just stands there, feet crossed on top of each other and arms in a twist over his chest, and watches her while she’s not looking, knowing she still gets shy sometimes when he catches her like this. She’s the sweetest reminder of everything good Joel’s ever done; another life he’d gladly offer his own for.

It’s always come naturally—to be what someone needs of him—in a way that transcends reward or expectation.

Joel had been his brother’s primary caregiver first, from birth and then well into their adulthood—always around to bail him out of jail or lend him money he didn’t have. Because he cared. Loved him. He couldn’t ever really say it, always had a problem with the wording, but he knew that at least some of what he wanted to explain had come across. He can see it in the way Tommy is with his own family.

His brother has Maria now, and the kids, and seeing how happy Tommy could be in spite of their upbringing was the first time Joel had ever put his priorities into question. Somewhere in all the caring-for he did, he’d forgotten about himself; the possibility of having his own wife and child and home. He’d always ached for that, deep down, but didn’t even know it was an option until he saw it happen. By that point, he wasn’t sure if he could do any of it, or if he even had the time to start. Then came Ellie.

She entered his life when a close friend of Tommy’s had died unexpectedly and no one came forward to claim her, unknowingly giving him a second chance; one he worked to make count. She was tough to crack at first—also like him in that way—but the love had always been there, waiting its turn after all the awkwardness and misunderstanding and adapting before finally showing its face. She’d needed him then, as much as his brother had all those years ago, carrying on the torch of purpose that Joel so feverishly searched for.

He rolls his eyes at himself; he’s been having too many misty-eyed moments about her lately. It’s so unserious, the actuality of it; of being her dad. Going to work and the supermarket and museums, being there to chaperone field-trips and take one-thousand mostly-blurry photos of her graduation. But it’s been everything to him. He’s desperately clung to the five years of her life that she’s shared with him, and he’s so proud to witness it, but he knows she’s getting to a point where she needs to be her own person. He’ll miss her when she’s only home for summers, then only home for Christmas, then only home once in a while—so he holds on to every bit, and tries not to think about what’s next for him.

He walks closer to her, tilting his head to try and steal a glance of what it is she’s working on. He catches a glimpse of the face of a woman, a portrait from shoulders-up. She’s pretty, with a soft and thoughtful expression, looking downward off the side of the pad. From what he could make out between the movements of Ellie’s hand, she even looks a little shy. His daughter rubs at the cheeks and nose of the girl on the paper, imitating the shadow-less areas where light would fall. Joel is mesmerized by the way she creates so effortlessly, like breathing.

Without moving her head, she pulls a tiny white bobble out from her ear, “I know you’re watching me, weirdo.”

Joel laughs, wet and thick in his mouth with the emotion he’s still climbing down from, “Is this how you treat me when I’m trying to feed you?”

She smiles, he can see the fat of her cheek rounding out even from this angle, “You should’ve just said that.”

Ellie leaves her set-up untouched, just getting up and moving down to an empty seat while Joel goes to bring the food out.

She shifts around in her seat, feet folded again on the flat of it, eating too fast—ill-mannered—and it reminds Joel of all the nights they spent at Tommy’s for family dinner, right at the beginning, back when they’d just begun to become close. When she’d push his patience with her behavior to see if he’d say something, to see if he still paid her mind—he always did, still does, “Jesus Christ, kid. Have I taught you nothing?”

She holds back a laugh, mouth full of tomato sauce, “You love it. I’m charming.”

He snorts, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet for only a few minutes before she breaks it again, “Speaking of how much you love me, I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Oh no,” He jokes, “What now?”

“Remember those drawings I turned in of you last month?” She starts pushing around the last bite of her spaghetti, never a good sign, but he nods anyway for her to continue, “Well my teacher really liked them. And there’s been an issue with finding people to sit for the drawings. Sooo,” she really drags it out, “I signed you up.”

“What do you mean, you signed me up? For what?”

“To model,” Joel’s mouth pops open in an immediate attempt to oppose, but Ellie’s quicker, “Didn’t you say you’d always support me in school?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Joel finishes his plate and then they’re both just clinking their forks against porcelain for a heavy eightnineten seconds before she gives it another shot.

“C’mon, seriously. I’ll get extra credit if you do it,” She lets out a long sigh like she can’t believe she has to explain anything more than that, “My professor teaches a Monday session for the master’s program and they need people. It’s just one time.”

“Ellie. It’s Sunday. How are you gonna tell me this now?”

“Please, you just sit there for, like, two hours while they draw you and you don’t have to talk. That’s two of your favorite things. Three if you consider that you’d be helping me out.” she looks at him with a sticky-sweet smile, eyes crinkled—like she knows she’s getting away with it.

She might be.

“Why don’t you ask one of your friends to do it?” Joel gathers up their plates from the table to carry them into the kitchen. Ellie picks up their still half-full glasses as an excuse to follow him.

“Because we all have class together tomorrow on the other side of campus. Plus, you’re easy to draw and—”

“Hey.”

She ignores the flat look he shoots her, flipping on the sink, “That’s a compliment, by the way. But really, it’s no effort and you’d be getting me into a good place with my professor ‘cause she’ll be super grateful. The budget’s kinda tight this semester.”

“Then what am I payin’ for, if you’re gonna make me do this stuff myself?” It’s a half-hearted dig—he’s mostly annoyed because she probably already figured out he’s going to agree.

Her little smirk graduates to a shit-eating grin, she knows it, “Best dad ever.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Just because I knew you were gonna say that, I actually signed you up for two.”

───────

Joel stumbles out of the elevator, filing hurriedly through groups of students with a new-found purpose now that he’s managed to make it to the correct floor. Ellie made a point of not mentioning that he had to be at the school at 7:30am until she was saying goodnight to him a few hours ago, because she thought it would dissuade him—she was right—so now he’s running late on top of everything else.

He’s got the little scaled-down, splotchy-printed version of the campus map gripped tightly between his hands. Room 14B is seemingly only two turns and one corner from where he stands—if he’s holding it the right way. He wants to ask for directions, but he feels too out-of-place to set aside his embarrassment. He’s older than at least half the staff, and some of the attendees are even younger, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of looking incapable, as foolish as it is. He wishes Ellie would have just offered to show him where to go before she headed off to her own class.

For someone who prides themselves on their ability to parent, he feels hopeless now without his daughter; not for the first time, but it’s especially harsh considering the circumstances. It hurts something bittersweet, to think about how much more they’ve bonded since he started working less and she decided to live at home her first year of college (though it’s coming to an end sooner than he’d like). Again, too many sad thoughts, and she’s not here, so he trudges on.

He walks in two more circles before he finds the right place—down a fucking hallway and hidden behind a door he didn’t know he was allowed to open, of course. A woman with long, dark blonde hair is sitting at a desk by the door when he enters. She doesn’t look up at him.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry I’m late. My—uh. You teach my daughter? I’m here for—”

“Ellie’s dad,” She cocks her head without meeting his eye, “Late? You’re about twenty minutes early, she told me you probably would be.”

She knows me too well, the brat. He chastises her in his mind but outwardly he corrects himself, “Yes, right, sorry. I’m a little turned around.”

“That’s alright. There’s just a waiver you need to sign, and you can get undressed in the bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a cover-up to wear until I come to grab you.”

Right, he’d have to be naked. He already knew that—sort-of—having seen dozens of Ellie’s sketches from semesters past. He knows the students don’t see it that way, knows that they’ve all drawn the same things so many times they would be desensitized to his nudity. They’d probably all be desensitized to him as well; in their eyes, he was just a reference, as familiar as any of the memorialized piles of fruit or arrangements of glass that Ellie's also brought home.

Still, Joel feels a wash of anxiety come over him. He’s more than comfortable in his body, after putting it through so much, but this degree of vulnerability is severe in comparison to vanity or sex—it’s a state of living he hasn’t participated in for a long time. He doesn’t like to be seen, and being documented—having physical evidence of how he’s interpreted by others—makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t looked in a mirror for more than a moment in months, but it can’t be that bad, right? Ellie’s always given him a favorable light, but he worries she has a bias beyond belief. What if he sees something about himself he doesn’t like? What if everyone’s been able to see it all along?

Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the woman is still talking, “We have a scheduled break halfway through class. You can leave then. Next week it’ll flip and you can come for the latter half so they can finish.” She slides the form and a swath of black fabric across the table, and almost like she can sense his apprehension, finally raises her head to give him a meaningful look, “Thank you again for doing this. I know it can feel weird, but it makes a difference for them. There’ll be a joint show at the end of the month, too, with Ellie’s class.”

He just offers her a little nod of his head, thank you, signing the form and padding to the bathroom to unceremoniously disrobe in an empty stall.

It’s just two hours.

───────

If they make you take another figure-drawing class, you’re going to scream.

You’d think this far into a second degree, the school board would stop requiring you to take what is essentially the same class every semester. Sincerely, the only thing that changes is how long the session runs and what number follows the class title. It’s getting old.

To be fair, it’s not necessarily that you dislike drawing—it provides a pretty firm foundation for your personal work to stand on—it’s just tedious. Nothing is inspiring about assignment-based work, especially when they’ve decided the only way you can prove your skill-set is to make you draw the same three objects five-thousand ways.

But it’s not up to you.

So here you are again, two weeks from spring break, back in this frigid building after surviving another forty minutes of traffic, body still stiff from fighting the urge to fall asleep at the wheel.

It’s important, you remind yourself, to show up and put your fullest effort into everything, no matter how much you don’t enjoy it. Even if just to prove to yourself you can still finish things.

Coming back to school was an idea you’d toyed with for years after graduating.

There had been a lot of pressure on you to go in the first place, from your parents and your teachers and your nightmare of an ex, because according to them you’d get nowhere without it. After enough pressure and in a need to appease them, you folded and went; suffered every long night and pushed through every period of self-doubt and smiled for every ‘worth-capturing’ moment right up to the end. And then when it was over, gone faster than you could comprehend, you felt like something was taken away from you, even with how low it had made you—the worst kind of stockholm syndrome.

In an attempt to keep some momentum, you were over-eager for more right out of the gate. There was an initial need to continue, because you’d been reliant on academic structure just by the nature of familiarity, and maybe a little ill-prepared to face who you were without guidance. Without the instruction of someone with two degrees and a smoking addiction and no teaching license. Now it sounds silly, but then you spent a few too many nights uncontrollably looking into post-grad institutions or internship programs, googling professors and reading forums for first-hand accounts.

Then, after a year, the thought of continuing got a little less exciting, and you became comfortable in the freedom of nothing after being in school your whole life. So you pretended to research, emailed everyone about how great the options looked, signed up for one-on-ones you didn’t show up for—until people stopped asking.

It was at that point that you finally had the time to process what you were doing and why, and accepted that you didn’t have to have all the answers, despite what everyone had led you to believe. Truthfully, you still had no idea who you wanted to be and that’s okay—living with it and living alongside it weren’t mutually exclusive. You just took time to practice being yourself—sucked up the embarrassment and did the work, little exercises in unleashing yourself onto the world instead of letting every experience be done to you. If you were going to do anything anymore, even something like continuing your education, it had to be on your own terms, to try it all in the effort of self-discovery.

So yes, applying and getting accepted and attending every class—even this one—this time around was for you—to better yourself instead of just filling an expectation. You’re determined to make good on the opportunity.

And it has been better, so far. You even have friends this time around. Okay, two, and one of them is your roommate, but it's more of a support system than what you had going into undergrad.

You say yes now, too; not to everything, but to more than before. Which is maybe how you got roped into getting ‘introductory’ drinks later this evening with everyone, now that more people have joined the program as winter thaws out and it’s easier to commute. It’ll be nice to swap ideas and catch up and maybe even get laid instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling and willing time to pass. That thought alone is enough to keep you here.

It’s just two hours.

The room this semester is a little bigger, at least; probably the only perk that moving up so gracefully from Drawing II to Drawing III had earned you. It’s still unfortunately just another classroom; windowless to protect it from outside influence and drenched in fluorescent light to create a controlled environment. Old, stained art horses form a circle in the center of the space, crowding around a painted-gray wood pallet like an audience. A metal stool sits atop the make-shift stage, providing a seat for the subject. It’s clinical, the way the elements come together; a perfectly disarrayed scene that’s been neatly curated to emulate every ‘socratic seminar’ model you’ve seen in education since you can remember. Always the same.

You’re hoping for someone new today to rest on the chair; the department has been in less-than-preferred financial standing lately, so you’ve seen the same faces interchanged for most of the term.

Your professor is at her desk when you make your way in, greeting you with a grin despite the tired look on her face. A hardworking woman, the shadows under her eyes gave her a beauty you could only explain as determined. You knew she cross-taught for both sections of the department, and you respected her for it. It couldn’t be anything short of a struggle to toggle between those modes of seriousness—to have the patience to answer the younger students’ unending questions and the passion to keep the post-grads engaged.

Moving to get a seat as far on the outskirts of the cluster as possible, you watch as your classmates arrive slowly until all the slots are filled. No one really talks, probably all similarly bogged down by the early start and the cold weather outside. Ian, your friend who’d invited you out tonight, waves at you from four horses down and you halfheartedly nod back at him.

“Good morning everyone, we’ve only got two more classes after this until your week off, so we’ll make this next one a two-parter and have critique on the twenty-first. I want you guys to focus on composition more than anything else,” She turns in her seat to write some names on the board behind her, “We’ll go for two hours then break. If your name’s up here we’ll have a conversation about your thesis. The rest of you can go.”

Thankfully you’ve been spared this time—granted another seven-nights-straight writing the segment of your thesis that was meant to be finished two months ago. Your brain hurts inside of your skull.

You set up your little station, sketchpad raised against the easel, body straddling the drawing horse as you fiddle with some dirty erasers in your pack.

You can hear the slap slap slap of the model’s feet on the concrete floor as they enter—a long gait paired with hard, thudding steps; probably a man by the sound of it. Tall and heavy.

“Okay guys, we’re starting,” She winds up the dial on a plastic kitchen timer and sets it on the edge of her desk, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be making a few passes throughout and we’ll exchange thoughts.”

You roll your neck, knowing the model tends to take a minute to find a comfortable position, and that people watching didn’t do anything to help. A tempered soundtrack—the poorly contained buzzing of the clock and the moan of the air-conditioning—plays on in the background. Your leg is asleep. It’s cold in here. You count to thirty in your head. That’s enough time, right? You shift again, stretching your arms once more just in case.

Looking up, you peer over the side of the easel to get a quick look at the model’s pose and immediately do a double take.

It is a man.

He’s sitting on the chair, facing the girl a few seats down from you so that you can only see him from a three-quarters view. He has one long, thick leg pushed against the lower bar of the stool, the other one, closest to you, hiked up on the seat, folded so that his knee points towards the ceiling. His arms are crossed, hugging his erect shin with his wide back wrapped over his thigh, effectively shielding the ‘naked’ parts of him from view. He looks shy, but not uncomfortable; either like he’s done this before or he’s accustomed to protecting himself—to hiding.

The frame of his body is captivating; he looks strong but used, little nicks and scars littering his shoulders and hands. Weathered. As you make your way up his torso, you find it’s a similar state of experienced, tan profile and neck bearing the slightest difference in color from the soft of his side, and you can see the faintest curve of a hem-shaped tan-line across the dip in his shoulder. Little wisps of gray-dusted brown curls frame the edges of his face. He’s beautiful in a gentle way, with a dark, heavy brow that leads into the sharp slope of his nose, plush lips pursed like he’s concentrating.

Part of you feels bad about staring, but it’s easy enough to disguise it as working, so you map him with your gaze again and again until you can still see him when you blink. It takes the constant movement of your classmate’s hand sketching something in your periphery to remember you’re being timed.

You choke out a cough, repositioning your body and grabbing some charcoal.

The way you usually approach this task is simple: get down the general gist of the body, careful to keep out the details of the person in favor of capturing light and weight—there’s a graded challenge to be considered, after all.

Yet as you watch him, you decide you can fulfill the requirements in a way that gives him more room to exist. You crop the drawing tighter, paying careful attention to the landscape of his face; the hills of his cheekbones and the valley between his lips. You want to immortalize him.

You’re suddenly deeply concerned with the history that’s woven itself into the shape of him, in what happened to make him look this way. It seems like life has been useful to him, but that he’d had to grow from something to make it so—like he had to work for it. He’s the living manifestation of his own grief and enjoyment and passion, and you want to know all of it.

Countless minutes pass as you take him in and spill him out, fingers moving quickly to recreate the weighted feeling of his posture, exhausted and heavy, muscles held together on the string of bone that runs through the center of his back. You write him down, again and again, flipping to a new page half-way through to get in one last version of him—one for yourself.

You’ve never seen him before, but you see part of yourself in him. He mirrors the anxious peace you’ve been operating under for the last few years, humming with energy but willfully stagnant. It makes you feel seen, less burdened by your recent inability to connect—he makes you want to keep trying.

You wonder if he writes or draws or makes, and if he’d show you. You want to hear him talk. You want to see the other side of him, literally and metaphorically. You want to feel—

The tinny ring of the alarm sounds off, and you’re taken out of the fantasy.

The second drawing is only really half done, but you didn’t make it with the intention of sharing it anyway, so you flip back to the original to hide it..

You try not to watch the man when he stands—remembering that just because he’d been hidden before doesn't mean he wasn't naked the entire time—maybe more for your sake than his. You peek around the room instead, taking a healthy, albeit competitive, glance around for other interpretations of the man; did they see him too, the way you do?

When you look up to take a comparative look, he’s gone. You’re a little disappointed, admittedly, but there’s still one more chance to interact with him, and you can make up for it then. You start to pack up your things in an effort to make it to the parking lot before the crowd. A sudden rise in the volume level in the room tells you that the shock of the early morning has started to burn off. You try to tune it out, so much so that you don’t hear someone walking up behind you.

“Wow.” It’s a man’s voice, deep and smooth. You pivot in your seat.

It’s him, in all his communal-robe wearing glory, even more gorgeous from head on. It’s a pleasant surprise, this reveal; his beauty is evenly distributed, like a handwritten note that extends into the margins or when a movie’s ending is just as good as the start.

“Oh. Hi. Thank you.” You feel exposed, like you got caught doing something bad, even though there are ten other people in the room with even more detailed portraits of him.

“Can I see the other one, too?”

“What?”

“You flipped your page. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Did you make two?”

You just nod, shocked that he was watching you back, peeling back the paper to reveal to him the unfinished drawing. He won’t question it if you don’t give him a reason to.

“Are you gonna finish it?” He asks, eyes rolling over it with an intense curiosity.

“Uh, probably not. I don’t like it as much as the first one.” Maybe lying your way through this would provide better reasoning than ‘I wanted a part of you that no one else could see’.

“Can I have it?”

When you can’t find something to say fast enough, he just continues.

“I’m sorry, is that rude? If you’re just gonna get rid of it, I’ll take it. It just… looks like me. I mean they all do, I’ve been told I have a ‘simple face’,” He coughs awkwardly in acknowledgement of his own tangent, “I just mean to say that it feels a lot like me. If that makes sense.”

“You’re actually very visually interesting.” Is the first thing you can think of, and fuck, did that come out really fucking wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s better if he takes it, if it’ll stop you from fumbling, “But yeah, you can have it.” You pull a little plastic mail-tube out of your bag, ripping the drawing free from its perforated tether and rolling it in on itself.

The edges of his mouth pull up, a cute little thing, free of laughter or judgement, “Thank you. I’m Joel.” One of his hands drapes across his stomach, palm spread over the knot of the wrap—he’s holding himself at length again. Why?

“Hi Joel. You seem to know a fair amount about this whole thing. Not your first time, then?” You offer him your name in return, and he parrots it back—guard still up, still standing too far away.

“It is, actually. The closest I’ve come to this is sitting in the yard for my daughter,” He watches as you slide the drawing into the cylindrical case, “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.” It feels weird to hear the praise twice, “How’d they get you to pose for no money? I heard the department’s a little strapped. I’ve been subbing in for the undergrads too when I can.”

“My daughter volunteered me, she’s on the other side of the program. Your teacher was giving out extra credit.” He takes the roll when you pass it to him, going out of his way to grab it from the middle, his thumb grazing yours. Your skin heats up where he’s touched it, and you look down at the floor, suddenly nervous.

“Wow, this is the first time I’m hearing anything about that.” You continue to pack away items into your bag, “I’m owed quite a lot if that’s true.”

His face falls in on itself in a wince, “Oh. Didn’t mean to do her in like that.” You can feel him looking at you for a few beats too long, and his eyes narrow like he’s about to say more.

In the same moment, as if summoned, your professor turns on her heel, walking over to your bench.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay without it. I’ll see you next week, right?”

He shakes a little, releasing his stare, and throws a thumbs up in your direction with his protective hand, “Yeah, see ya next week. Nice to meet you.”

───────

After another four-hour class and a too-long nap and a break for dinner, everyone from this morning joins together in a few cars to head to a bar downtown. You meet up with Ian, who offered to drive as a bargaining chip, because he knows by now that you’d back out if you had to show up on your own.

The bar is dark and divey and perfect for being overly-observant in secret. You’ve warmed up to this crowd enough, but you’re still on plus-one basis with a lot of them, Ian serving as your invitation. You like to just listen to them at first during these outings, strategically planning your involvement so you don’t feel put on the spot when they give you a turn.

It’s a lot like being in class; the group of you occupying a dimly lit corner, a round-table of bodies, with the person in the center alternating as the topic changes. Tonight you stay at the furthest end.

You cling to the single tequila soda you ordered, watery and flat by now with pea-sized ice chips bobbing around in the center to avoid the heat of your fingers. You watch them swim, tipping your cup to see them swirl in a frenzied circle until they disappear.

Some guy from your English class—Andre or Andrew or who cares—is talking at you, making his best attempt at what you think is supposed to be flirting. It’s really just him asking your opinions on his five favorite books, not hiding his disapproval when you mention you haven’t read one or the other.

You watch Ian, who left you twenty minutes ago in search of the bar-top for another drink. He’s caught now on his third conversation on the way back, maybe thinking he’s doing you a favor by taking his time. You try relentlessly to catch his eye instead, and he bounds over without question when he sees you. The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty, and the English-class-guy spooks at the sight of what he probably thinks is competition. So much for that.

“Having fun?” he prods when he slips in the chair beside you, already aware that you are absolutely very much not having fun.

Ian’s a nice guy, and he means well. You met him a week into your first semester—almost a year ago now—at orientation, because your last names were the beginning and end of the line of their respective letters. He was from somewhere in Canada, studying photography with a minor in painting and drawing. He’s maybe a year or two older than you, though you’ve never asked to confirm; tall and long and pretty, for lack of a better word, with big eyes and a permanent split in the little bangs that cover his forehead. He’s the first man in years you’ve been comfortable around, never initiating anything or pushing too hard for your friendship. All in all, no one’s been as welcoming to you, except the person you literally live with, and you’re happy to let him drag you out if it means he’ll continue to look after you the way he does.

“Of course, when have you ever known me to have a bad time?”

“No luck with Adrian?” Adrian. You were close.

“Just likes to hear himself talk, I think. I wasn’t interested in being an audience.”

He hums, “Someone else on your mind?”

“Like who?” You lean the lip of your cup against your mouth.

“Saw you making eyes at the model today,” He teases, nudging you in your rib when you take a sip of your drink so that you keel over slightly. You sputter, unamused with the tactic to get you to fess up.

Was it that obvious?

“Isn’t that the point of the class?”

“Yeah maybe, smartass, but that’s not what I meant. I saw him talking to you, saw you give him a little gift,” He bobs his eyebrows at you suggestively, “Excited for him to come back next week?”

“So I can stare more, you mean?”

“So you can get his number.”

“Ian.”

“I’m just saying you should try and find someone outside our section of the building. No writers, either, obviously.” He gestures to where Adrian is already trying his shtick on some girl from your class.

“He’s a little too old for me, don’t you think? His daughter goes here.” You muse. He’s mostly right about you needing to expand your reach, but you won’t let him off that easily.

“Maybe. But if you don’t care, and he doesn’t care, what’s it matter? He’s not too old to fuck you.” He makes a face and you roll your eyes.

The thought is nice, but you know forging relationships is unlikely when you’re concerned, at least as of late, “I don’t want to spend my night talking about people I’m not going to fuck.”

“Whatever you say.” He slinks out from his seat, mumbling something about a glass of water. A few steps away, he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re not doomed, by the way,” the asshole can read your mind, “You can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to like people.”

And then you’re alone again.

It’s like that for another hour, small attempts at chatter and meetings until you realize you’re too tired to fuck anyone, let alone continue to sit upright. Being up so early this morning took more of a toll than an hour nap could fix, and you're begging Ian to take you home. He agrees, spending the trip trying to plan another outing later in the week before everyone’s gone on vacation.

You give him a sleepy goodbye when he pulls into your apartment complex, making sure he’s still going to class tomorrow before letting him drive away. Once you’re inside, slipping quietly in through the front door, you realize your roommate isn’t home. She’s probably still in a late class or at her boyfriend’s or somewhere else. You enjoy the quiet enough to not think about it too hard.

The five sips of tequila-mostly-water has settled into your stomach by now, making you a quarter-second slower when you strip all your clothes off and climb into bed.

You twist under the sheets, and after a while your skin starts to feel too hot, even in the cold air of your room. Breathing deep, you try to think of something boring to get your mind to still, but when you sense the sleep about to take over, it switches.

You see his face behind your eyelids, the man from today, strong and pretty and delicate, remembering all your favorite details—the length of his fingers and the depth of his voice. You curse yourself for assigning this importance to him. He’s just another page in your portfolio, if you even keep him, yet you can feel a slow heat bubble up at your core when you remember the stretch of his body under the robe. It’s okay to be taken with him, you think, he’s objectively gorgeous.

Your conversation with Ian replays in your head—less about his sincere advice and more about how you need to get laid. It’s been too long; maybe you are just horny, and maybe taking care of it just this once could be enough to stop this hollow interest from growing.

You reach a hand down under your blanket, the tips of your digits pushing into the slit of your cunt. You’re wet, arousal tacky and pooled so much that the light pressure you meant to be exploring with is enough to have you accidentally slipping inside. Okay, he’s really hot. So what? Was it really that bad if you thought so?

You dip a finger further in, timid at first; you’re used to keeping quiet for this kind of activity, and even though your roommate was gone when you got here, it doesn’t mean she hadn’t come in in the thirty minutes of rolling around you’d done before giving into your desire. You lay your free hand over your mouth just in case, teeth biting into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep yourself quiet.

You slide in a second finger to the knuckle to join the first, the light stretch of it enough to make you pant. You see him again, hard and soft and beautiful. You think about what his skin would taste like, if he’d let you sink your teeth into the sinew of his neck. It feels weird to know what he looks like without his clothes, and you’re weirdly proud of yourself for holding back from seeing him fully; it's easier to dream about that way. You wonder how he’d present himself to you, how he’d want to fuck you. You imagine him winding a hand around the hinge of your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft of your cheeks. Would he be gentle? Would he make it hurt? You suspect either would be too much. You feverishly palm your clit, hips canting in an effort to climax. The pictures flash faster—his cock in your mouth, his tongue in your cunt, the way he’d spit and grip and hold—and you’re coming, drooling over your hand as you hear him say your name in your mind.

You take your hand away after a minute, breath pushing out heavily from your nose. It’s fine, you needed to do it, just one time. No shame in that. It’s out of your system now.

And if you see his face one more time before you fall asleep, it’s probably an afterthought.

───────

By the end of the week, you come to a horrible conclusion.

It starts the next morning when you take your sketchbook out, itching to get a handle on the many writing assignments you’ve been dutifully ignoring, hoping for an outline or a free-flow of ideas. Nothing comes to mind. You draw a little bit to fill the space while you think, just a mess of material on the page, strokes of your hand that leave barely anything behind.

Then on Wednesday you’re at your laptop, typing with one hand while the other one slides against the wood of the dining table, down and around in a loop, mimicking the same shape each time.

And again last night in the shower, letting the shame of a different semi-failed night-out wash over and off of you. You slosh your foot around in the water in the basin below, catching it as it runs down and pools, ankle dragging in a tiny, controlled movement.

It’s not until now that you put it together.

You’re sitting at your desk, with creative materials at your disposal this time, trying to make sense of what it is you’re forming. You find that no matter the medium, your hand automatically makes a single hard line. The same line, from memory. It’s negligible at first, just a light press of pen or pencil or crayon, until it drags down, down, down. It’s not until you lift your utensil that you recognize it. The hook of a nose and the crest of a top lip.

A hard pit forms in your stomach, blood draining from your head to gather in the center of your chest, a blooming sickness of obsession you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re drawing him. You’ve been drawing him. You know this feeling, have participated in this kind of behavior. These are the actions that cause the humiliating dregs of attraction to bleed over into fixation—juvenile and universal and unavoidable. He’s going to be a problem.

#joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #joel miller/reader

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rottenpumpkin13 · 5 months ago

Note

HAHHAHA! Nothing’s stopping me from doing it TWICE!

BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! Once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people who deserve it. If you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out 💕

(Bc you deserve a million of these, seriously!! But I will also send an ask to not waste your time x,D)

What are AGSZC’s YouTube search histories? >:3c

I've been wanting to tell you this for the longest time: the cable protector for my laptop charger is a Pikachu! It often kills my writer's block because I can feel its (positive) judgmental stare whenever I don't write. A+ involuntary Pichu motivation! Unfortunately I glanced at the ask this morning and completely mistook the question while I was drafting it at work

( ╥ ᴗ ╥) I unhelpfully present you:

AGSZC Google Search Histories

CLOUD:

• What to do if being stalked

• What to do if being stalked by dead man

• What to do if being stalked by dead man and mother

• Writhe meaning

• What does it mean when someone says writhe for me

• Was Sephiroth queer when he was alive

• How to talk to people without making it awkward

• Why is my memory poor

• How to tell woman I love her

• How to kill someone once and for all

• How to be a good puppet~

• HOW TO STOP MIND CONTROL IMMEDIATELY

GENESIS:

• Who would win in a fight Genesis or Sephiroth

• Genesis Rhapsodos aesthetic

• How to bully people in a goddess honoring way

• Genesis Rhapsodos video compilations

• Cowboys

• Where to rent horse

• Is Masamune heavier than Rapier

• Masamune weight

• How to fix a broken sword

• Super glue strong enough to hold sword together

• How to hide broken sword from friend

• Sephiroth sword replica for sale

• Where to buy replica of Sephiroth's sword

• How to convince a friend their sword was always broken

• Can a sword just break on its own

• Sephiroth x reader fanfiction

• Logical reasons for sword to break on its own

• Acting tips for looking surprised

• How to gaslight your friend

• How to deflect blame in conversation

• How to avoid eye contact when lying

• How to create a distraction during a confrontation

• How to flee the country

SEPHIROTH:

• Benefits of owning a cat

• Sephiroth costume

• BDSM meaning

• Name for device that extinguishes fire

• Fire extinguisher for sale

• Haunted by the faces of people long gone what do I do

• How to stop sitting on my hair

• Am I gay quiz

• Angeal Hewley shirtless

• What does it mean when you dream about being held by blue alien mother

• How to dream about blue alien mother more often

• Situations where it is appropriate to say fuck

• Can I say fuck randomly

• Where to look for items when you misplace them

• Where could I have misplaced my sword

• How to donate effectively to social causes

• Videos of people crying in regret after cutting their hair

• Can you consume a salt lamp

• DTF meaning

• Milf meaning

• Slang terms to use to sound normal

• Silly cat videos

• Why is piracy wrong

• Free movies watch online HD

• How to make protein shake taste like pasta

• Am I depressed quiz

• Spaghetti recipe

• How to put out kitchen fire

• How to remove spaghetti from ceiling

ZACK:

• Sephiroth bald

• can you die from licking batteries

• can you die from inhaling cheese puff dust

• Apple bottom jeans

• boots with the fur

• Reebok's with the straps

• Why does my husband look at other women

• Is it safe to eat pinecones

• Are moogles real

• How to befriend a moogle

• Can you die from licking hair gel

• What are the implications of string theory for quantum gravity in multidimensional spacetime

• Sephiroth x Genesis Rhapsodos fics

• How to explode things using mind

• Cool dog collar jewelry

• Cool dog collar jewelry SFW

• Sunflower tattoo

• Is it normal to kiss your friends

• How to kiss friends in a bromance way

• How to tell if I'm psychic

• Intersectional feminism

ANGEAL:

• Empanada recipe

• Where to hypothetically hide a body

• Tzatziki recipe

• Signs you're in a polycule

• Am I in a polycule how to tell

• Is it normal to plan your own funeral ahead of time

• Valid coupons printable

• Is it normal to vent to your houseplants about your problems

• Used dog cage for sale

• How to make friend realize that dreaming of blue alien mother isn't normal

• How to approach fact that friend needs therapy in conversation

• How to fix sword in case it ever breaks randomly

• Good gifts for teenagers with ADHD

• Chainsaw for sale

• Is a chainsaw a good gift

• Why am I so tired all the time

• Why is it that every time you search something online the internet makes you think you have an incurable disease

• Fun team building activities

• How to convince coworkers that trust falls are safe

• How to stop bleeding fast

• Encouraging words to calm down panicking crowd

• paramedic number

#I'm dying of shame and the Pichu charger is judging me so hard rn 😭#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #crisis core #zack fair #cloud strife

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martsonmars · 1 year ago

Note

I will also accept Lady Ruth and the Mage pastas, if you wanna share

Yesss thank you.

Lady Ruth is definitely lasagna! The product of hours and hours of dedication and love just to feed your family. A warm hug of creamy and delicious ingredients. Your belly will be full and your heart will be happy and you'll feel so so loved. Also the layers make me think of her elaborate cakes 🤣

Alternatively, she'd be gnocchi (the soft potato kind) because that feels like grandma material to me. I used to make gnocchi with my (now evil) grandma and I feel like it's a common experience. And after the regular gnocchi we used to make big sweet gnocchi with jam inside, and that's Ruth core too.

The Mage... Oh boy. I wanted to say that he's any pasta with ketchup but that would be an insult to pasta with ketchup.

He's broken spaghetti like broken trust and misguided rituals. He's overcooked pasta like spells gone wrong and care and love misplaced.

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brownhairedbookworm · 11 months ago

Text

Vegetarianism Doesn't Keep You Skinny

"Huddle up, you two." A very pink woman snaps her fingers at the two of her girlfriends that are present. "Emergency meeting about Monika." Despite knowing that the accused is not anywhere near their shared home, now, she can't help but look around behind herself to be sure.

Yuri gasps, marking her place in her novel of choice and standing to join Natsuki in this impromptu discussion. "What is it, Natsuki? Is something wrong?" She holds her hands in front of herself, keeping them in place so she doesn't start fidgeting with her sleeves out of nervousness.

Sayori slips between them and lays her arms across their shoulders, taking the "huddle up" instruction quite literally. "I don't think she's been up to anything, lately, if you're worried, Natsuki."

"That's exactly the problem! There's something she isn't doing. I don't think she's eating enough." Natsuki looks over the two women, eyelids partially closed in a serious expression. "I've been finding most of her lunches in the trash, when I clean the kitchen out."

Sayori nods, understanding the direness of Natsuki's accusation. If Monika isn't eating, it's insulting the short, somewhat plump-figured woman's work in the kitchen as well as potentially being a sign of stress. "Hm... She usually loves everything you make. We all do. That is serious."

"Not to mention a potential problem for her health." Yuri lets her arms drop. While serious, this isn't something to excessively fret over, yet. "With her vegetarianism, she needs to make sure she's eating a little more, to keep her body nutritionally balanced. Do you think she's switching for protein shakes at work?"

"She better not be!" Natsuki hisses at the thought. "Not eating my food is one thing, but replacing it? I might actually kill her."

"No fighting! We'll ask her about it, okay? Simmer down and we'll talk to her when she gets home from her evening walk, got it?" Sayori gives Natsuki a firm side-eye. "If there's a problem she's having, we'll talk about it, together, and find a solution."

"...And if she stonewalls us about her issues like she usually does?" Yuri quietly comments, letting a sigh escape her mouth as she closes her eyes. Monika can be stubborn about handling herself, and it wouldn't surprise any of the ladies here if she smooth-talked her way out of discussing anything.

"I have an idea, but I'm gonna wait until she actually shuts us out, before I tell you two. Can you wait until then?" Sayori looks between the pink and purple women, determined eyes demanding their patience.

"If I have to." Natsuki grumbles.

"I will await until you deem it necessary." Yuri nods at Sayori.

"Huddle over, then. Back to whatever you were doing. I need to finish dinner."

The house returns to its previous relative silence, with the meeting adjourned. Natsuki's sizzling work in the kitchen provides a calm background for Yuri to read and for Sayori to sit down and write. It also allows everyone to hear when the final member of their little romantic group comes in through the front door. "Okay, everyone, I'm back! Dinner smells good!"

Yuri and Sayori look at each other, wondering when they should confront Monika about Natsuki's accusation. They don't want it to be a big deal, but Natsuki is at least a little genuinely upset. She won't EXPLODE on Monika, but will she make Monika raise her walls faster?

"Yo, Monika. Mushroom fettuccine, tonight, hope you like!" Natsuki bounces around the kitchen, plating up the food. "Sweet potatoes and green beans on the side."

"That sounds great!" Maybe their concern was misplaced. They seem like they're getting along for now. Either way, maybe it's best for Yuri and Sayori to take seats between them at the table? Yeah.

Natsuki brings the warm, full plates over to everyone. "Hope everyone likes it! Cookin' vegetarian is a fun challenge."

"I appreciate the effort!" Monika gives Natsuki a broad smile. Sayori and Yuri immediately take a bite of their pasta, knowing Monika has fallen into a trap with those simple words, and Natsuki is about to snap the jaws shut.

"Oh, yeah? Glad to feel like my work is valued." Natsuki beams, looking proud of herself "Except... I make you lunches, too. And those aren't bein' eaten. Explain." Natsuki keeps her smile on her face, but the bitter notes in her voice make it clear that this isn't a light offense.

Monika blanches. Was her sneaking that bad? Shoot. She just didn't want to hurt Natsuki's feelings by asking her not to cook... Maybe it's best for her to come clean? It... Hasn't been a good idea to try and talk her way out of things, recently. Sayori is getting too good at reading her. "...I'm sorry, Nats, I'm too busy at work to heat up your food. I'm managing about 20 people and making sure they aren't moving all the radioactive stuff out of where it's supposed to be." The brunette blushes lightly, looking guiltily at Natsuki. "Ahaha... Uh, I've been mostly eating a granola bar, at my station, lately."

Natsuki takes a deep breath and tempers herself. It's better than any of them expected, but it's still less than ideal. "Can't believe you think it's okay to replace my work with granola bars. No wonder your thighs are getting scrawnier." The pink-haired woman smirks, folding her arms across her chest. "I can start making you cold food. I've been eyeing a macaroni salad recipe lately, and that could keep you fed. It'll kick the shit out of anything you could possibly buy on a lunch break, which you apparently don't have anyway."

Sayori hums, both in enjoyment of the pasta on offer and in relief that Monika, for once, didn't completely shut down any investigation into something stupid she's doing. It's kinda dumb that she's not forcing her bosses to relinquish a lunch break, but at least she's not wanting to replace Natsuki's cooking for any reason. Still, she had her idea, and she wants to share. "Monika didn't try to sneak this past us, do you two want to hear my idea anyway?"

"Past us-?"

"Of course, Sayori, please share." Yuri's calm but firm tone is undercut by her smirk from interrupting Monika's question. But she's made sure Sayori continues to have the floor, and that's all she needed.

"Thanks Yuri! So I found out about this thing called feedism-"

This time, Natsuki interrupts Sayori with a loud choke on her noodles.

"Oh, so you're familiar~" Sayori wiggles her eyebrows at Natsuki. "Anyway. For Yuri and Monika, the idea is that, uh, food is sexy, and feeding it to your partner can be a way to be intimate! So, if Monika isn't eating enough, we should make it fun for all of us to help her eat more!"

As expected of Sayori, it's a simple and emotionally motivated idea. But judging by the faces around her, she seems like she may have takers. Yuri's eyes are thoughtful, considering the intimacy of food. Natsuki is still recovering from choking, but she doesn't need to have any of this explained... Which just leaves Monika.

Blue eyes travel back across the table. Aha~ She's taken the bait! Monika's face is bright red, and she's taking smaller bites of her dinner. She's totally in.

"This was my idea, so I want to have the first go!" Sayori shouts with a raised hand.

"If you insist, I have no argument." Yuri nods, continuing to gracefully enjoy her meal. "But please do keep it out of the bedroom, unless you have plans to keep it clean?"

"Let me, khm," Natsuki coughs, clearing her throat properly, "make something nice for her to eat, and you can go first. I don't want you just raiding a vending machine. If we're going to feed Monika, we're going to feed her GOOD food."

"Aye aye, Captain Nats! Let me know when we can plot tasty treats for our rear admiral!"

"...Are you saying my butt is fat?" Monika grumbles into her pasta bowl, holding it high to hide her burning cheeks.

"Of the four of us, you do have the most bottom-heavy figure, even if the heaviest of us four is currently Natsuki." Yuri spears a slice of mushroom and carries it to her mouth. "Followed by Sayori and then myself."

"Hey, don't trust a skinny chef. I'm proud to be plus-sized! And maybe you'll be joining the rest of us up here, soon, huh Monika~?" Natsuki winks at the more slender woman across from her. With her lip lifted into a half smirk, her fang is on full display.

"Hey, wait a minute, I didn't even agree to this, yet!" Monika puts her bowl down with a pouting lip and mock-offended eyes glaring out at her girlfriends.

Sayori sets her elbow on the table and rests her head in her hand. Her face is quite possibly the smuggest on display. "Are you going to say no, Moni?" Once again, the woman deploys an eyebrow wiggle.

Monika can't help but falter under Sayori's gaze. "N-no..." The brunette lets out a massive sigh. "I hate that you all know how to push my buttons and get me to agree to your kinks so easily!"

Yuri slowly turns to Monika. "Hm... Your phrasing reminds me. Am I free to tell the others about the spot I discover-"

"ABSOLUTELY NOT! If they find out about it, I'll never be able to get to work on time ever again!" Monika shakes her head fervently, gritting her teeth. "Damn you and your methodical fingers."

"You love me." Her tone may be flat, but Yuri can't help adding her own grin to the other two looking at Monika with up-turned lips. That little trick of hers will have to remain a secret between herself and Monika. Not that Yuri minds a secret or two, from the others. "As well as my fingers."

"Lewd~" Natsuki snickers, as the dinner quiets down. For now, it's just the sounds of eating and drinking before the meal ends and the four separate from the table. For Natsuki, that means it's time to start cleaning up!

Monika approaches Natsuki at the kitchen sink, sliding in as naturally as she can to start helping with the dishes. "Natsuki? Can I make a request for the, uh, menu? F-for Sayori feeding me?"

"No promises, but you can ask." Natsuki slips her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she attacks a particularly stubborn sauce stain. "Stupid piece of... Is the steel wool in the sink, over there?"

With her sleeves rolled up, Monika sends her hands into the basin and retrieves the steel wool. She passes it over to Natsuki. "Snickerdoodles?"

"Huh." Natsuki takes the wool and starts working on the plate. "It's been a while since we've had those. Sure. Sayori's probably gonna love that choice."

"Thanks, Nats." Monika leaves a gentle kiss on Natsuki's cheek as she joins more properly in the dish washing.

"You're welcome, Moni. Hope you're looking forward to them!"

Monika's stomach growls in response.

#drabble #check out the ao3 link in the header #VeDoKeYoSk

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enigmasepiphanies · 6 months ago

Text

My country was once stars near stripes

Now I stand before both a citizen

Our land of the brave

Our land of the free

Our people were once the best, many still are

Others clamor to stampede over the best

Clawing their way up and over to the next ladder

It’s a rat race of thieves of life and light

at this point I debate the value of my life

If the whole world is against me

Am I just the most beautiful smartest black sheep?

They will make poisoned sheep stew of me

Rat bastards

I am of the opinion that the less poison in the stew

The less people are poisoned by dinner…

I am so grateful to be alive

I want to thank our servicemen the world over

For protecting each persons life

For serving others as a career and attitude

For valuing our people as more than their value

For making lives longer and lovelier

For making lives more full of hope and happiness

than of fear and hunger and worthlessness

In our country the land of good humans

It’s ok to say goodbye to bad days, bad people, bad decisions

It’s better to celebrate life, make the right decisions now and always choose to do good from now into the future.

Without poison we can heal.

With love we can grow.

With hope we can make better lives

With happiness we can rise our civilization faster.

By looking at history as a cycle of mistakes

Can we learn how to make the equation less cruel

Literacy is so important to understand all peoples

So many misplaced idioms misfiring meanings

Memory is meaning itself

Write it down and see what sticks

Like spaghetti to the wall?

Al Dente I have no teeth and I rarely eat pasta

Also I don’t double fist drinks or smokes

But I do consider myself American and Earthling

Happy Memorial Day

Stars with Stripes please

#patriotic #memorial day #poetry #existentialism #flowetry #writing #literacy #reading #Sabertooth #saberteeth

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inwintersolitude · 1 year ago

Text

- July 17th 2023 -

What's on your to-do list for today? Not much. Just some housework - I need to load/run the dishwasher, vacuum, and get caught up on my expense tracking spreadsheet.

Do you ever watch movies or TV in bed? Do you use a laptop or do you have a TV? Nope.

What's your favourite thing to cook for house guests? Creamy Tuscan chicken, or penne pasta with roasted zucchini and tomato sauce.

What sort of music did you grow up listening to? Did your parents have a big influence on your music taste today? My mom is a classical pianist so I grew up listening to mostly classical, and also some jazz because my parents took a liking to it when we lived in the New Orleans area in the early 90s. And my dad likes classic prog rock so I listened to a bit of that as well. Classical and classic prog/psychedelic rock are still some of my favorite genres.

Do you remember your dreams? Usually.

Are you at home right now? Yep. I'm in the downstairs bedroom that we use as a bird room. I have a mini portable/collapsible desk that I set up when I want to bring my laptop in here from my study and chill with my birds.

When was the last time it rained where you live? About 10 minutes ago. A thunderstorm just passed through.

Do you think you have a diverse vocabulary? Yes, I'd say so.

Have you ever eaten pawpaw? I've had papaya (I've read that some parts of the world call that pawpaw, I'm not sure if that's what you meant), but I've never eaten what people in the U.S./Canada call pawpaw, that's a different type of tree fruit that's really obscure and not usually cultivated/eaten.

What was the last art or crafts project you worked on? Macro nature photography.

Do you know anyone who's been bitten by a snake? Nope, not that I know of.

What's a slang word or term that's specific to your neck of the woods? For me, in Australia, I would say "old mate" or "frothing" :D Ope! It's the most Midwestern word ever lol. It's an exclamation of mild surprise, and in some uses it's also kind of politely apologetic. Sort of like a mashup of ''oops'' and ''woah!'' and ''pardon me.'' Like if I accidentally bumped into someone I'd say ''Ope, sorry, I didn't see you there!'' Or if I had misplaced something and then suddenly found it I'd say ''Ope, there it is!''

Do you know how to ice skate? When was the last time you went, if ever? Barely. I think the last time I went was in 2008-ish? I vaguely remember going to my university's ice area with some friends but I can't remember if I joined them in skating or not. If not, then the last time actually skated was at my 10th birthday party.

Dogs or cats? You must pick one! I honestly can't decide! So much of it depends on the individual animal and its temperament. I like well-behaved and calm dogs more than most cats, but I like most cats more than neurotic/needy/high-strung dogs.

Are there any animals or creatures that scare you? Just spiders and centipedes. And scorpions but I've never seen one in real life.

Do you like watermelon? Yes I love watermelon.

Is your backyard or outdoor year tidy or messy? It's tidy, except for the garden hose in the back yard that's just kind of laying there rather than on a reel.

Have you ever played organised team sports, like in a league? Yep, all throughout my childhood. I played soccer from ages 5-10, and softball from ages 5-13.

What are you insecure about? My teeth, sort of. My tooth enamel didn't develop properly, it was a side effect of antibiotics I had to be on as a baby, because of a birth defect that caused frequent kidney/bladder infections. I want to get veneers but I need to get my TMJ issues and slight overbite fixed first. I had orthodontics when I was growing up but the orthodontist failed to address my malocclusion and made it worse.

Okay, what are you secure about then? Who I am. My personality and sense of self.

What's your favourite kind of puzzle? Sudoku puzzles, or nonogram puzzles.

Do you ever use the bathroom with the door open? Yep. I usually only use the en suite bathroom in my bedroom (so that I can keep the downstairs guest bathroom cleaner for longer), so it's no biggie if I keep the door open.

When was the last time you took an elevator, and where were you? A few months ago, at my doctor's office.

What last made you feel sad? Seeing my Granddad deal with dementia. And seeing how it affects my Granny.

Have you ever received a gift hamper? What did it contain? I have, but it's been so long since I got one of those that I don't remember what was in it.

Are you using a phone, laptop, desktop or tablet right now? Maybe something else entirely? Laptop.

What sort of movies do you tend to watch? I don't watch movies super often, but I like science fiction, psychological thrillers, and historical dramas.

What colours are you wearing today? Navy blue, black, and white.

How often do you use your microwave? What did you last put in it? Not very often, maybe like once a week? I think the last thing I put in there were some of the leftovers that I brought back from dinner at my parent's house last Wednesday.

Who's the last person you messaged and what did you say? My husband. I sent ''You're sweet 🥰"

#survey #surveys #random questions #personal blog

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imaginedhaven · 4 years ago

Text

Reluctantly Rooming: Part Twelve

Link to Masterpost

I didn’t think I’d have this done so quickly, but here we are!

Content/Warning: While not intended to be a main focus of the work, this chapter does contain discussion of sexual orientation and the revelation of a side character as a trans man (who is almost assuredly not trans in the original canon). While I definitely want to be as respectful as possible even though I’m only barely broaching the topic, I cannot claim to be trans myself, so if I’ve gotten something wrong in my admittedly-minimal talk about it please tell me!

Today’s prompts:

Aelin getting stood up for a date

and

Inappropriate exclamations during an innocent massage

~*~*~

Aelin crossed her legs, leaning forward with an interest she was struggling to feel. “So, Ilias, you said you’re here for work? What is it you do?”

Ilias grinned a little too sharply at her, amusement flashing in sea-green eyes. “I work in… private security. I’m afraid I can’t say more than that.”

“Right.” She began to fidget with the skewer that had held her drink’s cherry, searching for something else to say.

“You seem uncomfortable. Want to get out of here?”

Oh gods, was he really…? Yes, he was leaning in, and the way his eyes flitted down her torso and then back up meant he was saying exactly what she thought he was saying.

“You know, if I’m being honest I don’t know if this is going to work,” she blurted out. “I mean, with you being based so far west of here, and traveling all over for your work… I’m not looking for forever on a first date, but maybe something a bit more stable than that.”

Ilias’ brow furrowed, then he nodded with an easy grin. “Fair enough. I definitely can’t promise stable.”

~*~*~

It had been a while since Aelin had been on a date with a woman, but she knew without a doubt that wasn’t the cause of the nerves settling in the pit of her stomach as golden eyes flashed at her from the barstool beside her. “Can I ask you a question that’s probably a bit rude?”

Her companion—Manon, that was her name—merely raised an amused eyebrow.

Aelin blurted out the question that had been at the tip of her tongue for the past several minutes. “Do you find that people being both scared and turned on is a normal reaction around you, or is it just me?”

Manon smirked, flicking her platinum braid over her shoulder. “It’s what I aim for,” she replied with a flash of sharp teeth.

Aelin laughed. “Okay, if I’m being honest we’re probably a terrible romantic match, but I like you. This is probably weird, since we’re on what’s supposed to be a date, but I have this friend who I think would absolutely love you…” Aelin trailed off, scrolling through the pictures on her phone.

Pointed nails dug into her shoulder as Manon peered at the screen. “I’m interested.”

Aelin blinked. “I haven’t told you anything about Elide.”

“I can see what I need to know about her from the way she’s holding herself in that picture. I’m willing to meet if she is.”

“I’ll introduce you on the condition that you teach me that trick you used on the guy you passed on your way in.”

“Deal.”

“You’re the best.”

“I know.”

~*~*~

Aelin sighed from the corner of the bar, shaking her head as Lysandra gave her a questioning stare. Ress was late. Incredibly late, not just something she could attribute to traffic.

She swirled the whiskey in her glass, watching the amber liquid to stop herself from checking her phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. He would show up if and when he showed up, and she was determined to not be bothered by it even though it bothered her immensely.

Maybe she should take Lysandra up on her offer to set her up. It couldn’t be worse than her experience trying to find people on dating apps.

Finally, her phone chimed as the screen lit up with an unfamiliar number. Aelin, it’s Ress. I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. There’s been a huge disaster at work and apparently I’m the one who gets to clean it up.

Aelin sighed. Well, at least he’d texted her.

~*~*~

“Three flops in as many weeks, Lysandra, I think I’m cursed.” Aelin sighed and nestled further into the couch. “I mean, I went on a run today to try and calm down. Who goes on runs?”

“Rowan goes on runs,” her friend replied wickedly. “And I told you from the start that dating apps were hit or miss. This isn’t college anymore.”

“I didn’t have to worry about it in college,” she reminded her.

“That’s right, you were doing that thing with Sam where you thought you were a lesbian and Sam hadn’t fully come to the realization that he was a guy yet. You know, I still can’t believe you two wound up staying friends after how that fell out.”

Aelin grimaced. Some days she couldn’t quite believe it, either; she had hardly been graceful about it in college. “It took a lot of distance and a lot of growing up,” she admitted. “And a lot of admitting that I said a lot of things I didn’t mean.”

“Anyhow, if you’re ready to hear my ideas, I could set you up with Archer.”

Aelin frowned, rubbing at a sudden cramp in her calf muscles. “Is that a person’s name, or a profession?”

“It’s his name. I can help you with that, if you want.” Lysandra leaned forward and took over, deftly massaging her leg.

“And how exactly do you know this Archer?”

“I worked with him at that massage parlor in Rifthold.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” Lysandra’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Aelin scowled. “No one from Rifthold.”

Green eyes softened in understanding. “He’s not like—”

“I don’t care. No.”

Thankfully, her friend dropped it there, instead focusing on working the knot out of her sore muscles. “I could also set you up with Rowan.”

Aelin groaned. “Oh gods, Lys. No.”

“What do you have to lose?”

“My dignity? My ability to live with him, and therefore my home?” She turned her head just enough to glare at her friend, otherwise remaining practically boneless as she sprawled across the couch.

Lysandra laughed. “You think Aedion wouldn’t kick him out over you?”

“I don’t want it to come to that. So no, you’re not setting me up with him.”

“But you could go on runs together, and when you push yourself too hard he could probably carry you home.”

“You’re a terrible influence. Remind me why we’re friends again?”

“Because you’re a worse one,” her friend grinned. “Besides, I can do this.”

A few deft strokes of Lysandra’s hands had the tension leaving her leg, and she moaned in relief. “Gods, that feels so good.”

“See? Everyone likes my hands, they’re one of my best features.”

“Don’t get all smug with me—yes, right there!”

A loud noise near the doorway had them both freezing and looking over, only to discover that Rowan had gotten home early and looked absolutely mortified. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Aelin, you have a room.”

Aelin blushed hotly as she played back the last several moments of their conversation. Exactly how much had he heard? Hopefully it was just the last part; as awkward as it was, it was easier to explain than her misplaced attraction to him. “As trite as this sounds, it’s not what it looks like.”

“So you haven’t brought one of your recent dates home?” As odd as it was to think, she was relieved by the scowl on his face; the expression combined with his words indicated that he hadn’t heard them talking about him.

“Gods, no. This is Lysandra. From the bar, remember?”

Bless her, Lysandra stood and waved with a grin. She was less thrilled with what her friend proceeded to say, though. “Your friend here pushed too far running and hurt her leg. I was just helping with that.”

Immediately Rowan’s gaze fixated on her legs, obviously searching for any obvious sign of injury. Aelin sighed. “I’m fine, buzzard. It was just a muscle cramp.”

He nodded, the motion sharp and jerky, and strode into the kitchen, fetching a glass of water with almost mechanical precision. “I guarantee you didn’t drink enough water before you ran. This should help prevent it from coming back.”

She scowled, but obediently sipped from the glass after he handed it to her. “I thought you weren’t supposed to right before running. Doesn’t that upset your stomach?”

“I’m talking about yesterday, Aelin. You should be keeping well-hydrated on a daily basis if you’re going to take up running.”

“You just want me to drink more water,” she accused. “That sounds made up.”

“Just try it,” he replied. “You’ll thank me later.”

Her head jerked back toward the living area at the sound of a door closing, only to find that Lysandra had taken the opportunity to quietly let herself out. Her friend grinned and waved from the driveway when she saw her, clearly realizing she was caught and utterly unrepentant.

Aelin sighed and turned back to Rowan, who was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite identify. “You’re really okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “I just needed something to help me not think for a while after these shit dates I’ve been on lately, and I’m told drinking alone is a sign of having a problem.”

The corner of his lips quirked up in the barest hint of a smile. “They must’ve been really bad, to make you consider running as a viable option.”

Aelin shrugged. “I mean, I’ve had worse, but I’ve also had better? It was just one miss after another, you know?”

He glanced at her again, then turned toward the refrigerator. “I think I have everything we need to make pasta, if that’ll help you feel better.”

“You’d actually make me pasta?” She frowned; there had to be some kind of catch. There was no way he would simply allow that many carbs to be on his stovetop at the same time.

“I would,” he replied, heading toward the pantry and grabbing…

“Wait, that’s not pasta,” she blurted out. Gods, she knew there was a catch.

He laughed, rolling up his sleeves before grabbing their eggs as well. “It’s not pasta yet.”

“You can’t seriously mean—” There was no way he was actually making pasta from scratch. There was a reason it came in boxes, she was sure of it.

“I can and I do. Now either stop talking and watch or get out of my kitchen.”

Aelin chose to watch, and the play of muscles in his forearms as he made and kneaded his own pasta dough was almost enough to make her forget about why she’d thought it was a good idea to try dating again in the first place.

Almost.

~*~*~

Tagging:

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up @jlinez @julemmaes @emilyoftheshadows @thegoddessofyou @mymultiversee @swankii-art-teacher @rowansfirebringer @livsdriverslicense @courtofjurdan @danibutterr @woollycat22 @rowaelinismyotp @sleeping-and-books @acciowests @stardelia @anidealiveson

#rowaelin #haven writes #reluctantly rooming

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cdyssey · 3 years ago

Text

Need

Summary: After Nick arrives at the beach house, Frankie escapes to her studio to process her emotions. Post 7x04.

A/N: I've had such Grace and Frankie brain rot these past few days that I figured I should put it to good use and write another fic. It was really fascinating to try Frankie's POV. Lily Tomlin imbues her with a lot of subtle pathos that I totally wish the show would explicitly explore more.

AO3 Link

—

Frankie excuses herself to the studio for dinner, so she can process her very big, astonishingly inappropriate, and entirely overwhelming emotions without resorting to calling Nick a “wavy-haired, Pierce Brosnan wannabe douche canoe.”

As delightful (and totally true) of a turn a phrase that it is, even she knows that saying it aloud would be trespassing a boundary that she’s sworn herself never to cross: Grace is married.

Unhappily married, maybe.

Complicatedly married at the very least.

But until the day that they mutually say “I do” to divorce papers, there isn’t enough room for three people in the Skolka marriage, however much that Grace—bless her increasingly unthawing heart—tries to ensure otherwise.

So Frankie lets the newly reunited couple have their dinner alone under the guise of a generosity that she doesn’t exactly feel, and she takes leftover pasta into her studio to moodily pick around the bowl until her fettuccine looks less like fettuccine and more like unevenly perforated confetti.

(Woo fucking hoo.)

After a few minutes of this aggressively unconstructive practice, she places her nearly full bowl on a nearby work table and stretches out across her paint-stained couch, staring at the ceiling and resisting the reactionary urge to light a joint. Mary J might help her feel better for the present moment, but tomorrow morning, she’d still wake up and feel invaded in her own home.

Paradoxically, she’d also feel alone, goddammit.

She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against an invisible and piercing chill.

Frankie hates feeling lonely.

She spiraled when Grace lived in the penthouse. She nearly self-destructed to fill the gaping void that her roommate, her friend, her practical and beloved soulmate left behind. There was a period where she didn’t wash her clothes and ate a lot of admittedly non-vegan takeout. There were nights when she’d lay awake in her awfully huge bed, staring at the empty space where Sol used to sleep, and have the familiar waking nightmare of spending her final years in forced solitude. She was happy with Jack, and then Jacob—sweet Jacob—came around too, and she did something she still feels fucking ashamed about: she hurt both of them, and she lied when she said that she had just wanted to have some fun.

She knows herself.

Intimately.

She‘d been scared of being alone again, so she tried to hold on to two people who were helping her to stave the awful feeling away. Those men wanted her, and Frankie used them. They wanted her, and she pathologically loves to feel wanted because she sometimes and irrationally fears that she might not be needed.

To be fair to her irrational fears, all the people she’s ever needed and felt needed by have hurt her before.

Sol cheated on her for twenty years.

Her own sons stuck her in a nursing home.

Grace just fucking left her.

She eloped in Vegas like a blushing twenty-one year old bride and just disappeared.

She says it was a mistake; she sat across Frankie in a sunlit restaurant and candidly told her that she didn’t like the person she had become when she married Nick.

And to be completely fair to her, Grace has been adamant about not wanting to leave again—so perhaps she never will—but if her husband is here to stay, it's also a distinct possibility that she’ll never have to make the choice to physically leave to… well… leave.

She can perpetually honeymoon with Nick and still call Frankie home.

It could be a happy ending for Grace… and a fresh new hell for Frankie, who'd just started to feel secure again.

God knows she wants her best friend to be happy, but the big man in the sky must also surely understand that she had hoped that she alone could be enough for Grace, that this unconventional life spent together in the beach house—so crazy, so weird, and so inextricably entangled—would be their shared happily ever after.

But even as she thinks it, the vestiges of her clearly misplaced optimism begin to evade her, dregs now at the bottom of an already drained cup.

She and Grace aren't married.

It’s always been an objective fact.

Tonight, it feels more like an unpleasant reality.

When the door leading into her studio suddenly flies open, Frankie barely has enough time to swipe the back of her hand across her eyes before she sits up to find none other than the lady of the hour.

Her collared shirt popped up stiffly around her neck, a martini glass surgically glued to her right hand, Grace looks quintessentially herself as she walks in, even down to the minutiae of her trademark I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-everyone-in-it expression—brow furrowed and eyes Medusa cold. After all but slamming the door, she stalks over within a few clicks of her practical but unmistakably high heels.

“Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine,” Frankie greets wryly, hoping to hell and back that her face isn’t as red as it feels.

It’s a tall order, though.

Alas, she was gifted (or equally cursed) with an exceptionally expressive face.

“Frankie, this is nonsense,” Grace says bluntly, using her martini glass like a pointer and leveling it straight at her head. “Come back to the house—your house—and have dinner with us.”

It’s the authoritarian nature of the demand that rifles Frankie.

Frankly, it pisses her off.

She’s always been a rebel contrarian.

“And by us, you mean you and your house arrested husband, right?” She returns evenly. She betrays herself by raising a single and devastatingly skeptical brow. “The man with whom you should be having a very emotionally honest conversation with right now about the parameters of your jacked up relationship?”

Grace shifts her weight from heel to heel and glances away a little too quickly for the gesture to be entirely natural. Frankie had blatantly stricken a pulsing nerve, and the guilt of doing so immediately swallows her.

She shouldn’t be so hard on her friend.

(She doesn’t know why it’s permissible to be equally hard on herself.)

“Well, I tried to have that conversation, thank you very much, but then I ended up wanting to claw Nick’s eyes out.” The obvious follow up question must shine in Frankie’s face because sighing infinitesimally through her nostrils, Grace adds, “His attorney argued that my advanced age and apparent capability to croak at any moment were reasons enough to grant Nick leniency. They let him out so he could take care of me—whatever the hell that means.”

Her no-nonsense voice never falters as she delivers the brutal words, but her eyes undermine her, seething with emotion, simply roiling. They tell a story of horror and disgust and searing, absolute betrayal; they’re heavy all over with sadness and the indelicate trappings of all her raw and mercilessly exposed fears.

Frankie understands immediately.

Nick used one of Grace’s deepest insecurities as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Being eighty-two years old.

But perhaps more accurately, feeling like it.

“Oh, honey,” Frankie melts. She can do nothing else but melt, to be suddenly overcome with fierce, protective, and terrifying love for the woman in front of her. “That fucking bastard.”

Grace immediately laughs, the sound hoarse and watery and a little unhinged all at the exact same time.

“Tell me about it,” she half-smiles and takes the swearing as a rightful invitation to join Frankie on the couch. With a gentle clink, she sets her half-emptied martini glass on the table next to Frankie’s completely full pasta bowl. “I said the exact same thing.”

When she chooses to sit close enough that their shoulders are brushing, Frankie intuitively knows that this is petty defiance against Nick for daring to intrude upon them and the world they've so carefully created together.

She temples Grace’s nearest hand with her own in an attempt to silently communicate that this right here—whatever this is between them—is love.

“So, please”—Grace squeezes her hand back—“please don’t be angry with me… I… I didn’t want this. You know I didn’t want this. I don’t want him to even be here.”

Frankie stares openly at her best friend.

Wide-eyed and hopeful against her self-loathing, self-centered will, she searches her broken face like it's revelatory.

It's stunningly rare that Grace Hanson ever articulates her wants so clearly. Forty years of an emotionally repressive marriage did their number and toll on her. She pedestalized rigid decorum over every conscious desire.

She played by the rules even if they hurt her.

And drank herself to oblivion on many a night to forget the very fact that she was hurt.

To deny herself the honesty she’d somehow convinced herself that she didn’t deserve.

“… you know this is your husband we’re talking about here, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. Frankie's pretty sure that they both fucking know that it’s insane that this conversation—that this entire situation as a whole—is happening.

“I know,” Grace replies firmly. “Believe me, I'm well aware. But you’re… you’re my partner, Frankie, and if I can’t be upfront with you, then I don’t know who else I can turn to.”

The very word partner sends shivers down her spine, and the shivers collect like butterflies in her already churning belly.

It’s just a word, she tells herself.

She scolds.

Grace doesn’t mean anything by it.

It's a label, and Grace doesn't do labels anymore.

“I... I wasn’t mad at you, Grace,” she finally admits. It's easier to do than questioning the extent to which her roommate would give up the world for her, but all the same, her voice is frighteningly weak, a pale imitation of everything Frankie usually projects herself to be: confident, cheerful, unshakeable, unshaken. Suddenly, it hits her that it’s been a very long time since she’s been so openly vulnerable, too. “I'm not even really all that mad at your jailbird husband either. I was just scared, and when I get scared, I skitter like a nervous little bug."

She shuts down.

She spirals.

She tries to put a smile on her face for the people who love her all the same.

And then she lies awake at night, drowning in the sheets of an empty bed.

Thinking about how she should probably tell someone that everything hurts.

But she’s Frankie, and she doesn’t do that.

Grace perpetually convinces herself that she doesn’t deserve honesty; Frankie has come to fear that no one wants her own.

“Were you scared of me?” Grace asks quietly, her grip so tight now that it almost stings.

“Frankie…” She presses when a few heartbeats of silence stagger by, limping painfully on all fours, pronouncing so many unspoken and profound hurts.

“Of losing you, Grace,” she confesses, the words defeated and scraped raw. She forcefully tugs her hand away from Grace's just to temple her own hands together on her lap, to lick her sundry and shining wounds in a private corner. “I was scared of losing you, of being alone again in this big, empty house… and I don’t like being alone.”

She can’t bear to look at Grace as she says it, staring at the paint-flecked floor without ever really seeing it, her eyes burning.

She wishes they’d stop burning but feels the precise moment when they begin to leak anyway.

It’s all so embarrassing.

And childish.

Frankie is an eighty-year old woman, and she shouldn’t be upset over her best friend having a goddamn life.

She should be happy for her, fucking ecstatic.

And yet, she's—

But before she can complete the miserable thought, her body becomes aware of another sensation entirely—warm arms enveloping her from the side and inexorably pulling her in, turning the space that once existed between two bodies—between them—intangible, negligible.

Grace.

Shock turns into realization, and realization transforms into aching, sweeping relief.

It can only be Grace.

Grace’s soft lips pressed to her cheek.

Grace’s fingertips curling into the fabric of her dress.

Grace’s nose against her neck as she slides her sharp chin across her shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you, Frances Bergstein,” she declares. “Whatever happens between me and Nick, in the end, it’s going to be just you and me in this house that is our damn home. I swear that to you. I’d tell you every day just to prove it to you.”

Oh, these words.

These beautiful, tender, and long-needed-to-hear words.

They’re just words, she could tell herself again.

She could lie.

She could convince herself if she had to.

She could conveniently forget that Grace Hanson uses language carefully, that she employs every sentence with scalpel-like precision.

Or... more complicatedly still... Frankie could believe her.

Frankie could blindly accept these words for what they are, as manifest confirmation that she is loved by another—prioritized and cared for and needed.

She could be Grace’s partner and let that incredible word be electrically charged with so many complex and ridiculous and extraordinary ideas, none of which are traditional, and all of which feel true.

She could believe in her even if belief is not simple, even if belief is a product, first and foremost, of trust.

And Grace has certainly lost her trust before, but goddammit, she's earned it so many times, too.

“Oh, God,” Frankie laughs in such a way that it’s stupidly clear that she’s crying as Grace rubs slow circles into her back with her thumb. “This is all messed up. You’re the one with a house arrested, tax evading husband. I should be the one comforting you.”

“The house arrested, tax evading husband doesn’t particularly faze me,” Grace chuckles, her voice low. “Seeing you hurting and upset does. My priorities are remarkably straight.”

“I’m not sure you know the meaning of that word,” she smiles weakly as they slowly and clumsily begin to extricate themselves from their tangled embrace.

It’s hard to find themselves again.

To be apart.

“But I do,” Grace protests, emphatic and indignant and maybe even a few shades righteously pissed. “You’re the person I wanna share this crazy life with at the end of the day and every day. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because every day is an incredibly long time to be with me,” Frankie offers meekly, giving her one more perfect and easily acceptable copout, a neatly packaged excuse.

She can be too much.

She knows this.

“It’s just the right amount of time to be with you,” Grace murmurs, reaching up to brush an errant tear away from Frankie’s cheek, her thumb lingering, her quivering palm. “You’re kind enough to love me, and I’m lucky enough to be loved by you... so let me return the favor, Frankie. Let me be here for you."

And to Grace’s credit in this fleeting moment, she continues to hold Frankie.

It's a promise to never let her go.

#grace and frankie #grace hanson #frankie bergstein #grace x frankie #grace and frankie spoilers #reginianwrites #s: grace and frankie

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alreadyblondenow · 4 years ago

Text

Sugar | 3

Jaehyun x reader // SMUT, Fluff, Angst, CEO!Jaehyun, student!reader Summary: Just as you thought your relationship with Jaehyun is getting better, things happened unexpectedly and you aren’t sure anymore who ruined your relationship, you or Jaehyun. Will everything go back to how it used to be? Or will the both of you live different lives from now on? Word Count: 3k Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, older Jaehyun, younger reader, age difference. If you’re uncomfortable, please click away. Explicit mature scenes, sex, Cheating?, mentions of other idols Note: This is the last chapter for Sugar series. :(( Soft vanilla sex with Jaehyun on this chapter hihi Sorry if there are misplaced words or wrong spelling. Complete Chapters: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Jaehyun prepared dinner in his penthouse as his way of apologising. He made his signature pasta which you love and even baked some cupcakes that you’re afraid to taste because they are burnt. He’s been asking a lot of you ever since he picked you up from your dorm also explaining that after his birthday, he needed to fly to Japan to take care of the business there and he was sorry for not telling you in the first place.

“I know it’s late, but” he pulled a small box from the pockets of his hoodie, “Happy Valentines day”

You opened the box and its a beautiful simple necklace that has a diamond pendant that perfectly matches the earrings that he gave you for your birthday. “I can only give you expensive gifts on special occasions like this, I hope you like it… And I’m sorry”

That’s all you want to hear from him, that he’s sorry and that he mean it. You kissed him on the lips and told him to put the necklace on you. “you’re beautiful” he whispers behind you, kissing your neck. Everything escalated quickly, the moment he kissed you deeper than he usually does.

He whispers sweet things behind you while he walks you to his bedroom and having nonstop giggles here and there for the both you. In between kisses you tell him random stuff like how you will never get used to his employees calling you “ma’am” and that the cupcakes tastes awful but you love him for trying to make them for you.

The kiss somehow slowed down when he was getting you naked before he lays you in bed, he took off his hoodie and his sweat pants, all thats left is his Calvin Klein boxer briefs that you’re familiar with. And when he’s done stripping you himself, he can’t stop smiling like a jerk.

“What?” you asked him before laying down.

“Nothing. Its just… You somehow became even more beautiful than the last time I saw you naked” he explained, showing his dimples. And without warning he pushed you on his soft bed, hovering you and quickly placing kisses anywhere he likes.

“I’m assuming this is still for the Valentine boy?” you hum in approval. “And for valentines day? It’s gonna be a long night baby”

With that, you somehow got nervous because you knew how Jaehyun is in bed, the last time (and the first time) you had sex, he rammed his cock inside your pussy without any warning. But that felt good you admit.

Jaehyun snaps his fingers in front of you bringing your attention back to him. You see he already removed his briefs and you see his cock already hard. He slowly kisses you from your toes to your legs, he took sometime with your thighs kissing and pecking some spots, then finally kissing your pussy. Opening your folds gently, careful not to startle you. He suddenly pulls away, making you whimper and needy.

“By the way, baby, please no scratching tonight…” he requests with a smile. You suddenly remember the wounds from his back last time. You only let out a small laugh, making him laugh too.

He continues kissing your pussy and licking your clit slowly. You already knew what he’s doing. He’s taking his time and that he’s focused on making you feel good tonight. That thought alone made you wet and whimper while Jaehyun reaches for your hands and intertwines your fingers on his. You moan softly, breathing in and out deeply and gasping as you let go and you cum while Jaehyun is still devouring your throbbing pussy.

Leaving pecks on your thighs and on your pussy, he kneels in front of you and hovers you again. Kissing your lips sweetly and leaving marks on your neck he told you, “you look beautiful with wearing just that necklace I gave you” you blushed at his comment, meeting his kisses on your lips and encircling your arms around him making him locked inside your arms.

You feel his right hand creeping in between your bodies, touching your soft skin and teasing your wet folds. “can you spread your legs wider for me baby?” he sweetly request dimples showing on his handsome face. You spread your legs as wide as you can, making you whimper again because of Jaehyun’s finger doing a figure of eight in your pussy. Slowly.

It made your legs shiver and your head roll back, the position you’re in right now just made you ten times hotter Jaehyun thought. He loves how you open your mouth and let out soft moans, how you furrow your brows whenever he hits a spot perfectly, how your boobs felt against his chest whenever you breath fast. You looked perfectly fucked up he thought.

Jaehyun was so deep into admiring how you look right now, he didn’t noticed you’re already cuming in his fingers for a while now. Overstimulated, that’s how you feel.

“Jae-“ you call him out but he just smiles at you. “Can you cum again? You look beautiful when you cum, Please?” you can only moan and nod. He didn’t know that you’re already on edge, ready to cum for the third time tonight. As he inserts three fingers in your pussy, you totally lost it and bit his shoulders.

He saw tears on your eyes and dries it with his clean hand. With heavy breaths and involuntary moans, you shiver underneath him closing your legs, trying to calm yourself from that sweet release Jaehyun gave you. You feel Jaehyun kissing your temple as he whispers something to you and he pulls away getting off his bed. You see his perfect figure walk away from you, you try to close your eyes after seeing his cute flat butt that you love to touch.

When Jaehyun came back his cock had a condom rolled on it, ready to fuck you already. His hands roaming around your body again, making you shiver, still sensitive from your recent high. “Are you sure you don’t want me to at least give you a blowjob?” you asked, reaching for his hands and putting it over your boobs making him knead them. He chuckled at your bold move. “I think, you’ve given me enough blowjobs for a lifetime”

Oh right, you thought. You’ve been giving him blowjobs every time you sense that he’s stressed from work, and that he’s too nice to ask for sex so you gave an alternative.

Kissing you deeply again, he spreads your legs wide for the third time this evening. Lining his big cock on your pussy and putting his head slowly, then he pulls out again. You voluntarily kept your hands above your head so you can’t scratch his back making Jaehyun laugh softly while he pushes his cock in side you smoothly.

“That was smooth” you said gasping once he’s balls deep inside you. “I made sure you get so wet during the foreplay” he moves his hips slowly, “didn’t want to hurt you. Its been too long” you blushed again. He moves his hips sharp making your boobs bounce, you grabbed them to stop yourself from touching Jaehyun but he noticed it.

He came closer to you, closer so you could kiss him and whisper sweet things beside your ear. Jaehyun told you that he was just kidding earlier, it doesn’t matter if you claw him the whole night he will still love you more in the morning. Hearing those words made you encircle your arms around him, kissing him deeply while he fucks you, crying tears of joy because it crossed your mind that he’s making love with you tonight. “I love you and I’m sorry.” he thrust in you faster than before, putting you on edge.

“From now and its you and me. Always.” he adds and you felt your fourth release for tonight. He gasps as he rides his high still not pulling out. He kissed your lips, smiling again on top of you. “You’re so handsome. I love you so much” you manage to tell him while you come down from your high.

The sex made you both hungry again so you head out in the kitchen and ate the leftovers you had from dinner earlier. You were both making fun of the burnt cupcakes, eating them even though it tastes bad. Drinking every wine Jaehyun gave you, making you taste different wines from different countries, all so expensive you thought.

You noticed he haven’t touched his phone or received any calls from his secretary. A very rare moment of Jung Jaehyun completely focused on you and you only. You hugged him tighter while you both watch the sun rise from his room and eventually sleep beside each other.

Reality slaps you hard again when deadlines and readings welcomed you back from your weekend with Jaehyun. Him on the other hand is back being the almighty Jung Jaehyun and manage their big company. He will be back to Japan again and will be back next week, and that made you miss him everyday more.

You were trying to finish this paper on a coffee shop near your school, when suddenly someone sat in front of you. That someone is not a stranger.

“Long time” Yuta says sipping on his coffee.

You tried to be nice, you figured theres no reason to be rude. “Oh hi, you come here often?” you asked, not looking at him because you’re typing.

“I’m the manager of this coffee shop” that fact made you look at him finally, you noticed his eyebrow piercing.

“Of course you do. Sorry, I totally forgot.” you sighed, going back to finishing your paper.

Yuta was telling you stories on how this store was his pride, and you admire his work ethics and how he managed the store successfully. You were long done with your paper and this time he was making you laugh about his stories of Jaehyun.

“Which reminds me…” Yuta said grabbing his phone from the table, scanning something from his phone assuming he’s going to show you something funny. Maybe a funny picture of Jaehyun?

He hands you the phone and you looked at the picture, long and hard. It is a picture of Jaehyun, but it isn’t funny. Not at all. The picture stabbed you on the chest.

It was a picture of Jaehyun and his family happily eating on a yacht, with Rosé.

You were asking yourself a lot of whys while staring at Yuta’s phone. Maybe Jaehyun got tired of bringing you along with him so he decided to bring Rosé instead. The fact that Rosé fits well with Jaehyun’s family hurts you even more.

Thanking Yuta for the company and for showing you the picture, and you left with tears on your eyes. You went straight to your dorm, took a nice hot shower, and cried until your eyes hurt. Everyone was present and gathered around your bed the whole time you were telling the story. Wendy and the others didn’t leave your side the whole night.

By the time Jaehyun was back, you told him about what Yuta showed you. And you were even more surprised that he got mad at Yuta for showing you the truth and accusing you of flirting with him. Jaehyun mentioned that he saw you two during his party flirting at the bar and that he didn’t mentioned it earlier because he knew you wouldn’t do that to him.

“You’re right Jaehyun! I can’t do that to you! I didn’t flirt back but he wasn’t wrong all the time! Now, don’t turn this on me! The picture Jae, why?” you were both screaming at each other in front your dorm, almost sure that everyone inside can hear both of your screams.

Jaehyun didn’t deny it. He said it was an important family gathering, something for the public to see how their family is as perfect as how they imagined and that he couldn’t bring you with him because you had school. So his family invited Rosé since she’s in Japan for vacation. He was explaining calmly but the anger is still there.

“So you called her?” you asked bravely with a crack voice. A part of you didn’t want him to say yes. But he did.

The night was full of screaming and it ended basically, you asking for space. Jaehyun wanted to talk more but you couldn’t handle anymore any of his screams and anger so you turned your back and made your way inside your dorm. You were happy he didn’t bang on the door. Your friends showered you with hugs the moment you stepped inside. It hurts even more when you think about how much you love Jaehyun but life just keeps getting in the way, you just want to be alone for some time.

It’s been raining problems in your life lately, and you’ve been sad all week long. You have problems with Jaehyun, school problems, family problems and money problems. Your plate is currently full and you think maybe its time to let go of the things that makes your heart heavy.

When you’re finally ready to face Jaehyun again, you told him all about your problems and he listened attentively. Even promised to help you whenever you want him to. Apologising from the recent fight you had, he told you he freed his weekend schedule so the both of you could spend some time alone again.

“Jaehyun you didn’t have to-“ he cuts you off with a kiss. Letting you know he’s sorry and that it’s all his fault, it made you cry, your chest feels even more heavier now, you thought.

“Jaehyun, Im breaking up with you” finally you said it.

Jaehyun cant believe it of course, he will never let this go. “You didn’t mean that”

You sob, trying to collect the right words, trying to construct the sentence. “I’m not the right person for you Jae. And you’re clearly not the right person for me. I can’t do this anymore Jae.”

Crying your heart out in front of him, Jaehyun is caging you in an embrace as you slightly get off his grasp. “STOP PUSHING ME AWAY YOU’RE HURTING ME!” Jaehyun shouts he’s completely out of control.

You see Wendy and Mark ready to step in to get you. “Baby lets fix this like we always do” he asked of you gently, you see tears in his eyes now then you looked away. When Wendy gets a hold of you, Jaehyun knew it’s time to let you go again. He didn’t want to scare you, he wanted to be with you.

“Wendy, I was trying to fix it. Thats all. I didn’t mean to shout at her” Jaehyun begs in front of Wendy. She’s stopping him from getting closer to you. Mark is holding you now, guiding you to the car where the rest of your friends are waiting.

“I just shouted out of frustration Wendy Im sorry, please let me talk to her” Wendy wanted to punch him, “Act your age Jaehyun!” and she walks out, leaving Jaehyun alone.

2 months after the breakup, you were never the same, you cut your hair shorter than before leaving all the bad memories and problems behind. Wendy promised to lend you money for your college tuition, but the accounting people told you it’s already paid.

And there’s only one person who would do this, your ex Jaehyun. You forced yourself to meet up with him on a cafe near your dorm. He doesn’t looked like your Jaehyun anymore, he looked like the Jaehyun he is meant to be. Looking really handsome in his office attire, you cut to the chase and thanked him, “I’m accepting your help, because I really need it. I’ll pay you back someday”

He tried holding your hand but you’re quick to dodge, “I want to see you as a good friend who’s lending me money for my tuition and not because you’re doing it out of love or whatever” He got hurt, he can almost feel his heart is being torn into half.

When you were about to leave, he grabbed your right hand. “Please dont leave me.” He begs, but you still left.

Six months have passed and he still pays for your tuition. You still see him wait from afar but all you can do is pretend that you don’t see him. Jaehyun didn’t know that seeing him wait for you still, hurts your heart. Pretending that you don’t know him so he can stop bothering you in public, breaks your heart into a million pieces. You cry every night thinking of him, thinking how much pain you’ve caused him and that he’s heart broken because of you.

When you were walking with Mark towards the exit of the school campus, Jaehyun thought you and Mark are finally dating. He didn’t stopped himself from confronting Mark, you on the other was scared Jaehyun might punch him again and create a scene that will make a bad image of the Vice President of the Jung Group of Companies.

You told Mark he can leave and head back to the dorm without you and that Jaehyun won’t hurt you. Mark was hesitating to leave you alone with Jaehyun but he respects your request.

“Boyfriend?” Jaehyun asked. “No, Jaehyun. He was just walking with me” he believed you.

Jaehyun got thin, he looks like shit if you’re being honest, he has dark under eyes and red eyes from crying you assume. He looked pale, his lips are almost purple it made you worry. Seeing Jaehyun so weak like this made you drive him home and take care of him. You touched his forehead and you were right, he’s sick. He’s fucking burning up and he even went outside just to check up on you.

He’s laying now on bed, perfectly covered by thick duvets “You’re burning up. Jae, what are you doing? You should take care of yourself, you’re a fucking CEO for crying out loud, do you want me to get mad?” You asked him almost shouting while damping a wet cloth on his face.

“No” he answers weakly, he’s crying now. Eyes not leaving yours. Tears falling down on his pillow. It pains you to see him like this. As you look for meds in his room and around his penthouse, he seemed so lonely in this big house its making you cry. He must’ve been so lonely when you left him.

Arms encircling on your waist from behind, Jaehyun forced himself to get up and go to you. You felt his warm body due to his high fever. “It pains me to see you like this Jae” you said drying your tears.

“You’re crying too.” He turns you around slowly and dries your eyes.

“I cant help it” you defend with a quiet sob.

“Then be with me” he offers weakly. You dont answer him, you continue looking for meds again. He cries even more when you didn’t respond. “No more crying Jaehyun please, you’re burning up. You need to rest” you ask of him sweetly.

“I’ll love you forever y/n. Even if you push me away. I’ll wait. Coming back to you over and over again.” As to your request, he goes back to bed slowly feeling so weak.

As you damp the warm cloth on his skin, he was looking at your every move and looking deep in you eyes. What did I do to deserve such genuine man. You came closer to his face, being careful you might make him breath hard, “I’ll stay.”

“I’ll stay this time” his can’t believe what you just said, he’s too weak to jump around the room like a kid just to let you know how happy he is. But you do know he’s happy because his ears are turning red again. You tried to reach in for a kiss but he avoided. “Im sick I don’t want you getting sick too...” you laughed at him, caressing his soft black locks.

“Im sorry baby. Im sorry. Im sorry” you hear him apologise and it hurt you because it should be you saying your sorry. You made him stop apologising and joined him in bed, not getting under the duvet but still letting him cuddle you again.

You stayed with Jaehyun the whole night until his fever goes down. You nursed him and changed his clothes to comfortable ones. The next day, he’s feeling a lot better already. He woke you up with a tight hug and a sweet smile. You can tell that he’s still sick but he got better. “Feeling better now Jung Jaehyun?” you asked, hugging him back making you feel his heart beat. “Better thanks to you.”

Everything slowly went back to normal with Jaehyun, nothing too fancy but you started welcoming him again in your life. Although your friends were not okay with your decision, still they respect what you want and they still keep an eye on him.

Because of Jaehyun’s bad experience from your break up with him, every time you two fight over something he comes crashing into you begging you not to leave him again. You think he was traumatised and you feel bad about it. “Jaehyun I wont leave. Were just fighting baby, its normal” from there on you were careful on picking fights with him.

The both of you were happier than ever. He finally learned how to defend you from his family and finally went on public dates with you not giving a single fuck what people thinks. And you on the other hand, finally learned to accept that you’re in love with a rich man who’s way more older than you, who pays for your college tuition, your dorm fee, and basically everything. You’re in love with your sugar daddy.

After graduating, Jaehyun finally met your parents and telling them everything about him. Except for the part where you first met of course. He proposed a week after your graduation in front of your parents and asked you to move in with him, you couldn’t be me more happier.

Being the over achiever that you are, you got your dream job only to find out that Jaehyun owns the company too. You didn’t have any choice, so you ended up working for him not wanting to throw away your dream job. “Don’t worry y/n, you got this job fair and square.” he said with a wink before leaving your job interview.

“Oh by the way” you were nervous on what he’s about to say. “See you at dinner, baby” and he left with a teasing smile.

The other executives asked about your relationship with Jaehyun. You didn’t expect them to be so clueless for you thought the whole world knows about your relationship.

“He’s my fiancé” you clear your throat so they could hear you properly, “Jung Jaehyun is my fiancé” you smiled awkwardly at them and you heard countless ooohs and aaahs.

THE END.

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First of all I would like to thank you for reading this baby of mine. It’s not much but I put heart into it hihi. I hope youre not disappointed or anything with the ending, I didn’t want to overdo things and go crazy writing about. But if you have questions about their wedding, y/n’s job, etc. I’ll gladly talk to you about it. Again, thank you so much if you’ve made it to this point!

#nct-writers #nct imagines #neowritingsnet #cznnet #nct fluff #nct angst #nct smut #nct scenarios #jaehyun #jung jaehyun #writing #kpop fic #smut #fluff #vanilla sex #break up au

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matchamorphosis · 4 years ago

Text

𝑀𝐸𝐿𝐿𝐼𝐿𝐿𝐴 𝐶𝐴𝑅𝑅𝐼𝑆𝐼𝑀𝐴

𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡, 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 || our beloved and sweet Steve Rogers tries to boost his sweethearts mood with music, pasta and art.

𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒 || fluffiest fluffy fluff

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 || avenger!steve rogers × black!fem!reader

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 | 3.1K

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 || 18+ sfw, depression mention, anxiety mention, a little bit of crying, red pasta sauce on white shirts, a lot of kissing, steamy scenes hinting smut but not detailing it any further, cringe poetry at the end. — minors do interact —

𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑠 || be my baby by the ronnettes . man on the moon by zella day . adore you by harry styles

𝑤. 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒 || i’ve been meaning to get this idea out and I finally managed to do so! pretty please like, reblog, and comment what you guys think and if you like my content follow me to see more of my future works! anyways, enjoy reading cherubs!

he notices the shift in the air.

the lack of your smiles and sweet giggles around the house. the house always silent now without you passionately speaking about a novel or book your obsessed with.

an absence of blasting music you would usually play when you’re experimenting with a new recipe. the soft music of your soothing humming as you take care of the vegetable and flower garden. or simply just openly talking about your plans that you’ve planned to him.

instead of being enveloped in the virtuous sunshine that you were. spreading your rich buttery rays— a grey cloud has formed. for you wake in silence, cook in silence, just breathe in silence.

it’s not good silence… it’s a grey silence that sets a dreary fog in the sunny Brooklyn brownstone. Steve has been wanting to know what’s upsetting you so sorrowfully yet the move to confront you about it isn’t the touch up he really wants.

the night before when you tucked yourself in bed his thoughts instantly knew that tomorrow was going to be your day. all for you and specially catered for you and only you to give your heart whatever it needed.

anything to see his sweetheart smile again and to hear the symphony of her laughter.

the morning comes and Steven wakes before you, showers and prepares a breakfast in bed meal fit for a fairy queen in those mystic fairy tales. bringing it to you when you stretch your arms and legs on the crisp cotton sheets of your shared bed.

♡ naked you are from the precious love making from the night before, your eyes widen at the tray in Steve’s hands and he smirks when your eyes gaze to his bare chest that isn’t covered by the white button up

♡ “good morning sweetheart,” he says steadily placing the tray to your sheet covered lap, you quirk and eyebrow to him, it’s mainly you who makes the breakfast because he always makes the pancakes lumpy with unsifted flour and eggs crunchy with shells

♡ waiting eyes filled with adoration he’s looking down on you just waiting or you to take a bite of his self made meal and you look down with a shaking laugh before taking the fork besides the plate of pancakes and taking a bite in them

♡ as you expected you bit into a lump of raw batter yet you forced the swallow the bite down, covering the thick taste of pancake batter with a fresh bite of a strawberry

♡ “they weren’t any good were they? try the eggs- and I promise no egg shells this time!” he explains taking the plate of pancakes and moves the steaming small plate in front of you, and you’re surprised as you notice the eggs weren’t abnormally dry and cold or runny with excess butter and milk

♡ the eggs go into a yellow contrast against the colorful colors of red peppers, chives, and mushrooms with little pieces of bacon here and there you were willing to actually enjoy this

♡ lifting your fork you look up at his eager eyes as you take a bite of his eggs and your utmost surprised to find them delicious, your mouth watery for another bite

♡ and with that other bite steve smiles and internally praises the aggressive five step Gordon Ramsey YouTube video he watched

♡ sure he wasted eight eggs and a ton of your garden vegetables in making the perfect scrambled eggs for you but it was worth it seeing you finishing the last bits of fluffy egg

♡ you wash it down with a cup of coffee steve prepared for you, humming in delight, one of the many things steve rogers can get right and not overthink is the right amount of sugar and cream in your coffee

♡ the soft sips between you two as you both enjoy your cooling cups, steve opens the rest of the soft curtains of the large windows letting the sunlight fill the room you keep the cool white sheet against your chest

♡ finally feeling like today is going to be a good day you find that it couldn’t get better when you lightly gasp as steve trips on the small persian rug, spilling some of the lukewarm bitter liquid from his daisy yellow mug onto his white button up

♡ the laugh that exerts you is untamable but the playful glare of steve’s stare also is as he takes of the button up and throws it into the woven laundry basket in the corner of the room, taking a slight advantage as you gaze upon his muscled structure

♡ the jump from his position to the bed is heavy enough on the mattress that you bounce up, causing the coffee in your mug to spill on you

♡ the gasp that follows steves laugh is return by your piercing glare as you settle the coffee mug down on the night dresser besides you

♡ smacking steve’s shoulder away as he attempts to draw closer and closer to your exposed chest, having you soaked the white sheets with the brown liquid your neck and upper chest are sticky with coffee and smelt like it to

♡ “go away, i’m mad at you,” you murmur but you don’t even attempt to push steves face away from your neck, his tongue licking the sweet coffee from your skin

♡ “c’mon sweetheart, even when I made you breakfast and fucked you good last night,” he says, the same devious tongue sliding down from your collarbones dips to the space between your cleavage and steve snuggles his face in the warm of it

♡ the sun's glare streaming from the open windows shine on you two as you feel steve’s muscled arms wrap around your waist, “steven?” you quirk although those strong arms are swift enough to carry you over his shoulder, a giggle leaves your mouth as you’re carried from your bed to the bathroom

♡ steve starting the shower, the steaming water and gentle soap foam scrubs cleanse the sticky coffee from both your skin but it seemed the coffee wasn’t the only sticky warm essence that needed to be cleaned from both your skin

♡ the afternoon rolled by, the steamy interactions of you and steve in the shower ended hours ago however the same teasing is still persisting as you two prepare your lunch

♡ you and him have loved the pasta in that one restaurant he took you on a date months ago, and it was like a single sparking magnet as you two both said that pasta would be great this evening

♡ so immediately, you jumped from your side of the couch forgetting the remote in your hands as you surfed through the channels and he followed you after dog earring his current page of his book

♡ and for once in a short while cooking in your own kitchen is bringing you joy again, the chopping board in front of you presenting the sliced tomatoes fresh from your garden, you’re thrilled that this summer beared more than last years crop

♡ turning your head over your shoulder you see steve hovering over the stove, stirring the minced garlic and onions that soak and simmer in the olive oil in the large pot, slightly moving his shoulders and hips to the upbeat temple of The Ronettes

♡ you shake your hips turning and walking by his side, his eyes never leaving yours he stirs the mixture as you place the tomatoes in the steaming pot the delicious hiss of the juicy redness basking in the garlicky onion oil has you both hovering your noses over the pot and taking a deep inhale, giggling as you two let the pot come to a heavy simmer

♡ you refill your empty glass with wine again, noticing steves is empty as well you refill his as you savor in the open mouthed neck kisses, teasfully scolding steve as he bites

♡ the music coming from the small tiny stereo is impossible for it to flood the thoughts in your mind but it seems to do its lyrical magic as steve takes you by the hand and twirls, hands at your hips and yours on his broad shoulders you dance and waltz around the grand white marble kitchen

♡ the misplaced steps eased with wine soaked giggles and chuckles, the smell of the ready tomato sauce, shredded parmesan, and homemade flour pasta dough transport you two to that lovely date you two had at the italian restaurant months ago

♡ even though you two can dance forever, both your tired feet hurry to complete your homemade meal; the sight of the red sauce drenching the thick noodles with the shredded pieces of cheese on top and the buttered bread basket have you both hurrying to prepare the lunch outdoors

♡ dressing the backyard table handsomely, the checkered red and white table cloth covers the rusty ancient metal the scene beautiful around the vast flowers and green vegetation

♡ white china plates along with the companying wine glass, shiny forks and napkins go atop; the bottle of red wine and pot of pasta in the middle you complete the table with a vase of fresh plucked flowers

♡ steve grabs your waist from behind, you lace your fingers with his as you find your both swaying side by side, you move your head to see steves eighth glass empty softly smiling as his lips reach down to kiss your cheek

♡ it only makes him wrap his arms around you tighter; “dear?” interrupting his trail of kisses he only hums a response, continue to dance while adorning your neck with his wine-suckled lips

♡ “what are you doing?” the deep giggle from your lips is replaced with a moan once you feel his fingers rub your cunt through your blue gingham sundress

♡ “i’m sorry darling but I can’t think when you’re around, you drive me,” he whispers and that makes you smirk, “you can’t get drunk steven, may I remind you that dreaded blessing doesn’t grace you,”

♡ that remark is disregarded as you moan yet again when his hand creeps under the hem of the dress, trailing his fingers to rub the wetness of your underwear

♡ “I get drunk off your love, you are indeed a blessing in disguise,” he hums in your ear

♡ “and what would the disguise be? dreaded?” your voice slightly weak although you keep your best to respond in the same teaseful manner

♡ “when I get drunk off your love, I understand more and more that anything dreaded about you is how addicting your love is.”

♡ that helps ease the uneasiness in your belly a little but your quietness isn’t so reassuring so he twirls you in the spot, he will not have you unhappy on this special day

♡ “let’s eat baby, I hate to waste our meal to only dig into the one in front of me,” his words reel a bashful smile from you and you two find your way to your table, finally forking the cheesy pasta into your mouths it goes excellent along with the buttered rolls and glasses of wine

♡ forceful after forkful, glass after glass you two talk just how you two used to and the feeling fills the anxiety riddled hole in your chest, he enjoys the strong smiles and giggles from you as you both childishly slurp your pasta and wine

♡ a loud drunken snicker spills from your mouth when his forkful of pasta lands on his white button up again and again, the poor white article stained with red pasta sauce and red splotches of wine, his second one of the day

♡ “steven I fear for the next white button up in your closet,” you giggle and he rolls his eyes at you however a smug smirk forms as he shrugs his shoulders

♡ “you’re right dear, I wouldn’t want to add onto our laundry,” he says and you smile while taking a sip of your wine and he disguards the stained article of clothing to the empty chair besides him

♡ the white wifebeater showcasing his thick arms and toned chest, the yellow sun rays seem to fully bask his body, creating a golden glow against his skin

♡ even when you could unashamedly stare at him forever you feel your face heating up as his smirk and sexually provoking stare meets your eyes

♡ you roll your eyes at his handsome smug face, looking down at your plate, your forkful of pasta in one hand and glass in the other

♡ steve goes back to his pasta however his wandering hands rest on your knee and you aren’t surprised how you practically melt just from that action

♡ “try to not make a mess of yourself steven, you’re doing the laundry this week,” you slyly smirk giggling when he keeps attempting to slip his fingers in between your tightly shut thighs

♡ “don’t worry about me doll, but I can smell your mess from here,” he smirks and you’re breathless as you open your legs and allow his fingers dip into your mess

♡ pure loveliness that’s what you embodied, lying upon the crisp white sheets of cotton the sunlight creates a glowing aura around you

♡ a pencil in his hand he does his best to captivate and illustrate the hills and bends, the dips and curves of your smooth bare skin

♡ the colors are vivid and bright in the cerulean rises of his eyes, the shiny green grass beneath the thin white sheet, your rich skin in the peachy pink sheer drape, the golden rays shining down against the apples of your cheek

♡ how is steve capable of capturing all of this?

♡ there is a twinkle in your eyes, a smile pulling on your shiny lips, the perplexed uncertainty displayed on your lover's face is humorous; the way his fist is under his jaw as he looks in pure concentration at his sketch

♡ you eyeing his bare chested physic is ironic, that now you are mentally sketching your lover as he sits unknowingly mistaken as to what to do to improve his sketch of you, it seems like the universe has planned you two to be parallels

♡ steve looks like the white marble statues those genius architectures long ago spent decades trying to perfect, to make the boulder of marble into something someone could worship

♡ the warm cloud buzzing in your chest is truly youthful and pure knowing this carved marble Adonis is yours, the truth has you smiling to yourself, the sweet sight he’d see all the time despite the few days you were in your sad blue

♡ the joyful beam so pearly white and charming it reminds steve of the beautiful women who covered his mother’s makeup tins, he seems to keep marveling at your beauty instead of sketching

♡ “dear?” your voice soft and smooth it awakens him and moves his eyes from your bare thighs to your eyes, and that’s what he has gone wrong, your eyes; he was never good with drawing eyes and it be an insult trying to draw yours

♡ “yes dear?” his voice coming off an octave deeper the angel he has his head makes a few blond hairs fall from his hairline to his eyes and you giggle

♡ gliding your fingers through the golden locks moving them away to see his blue irises digging into yours, but yours are down to the pink plumpness of his mouth

♡ it’s a tell on the neediness although the sharp features he possesses makes you bat away shy and steve laughs this time

♡ one of his hands softly grabbed your turning face, the smile you both share individually is childish and pure like young school children sharing a kiss at recess

♡ although you two aren’t children the way steve smirks at your state and how your hands touch all the right spots on steve chest is making you guys feel young

♡ if only the sun didn’t have to set you two can bask in the yellow sunlight and enjoy your session of naked body sketches, baskets of strawberries and diamond glasses of rosè

♡ but when your lips touch, the sun doesn’t set nor does it rise for the feel of your mouth against his makes all of humanity reset, the blissful seconds of the warm sunlight leaving your skin you have one another to keep you warm

♡ when your lips part the sun is disappearing in the sky and the moon begins to show herself, the honey bees not swarming the flowers they will return tomorrow morning

♡ the shadow presenting itself in the brick ground and grassy patch garden steve carries you in his arms into the house

♡ as you lay your head on his chest you know that blue feeling in your chest is slowly passing but as someone as patient as steve is to you and the kindness you give to yourself and to him you know

♡ tomorrow will be the different yet hold the same adoration as today, forever

♡ the poem steve has planned for reader that he will read to her before she goes to bed ♡

DEAREST LITTLE HONEY you are a gift for the mind and soul, your sweet remarks and actions are like the buzzing bees of spring. collecting and gathering the yellow pollen, you gently pluck the saturation just from a touch. a shoulder, hand, cheekbone you collect all the sweet smelling pollen from me, yet you give it back.

but how? you may ask, a bumble bee does not give back the pollen it took from a flower! but it does, it returns the pollen from the flower, from time to time in quick seconds with devoted speed, time and amity.

it passes the pollen from flower to flower, till it’s love sprouts thousands more. and the flower the bee started with does not grow old but it eventually releases its seeds of opportunity. for the act of one simple flower, one kind favor sprouted the love and devotion of a thousand. and we should know that I am not a small flower fearing the love of the bumble bees anymore but a field of flowers that continue growing passionately. I am a product, the very nature of the aftermath of your sweetness, my dearest little honey

#steve rogers #steve rogers × woc!reader #steve rogers × reader #steve rogers × black!reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers head cannon #marvel headcanons #chris evans × black!reader #chris evans × reader #chris evans fluff #chris evans smut #chris evans headcannon #brattycherubwrites

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kinglazrus · 5 years ago

Text

Crystal Heart

Phic phight 2020

Submitted by @that-dumbass-on-a-horse: Ghost sickness. Maddie and Jack try to fix it, but make it worse instead

Summary: When a ghost boy becomes a ghost man, his body goes through certain changes. And when his parents find out and try to help him, they inevitably almost kill him in the process. Almost.

Warnings: non-graphic body horror (melting)

Word count: 7248

I had to look up pictures of blood cells under a microscope and that was actually super cool. I love it when fanfiction involves fun research

As soon as Maddie saw the green flush on Danny's cheeks, she knew what it was. Some dastardly ectoplasmic pathogen from the Ghost Zone had infected her baby boy. It must have been from all the time he spent in the lab. Too many times, Maddie had caught him sneaking up from the basement with a sheepish look on his face. Occasionally, Sam and Tucker were with him. Maddie would have to get them tested for whatever illness currently afflicted Danny.

"I'm telling you, I feel fine," Danny said, looking anything but fine. He lay in bed, cheeks flushed an unearthly green. Sweat shone on his forehead.

"Good try, mister. Maybe I'll believe you when you stop covering your mouth like you have to puke," Maddie chastised her son. Standing with her hand on her hip, she shook her head. She had heard of teens faking illness to get out of school; it was so touching to know her boy wasn't like that.

"Mom, really, I'm fine," Danny insisted. He covered his mouth as he spoke, earning a very pointed glare from Maddie.

"I've already called the school. They know you're staying home today. Don't worry, your father and I will get you fixed up."

Panic and desperation filled Danny's eyes. It warmed Maddie's heart to see it. Who knew he cared so much about his classes? With how his grades had been dropping over the past year, she thought he had given up on school.

After pinning Danny with one last stern look, Maddie left his room and headed down to the kitchen. There should be a few packages of chicken noodle soup in the pantry for her to make. They usually kept a well-stocked supply dry soups, pastas, and other side dishes for the days dinner came to life. Maddie scanned the shelves, dragging her fingers across the various boxes, and grinned when she found the one she wanted. Pulling it out, she saw there was only one package left. It looked like they would need to restock soon.

Maddie quickly set to work making the soup, throwing the mixture of noodles and powder into a pot of water, turning the stove on low to simmer, and setting the oven timer to remind herself when to check it. With that done, she headed down to the lab.

Jack was hunched over his workstation, beakers laid out on the counter in front of him. Bubbling mixtures of various consistencies and colours filled the beakers, steam rising from more than a few even though they weren't set over heat.

"Danny's staying home today," she told Jack. "I think he caught a ghost bug."

"No son of mine is gonna get taken down but a ghost! I'll squash it like a fly!" declared.

Maddie smiled fondly and shook her head. "No, Jack. Not a bug ghost, a ghost bug. He's sick."

"Oh. Well, we'll squash that sickness anyway! And then we'll squash the ghost that gave it to him! And then we'll squash Phantom!"

"You said it, honey!" She kissed Jack on the cheek before heading to her own station. Taking a test sample kit out from the cupboard, she pulled out a Fenton Swab and a Fenton Tube. They were nearly identical to the standard cotton swab and sample tube they were modelled after, except the Fenton versions were designed to withstand ectoplasm's acidic properties. They also had the word Fenton on them.

"Whatcha doing, Mads?" Jack asked, briefly looking up from his work.

"I want to rule out environmental factors. Danny spends so much time down here, and he never wears a jumpsuit since his got misplaced. We need to make sure the portal doesn't contain any contagions that could make others sick," she explained. Sticking her thumb against the DNA scanner, she opened the portal doors.

Green light spilled over the lab floor, rippling over the metal panels. Carefully, Maddie took the Fenton Swab and stuck it in the portal's swirling mass. It wasn't like sticking something in water. The ectoplasm in the portal had no resistance. Even though it looked opaque from afar, up close it more resembled a colourful mist. Swirling her hand around, she dragged the swab through the ectoplasm, coating it thoroughly.

It was mesmerizing. Despite how long she and Jack had studied ectoplasm for, she still didn't understand how its state of matter worked. It could go from solid to gas in an instant, or hang in the air like a fog and become liquid the moment it touched something. Sometimes it took minutes to dissipate, other times it took hours. There were so many contradicting circumstances, it was fascinating.

Perhaps ectoplasm was its own state of matter that couldn't be defined by Earthly physics.

Maddie waited until ectoplasm was practically dripping off the cotton end before pulling her hand back out, dropping the swab into the sample tube. Analyzing it would be easy enough. They had studied samples from the portal before, but ectoplasm's most consistent trait was how inconsistent it was. You could take two ectoplasmic samples from a single entity one week apart and their surface properties would be completely different.

The one core characteristic was a unique pattern of crystallization, visible with careful observation under a microscope. Each ghost seemed to have their own pattern. In some cases, they were highly personal. The ghost who liked to shout about boxes all the time had a square crystallization pattern.

If she could isolate the ectoplasm making Danny sick, she could compare the pattern with the portal and see if they matched. If they did, then she could study the rest of the portal sample and see what was making Danny sick.

Maddie tapped her foot as she placed a drop of ectoplasm on a slide and put it under the microscope, setting the rest of the sample aside for later testing.

"No need for that!"

Maddie paused just before putting her eye to the lens, turning to face Jack instead.

He grinned widely at her, holding out one of the beakers from his desk. "I've got our solution right here!" He wiggled the beaker. The thick purple substance inside barely jiggled. "It's the newest version of ecto-dejecto. This time, it actually works."

Reaching out, Jack took the sample Maddie had put aside. He stuck the swab into the purple goo; it stayed standing upright when he let go. The goo around the swab hissed and steamed.

"Is it supposed to do that?" Maddie asked.

"Uh, maybe?"

Green bubbles bloomed across the top layer of goo, quickly expanding upward. Jack yelped and dropped the beaker as the ectoplasm foamed over his hand. The beaker shatterd as soon as it hit the ground, glass shards going flying. The goo kept expanding, fizzing and frothing as it changed from purple to green, growing until it was a mound as big as a medium sized dog. With a few final hisses, the ectoplasm settled.

"It doesn't work yet, but it will," Jack said, confidence unshaken.

"I know it will," Maddie said. She had complete faith in her husband. Jack might bumble around sometimes, but his mind was truly brilliant. Where other people looked at things and saw only what was on the surface, Jack saw everything. He always excelled more on the chemistry side of things, even if he had a few mishaps every now and then.

It's what made them such a good team. Maddie handled the math, physics, and most of the weapon construction while Jack handled the ideas. She brought his head out of the clouds when he went too far. He raised her up so she could see all the possibilities and push them farther.

"Well, hey, I've got more ectoplasm to test with now," Jack said. He bent down and prodded the quivering mass.

In the silence, Maddie heard the oven beeping upstairs.

"Oh, shoot, Danny's soup." Maddie leapt out of her seat. She snatched a spare swab and sample tube from the counter and took off for the stairs. "Don't forget to clean up the glass!" She tossed the words over her shoulder, hoping Jack heard her.

On the stove, the pot was boiling over. Water hissed as it doused the element, steam and smoke clouding over the stove. Maddie grabbed a tea towel and shoved the pot off the element, accidentally splashing more water out.

"Oh, no," she grumbled, shutting off the stove. She took in the mess with a defeated sigh. There was more soup on the counter than there was in the pot. The timer must have gone off some time ago, or she had set it for too long. Tossing the tea towel over the spilled soup, she left it there to soak up some of the mess and went to the fridge instead, hoping they had something she could give Danny.

Her prospects were slim. Some questionable lunch meat that was about to expire. A door full of condiments. A ceramic pot that rattled every few seconds. Its lid was tied down to keep the reanimated fruit cocktail from escaping. Overall, the fridge was woefully empty. Maddie really needed to go grocery shopping.

She ended up taking a carton of orange juice from the door, pouring a glass, and decided Danny would have to settle for this until she came back from the store.

"Danny, sweetie?" Maddie asked, gently knocking on his door. It creaked open. Peeking inside, she saw his empty bed. A clatter from the bathroom drew her attention. "Oh, Danny." She shook her head, setting the glass of orange juice down on his dresser, and headed down the hall.

The door was shut. Soft white light shone underneath it, not nearly as bright as it should have been. One of the lights above the mirror must have burnt out again. Gently, she knocked and called Danny's name.

"Uh, just a minute!" Danny said.

The light under the door flared, then settled. Maddie heard the toilet flushing, followed by a quick burst of water from the tap. Finally, the knob turned, the lock clicking out of place, and Danny eased the door open. He kept one hand over his mouth.

"Hey, Mom. What brings you here?" he asked. Behind his palm, Maddie saw his lips twitch into a smile.

"You do, young man. I told you to stay in bed," Maddie said, crossing her arms.

"Bathroom. Had to go. You know how it is," Danny said. Using his elbow, he bumped the door open wider, his other hand pressed against his head. He squeezed past Maddie and shuffled backward toward his room. "But bed sounds like a great idea. In fact, I think I'll have a nap. No need to check on me or anything. You don't even need to open the door!"

He chuckled weakly, sidling into his room, and kicked the door shut.

Maddie wasn't sure what to make of all that. Danny hadn't even shut off the bathroom light. Reaching through the doorway to do just that, she noticed something odd. The toilet lid was down. Danny had the habit of leaving it up, no matter how much she reminded him not to. It was a small detail, but an curious one nonetheless. She decided not to dwell on it. More than likely, he was finally starting to build up the habit.

Maddie was halfway down the stairs when she remembered she needed a spit sample from Danny. Heading back up, she paused on the landing when she heard Danny talking, voice low.

"I don't know what's wrong." He sounded panicked. "I've only been awake for a couple hours but it's getting worse."

Maddie stopped. Instead of pushing Danny's door open, she crept forward, holding her ear against it. While she would never let Danny get away with eavesdropping, as his concerned mother, she had the right to listen in on his conversation.

"I don't know. My mouth was kind of hurting yesterday, but that's a whole other thing, right?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Tucker! I'm being serious here! First it was the blush, and then it was my hair." Maddie frowned at that. "What's next? My eyes?"

Danny's dresser rattled—she hoped he saw the orange juice—and he groaned. "Yep, it's the eyes now!"

Maddie really should go in there. Her baby was clearly panicking and needed her help.

"I don't care about my teeth!"

In a minute. She would go in, in a minute.

"Ugh, fine, whatever." Maddie heard Danny shuffling around, drawers opening and closing. It lasted for a full thirty seconds before he spoke again. "Okay, I got it. Happy now?" His words slurred slightly, as if he wasn't closing his mouth all the way.

Deciding enough was enough, Maddie pushed the door open without knocking. "Sorry, Danny, I forgot that I... needed..." The excuse died on her lips as she got a good look at Danny.

Green swirled in his eyes and a white streak cut through his hair. Danny spit out the large Saturn pendant of his chewable necklace and whispered into his phone. "Tucker, I got to go." Tossing his phone back into his bed, he stepped forward and raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Mom, I can explain."

"Oh, my poor baby, you're so much worse than I thought," Maddie said. She rushed forward, taking Danny's face in her hands, and turned his head to the side so she could examine the streak in his hair. His bangs were white from root to tip. Using her thumb and forefinger, she pulled his eye open wide and examined his iris.

It looked like the infection was spreading. She thought it was a simple case of contamination, but that wouldn't do this. The green blush, yes, but changing his hair and eyes? Altering his physical and chemical makeup? This was serious.

"I'm sorry, Danny. Your nap has to wait. You're coming down to the lab with me now." Taking Danny by the wrist, Maddie pulled him out of his room.

"It's really not what you think!" Under his breath, he added, "I hope it's not what I think, either."

"Danny, your father and I are experts. Whatever you think it is, it isn't. Your dad is working on a cure right now. But at the rate this is accelerating, I can't let you out of my sight. I have to check all your vitals and keep detailed notes about how this progresses," Maddie said. "This is nothing like the ghost flu your father and I had."

"I still say that was just a regular flu."

"Now is not the time for your sass." Maddie dragged Danny all the way down to the lab.

Glass no longer littered the floor, although the blob of ectoplasm still sat beside Maddie's chair. Pulling the chair out, she pushed Danny into the seat and wheeled him across the lab to the medical station. Setting him out of the way in the hollow of the safety shower, Maddie opened the cupboard beneath the eyewash station and pulled out what she needed.

Beyond the run of the mill first-aid kit, the lab had a few tools you would find in a standard health clinic.

Danny squirmed and tried to leave his seat a few times, but Maddie kept pushing him back down. She didn't let him stand until she had taken his vitals, checked his eyes, nose, and throat, and gave him a thorough physical exam.

"Mom!" Danny whined when Maddie lifted shirt. She ignored him, looking over his body for signs of discolouration. There weren't any, yet. She suspected it was only a matter of time.

"Jack, how's that ecto-dejecto coming?" she asked.

"Almost got it!"

"Ecto-dejecto?" Danny paled.

Maddie sent him a reassuring smile. "It's okay. We're fixing the recipe so that it destabilizes the ectoplasm rather than makes it stronger. It will make it easier for your body to flush out the toxins." Her eyes dropped to the pendant around Danny's neck, his conversation with Tucker returning to mind. "What was Tucker talking about with your teeth?"

She had only spared them a brief glance when checking Danny's through, more concerned with hidden rashes or pustules.

"You were spying on me?" Danny's cheeks flushed in anger. "So not cool!"

"Danny, I'm your mother and I'm worried about you. You're sick."

"I'm fine! That doesn't make it okay to spy on me."

"You'll understand when you're older."

Danny tipped his head back and groaned.

"Now, open your mouth."

Danny squinted at her, which earned him nothing but a motherly glare. Stubborn but relenting, he slowly opened his mouth. Maddie rolled her eyes at her son's antics. Once his mouth was open wide enough, she checked his teeth. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

"What's bothering you about them?" she asked. The hair and eyes were undoubtedly ghost-related matters. So far, Maddie was inclined to agree with Danny that his mouth pains were simply a coincidence.

"My gums just started hurting yesterday. Like there was a lot of pressure or something," Danny explained.

"And the necklace?"

"Chewing on something kind of helped, I guess. That was the first time I tried it, but it felt okay."

Something about that resonated with Maddie. She leaned back, frowning. It sounded like what happened when children teeth. When Danny was a baby growing in his teeth for the first time, he chewed on everything to make it stop hurting. Maddie had to throw out so many of his stuffed animals because he chewed on them until they were too dirty to keep.

"Can you pull your lips down?"

Danny obliged, raising his chin so Maddie could get a better look. The gums looked fine, no bumps or bulges, and his teeth were still in line.

"Top lip," she said.

Hooking his finger under his lip, Danny pulled it up. Maddie's eyes widened immediately. On the left side, between his canine tooth and lateral incisor, the sharp tip of a new tooth poked out of his gums. It looked like it was growing over his other teeth.

"You have an extra tooth," she declared.

"A what?" Danny shouted. He ran his fingers along his top teeth, pausing to feel the new one growing in.

"It's fine," Maddie said, waving off his concern. "Your father had one growing behind his incisor in college. He just had to get it removed. It's not related to whatever this," she gestured to his hair and eyes, "is."

"Oh." Danny deflated, looking relieved, although he didn't take his finger out of his mouth. He kept touching the new tooth. Swivelling in the chair, he leaned toward the wall, examining his reflection in the shining surface.

"Mads! I did it!" Jack's heavy steps thudded across the lab as he pounded over.

Content that Danny was occupied and wouldn't slip away the second she took her eyes off him, Maddie focused on Jack. He bounced on his heels, holding out a test tube filled to the brim with a yellow-tinged liquid.

"It's all about using the ectoplasm's natural properties against itself. If we can lock it in a liquid state, the ectoplasm loses hold of its form and liquifies! Just watch." He scurried back to Maddie's workstation.

With a careful tip of his hand, he poured a single drop of ecto-dejecto on the solidified ectoplasm. Sickly yellow patches spread across its surface. The ectoplasm started breaking down. Sloughing off in chunks, layer upon layer melted away, dripping down to the floor until only a wide green puddle remained.

"It's perfect! Pass me the syringe."

Jack got the needle ready in record time. Maddie wasn't concerned about giving Danny the ecto-dejecto without doing trials on living creatures first. Anti-ectoplasmic agents, by their very nature, did not harm living tissue. They isolated and attacked ectoplasm and ectoplasm alone. For this reason, anti-ghost weaponry was completely harmless to humans. Ghost shields, ghost guns, none of them could hard people.

It was also was the very same reason why Maddie and Jack did not have strict rules barring Danny and Jazz from the lab. They wanted their children to be curious. What better way to promote an interest in science then let them explore it in a safe manner with chemicals and compounds that would not harm them?

Danny was still examining his reflection, although he was probing something on the right side of his mouth instead.

Maddie pushed up his t-shirt sleeve. "Hold still, sweetie," she said, and stabbed his shoulder with the needle. Pressed the plunger, she injected him with the ecto-dejecto.

"Ow!" Danny flinched, jerking around to face Maddie. His gaze caught on the needle in her hand. "What was that?"

"Don't worry, you'll be all better by tomorrow," Maddie assured him.

"No, really." Danny stood up. He swayed, careening into the wall, and gasped. Staring down at his hands, he flexed his trembling fingers. "Seriously." He looked up at Maddie, helpless. "What was that?"

His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.

"Danny!" Maddie dropped to her knees beside him, Jack joining her a second later. Panic overwhelmed her. That shouldn't have happened. The ecto-dejecto was perfect. It should have worked flawlessly. Instead, Danny's skin around the injection site was quickly turning a dark, sickly green. His breathing was shallow, and his eyelids fluttered.

Pressing two fingers to Danny's neck, Maddie felt his pulse, erratic. What happened? What went wrong? What did Maddie do? She couldn't shake the feeling that she had just sent Danny to his grave.

"Mads." Jack's voice snapped her out of her spiralling thoughts. "We need to get him to the hospital. I'll carry him up to the RV. You call Jazz. We'll get her taken out of school."

"Right. Right." Maddie nodded, swallowing thickly. She had never been more thankful to have Jack by her side. Right when her vision started narrowing and all she could see was one outcome—Danny dead, Maddie his murderer—Jack was there to pull her up.

Moving back, she gave Jack room to gather Danny up. Jack was a big man, with thick arms and heavy-looking hands, but he cradled Danny so gently, as if he was a baby again.

"See the big picture, focus on the little steps," Jack said.

"Big picture, little steps," Maddie repeated. The words rang out in her head, over and over like a mantra. Big picture, little steps. Saving Danny, calling Jazz. Her phone was at her workstation. While Jack carried Danny upstairs, Maddie sprinted over to her station, snagging her phone off the counter. She easily found the number for Casper High.

"Casper High, this is Connie Burjan."

"H–hello Ms. Burjan." Maddie took a deep breath and smoothed out her voice. "This is Madeline Fenton, calling for Jasmine Fenton. I'm her mother."

"What can I do for you?"

"There's an emergency and we need to pull Jazz out of school. She needs to be with her family right now."

"Of course. I'll call her to the principal's office. I hope everything will be alright."

Maddie gave a rueful grin. "So do I." She hung up and headed upstairs.

Jack already had Danny in the back of the RV, laid out on one of the benches. He looked so small curled up on his side, shaking and shivering. Seeing him like that sent a surge of loathing through Maddie. She did this.

"You take Danny to the hospital. I'll pick up Jazz," Jack said, motioning to the little-used family car.

"No, we can't," Maddie said. She cursed softly. "We never got the transmission fixed."

They used the car so little. It was a relic from days past, the same vehicle Jack had in college. These days, they preferred the RV both because of its size and its ghost defenses.

"We pick up Jazz on the way," Jack said.

Maddie didn't want Jazz to see her brother this way, but she nodded anyway. They could leave Jazz at school for the rest of the day, but that didn't feel right. The whole family needed to be together.

Jack climbed into the back with Danny, sitting on the floor rather than the bench opposite his, while Maddie got in the front seat. Starting the car, she practically tore out of the garage, ripping through the back alley behind their house. She may have been a less hazardous driver than Jack, but she was just as fast.

"It's okay. You're gonna be okay," Jack whispered. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Maddie saw him running his hands through Danny's hair in a soothing gesture. It reminded her of when Danny was little. He used to get sick so easily, stuck at home for days on end with a cold or flu. One of them would sit with him until he fell asleep, reading books about astronomy and brushing his hair like Jack was doing now.

Maddie's grip on the steering wheel tightened. This was nothing like back then. The bruise on Danny's arm had spread, a spotty discolouration taking over the whole limb.

When they got to the school, Jazz was already waiting outside, standing on the front steps. She ran up the sidewalk the second the RV came into view, bounding toward the vehicle. Jack threw the door open for her.

"What happened? Ms. Burjan didn't say," Jazz said. Her gaze fell to Danny. She paled, cupping her mouth. "Danny!"

She clambered into the car, leaving Jack to shut the door again, and immediately knelt in front of her brother. Her hands hovered over him before she touched his forehead, feeling his temperature. "What happened?" she asked.

"He was sick. Some kind of ghost sickness. We– I gave him ecto-dejecto to flush it out," Maddie explained shakily. She couldn't meet her daughter's eyes.

Jazz stared down at Danny. Gnawing on her thumbnail, she kept swivelling her head back and forth, glancing between Danny, Jack, and Maddie. She looked conflicted.

"Jazz?" Jack asked, seeing the same indecision as Maddie.

"You can't take him to the hospital," Jazz said. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Danny, and pulled him into a protective embrace.

"Jasmine! Your brother needs a doctor!" Maddie said.

"No, you don't understand!" Jazz shook her head vigorously. "You can't take him, they'll– they'll find out."

"Find out what?" Jack asked.

She bit her lip, holding Danny closer. Whispering an apology in Danny's ear, she raised her head and glared defiantly at Maddie and Jack. "They'll find out Danny's not human!"

Maddie slammed her foot on the breaks. Jack's arms shout out to brace himself on the sides of the RV. Jazz yelped, sliding forward, and curled around Danny to protect him as he fell halfway off the bench.

Panting, Maddie turned around and stared at Jazz. "He's what?" she asked.

Jazz shifted, putting herself between Danny and Maddie, as if he needed protecting from her. "He's not human," she repeated. "He's... his accident. It did something to him." Shaking her head, she continued, "If you take him to the hospital, they'll report him. It's in that stupid ecto act the G.I.W. have. Any cases of ecto-contamination need to be reported so they can take care of it."

Maddie's mind refused to process that information. She heard it, loud and clear, but she couldn't comprehend it. Of course Danny was human. He was her son, her baby boy, her flesh and blood. She brought him into this world. To say he wasn't human was just ridiculous. Impossible. No accident could change someone that much. No accident could take away someone's humanity.

The streak in Danny's hair stood out, glaringly bright, against his dark locks. The bruising had spread to his neck now. It would only be a matter of minutes before it touched his cheeks, too.

"Jazz, what happened to Danny?" Maddie was afraid of the answer.

"I can't tell you," Jazz whispered. "It's not my secret. I already said too much. But anything that could help him? None of that is going to be at the hospital. If ecto-dejecto did this to him, he doesn't need human medicine."

Maddie paled.

"Jazzypants," Jack said softly, reaching out.

Jazz scooted back, taking Danny with her. "We have to go back home. And you have to promise me. You have promise that, no matter what you find out, you won't hurt Danny."

"Jazz–"

"Promise!"

"We promise," Maddie said.

"Okay." Jazz nodded. "Okay. Let's get Danny home."

Facing forward, Maddie turned the RV around.

—

The couch was hardly sanitary. Jack and Maddie had to carry it in from the garage, and it was covered in dust. Maddie told Jazz as much, but her daughter refused to let them put Danny on the examination table.

"I can't let him wake up like that, lying there, with you looking over him," Jazz said. "It's his worst nightmare."

It broke Maddie's heart to hear that.

Jazz sat with Danny, his head in her lap. She had taken Jack's place stroking his hair. Maybe that was for the best. Based on what Jazz said, Danny wouldn't react well to either Maddie or Jack being the first face he saw if we woke up.

When, Maddie corrected herself. When he wakes up.

The couch sat all the way across the lab, as far from Maddie and Jack as it could get. Not to keep Danny away from them, but because they hadn't cleaned up the puddle of ectoplasm on the floor yet. It was a medical hazard, not to mention an accident waiting to happen, but they had other things to focus on right now.

Maddie forced herself to look away from her children, a heartfelt scene, and turned back to her microscope. She had a sample of Danny's blood underneath it and was looking for signs of crystallization. If she wanted to treat him right, she needed to know just how ghostly he was, and if he was even sick in the first place.

Danny himself said he didn't know what was going on.

Zooming in forty times, one hundred times, four hundred times, Maddie scowled in frustration. She could see his blood cells, but she couldn't see any crystallization. It didn't make sense.

"Anything, Jack?" Maddie asked, pulling back from the lens.

Jack, sitting beside her, leaned forward and scrutinized the computer screen. It was plugged in to the microscope, showing the same view Maddie saw of the sample. He shook his head.

"I don't get it. It should be there," he said.

Maddie nodded. Switching out Danny's sample for the ectoplasm from the portal, she shifted closer to Jack and scoured the screen. The image was blindingly bright. Unlike human blood, which could be seen as individual cells when you looked close enough, ectoplasm remained one solid mass no matter how far you zoomed in. The only thing that seemed to change was how large the crystallization lines were.

In the portal's sample, they swirled together in spiral patterns. It mimicked the way the ectoplasm moved in the portal itself.

Maddie wondered how that worked. Other ghosts had some form of conscience that seemed to influence and be influenced by their ectoplasm, resulting in unique patterns. The portal, however, had no consciousness. Perhaps all ambient ectoplasm from the Ghost Zone would bear an identical pattern. It was something they would have to look into, once Danny was fine.

Staring at the bright screen too long hurt Maddie's eyes. She was forced to look away, rubbing spots out of her vision. There had to be something they were missing.

Jack drummed his fingers on the table and hummed.

"What is it?" Maddie asked.

"Ectoplasm isn't blood," he said.

Maddie blinked, confused. "Yes?"

"So, why are we looking at Danny's blood like it's ectoplasm?"

Maddie blinked again. Her thoughts snapped into place. "Of course!" she shouted. She switched the ectoplasm with Danny's sample once again, zooming the microscope in to one thousand.

"Enlarge the image," Maddie said.

On the computer keyboard, Jack tapped a few keys, doing as asked. The image blew up to fill the screen.

Maddie pointed to one of Danny's red blood cells. "There," she said. She traced her nail along a thin line just barely visible, cutting across the cell. "Ectoplasm is one solid mass, as far as we know, but blood isn't. The crystallization appears on the individual cells, not around them."

"You found something?" Jazz called from across the room.

"You betcha, Jazzypants!" Jack whooped, throwing up his arms.

Maddie left him to celebrate, focusing instead on the pattern she could see. It looked like starbursts. Of course they would, this was Danny. She expected nothing less from her space-loving son. Scanning the image over and over, she tried to see if she could tell exactly how ghostly Danny was. The crystallization appeared fainter, but there was just as much of it as any ectoplasmic sample, simply reduced to a smaller space. Maddie's gaze caught on one of the cells in the corner of the image.

"That's odd," she said. "Jack, look at this." She beckoned him closer, pointing to what had caught her attention. "That cell there. It's the same swirl pattern as the portal.

"You're right," Jack murmured, fascinated.

Tapping her finger on her cheek, Maddie kept staring. There was something else about the pattern, something that nagged at her. It was almost familiar, which should be impossible because every ghost was unique.

"Jack, compare this sample to other ones we have logged in the system," Maddie said.

Behind her, Jazz called, "You don't need to do that!"

"Yes we do."

On the computer monitor, Maddie saw Jazz's reflection. Jazz carefully lifted Danny's head, sliding off the couch, and set him back down. Scurrying across the lab, her socks slipped on the metal tiles.

"Jazz, be careful!" Maddie swivelled her chair around, reaching out to Jazz, but was too late to catch her. Jazz's feet shot out from under her and she hit the ground hard. She groaned, rubbing her backside.

"You should be more careful, you almost fell into the..." Maddie's words died out. The puddle of ectoplasm was gone. "Jack, did you clean up the mess from earlier?"

"Hm? The glass? Yeah, I got it all," he said.

"No, not that, the–" A green blur shot across the lab.

Maddie leapt to her feet, instinctively reaching for an ecto-weapon, but she wasn't wearing any. The green mass zipped back and forth, moving erratically, too fast for Maddie to see. Until it stopped over Danny, hovering.

The ghost was small, about the size of a puppy. It had no arms or legs, just a shimmering body. Spiral patterns danced across its skin, shifting constantly. Yellow rash-like patches smothered the spirals in some places.

Maddie's gaze fell from the ghost to where the puddle of ectoplasm had been mere minutes ago.

"It didn't work," she said quietly, gaping at the ghost.

"Maddie, you should look at this."

"No, Jack, it didn't work!"

"Baby, you really need to look at this!"

Maddie turned, annoyed Jack wasn't listening to her, and froze. The computer had found a match in the crystal patterns. Danny Fenton and Danny Phantom, one hundred percent.

—

There were only so many dramatic revelations Maddie could handle in one day. First Danny had a ghost flu, then it was worse than a flu, then he was dying, then he wasn't, and then it turned out he was dead all along. Her heart couldn't take it.

She sat on the floor in front of Danny's couch, watching him sleep. The reanimated ghost slept with him, curled up on his back. It was almost cute. Normally, Maddie would have blasted the thing to shreds by now for even getting close to Danny, much less touching him. But right now, that ghost was a sign of hope.

Not only did the ghost recover from the ecto-dejecto, but it gained consciousness. Unless, of course, the portal was conscious after all. That thought sent shivers up her spine. What did that say about Danny, who shared key DNA elements with the portal's ectoplasm? What did it say about the newly birthed ghost that already seemed so attached to him?

It was just Maddie, Danny, and the ghost in the lab. Jazz and Jack had gone upstairs to eat, at Maddie's insistence. It had been a harrowing day and it was barely past noon. Inching forward, she rested her elbows on the cushion beside Danny, folding her arms. The ghost on his back shuffled and yawned, but otherwise didn't acknowledge her. She took that as a good sign.

Danny had stopped shaking not too long ago. The discolouration on his skin had started fading, although not the way Maddie wanted it to. Rather than disappearing completely, it was turning a light salmon colour, a couple shades pinker than a nasty sunburn. Judging by the yellow stains that had yet to fade from the portal ghost, Danny's pink patches would not disappear completely. The sight of them sickened her. Not because they were ugly—Danny could never be ugly to her—but because they were a sign of what she had almost done.

The first few seconds after learning Danny was Phantom, Maddie felt betrayed. How could her own son not trust her with something so monumental? The second thing she felt was a cathartic realization as all the pieces fell into place. The failing grades, the absences, breaking curfew. All their inventions reacting to Danny. It explained everything. Looking back, she should have seen it sooner. Maddie really despised hindsight.

She reached out and brushed Danny's hair away from his forehead, briefly checking his temperature. Disturbingly cold, but Jazz said that was normal for him. Maddie had no choice but to trust her information.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. How many times had she threatened Danny to his face, without knowing it was really him? All the experiments she and Jack had proposed, all the ways they would take Phantom apart to figure out how he ticked. It was horrible.

"I'm so, so sorry." She ran her hand through his hair. Her palm came away wet. Confused, she stared at the ectoplasm streaked across her hand. Pushing Danny's hair back, she checked his scalp for an injury, finding a viscous patch of skin. Before Maddie could process what was happening, Danny was already halfway gone.

"No, no!" She tried to hold him together, but it didn't work. Beneath her helpless gaze, Danny melted, leaving her kneeling in a pool of his ectoplasm, horrified. Her voice caught behind her tongue and refused to move any farther. Cupping her mouth, she croaked pathetically, squeezing her eyes shut. A horrible sob tore through her throat.

Maddie gripped the edge of the couch, punching the cushion. The ghost laying there squawked in protest. Maddie's head snapped up.

"You," she said. Pulling herself up, she braced herself on either side of the ghost. "This happened to you. You came back. How did you do it? Make him come back!"

Crying out in grief, she lowered her head against the couch, shaking. Danny was supposed to be fine. He was supposed to wake up and realize Maddie and Jack knew his secret. He was supposed to wake up and smile because he didn't have to hide anymore. He wasn't... he wasn't supposed to... he couldn't...

A soft white glow filled the room. Maddie opened her eyes, nearly blinded by the light. It came from the ectoplasm. Bright stretching over the puddle, rippling outward from the center at Maddie's knees. The ectoplasm started rising, the rings rising with it, cascading downward.

Slowly, a shape took form, growing out of the ectoplasm. A faceless blob that quickly grew a head, a torso, arms. An achingly familiar form. The ectoplasm creeped back together, sucked inward as the last of the rings faded, and Danny Phantom fell forward into Maddie's waiting arms. She buried a hand on his hair, pressing his face against her shoulder, and let out a broken laugh.

Danny shifted, his arms raising, wrapping around her. "Mom?" he asked, lifting his head.

Maddie wiped her eyes on her sleeve and pulled back so she could see him. He looked different. Where white strands had glistened in Danny's human hair, a black streak now marked his ghost form. His eyes were brighter. Green flecked sparkled on his cheeks like stars. Two new, sharp teeth sat over his canines and lateral incisors on either side of his mouth. He even looked a little taller.

The discolouration remained, though. Grey instead of red.

He tipped his head down, focusing on his body. Startled into action, he yelped and scrambled away, putting distance between them. "I– I mean, Maddie. Madeline. Madeline Fenton. What are you doing here?" he said in a false, deep voice. "In your own lab. What are you doing here in your lab?"

Maddie couldn't help it. She laughed.

"Mo– addie. What, uh, what's going on right now? Am I being punked?" Danny floated back, casting a nervous glance around the room.

"I'm sorry, it's just." She paused to giggle. "How did you ever keep this a secret from us? That voice is so terrible."

"Hey! I like my voice!" Danny shouted, dropping the false voice. His eyes widened and he quickly resumed the charade. "I mean, I like my voice. This voice. This is my voice. And you... you are still laughing."

"Danny..." Maddie wiped her eyes again, this time tears of happiness. "We know."

"You... know?"

"We know."

Danny gawked at her. All it took was Maddie opening her arms and he flew forward, crashing into her.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I lied," he whispered.

Maddie nearly started crying again. "I'm sorry you had to."

"I just, you and Dad. Fighting ghosts is what you do, and I panicked and didn't tell you, and then it felt like I had waited too long. But I... how do you know?" He peered up at her, tilting his head.

"Jazz told us. We thought... we thought you were dying."

"I felt like it."

Maddie cringed.

"Oh, no, geez, I didn't mean it like that. I meant before you got me with whatever that was. I don't remember anything after that and now I feel kind of great actually," Danny said in a rush. Standing up, he flexed his fists and looked down. Following his gaze, Maddie saw he was examining his reflection in the floor. "Did I go through ghost puberty or something?"

Silence stretched between them for a second.

"Oh my god," Danny said, eyes widening. "I totally went through ghost puberty."

He leaned down to get a better look. Before he could, the portal ghost barrelled into his chest, throwing him back against the couch. The ghost zipped around him, nuzzling him and saying gibberish words. At least it sounded like gibberish to Maddie.

Danny caught the ghost in his arms, trapping it against his chest in a bear hug. "And who's this?" he asked.

"Your new best friend," Maddie teased.

"Damn. Sam and Tucker will be so disappointed." Danny flopped onto his back, holding the ghost above his head as if it were a cat.

Maddie felt a sense of calm wash over her. She didn't realize she had still been nervous, but hearing Danny's sarcastic voice, seeing him play with the new ghost, her worries finally disappeared. Everything was going to be okay.

#phic phight #phic phight 2020 #danny phantom #phanfiction #phanfic #phicc #tumblroneshots #hurt/comfort #reveal fic #ghost puberty #ghost sickness #slight melting #but it gets fixed

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vanchlo · 5 years ago

Text

Gatsby (Green Eyes / 3)

Read the first part, here, and the second part, here! :-)

Blurb Synopsis: With a few months of teaching under your belt, at times you find yourself struggling. Luckily, your boyfriend and teaching colleague, Harry, is there to help you by offering advice or a comforting kiss. Although you’ve only been dating for a few months, you find that there's something special about this man.

Genre: Teacher Harry, fluff, and romance.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 10.4k words, whoops

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Music Inspo: Happy Together by The Turtles (click to listen)

Your mind is muddled with thoughts. Remember to send this email today. Make sure to put this in so-and-so’s mailbox. Don’t forget to send that birthday card in the mail. Can’t misplace that sheet you have to make copies of tomorrow for an assignment. Enter those grades. Grade those tests, and those papers. They weren’t wrong, you think, when they said the work of a teacher never ends. As you sit at your desk, the world war two novel you’ve been trying to read lately stares back at you from the sidelines, adding another stick to your pile. A rather massive pile, at that. You knead your temple as the blinking cursor awaits your words on the lit screen. Words that you don’t have yet, and aren’t sure when you will. You’ve found it more and more difficult to send the hard emails home to parents, and even after three and a half months under your belt of teaching, it hasn’t gotten any easier.

“What’d I say ‘bout bitin’ yer nails?”

Breaking your stare off with your computer, your eyes jump to your door where you find Harry standing there.

Placing your chin in your propped hand, you sigh, “I’m sorry.”

“Here, ya look like ya need sumthin’ else t’ chew on,” he murmurs, taking a step into your classroom. Something leaves his hand to fly into the air, skidding to a stop in front of you on your desk. At the sight of the shiny gold wrapper marked by the words, Twix, you return to his eyes with a smile. “Now, wha’s got ya so nervous, bird?”

“I’m trying to write an email home, and not a happy one.”

“Ah, I hate havin’ t’ write t’ose meself, they’re neva easy. Can I help?” he inquires, taking slow steps into your classroom. When your laptop sounds with a chime!, the alert for a new email, your eyes leave his tall figure.

His question goes unanswered on accident with the appearance of the email loading before your eyes. The words start to trickle into your mind, and with their absorption, the heaviness felt in your heart grows.

“Hullo? Anybody home in there?” Harry laughs, his feet stopping in front of your desk. You don’t answer, and you barely see him lean to the side to look at you. “Hey, wha’s tha matta?” he questions, his tone suddenly changing. Gulping, no words come to you as the ones on your screen shoot icy fear into your veins. Your name falls from his mouth as he walks over to you, stopping behind you.

“I have to be observed,” you groan, your face falling into your hands. “Later this week,” you finish with a whimper, your shoulders sagging.

“Oh it’ll be okay, love. We all have it done once a year, ‘s only t’ benefit ya. ‘s fer feedback. Ya don’t gotta worry. Principal’s observation ‘s at tha end o’ tha year,” he tells you, his soothing voice turning irritating at the last part. You respond with a whine, but you find that you can’t remain upset with him when his arms come around you. “Ya’ll do great, bird. Don’t fret. I know things have been stressful lately fer ya, so try not t’ let it botha you.”

“But it does. I already feel like I’m not doing a good enough job, and then somebody has to observe me, ugh. I’m going to be so nervous that I’ll probably screw up even more,” you exhale, hiding away from your fears, but soon you feel your chair spin around. Tearing your hands away from your face, you open them to find Harry squatting in front of you.

The mere sight of the dimples in his cheeks and the glint in his eye eases the tension felt throughout your body. A second later, you’re unsure of that when your sight graces the ebony dress shirt rolled up his taut arms, and the mustard slacks hugging his thighs. Yeah, there are a whole lot of reasons to make you feel tense around this man, and on the other hand he makes you feel at ease. Talk about confusing, when one thing has both effects on you. Ugh.

“Yer too hard on yerself, birdy. Ya gotta stop it, I don’t like seein’ me girl feel so down,” he hums, his thumb painted in cracking hot pink nail polish tapping your nose. Even just the thought of how he’ll let you paint his nails the next time he comes over to your house makes you feel better. By now, he doesn’t even bat an eye when you ask him, and by the look of his battered nails, anticipation grows inside of you at the thought. “Now, why don’t ya try t’ forget ‘bout tha observation, and lemme help ya write tha email t’ tha parent? Then we can leave and ya can come ova t’ mine, and I can cook ya a nice dinna.”

His lips split into a smile in front of you, sparking one on your own. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re the best boyfriend in the world?”

“Hmmm, I dunno, maybe. I can’t recall, but I wouldn’t complain t’ hear dat a few more times,” Harry smiles, leaning forward to surround your lips with his. Yours curl into a smile as his fingers dance across your cheek and into your hair.

“Harry, the email,” you begin after breaking the kiss.

“Shh, lemme have a kiss first. ‘s been too long,” he almost laughs, pressing his lips back to yours.

“I saw you in sixth hour in the copier room and you got one then,” you interrupt, knowing that you’re getting on his nerves.

“Too long,” is all he says impatiently, replacing his lips on top of yours.

Relaxing, you move yours together with his and soon find your hands running along his cheeks prickly with facial hair. They run down the expanse of his warm neck, his tamed beard soon fading away. Pads of your fingers collide with the chain of his necklace hidden under his shirt, signaling you’re almost there. You let a grin slip, impeding the kiss, when you can feel his taut chest under his button up. Finally.

“Like what yer findin’?” he asks, laughing against your mouth.

“Mmmhmm,” you answer slyly, peeking open your eyes to find his on yours, mere inches away. “Maybe we should write dat email now. Don’t wantcha gettin’ too carried away now,” Harry hums pulling away, much to your disappointment. “No, yer not gonna get me with tha pout again, so dontcha try it now.” He wags a finger at you as his words play on his face. Feeling risky, you reach forward and bite at the tip of it, smelling the cinnamon lotion he has a bottle of on his desk.

“Ya betta watch it, bird!” Harry chuckles, the smile taking grasp of him now, as well as the laugh that sings to your ears.

“Or else what?” you reply, wiggling your eyebrows at him.

“Open yer email befo’ ya convince me with that adorable face o’ yers.”

You ignore him and continue to stare at him, happiness and longing showing in your eyes. You’re certain that he sees it too, you’re just not sure what he’s going to decide to do with it. His bottom lip comes between his teeth as his green eyes stare into yours, him standing only a step away from you. Although it’s the slightest movement, his hands starts to trail from the back of your chair.

“Birdy,” he begins with a warning, shaking his head at you, that song leaving his strawberry lips again. Suddenly, you wish he was wearing a tie today so you could grab a hold of it and pull him in by it, but alas he’s without one today. “Don’ test me.”

His words are hypocritical, meaning one thing as his face tells you another story entirely. Somehow, they have the opposite effect on you, egging you to go further with the teasing. You enjoy pushing his buttons, another thing that he knows far too well by now. Your fingers sitting limp on your legs itch to touch him, and roam his body. Those curls, his bearded cheeks, that muscular chest, or those thick arms. Maybe even all of him.

“We can have a good snog at me house tha sooner we get dis done,” Harry cautions, only worsening the pout forming on your lips. He reacts to it promptly, with that lip-biting returning, and his fist coming to his mouth. As if he has to refrain from saying, or doing, something.

“Why can’t I just have one more now? It won’t hurt,” you plead, letting your chin fall a tad, allowing you to look up at him through your lashes.

“‘m in real trouble with ya, aren’t I, birdy? Go’mme wrapped ‘round yer li’l finga like there’s no t’morrow, dontcha?” Harry teases, slowly leaning in, his arms bending at his wrists where they lay planted to your chair’s armrests.

“Yeah, just the way you like it,” you note aloud, the anticipation buzzing in your gut as he draws near.

“Yer right ‘bout dat, darlin’. Couldn’t say no t’ ya if I tried, thinkin’ that might ge’mme in trouble one o’ these days,” Harry finishes with a snicker before the taste of oranges meets your lips, and his beard is tickling your skin. Just the way you like it.

“Ravioli or pasta?” you hear float from the kitchen.

It’s a wonder you hear him as your thoughts are consumed by his bookshelves. Although you’ve been to his place several times now, you’re still enamored by trying to familiarize yourself with the items he chose to live with him.

The acoustic Taylor sitting in the corner on a stand. The Monet prints dotting his walls, along with those of The Stones, The Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, and Pink Floyd. The pink ukulele hung on his wall that he made you laugh with while playing a rendition of Somewhere Over The Rainbow the first time you came over. You swear that his blankets are the coziest and warmest. He also makes the best fires in the fireplace, even making s’mores for dessert the first time you came over, making quite the impression. The last time, you had devoured his record collection, flipping through it and playing the few that interested you at the time. You even like the silly napkins with sayings on them that he has in the kitchen. Now, you’ve returned to his book collection that seems to grow by a few each time you’re here.

“Why do you have Shel Silverstein here, but not at school?” you call out to him, feeling the change in texture of the book spines, the tip of your finger ghosting over them.

“‘Coz tha’s a copy from when I was li’l. Now, ya didn’t answer me question. Which d’ya want me t’ make, bird?” he replies gently, his deep voice carrying down the hall from the kitchen.

Once again, his words drift by unnoticed as you carefully remove a copy of a novel that catches your eye, The House on Mango Street. You’ve found it before on his shelves at school, and the cover has always enraptured you, but you’ve never found the time to pick it up. Turning it over, your eyes flit over the description on the back of the thin book.

“Hey, ‘m talkin’ t’ ya, birdy,” a voice murmurs, their words dancing across your neck with a tickle. “Tryin’ t’ figure out what t’ make us fer dinna.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just looking at this book. I’ve always meant to see what it’s about,” you comment, turning your head back ever so slightly, but you don’t need to do that to know he’s there. His arms have surrounded your waist and his beard tickles against your temple, lips soon dotting kisses along that space.

“‘s okay. Ah, so this ‘s where yer always runnin’ off t’ when ya come ova. Got meself a book worm fer a girlfriend, I like it. Findin’ anythin’ good? Ya know ya can borrow whateva ya want, love. I know ya’ll take good care o’ it,” Harry coos in between feathery pecks he plants down the side of your face. “‘s a good one too, bird. I teach it every year. Tha students enjoy it too. Ya might come t’ teach it too, I think, since we’re both teachin’ American Lit. this semester,” Harry comments, soon his nose making an appearance tickling your cheek. The words on the back of the book were beginning to blur before your eyes, but they’re forgotten altogether when his fingers brush against your belly, clasping together there.

“Thank you. I suppose I should read it already then.”

“Yeah, ‘m surprised ya haven’t already. Borrow it and take yer time with it, ya’ll enjoy it. ‘s a bit sad tho’ from what I rememba. Now, ravioli or pasta? Was thinkin’ a salad on tha side, marinated chicken, and sum berries,” he finishes, the safety his arms provide you with soon fleeting. Looking over your shoulder, he walks away and back to the kitchen, noting that he needs to get the pasta water boiling.

As your eyes trail to his bum round in his gray jogging shorts, a cheeky answer begs at your lips instead. He pipes up again with an inquisitive ‘well’ and your response falls from your lips, “Ravioli, please.”

He hums a confirmation from his new perch down the hall, the sounds of cupboards opening and things being jostled around soon following. The rest of the book’s summary passes your eyes before you set it down on the arm of the brown sofa, forgotten as soon as he had walked in. Passing Harry’s favorite reading chair in the corner accompanied by a tall lamp, you tiptoe through the narrow hallway marked by framed pictures on the walls. You hear his soft singing as you round the corner, happening upon his towering figure to your left, standing at the stove. Taking a page from his book, you slide across the wooden floor in your socks, quickly capturing him with your arms.

“Boo!” you whisper into his ear, feeling him jump in your arms.

“Don’t scare me like that, coulda burned me hand,” he warns, but when you chance a look at the pot of water below him, you find him to be a fibber.

“You don’t even have the gas on yet, silly,” you murmur in argument, dragging your nose along his freckled neck, paler from the winter months.

“So? ‘m tryin’ t’ cook here,” he argues, although terribly, because a giggle escapes his candy-like lips. Ones you very much would like to kiss right now, and perhaps taste, and nibble. Nodding into his shoulder, your hands unravel to explore the toned expanse of his stomach under his shirt. “Bird,” he says firmly, the cracking sound of the salt grinder following his words.

“I’m just helping you cook,” you explain feebly, brushing the pad of your thumb against his wispy happy trail. If you focus hard enough, you think you can remember from the times at the beach where his tattoos are, because they don’t feel any different to the rest of his skin. The fern leaves, the butterfly, and then the swallows below his collarbone.

“Yer pushin’ me buttons again. Ya know I don’ like it,” Harry grumbles, trapped within your grasp when he turns to grab the package of refrigerated ravioli from the counter.

“I’m sorry, can’t I just hug my boyfriend?” you whine, feeling your voice catch at that last word, even after two months.

“Don’t play that game with me, go read yer book or sumthin’. Catch up on sum gradin’, you’ll thank yerself later fer doin’ so, and me.”

“You’re no fun,” you whimper, hands stilling amongst his toned abdomen and soon returning to your body. Cheekily, you give in to your temptations and pinch his bum hastily, running off with a giggle.

“Birdy!” Harry calls after you, trying to hide the laugh in his voice, but you’re doing enough laughing for the both of you. You don’t hear the sound of his booming footsteps following you, and so you plop onto his sofa with a relieving sigh. “Remind me not t’ give ya more than two glasses o’ wine, ya get all weird afta two.”

“I do not!” you exclaim, pressing the power button on the remote for his tv.

“Ya do too! Grabbin’ me bum and gettin’ all handsy unda me shirt,” he contends with a scoff that dissolves into a titter. You respond with a ‘hmmph’ loud enough for him to hear as your head hits the velvet pillow at one end of the sofa, body splaying out to cover the rest.

“I’ll say it again, you’re no fun!”

“Oh, give it a rest!” is all Harry says disbelievingly, meanwhile you pout as you try to immerse yourself in an episode of The Simpsons.

It’s one of those Halloween specials, you’re not sure which one as there were several, even though Halloween was very nearly two months ago. Turning up the volume, you try to drown out the sound of pots banging together, and packages crinkling. You even attempt to mask the sound of his voice, the wine buzz securing you in your own little bubble, and a lonely one at that.

“Babeeee,” you finally hear, along with the soft padding of his slippers nearing you. “Don’ be a crab, y’know I don’ like bein’ botha’d when ‘m cookin’ sumthin’ hot. Don’ want t’ get eitha o’ us burnt. I’d do tha same if I had kids and they were ‘round,” he mumbles, his footsteps coming to a pause, and so does your heart at the sound of his words.

“Me li’l birdy,” Harry coos in a sing-song voice, the whine of the ancient wood floors marking his arrival. His calloused fingertips along your forehead and through your hair are difficult to ignore, as are his sweet lips smelling of Roscato against your skin. “Don’ be upset with me please, ya know I can’t handle it. Ya wanna come help me cook? You can chop up tha salad if ya’d like, well as long as yer hands are okay afta those glasses o’ wine.”

“Nah-ah,” you deny, rubbing your face with your hand, growing sleepy from the alcohol. “You don’t want my help, and I’m all dizzy.”

“I do want yer help, that’s why I asked. Hmm, dizzy, are you?” he queries, drawing your attention upwards to where he kneels beside the sofa, head hanging over yours. “Does this make ya dizzy too?” he grins upside down for you, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth. A smile hints at yours after the kiss ends, him raising an eyebrow.

You shake your head ‘no’ and he clucks his tongue, dipping in for another kiss, this one longer than the last. You’d choose to grow dizzy from his intoxicating lips over anything else, again and again. The bite of the alcohol follows the sweetness of the white wine he had poured you both glasses of, his still being nursed in the kitchen. The chill to his pillowy lips is shocking against your warm lips, but it’s forgotten when your fingers drift to his hair. You’ve only gotten a taste of his scrumptious top lip before he pulls away, having kissed you in an odd way, upside down.

“Ya still upset with me?” he breathes against your lips, rubbing his nose against yours ever so slightly, a smirk edging at his lips.

“I won’t be after one more kiss, and a cuddle,” you insist, testing your limits, but by now you’re fairly certain what you can get away with. Sometimes it surprises you how much, from stealing his favorite pen from his desk, grabbing his butt in the breakroom, knicking a sweater from his closet the last time you were over, or spamming him with texts of songs he wouldn’t ever listen to but he still does, for you.

“Alrighty then, c’mere, birdy,” he smiles before he melts against you in a kiss, once again.

Soon, he’s scooping his arms under your legs and settling you on his lap, sinking into the sofa. Your head finds a home below his collarbone, legs draped across his lap and your bum hanging off the side of it.

“I forgot ya get all tired on me afta alcohol. I gotta rememba t’ only dole it out when tha sun ‘s still up,” he giggles, the sound reverberating around in his broad chest under his Paul McCartney & Wings shirt. His fingers surround one of your hands, holding it to his chest as his other cups your waist where he holds you against him.

“Yeah,” you mumble softly, trying to focus on the tv show, but it’s a lost cause.

With his refreshing citrus smell enveloping you, the notes of the tangy orange he eats by sections every day clings to his skin somehow. Dreamily, you admire his neat beard for the hundredth time, smiling adoringly at the little patches he hates that don’t grow in all of the way. For some reason, you love them even more, wondering what his cheeks look like underneath all of the dark brunette hair.

The show is forgotten at the recesses of your mind, and instead, your attention revolves around Harry, much to your surprise. The rhythmic rising and falling of his chest. The scattering of ink covering both arms, top to bottom. The dark curly hair donning his chest if you nudge the collar of his shirt down far enough. Even the steady beating of his heart grabs your focus, leading you to the slight pause and wake of it at the corner of his neck. Perhaps your most favorite of all is a hard tie between watching the execution of his facial features, or playing with his hands. One he minds quite more than the other, but you think he’s starting to get used to it.

Your fingers that look puny in contrast to his run over the minuscule hairs peppered across his knuckles, yet another trait of his you adore. It’s rare there’s one you’ve found of his that you don’t enjoy immensely. They fall against his, feeling the lukewarm metal decorating his fingers, and he doesn’t even pause. Scooting your eyes away from his hands quickly, you try to forget the inviting veins bulging from his skin you so often like to get lost tracing. They flit now to the almost indiscernible dimples caving into his hairy cheeks, eyes gleaming as he titters at something on the tv. It all ends much too soon and you’re caught in the act, his gaze falling to yours.

“Whatcha lookin’ at me fer?” he wonders aloud, the space between his brow creasing. You resist rubbing it free, finding you don’t have the time to when his lips press a kiss to your nose. “Water’s boilin’, I should go start tha chicken. Ya can help if ya want, but ya don’t hafta, love. Don’ want ya cuttin’ those pretty li’l fingas o’ yers.”

A nod suffices for your imaginary words, and so does the curling of your lips that part, “I like you,” you mumble, eyes glued to him, much like a puppy dog.

“I like ya too, birdy. Quite arguably tha best thing that’s happened t’ me in a while, you are,” he rasps, voice dripping of honey at the arrival of his words. The look painting his face tells you that he knows it too, and you can taste the honey when he pecks you. “Like ya so much I can’t believe it sumtimes.”

You both knew within the first week of school that having your prep hour during the same time in fifth hour, although coincidental, was perhaps not a good idea. It was uncertain whether the demons of the world or the angels of it had arranged this, seeing as you soon distracted each other from getting much prep done for that day’s lessons, grading, what have it. The both of you got on each other’s nerves regarding it at times, him more so than you, but you’re rest assured you both were grateful for it.

Like today, you can’t stop jiggling your knee as you listen to Chopin while grading papers on the interpretable meanings of the scarlet A from The Scarlet Letter. Harry had gotten quickly upset with you yesterday when you had hogged too much of his prep hour with kissing and talking, noting that he had already been interrupted by another colleague. Today, you’re trying to give him his space to get his work done, but you find it exhausting staying away from him, much like you always do, and have to already. The temptation is even worse when he’s less than fifty steps away, and with those lips that should be downright illegal. His snap at you still stung, if only a little, and you can’t find your focus seeing that you’ve hardly seen him around today.

Sometimes you feel pathetic and he’ll joke that you are too, melting into a puddle like The Wicked Witch of the West from not having seen him enough. You know that you are, but the realization doesn’t make you feel any better. Neither do you when a second later, speak of the devil, you hear his voice outside your ajar door. It mingles with another, and this one mentions your name, you’re rather sure. Harry shushes the other person with a laugh, and when the voices have paused, you return your gaze to the marked-up paper you’re grading. Turning up the music on your desktop, you sigh as you start reading the sentence over again, for the third time.

Relief buds at the tips of your limbs as you gather your things from your desk around quarter to four, positive Harry’s after-school Poetry Club should be over by now. It’s stolen away as your fingers dangle on the handle of the door, his door closed with his nifty store-like sign turned to CLOSED. Sighing, your face creases into a messy line at the sight of it, your fingers soon composing a text to him that goes unanswered.

Looking both ways down the hall, when the coast is clear, your heels click across the hall to place you at his door. Again, it’s unlocked to allow the custodial staff to come and clean soon. Bingo! Blanketed in darkness, few streams of light make their way in past the new snow blanketing the campus grounds. You don’t need much light anyways, and after setting your things down on a desk, you settle in his chair. The squeaks are almost all the way out of it, you notice, as you pull on the chain to the vintage green lamp at the corner of his desk. A new addition. Albeit a few scattered pens and lists, it looks much the same since the last time you were in his classroom. You quickly find a pad of Post-Its, green this time, and a pen that’s a fun color. Licking your lips with an excited smile, the sadness of missing Harry is abated by getting the chance to sneak a note onto his desk, which you’ve found is far harder to do these days. You leave with a smirk donning your lips, and a few Bit-O-Honeys to tide you over until the next time.

Harry,

Do you have any plans this Saturday? I might know a certain girl who is planning on making homemade pizza, and who thought you might enjoy it. If you’d like to, I can let her know and pass your name along. I’ve heard she’s a rather good chef, just don’t get too many glasses of wine into her, or else she turns into a real fruit loop.

P.S. I wish there were words for how I feel about you, but being the English nerds we are, I think that gives you a little advantage to understand once I find those words. Have a great day, my love.

Your Birdy

xoxoxo

Huffing, you stab at the button again, but you still receive the same error message from the copying machine. Forgetting it, you log out before turning around, which wasn’t a great idea either, you find. A quiet squeal leaves your lips when you find Harry standing in front of you, grinning at his success from scaring you.

“A li’l jumpy this mornin’, are we?” he smirks, sliding his covered arms into the pockets of his gray slacks.

“Yeah, you could say that, and the copier hates me this week,” you return, walking past him and over to the shelf of supplies in containers.

“Oh, ya can use me code if that helps. Maybe it senses ya hate it,” he giggles, now behind you. Your nod suffices for a response as you drag your fingers through the sea of pens, searching for one color.

“Thanks, I appreciate it. Ugh, there’s never any red pens when I need one,” you sigh, annoyed.

“Ya know ya can take one from me stash anytime ya need,” he insists, humming a tune as he taps his foot. You mumble another small ‘thanks’ before moving onto another container.

“Hey, why ya bein’ all shy?” he inquires, his gentle fingers soon encircling your wrist, turning you to face him. Again, you wonder how he can look more handsome every day, even in a dorky gray pull over vest with a cream button up underneath.

“You said we can’t do PDA in school.”

“‘s tha copier room and nobody else ‘s here, bird. ‘s fine, y’know that by now,” he argues, pulling you into his arms easily, manipulating you like soft clay. Trying and failing to hide a frown, his brow knits together in confusion. “Why ya bein’ all weird, hmm? Gonna tell me?”

“You don’t let me come and bother you during our preps anymore. You got all mad at me,” you confess blearily, letting your head come to rest on his shoulder. Hastily, you remove it and leave his arms, sure somebody will walk in the door at the least convenient second.

A laugh sings from his lips as he follows you, winding an arm around your waist. His lips are soft against your cheek, the stubble framing it becoming normal to you by now, although a scratchy nuisance. Now, he’s made his way to stand in front of you, blocking you from the packs of Crayola markers you were eyeing up for a project.

“‘m sorry I got mad, okay? Jus’ had loads o’ stuff t’ get done, knew I shouldn’t have snapped at ya, tho.’ I regret it now . . . . Will ya forgive me?” he begs, sticking out his bottom lip, making him even more irresistible and delectable. Shiny curls fall over his forehead from his mousy hair that’s shorter on the sides after his recent cut.

After checking the door, you surprise his lips with an all-forgiving smooch, welcomed by the bitter taste of black coffee on his lips. Like always, it draws to an end far too soon, and this time by the tinny ringing of the first bell.

“Betta get goin’, bird. Don’ wanna be late,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. A short yelp escapes your lips when his hand squeezes your ass before he saunters off after another kiss.

“Harry,” you mutter, shaking your head, squeezing his hand briefly before you enter the halls together.

Although you’ve become accustomed to it, it still feels strange to slide on another mask once you step into the halls. Sometimes even the school. You feel them and you know they’re there, the stares from the students. The rumors buzzed around the beginning of the year about you and Harry, but with his help, they never got to you. Neither of you have ever confirmed anything to anybody, and luckily you haven’t had to so far, even amidst the continuing rumors.

Nonetheless, you still share with the other the stories of your students teasing the both of you about dating the other. You only fed the fire when you dressed up together for Halloween, or when your classes often combined together in the computer lab or library, or on the rare occasions, they have a large Jeopardy game or group project together. More often than you like to admit, you get carried away and entertain the freedom that would come with being able to say ‘yes’ to your students when they ask if you’re together. That would only call for one occasion, though. One that is quite far down the future road. As your eyes wander along Harry, a couple months in and you can’t deny that this isn’t just another boyfriend. No siree.

“What d’ya got on tha agenda t’day, love? Ya startin’ anythin’ befo’ break?” he asks you, pulling you from your reverie, probably for the best.

“No, we’re wrapping up the unit this week before testing next Monday on the last day. The Scarlet Letter, Frankenstein, Grammar Do’s and Don’ts, and the Transcendentalist Writers,” you explain, folding your hands together and letting them fall to the waist of your long wine-colored dress. Dark tights hug your legs, but the spotty heating inside of the school makes you miss the black cardigan sitting at your desk.

“Mmm, same here. ‘s a good day t’ do it, can’t really introduce anythin’ befo’ Christmas Break. They’ll all forget it by tha time they return in two weeks. We jus’ have a chapta left in most classes: Hemingway, To Kill A Mockingbird, Huck. Finn, and Robert Frost,” he comments, hands hidden away in his slacks. Often you’re grateful for it, the removal of the temptation for you. Then again, it tempts your eyes that like to dance across the tightness of his slacks, but you quickly avert them.

“That’s good, only three more school days counting today, and one more until my observation,” you huff, finding it arduous to keep the nerves surrounding the event at bay.

“You’ll do fine, love, I keep tellin’ ya that. Ya gotta believe me one o’ these times,” Harry coos, coming to a stop when you round the corner, your classrooms only a few steps away. To your surprise, his long fingers spread warmth across your skin with a pat to your arm, a rare one at that. “Have a good day, don’ let tha kids get t’ ya yet. Only a few days left. ‘ll talk t’ ya later.”

“Thanks, I hope you have a good day too,” you echo, containing the smile you send him halfheartedly, always careful about how you act towards each other around students. He winks at you quickly before turning away with that delightful smile playing around his lips, making you wonder how long again until you can kiss them.

His luscious curls make your fingers itch to touch them, but as you linger in your doorway watching him, you know that you’ll have to wait. After biding your time for a few seconds for the students to leave him after receiving help, with a mental shrug you decide you’ll wait. Soon, you find yourself in the office. Colleagues meander around the room, the secretary speaks on the phone, and a parent or two or waits for them. After a few smiles and greetings, you arrive at your mailbox. First, you pluck the bag of Bit-O-Honeys from your pocket, sticking them in his box with a note already taped to them. After fishing out the few papers sitting in there, your hand brushes against something on the bottom, but you don’t see anything when you look again. With a quirked brow, you stand on your tippy toes, spotting a lime green Post-It note stuck to the bottom piece of wood. A smile quickly consumes your face as you pluck it from there, sticking it to the first paper on top of your pile, not wanting to raise any kind of suspicion. You and Harry do your best to be extra careful, not wanting to give anybody a reason to pry, and by now you’re both positive nobody has any true reason to doubt your story.

Your heels dig into the sides of your feet after your long day, making you quicken your pace back to your classroom. The frown creasing your features is soon replaced with that grin from before when you turn into your classroom, finally taking a peek at the note.

Birdy-

You’re not very good at this whole Christmas list thing, are you? I’m still wondering what you’d like. Mind helping a silly old man out before the holiday rolls around? I hope your day is going swell. Don’t hesitate to come and say hi during prep, you know you’re always welcome. You’re the best kind of distraction, you’re just a little too good at it sometimes ;) You’re looking too gorgeous in that dress today, and so I’ll need you to stop by so I can give you a proper snog in private, pronto.

Harry xxxx

P.S. - Homemade pizza sounds lovely, I can’t wait. You spoil me (:

P.P.S - You have no idea how much you mean to me, bird xo

“Verdict on tha possibility o’ that snog?” somebody murmurs, their voice followed by the soft whoosh of your door closing. To no surprise, Harry leans against the door unable to hold back the happiness showing on his face.

“I think it’s a yes,” you answer slowly, placing the stack of things on your desk, but not moving an inch. You want to toy with him and make him work for it, but as always, you can’t resist him.

“How was yer day?” he mumbles once your arms come around his middle, brushing against the knit sweater vest. Sometimes he dresses like older colleagues and other days like his young age, but nonetheless you can’t help but think he’s the best dressed of any male teachers here at the school. He’s just too goddamn handsome that he can pull off anything.

“Good, we finished all of our readings in my classes. I get to be observed doing review tomorrow, so I hope the observer likes my Jeopardy games,” you comment, slipping your hands under the fabric, feeling the warmth projected from his body.

“‘m sure they will, love, ‘s a good idea ya came up with. I know it took loads o’ work doin’ four o’ ‘em fer tha four different classes ya have throughout tha day. What time ‘s yer observation, ya neva said?”

“It’s during my fourth hour, before lunch,” you answer, him humming a short reply. “You really think I look that nice in this dress? I thought I looked frumpy and too tall,” you question, pursing your lips as you take a look at your long plain dress.

“Yes, think ya look amazin’, bird. Couldn’t keep my eyes off o’ ya all day wheneva I saw ya. Yer gonna make me slip up one o’ these times, and make me blow our cover,” Harry snickers, stepping forward to sink his fingers into your hair, a thumb falling to address your cheek. A knowing smirk tempts your lips, and it only worsens when his tongue comes out to run over his. “Think ya know that already, tho’ - y’know what ya do t’ me, dontcha?”

You silently shake your head, but the smile makes an appearance, and your lie is free to the air. His breathy laugh mingles with it before he takes them away, scooping your top lip between his. His kisses fill you with a warm giddiness, one that leads your hands to leave his strong back, and wander down him. Juice from the orange he must have just eaten trickles onto your lips, meanwhile your fingers dip into his pants, just brushing the top of his clothed bum.

Harry breaks the kiss suddenly, but you’re already giggling. So far, all you receive is an eyebrow raise from him, but his toasty hands don’t leave your cheeks. His gleaming rose lips part, “What’d I say ‘bout those hands o’ yers? Lookie here, they’re gettin’ you in trouble ‘gain,” he tuts, your left cheek soon cold as he wags a finger at you.

“You never said I couldn’t, and your bum just looks so nice today- well, every day,” you counter, feeling cheeky. His eyes dart from yours as blush rises to his cheeks, pulling up the corners of his mouth along with it.

“Bird,” he giggles, eyes soon returning to yours. “I dunno what ‘m gonna do with you,” he coos gently, cupping your cheek once more with his long fingers, returning his lips to yours for a kiss. His smile is felt upon yours and you find out why when his tongue prods at your lips, begging for entrance. As your hand slides down to caress his bum, your lips part to let him in.

Day after day, you wonder just when it was that you let him into your heart, seeing how he’s made a home in there. You just hope he’ll never want to leave. More and more often lately, you keep thinking that you’d like him to stay there, perhaps for forever.

With chattering teeth and a frozen nose, you only start to warm up once you unlock the door to your room, grateful to get to spend the upcoming weekend inside your cozy home. Thoughts of the cute knit hats Harry wears and how he finds you adorable with your rosy cheeks and button nose pull your eyes to his door. Sighing, you unwrap your scarf, discovering he hasn’t came in yet this morning. Yet another thing to add to his list of acting odd lately at times. Even though you spoke to him through a few texts this morning, you long to hear his voice comfort you about your dreaded observation later today. Unbeknownst to you, he has this magical quality to him that never fails to calm you down, or to make things better. Yet another thing you love about him, you think with a smile, unloading your messenger bag of the materials you bring back and forth from school.

Once that’s all unpacked and you remember to turn on the lights, as well as the blinking Christmas lights strewn around your room, you get an idea. Pushing his door open, you pull on the gold metal chain of his lamp, your hands drifting to the green Post-Its. The pen slides from your fingers when somebody surprises you with a loud ‘boo!’

“Harry, stop,” you giggle, briefly glancing to the doorway to find him in his puffy black coat.

“Would ya look at that, I caught ya in tha act. It won’t be much o’ a surprise now,” he titters, softly closing the door behind himself, the hallways beginning to abate their previous silence.

Shrugging, you pick the pen back up and start to scribble down a note while you still have a few precious seconds left. Smirking, you release your lip you bite on to speak, “I got here before you today, that’s a point for me. I think we’re three-two now for this week,” you tease him, listening to the slushy scuffle of his leather boots along the floor.

“Ya, I hadda busy mornin’, had sumthin’ important t’ do. Can ya guess what it was?” he murmurs, appearing behind you suddenly, his cheek rubbing against yours softly. A long ‘sure’ falls from your lips, but it comes up short when you think about the sensation of his cheek against your face. It’s smooth and warm, and not hairy.

“Wait a minute,” you announce, pulling away from him and turning around in his chair to look at him. Seconds after your jaw dropped to your chest, your hand flies to your mouth at the sight of him freshly shaven. “Harry, your face!” For the first time, you finally get to see his dimples on full display, collapsing into his round smiling cheeks. A long giggle escapes them as he runs a hand over them.

“What d’ya think o’ me all clean shaven? Haven’t seen me without a beard, have ya, bird?” he inquires, raising an eyebrow as a cocky smirk creases his pink cheeks. Within seconds, you’re on your feet and feeling his satiny cheeks under your palms.

“They’re so smooth, I like them. You look so nice, well I liked you before with a beard too. You’re so handsome either way,” you croon, leaning in to kiss him, tasting the spearmint toothpaste he uses. Your lips wander to his cupid’s bow, the slope below his bottom lip, and across the expanses of his grinning cheeks.

“Stop,” he giggles, his hands finding a home on your waist, but he’s hard to believe as he leans into your lips. “Don’t think I look weird or less handsome without a beard, d’ya now?”

“No, you never could. Mmmm, I like kissing all over your cheeks,” you hum in between kisses, the musky smell of his shaving cream tickling at your nose.

“Thanks, bird, ‘m glad t’ hear that. Now, lemme read dis note ya left, ‘m curious now.”

Much to your disappointment, his face soon leaves the clutches of your kisses, him trailing to his desk. Although whining at his absence, you let him, and instead you admire his adorable cheeks. It takes everything inside of you to hold yourself back from pinching them and kissing them. Hints of denial and shock come over you again, unsure of what you’re seeing at times. Never in the last seven-ish months since you truly met Harry, have you seen him without his beard. It’s kind of startling, but you know that he has you wrapped around his finger as well, because it unmistakingly makes you love him even more. Sometimes you wonder how that’s possible, even if you’ve only been official for a few months.

“Why the change?” you wonder aloud, eyes glued to him as his scan over the note you didn’t get to finish. Lifting his glowing eyes to you, those greens stare back at you, and again you’re knocked off your feet by him.

“Why not,” he answers with a shrug of his shoulders, holding up the note. “Ya didn’t finish, y’know. Ya started t’ declare yer love fer me and all that jazz, and it ended in tha middle o’ a sentence. Not very proper fer an English teacher, y’know,” he pouts, dragging his feet over to you after his sarcastic words.

“Well, you didn’t let me finish,” you reply, surrounding his middle once he’s in reach.

“D’ya care t’?” he whispers against your mouth, his lips ghosting over yours. This man really does know what he’s doing.

“No thanks, I’m not a ‘put me on the spot’ type of gal.”

“Ah, you aren’t, are ya? Tha’s a new one,” he grins, laying kisses to your cold cheeks, spreading warmth in his trail.

“Maybe you could tell me something, though.”

“Hmm?” he hums, the feeling of his smooth skin rubbing against yours entirely new to you, but you think you could get used to it.

“Could you tell me that I’m worrying about my observation for nothing?”

His kisses come to an unnecessary end, but in the end you’re grateful to see his green eyes again, and all of the love they hold.

“Ya are worryin’ ‘bout it fer nuthin’, bird. Promise ya yer gonna do great, ‘m so proud o’ you and tha great teacher ya’ve become,” he coos above you, tapping his finger to your nose. The words settle inside of you and begin to sink in. “And ‘m not jus’ sayin’ that, hope ya know how much I mean it.”

You tried, and failed, to keep Harry’s words at the front of your mind throughout your day. When the worries would bubble up, you’d try to make them go away with his reassuring voice saying them. At times, it was strenuous, and quickly the idea of eating lunch after your observation seemed ridiculous. That word seemed to align with your day soon, seeing as the powerpoint for Jeopardy wouldn’t work at first, but you blamed the projector. Then as the minutes ticked by and brought you closer and closer to eleven o’clock, shakes started to radiate throughout your body. Your hands grew clammy and you wish it was over with before it even started.

Your students for British Literature soon shuffled in, dropping backpacks on the floor with groans, itching for Christmas Break to come as well. You can’t help but agree with them, reminding them of this once they’re all seated and the last bell has rung. Inside your chest, your heart feels like it’s trying to break free from its cage as you anticipate a random colleague walking through your door.

“Hello, everybody. We finished reading Frankenstein yesterday, and to prepare for our test on Monday, we’re going to do some review. I know you all have come to enjoy my Jeopardy games, so I made one for Frank and-,” your introduction to your class is cut off by a knock on your classroom door, making your heart jump inside your chest. “Excuse me, let me just get that first.” With a deep breath, you hurry to get the door, and that breath goes flying out the window when you see who’s on the other side. His name falls from your lips at the sight of him, a clipboard hugged to his chest.

“Hi, ‘m here t’ observe you fer tha duration o’ yer lesson,” Harry announces, a professionalism coming over his voice, yet a cheekiness is heard at the edge of it.

“You’re observing me?” you ask breathlessly, earning a proud nod from him. “O-okay.”

“Yer gonna do great, don’ worry ‘bout me. Jus’ ignore me sittin’ in tha back,” he whispers, his warm smile holding more words than the both of you know he can say right now. After a squeeze to your arm, he slips past you into the classroom, flared maroon pants billowing behind him. “Hullo, e’rybody. ‘m Mr. Styles from across tha hall, I also teach English here. Don’ mind me, ‘m jus’ observin’ yer lovely teacher fer a colleague review t’day. Carry on,” Harry says, addressing your class. Swallowing, the butterflies take a peek from their safety inside your chest, soon taking flight to rid you of your worries.

“As I was saying, I made a Jeopardy game for Frank that we’ll play to review for the test on Monday,” you continue, folding your hands together to sit below your waist. You smile when the class erupts in applause, and even more so when your eyes flit to Harry whose found an empty desk at the back of the room. His head of curls lifts from being bent over the clipboard he writes on, sending you an encouraging wink. “So let’s take attendance to see how many there are of all of you, and I’ll split you up into teams. Then we can get started,” you finish, feeling his eyes on you. Although the pressure is still there, you feel at home in his presence and you don’t even mess up once during your lesson.

Even if you had, you’re sure he could’ve fixed it with the winks, thumbs ups, and heart wrenching smiles he sends you from across the room.

“So how did you manage observing me when you had a class during fourth, too? And how’d I do by the way?” you begin, wandering into Harry’s open classroom, the hallways almost empty after the end of the school day. Stopping in your tracks, confusion washes over you when the seat at his desk is empty. It would seem likely he had only stepped out, but it only gets weirder when his long coat isn’t found draped over his chair. “Okay then,” you mumble, returning to your classroom with questions blooming inside of you.

Thoughts are recalled in your mind about how odd Harry’s acted on a few occasions lately, namely his unusual disappearances after school. It’s hard to ignore as you work on the last few questions for the test for sophomore American Lit. You’re trying to think of questions from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself, switching tracks after just focusing on Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self-Reliance. Although not news to you, you steal a glance across the hall at his classroom that still lays undisturbed, longing for his help with a good Whitman question. Soon, you find your phone in your hands, typing up a text to him asking him where he is, because you need his help. Before exiting your messages, the gray thought bubble appears with an ellipsis, indicating his typing. You wait for a response, but after close to a minute, you forget your phone on your desk nearby.

Giving up, your attention wanders to your staff email. You occupy your time answering a few parent emails, then some staff emails, and reading the important ones from the principal regarding Christmas Break. Your eyes grow far more tired at the sight of one from him about upcoming final exams in January, a time that seems far off from now. As a teacher now, you know that’s not true, and you always have to be ahead of the game. It’s yet another thing you want to rack Harry’s brain about, unsure of how to even create a final, and what to include on it. All you can think of is how much you despised final exams in high school and university, finding little worth in them. You know that you don’t want to be hard on your students, because a cumulative exam is difficult, and a regular exam already is as well. While your desktop plays Disney and Pixar piano instrumentals, your thoughts drift to the few teachers you had who made their final exam less intimidating. Whether it was a test on just the most recent unit you learned, the last book you read as a class, or something silly like throwing wadded up paper balls into the recycling from ten feet away.

Quickly, they’re disturbed by the twinkling of your cell phone, buzzing along your desk. A budding warmth trickles into your limbs when you see on it the goofy picture of Harry from a day at the beach last summer. New freckles covering his tanned skin, and all pink sunglasses donning his eyes.

“Hey, where’d you escape to?” you answer casually, dragging your mouse over to pause your music, coming across a song from the movie Up.

“Oh erm, had t’ run a quick errand. ‘m on me way back tho’, so what’re ya doin’?” Harry replies, clearing his throat which he never does, only when he’s nervous. You try to listen into his voice closer, but you don’t hear anything else besides that, so you try to push it away.

“Finishing up my Transcidentalism Writers test. I was wondering what would be a good question, in your opinion, from Whitman’s Song of Myself?” you pose to him, your other hand falling from your computer mouse to prop your chin up.

“Hmmm, tha’s a good question,” he titters, another sound echoing his words, but you can’t make out what it is in the background. “Ya could do a question ‘bout tha theme o’ tha poem, examples o’ figurative language, or ya could have a short response question where they summarize tha poem in their own thoughts, I s’pose. Ya could even- Shhh,” he finishes. He only makes you grow more and more curious as to what’s going on, and why you hear a whine in response.

“Who are you talking to?” you laugh, narrowing your eyes at the wall you stare at lazily while talking to him.

“Oh nobody, nobody. Do those erm questions help? Ya like ‘em, bird?” he responds hastily, brushing the strange occurrence away.

“Okay, whatever you say, and yeah they help. Thank you.”

“Welcome. ‘m almost t’ me classroom, so ‘ll see ya soon, kay?”

“Okay,” you tell him before he hangs up.

Yawning, you turn back to your computer and quickly write down those ideas in a Notepad document before you forget them. You’re in the middle of typing up the idea for a short response question when there’s a knock at your classroom door. Turning your head, you don’t see anybody at first, so you revert your attention back to your typing.

“Yeah, who’s there? Harry, is that you?” you reply, your fingers dancing along the keyboard swiftly.

“No, ‘s me,” Harry’s voice replies, but it’s distorted to sound different from his. It’s more high-pitched, very near to that of a child. Giggling, you look back over to your doorway to find a surprise. “Hi, ‘m a puppy. ‘m a Golden Retriever mix. I jus’ got adopted by me new daddy, Harry.”

“Oh my goodness!” you exclaim, hands flying to your mouth at the most adorable sight indeed. Held in Harry’s two hands, a tan Golden puppy is suspended in the air in your doorway. His tiny furry body squirms in your boyfriend’s hands, a short yip leaving his little mouth. “Harry!” you cry, rooted to your spot. Another exclamation leaves your lips when a yawn leaves the little puppy’s mouth, and then again when his long wagging tail enters your view.

“‘m only eight weeks and daddy jus’ go’mme, so I don’ have a name yet, but ‘s nice t’ meet you. Me daddy ‘s thinkin’ o’ namin’ me Gatsby afta his favourite book. Whoops, I wasn’t s’posed t’ tell ya that, daddy says ya were s’posed t’ guess that on yer own. Anyways, my daddy and I wanted t’ ask you if ya’ll be my new mummy? He was also wonderin’ if ya wanted t’ come an’ live with us, since daddy told me yer lease ‘s up soon. I dunno what dat ‘s, but what d’ya say? I know we’d have loads o’ fun togetha, and ‘m jus’ so darn cute!” Harry continues in his child-like voice, speaking for the new puppy. Tears soon blur your eyes, but you blink them away quickly so as to not lose sight of the irresistible puppy.

“Harry!” you cry, getting to your feet and dashing in your heels to the doorway, finding him bringing the puppy to his chest.

“Hi, birdy. I see ya’ve met me new puppy, or . . our new puppy,” he smirks before you, hitting you with another wave of emotions at his darling words. “Sorry, I didn’t tell ya ‘bout him sooner. This ‘s what’s been takin’ up all me time dis week, and it all happened so fast. Wanted t’ surprise ya, and I think ‘s safe t’ say I have,” he chuckles, removing a hand from around the puppy’s pink belly to wipe the tears from under your eyes.

“It’s okay. Oh my goodness, look at him,” you almost whine in that voice you use around babies, bringing your hands to his fluffy fur. He turns his head towards you and his tiny black nose wiggles as he sniffs at the air around you. “Hi, little guy. Can I be your new mummy, is that okay with you?”

“‘Course it ‘s, was kinda bettin’ on it. Knew ya’d be a good mummy . . . Wish I could bring him t’ school on Monday, but my sista said she’d take him fer tha day,” Harry coos, lifting your head with his voice. One of those big crinkly-eye smiles claims his face, disappearing from view when he presses a kiss to your lips. Your lips move with his, fingers getting lost in his hair, but it’s over quickly when you start to hear barking below you. “Heeeeey, ‘s okay, li’l guy. I can kiss mummy, if I want t’. What d’ya think, Gatbsy, hmmm? Mummy said she’d make us pizzas t’morrow. Already turnin’ out t’ be a good mummy, isn’t she now?”

Laughs coat the both of your lips as he lifts the puppy into the air for the both of you to look at. They echo throughout the room when Gatsby wiggles in his arms, moving his gangly legs wildly as if trying to swim through the air.

“Oh, Harry,” you sigh, encircling his middle with your arms. The puppy returns to his side, and his left arm wanders to around your shoulders. His lips are cold against your forehead when they press a smooch there. You can’t help but to laugh again when the puppy inches over to you, sniffing all over you, long arms dangling over Harry’s. He reaches your face and begins to lick kisses along your cheeks, soon crawling into your arms with Harry’s help.

“I think he likes his new mummy, I can’t blame him.”

“Oh I love him already,” you confess, losing your fingers in his long fur around his face, ears flopping all over the place. “And his daddy,” you blurt out, widening your wet eyes once the words escape your lips. Glancing over to Harry, somehow that smile has grown even larger, adorned by a fresh wash of pink along his cheeks.

“You love me?” he murmurs slowly, hand soft against your shoulder, pressing you to his chest. You pause, unsure of how to read his reaction, but the sudden doubt falls away. You’re nodding before the words come, and you already see the effect they have on him.

“Yeah, I know it’s only been a few months, but I do . . I love you, Harry,” you divulge, clutching the puppy to your chest who still spills kisses along your face and neck, licking up the tears that run down your cheeks.

“I think he’s gonna hafta contain himself and gimme a turn kissing his mum . . ‘coz I love ya too, birdy, so much,” Harry hums, the smile leaking into his voice. You can even taste it on your lips when his touch yours, massaging yours gently, the smooth feeling of his skin still a surprise to you.

“And, Harry?” you whisper, his eyes falling to yours, mumbling a question in response. “I’d love to move in with the two of you . . my boys,” you finally answer, watching the smile hike further up his cheeks. His delightful giggle surrounds you and soon a sweet yipping followed by puppy kisses to the both of your happy faces.

Yeah, you could get used to this, all of it.

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firewoodfigs · 4 years ago

Text

letters to a young poet

Summary: Riza Hawkeye, a young, aspiring poet, exchanges letters with her fiancé, Roy Mustang during his time in the military academy. He attempts to write her poems and prose about life and love, and occasionally sends her presents to remind her of him. Like his boxers.

read on ao3

(a/n: (i) title is taken from Rilke's book. (ii) tw: the timeline of this is largely based on yet another man's battlefield, so there are brief mentions of racism here. (iii) I recommend reading on ao3 instead because... formatting issues, again xD (iv) original poetry at the end)

for @royaiweek 2020 - thank you to the lovely mods for organising!! 💖

~x~

“Promise you’ll write to me when I’m away?”

“Of course, Roy,” Riza drawls idly as she adjusts his coat and ensures that his tie is neatly in place.

“Thank you. I’m going to miss you terribly, you know,” he says, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead before stretching his arms out invitingly. Smiling, she leans in and allows herself to be crushed to his chest in a warm, firm embrace.

God, I’m really going to miss her, he thinks, as he inhales her scent - a lovely mix of gunpowder and peonies and old books - and incarcerates it in his memory.

Roy steps back to admire her pretty countenance properly. Pride and admiration swells in his heart, and he can't help but run his fingers gently through her flaxen tresses once more before resting them on her lips.

“Let me be your muse,” Roy declares with a triumphant grin, pressing a hand to his heart with a melodramatic flourish that earns an amused eye roll from his fiancée. “For parting is such sweet sorrow, and -“

“Shut up.” She pulls him by his tie to kiss him roughly, before flashing a wicked grin and kicking him out of the door. “Get going, you lovesick, histrionic fool.”

Riza throws his belongings out and slams the door as he stares at the wood longingly with an endearing pout.

~x~

June 8th

Dear Riza,

How doth your literary endeavours come along? I hope all is well with thee. Whenever I close my eyes, I see you Like a midsummer’s night dream, exquisite And when I open my eyes to sunlight I cannot wait to see you once again.

All my love, Roy.

~x~

June 12th

Roy,

Stop trying to imitate Shakespeare and force all your sentences into iambic pentameters. It makes me shudder - in disgust, not delight, lest you misconstrue what I’m saying.

Anyway, my literary endeavours are coming along fine. I’ve been spending my time reading some of the books you got me for my birthday, and for someone who writes so incorrigibly you sure do have impeccable taste. All is well on my end. What about you? How are you adjusting to the academy?

Thanks for the pressed flowers that you sent over, by the way. They’re surprisingly lovely, though I’m sure all credit goes to Vanessa’s guidance.

I also enclosed a scarf that I personally knitted for you in case it gets cold at night. Because you have an uncanny tendency to misplace your things, I embroidered a few water droplets in blue at the bottom for clearer identification (if you lose it I’m never making you anything ever again, this took me days to complete).

Hopefully, they serve as a reminder to you that you’re useless in the rain as well, so that you’ll refrain from doing anything reckless or stupid in my absence.

All my love, Riza.

~x~

Roy tears the package open with all the enthusiasm of a child opening his presents on Christmas morning the instant it lands in his hands. His eyes light up appreciatively at the lovely scarf, laughing at the tiny water droplets at the bottom that she’d added as a personal touch.

When he reads her letter and realises its intended meaning, though, an indignant frown makes its way to his handsome features.

Nevertheless, he dons it on immediately, relishing in the warm comfort and how it smelt like her, like flowers blooming in spring (even if his fiancée didn’t appreciate his poetic attempts, he very much liked to believe he was capable of using a simile properly).

June 16th

Dear Riza,

Thank you for the lovely gift, although your harsh words wound me terribly. Nevertheless, I understand that underneath your acerbic tongue lies a tender heart full of love, and I am a lucky man to be the sole recipient of it. I’m glad you liked the flowers. One day I’ll buy you a carful of them, I promise.

Things are going fine here. I’m adjusting well to the ridiculous sleep schedule (you’re the only person I know who willingly wakes up at seven in the morning daily), and with the rigorous physical training we have to endure I believe you’ll have a glorious set of washboard abs to admire the next time you see me.

I must say, though, the food here is pretty bad. Spinach quiche is pretty much the only edible thing, but this man - I think his name was Huggles or something. Sorry, Hughes - had the audacity to take the last piece of quiche right under my nose.

(Per your commands, though, I refrained from trying anything stupid.)

What’s even worse is the racial prejudice. The other day I saw an Ishvalan getting bullied by a trio of ugly men, but they left before I realised what was really happening… So I helped him out after that. I can’t bear it, to this day - they picked on him just because of his skin colour, for goodness sake! It was completely unwarranted.

It’s only been a week but I already miss you terribly. Can’t wait till I see you again.

All my love, which extends from one end of Amestris to Xing, Roy.

~x~

June 21st

Dear Roy,

Sure, keep deluding yourself however you like if it makes you happy. You’re not the only recipient, by the way - I made a cute little scarf for Hayate, too, who has replaced your ‘snuggling spot’ in my bed, as you like to call it. Between the both of you I sometimes can’t tell who smells worse.

Also, don’t be ridiculous - what would I even do with a carful of flowers?

I’m glad to hear that things are fine on your end. Waking up at seven is a wonderful thing, especially when you get to see the sunrise, no? I look forward to seeing those abs, though with your drinking habits I’m sure you’ll probably end up with a beer belly in the foreseeable future. Don’t drink too much.

I’m sorry to hear about the quiche. I’ll make you one when you’re back. If it makes you feel better, though, I’ve sent some cookies I made the other day to you as well. Express delivery, in case they go bad.

Also, even if you haven’t already punched the Hughes guy I can already envision you slamming your tray down on the table, turning around to scowl at him like a petulant child and competing with him in just about everything you do.

All I will say is this: relax, it’s just a bloody quiche.

Good to know that you did that! The Ishvalans most certainly don’t deserve such treatment. No one does, of course, but it’s frustrating that certain ethnicities still continue to be singled out and ostracised in Amestris, despite the state’s proclamation that it’s a cosmopolitan society accepting of different cultures and whatnot… Until then, we have to stand with them, stand up for what’s right, and -- oh, I don’t mean to ramble. Just know that I’m proud of you, Roy. Keep at it.

If it does make you feel better I suppose a tiny part of me does miss you too. Just the slightest.

All my love, Riza (not interested in your silly competitions) Hawkeye.

~x~

Roy blanched at the bag of cookies she’d sent him and the thought of Riza’s quiche. Cooking had never been her strongest suit, and while she was talented in many areas somehow all of that seemed to go away every time she entered a kitchen.

Nevertheless, it was Riza who’d painstakingly made them, and because he appreciates his fiancée’s efforts he vows to eat every single one of them even in her absence.

He bites down on a cookie apprehensively, and is pleasantly surprised to discover that it’s edible. It bears emphasising that this is an incredible feat for Riza Hawkeye - considering how she’d managed to almost burn the entire kitchen down when she tried to make a simple pasta dish for his birthday.

(Fortunately, they’d managed to extinguish it, but afterwards Roy mentally designated himself as head chef for the rest of their lives.)

Deeply touched by the gesture, he wraps one of his shirts to send back as a gift. The thought of her dressed in his apparel has him grinning like the lovesick, histrionic fool that Riza said he was.

June 26th

Dear Riza,

Don’t say that, I definitely smell better than Hayate. And I know for a fact that you love me, although maybe not as much as I love you -- my love for you knows no territorial boundaries.

You could curate your own gardens with a carful of flowers, I suppose. And we could… Well, smell the flowers and procrastinate together?

It is - the sunlight reminds me of you, and I appreciate that. A lot. I also haven’t been drinking, so don’t worry - these glorious abs are definitely en route to you.

Thank you for the cookies - they were delicious, and I look forward to your quiche when I return. Baby steps, alright? I hope the kitchen will still be intact when I come home.

… It’s sometimes creepy how well you know me… But I think you’ll be pleased to at least know that I became friends with Hughes, after we confronted said trio.

We also made a new friend today - Heathcliff! He’s the Ishvalan I told you about in my last letter. He told us he joined the military because he wanted to change and empower the people’s perceptions of Ishval and its culture from a point of leadership. I think that’s an admirable dream - one that I’d like to assist in, too. He’s been a great friend, and I can’t stand to see him be the recipient of so many pejorative remarks. It’s completely unjustified, and you’re absolutely right on that point.

I take that as an admission that you miss me ‘most ardently’ - have you been writing poems about me in my absence?

On that note, you’ll be pleased to know that I have a break on the 8th of July for a couple of days. Want to do something fun? I know you’ve been dying to check out that shooting range, and I’ve been training in the academy for my victory.

All my love, kisses and glorious abs, Roy

P.S. I’ve also enclosed a token of my own affection herein for you - hopefully it reminds you of me whenever you wear it.

~x~

Riza stared confusedly at the oddly-shaped lump that surfaced after she opened the package. After reading his letter she was expecting one of his shirts, maybe one of his button-downs that would’ve been perfect as an oversized sleeping top on her, but she certainly wasn’t expecting his…

Boxers.

His boxers, of all things. She holds it up to scrutinise it in its full glory, and it’s peppered with little puppies - his favorite pair.

To say Riza is surprised is an understatement. She’s not quite sure why he’d sent her his boxers or how she’s supposed to even wear it, but she chucks it aside in the laundry for him to retrieve it when he returns.

July the 8th. The date's circled in bold, bright red on her calendar.

She’d never admit this out loud to any living person, not even her best friend Rebecca. The only person who’d heard her let out an almost-giggle (almost, because Riza Hawkeye did not do giggles) in excitement was Hayate. Because God, did she miss him terribly, and true to his predictions he’d been her muse for quite a number of her recent poetic endeavours.

July 3rd

Dear Roy,

Whatever, you insane idiot. I miss you and I love you too. That is all.

For the record, the kitchen is still intact, and will continue to be so. My cooking skills aren’t that bad.

That’s great to hear. You’re an honorable and intelligent (this is questionable) man, Roy, and I would definitely like to see that kind of change happening. I hope Heathcliff is well, too - send him my regards.

… I refuse to lower myself to drawing smiley faces on my letters, but you’ll see one on July the 8th in person.

And yes, it would be nice to check out that shooting range, though let’s be real - we both know you can’t defeat me no matter how hard you try. I do live up to my namesake, after all.

All my love, Riza

P.S I don’t know if it was intentional, but I never knew you had a thing for me wearing your boxers. Unfortunately, they are way too loose for me and I won’t be wearing them any time soon. Your underwear and I eagerly await your return.

~x~

The 8th of July finally comes around. Everyone in the academy is astonished at just how fast Roy Mustang is capable of running. He might’ve been the golden boy, and he generally outran most, if not all, of them during their training sessions, but now he looked like his pants were on fire as he made a dash for the gate and boarded the first train in a sweaty mess.

Roy continues running like a madman after alighting the train, desperate to reach their home as soon as possible to explain his predicament. He certainly hadn’t intended to send his underwear over, and was sure that one of the other men must have done so as a practical joke on him.

(Fortunately for the culprit, Roy didn’t manage to identify who he was, but there would certainly be hell to pay when he did so.)

As if on cue, Riza opens the door with a beatific smile adorning her features. “I can hear you panting all the way from the other end of Amestris, Roy.”

He chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. “Well, I’m excited to see you, for starters. And, uh…”

“You want your underwear back?”

“Yes, of course I do.” He pants, struggling to catch his breath while trying to formulate a coherent explanation. “Look, I swear it wasn’t deliberate - I intended to send you one of my shirts, and I definitely don’t have a thing for you wearing my boxers. I don’t know which idiot in the academy substituted my shirt for my underwear to sabotage -” She lets out a laugh. It's loud, unrestrained. Roy thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard in a month. “You really are hopeless, Roy. It’s fine. Defeat me at the shooting range, and you can have it back tonight.”

~x~

In the end, his favorite pair of boxers sits at the bottom of the laundry for the rest of the day, because Riza Hawkeye is an indomitable force of nature at the shooting range.

She does, however, have a poem written for him, and he’s so enraptured by it that he forgets all about the underwear fiasco. “I’m back home, ma chérie,” he whispers as he runs his fingers down the groove of her spine, as if he’s tracing constellations on the canvas of her back while they lay together on satin, hearts thrumming in harmony. “I’d like to keep holding you close, too -” he recites, but he’s quickly interrupted by her.

“You sound best when you don’t speak, Roy,” and with that Riza silences him with a fiery kiss that rouses an overwhelming conflagration in him.

One that can only be put out by her.

Roy grins delightfully into the kiss, all too willing to oblige. Her lips are an inviting chamber of unbridled affection and unsatisfied desire, and he finds himself exploring her eagerly, fingers tracing her sharp cheekbones in reverent adoration.

Riza responds in kind, trailing a hand down his shirt and notes, somewhat gleefully, that he has indeed returned with said glorious abs. She makes a move to untuck his shirt, humming to herself in amusement as she feels his bare stomach quiver beneath her curious palm.

He’s quick to make a comeback, though. Unwilling to be teased by her Roy draws her deeper into the kiss - she’s utterly incredible, he thinks, as he cards his fingers through her flaxen tresses - and he tastes traces of eggs and pastries and -

- and spinach?

“You made spinach quiche?” Roy asks curiously, breaking away from the kiss for the briefest of moments.

“What on earth,” she huffs. “Way to ruin the moment, Roy.” A scarlet blush makes its way to her cheeks - equal parts breathlessness from the vigour with which he kisses her, and embarrassment at being found out.

He laughs, and quotes yet another line teasingly. “Didn’t you say you’ll even listen to my silly moonshine?”

Riza scowls. “I do regret writing that now. Perhaps I will -”

“No, no, please continue writing more,” Roy pleads in earnest, and before she can make a decision he’ll live to regret he kisses her again with such an ardent love, such a fervent passion that it completely derails her train of thought.

The quiche rests in the oven, burnt and forgotten.

~x~

adieu, mon chéri. may you fare well. in my heart, you will always dwell. (won’t you please come home soon, or will it only be after june?)

you write to me, letters (hidden within are flowers) to abate my need for you. i knit scarves in a room candlelit;

holding a heavy weight within from empty spaces on satin. i’d like to hold you close again -- hurry, love, won’t you run to the train?

i’ll let you place your weight on mine oh, i’ll even listen to your silly moonshine (come home to me, darling my soul is aching in longing)

~x~

*moonshine: foolish talk or ideas.

#royaiweek20 #royai #royai fic #royai au #poetry #royai fanfic #rhyme #I tried LOL #my first time writing in first person oops :"D

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