#I was distracted and laughing the whole time

[raevpng]

You could do a cute little one shot of Paige and Azzi out with the team and Azzi makes her flustered and the team teases her for still getting nervous even after all this time

down bad for you

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

masterlist

a/n: hey everyone, surprise fic drop! life’s been hectic so it’s taking a while to write through all the requests but i’ll get through them ! thank you so much anon for this prompt, i think it’s so so cute! i’m not sure if this is well written but i tried 🥲

summary: paige being whipped for azzi and getting bullied for it / azzi showing off her rare side of possessiveness and boldness <3

—

the warmth of the late afternoon sun enveloped everything around them — from the soft orange glow that cast shadows across azzi’s dimpled smile to the gentle warmth that kissed paige’s skin. it was one of the last days left where their whole team for the season would be complete, the upcoming goodbye’s to their teammates who would soon depart to their new teams looming over the group. the whole team was gathered on the patio of their favorite restaurant, trying to spend every second available together before their beloved seniors would part ways for god knows how long.

kk dramatically wailed as she collapsed into aubrey’s lap, “i can’t believe you’re all abandoning me. family, they said, family!”

aubrey, trying to stifle a laugh at kk’s over-the-top dramatics, glanced down at her with a fond smile tugging at her lips. across from them, ice sat with her arms crossed, rolling her eyes with affectionate exasperation, the kind that only came from deep, unwavering love. nearby, kaitlyn and morgan were lost in their own animated conversation, their laughter rising above the hum of the afternoon air. the rest of the team’s voices layered over one another—teasing, shouting, laughing, filling the patio with a warm, familiar chaos. the sheer volume of their joy drew definitely more than a few judging glances and disapproving stares from nearby tables, but no one at their table seemed to notice, much less care. there was something deeply comforting in the noise, the shared jokes, the closeness, the kind of joy that only existed in between family, knowing it would all quiet soon when their seniors left, and the rhythm of the team shifted into something new and unfamiliar.

amidst the chaos of her best friends, azzi sat beside paige practically cuddled up to her, hands intertwined in a quiet display of affection, paige scooting impossibly closer to her girlfriend, trying to make their distance as close as socially acceptable. azzi, her soft curls casually braided, was animatedly telling a story while paige sat, starry-eyed, captivated by every word.

after being together for so long, one would expect paige and azzi to be somewhat out the honeymoon stage. sure, their teenage selves were stuck to the hip, eyes always glossy and full of love when they meet. sure, azzi’s freshman year was filled with memories of paige being so impossibly soft with her from the way her voice softens when speaking to her or the lightness of her teasing shoves and jabs compared to loud and rough wrestles with other team mates. but after all this time, they’d be used to each other, compliments fizzing out, stares shortening to glances, right?

no, not with them.

paige couldn’t help it—not when azzi was this close, with the soft golden glow of the sun highlight the flecks of gold in her warm eyes, or when the gentle shadows on her face accentuated the dimples in her soft cheeks. and her lips – god, those soft lips that paige went crazy for, azzi would absent-mindedly bite when she was waiting for paige’s distracted hums and oohs.

“baby,” azzi’s soft voice, crafted just for paige, broke through her lovesick daydreams. her teasing smile tugged at the corners of her lips, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “are you even listening to me?”

paige felt a rush of heat spread across her face at the realisation that she had been caught, the familiar pink dusting her cheeks. azzi rolled her eyes playfully before pressing a light yet affectionate kiss to paige’s lips. paige blushed even harder, her heart racing at the simple yet intimate gesture. “can’t help it, you look so pretty right now, baby,” paige admitted softly, her voice full of sincerity. azzi’s heart fluttered at the honesty of her girlfriend’s words.

the small bubble of giddiness they shared was broken when caroline directed the conversation to azzi, her voice full of excitement. “at least one of them isn’t deciding to abandon us! that’s why azzi’s my favorite,” she purred, coaxing a light laugh from the curly-haired brunette.

“i don’t know why you’re all acting like paige is leaving though,” sarah chimed in with a smirk. “her girl is still here in storrs with us, meaning she’ll be here all the damn time.” sarah raised an eyebrow, teasing. “watch us probably have to drag her ass to dallas by force.”

the freshman’s statement, teasing but true, earned a loud laugh from the rest of the team, while paige stuck her tongue out playfully, not bothering to hide the grin on her face. she opened her mouth to somewhat defend her shrinking dignity when azzi beats her to it.

“and what about it?” azzi’s tone was teasing, yet there was a possessive edge to it that made everyone stop and look. she untangles their interlaced hands briefly to possessively run her manicured fingers from the blonde’s neck to her chest slowly, taking pleasure in the way her girlfriend’s breath hitched at her unexpected actions. she raised an eyebrow at her teammates who’s mouths slack with surprise, her voice dripping with confidence. “not my fault my girl’s obsessed with me.”

the words had an immediate effect. the table went quiet for a beat as the rest of the team took in azzi’s rare boldness and possessiveness. paige wasn’t prepared for it either, as she snaps her open mouth shut, her current light pink cheeks quickly turning into a deep shade of crimson, a flush that spread to her ears and neck. she opened her mouth after a second in attempt to save herself from falling deeper into a state of shyness that only azzi seemed to be able to put her into, but no words came out, her mind scrambled by the sudden onslaught of affection and possessiveness.

even though everyone knew they were together, paige and azzi had developed this unique dynamic – a routine that was rarely ever broken. with their relationship kept private from the media, they’d learned to show affection subtly. a casual brush of hands after a tough game, a soft smile exchanged when their eyes met, their love soft but sure. but when they were in private—alone in their dorms or surrounded by friends—they let their affection shine a little more. paige wasn’t afraid to be showy, pulling azzi close in the dark lights at ted’s or draping a possessive arm around her when some guy, reeking of booze, got too close. azzi, on the other hand, was quieter, more subtle. a gentle pinky link when the crowd got too overwhelming, or a fond smile when paige got loud and romantic.

so when azzi boldly claimed paige as her girl for everyone to hear? that was rare. and it hit paige harder than she had initially expected.

the table erupted with laughter, teasing paige mercilessly for how flustered azzi got her, not used to seeing their team-mate who was always so composed, cool, and bold so unbelievably quiet and shy. kk and sarah pointed at paige’s face, which was now the color of a ripe tomato.

“not paige about to implode right now! azzi, you broke her ass!” kk dragged out, teasing the blonde mercilessly. azzi sat back with a smug smile, clearly enjoying the effect her words had on paige. paige only groaned, her hands instinctively going to pull her hood over her face, trying to hide her flushed embarrassment.

“to think they’ve been together for years, and she still got paige blushing like this?” ice teased. “goddamn, azzi, teach me your ways!” the teasing only added fuel to the fire, and paige could feel her face burning further. kk laughs along, seeing an opportunity to piss her senior off more, “nonchalant final boss my ass, bueckers!”

“nah that’s just dirty kk!” aubrey howls, falling into another round of laughter, clutching her belly at just how bad paige was getting teased today.

paige gave them a glare, fanning her heated face with her free hand to cool herself down, attempting to ignore the handful of jabs thrown at her by her friends. azzi cooed, her previous confidence melting into a soft and affectionate tone. “aww, baby, it’s okay. i think it’s cute you’re still smitten over me like this.”

paige groaned louder, sinking into her seat, but she couldn’t help but lift her head to meet azzi’s eyes. the teasing glint in her girlfriend’s gaze made her heart race. “you’re supposed to be on my side,” she huffed, biting back a pout as azzi laughed with the rest of the team.

“well, i can’t lie, either, baby,” azzi teased back, her voice low and playful, “you are down bad for me.”

paige’s heart skipped a beat but pouts harder, making azzi take pity on her girlfriend as she leaned in, brushing her lips lightly against paige’s. what was meant to be a quick peck turned into a longer one, her hand reaching up to cup paige’s jaw in the gentlest of touches. the kiss was soft and teasing, but it left paige breathless nonetheless, her lips tingling as azzi parted, with her instinctively chasing after the softness and taste of her girlfriend.

“ugh, mom and dad are making out again!” sarah yelped loudly, while kk gasped in faux horror, covering the freshman’s eyes and making the whole table burst into roaring laughter.

“okay, when did it become ‘bully azzi and paige’ day today?” paige cast a weak glare at the younger ones, fondness clear in her voice.

then, an idea.

“and to think i was gonna pay for everyone’s meals today, too.”

the mood shifted instantly, and everyone sat up straighter, grins spreading across their faces. the teasing moment was quickly forgotten in favor of the chance to eat on paige’s dime.

“paige!” jana exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm, “man, i love you so much! i’m gonna miss you. you’re the best, did you know that?” the dramatic declaration made azzi burst into tears of laughter while paige rolled her eyes.

“nah, nah, ya’ll are fake as fuck,” paige said, the table erupting in loud protests as she crossed her arms in mock indignation. it had no heat to it though, as she felt her heart swell over her family smiling and laughing around the table.

as the sun fades into the sky, ribbons of pinks and purples mixing with blue, they continue to be the lovable mess the couple knows they are.

and paige and azzi?

they’re right there with them, hearts always together even if soon, their intertwined fingers won’t be.

[screamlet]

Don't mind if I do! ♟♟♟

oh boy why did this one take so long!! 1k, established bucktommy, bad patient tommy, quick mention of mcd. set about a year after 8x15. also for @setmeatopthepyre who sent in the same prompt! for all that they're disasters, idk if i have another "patching up a wound" in me, lol. from the nonsexual acts of intimacy prompt list

---

"So this is urgent care," Buck marvels. He leans into Tommy's space and smiles at him. "You always take me to the best places for the best new experiences."

Tommy's expression is withering, or it would be if Buck wasn't so brave and strong and in love. But then again, Tommy's the one who sliced his arm open while working on a car in the garage, so maybe he has the right to be a little cranky about it.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Buck asks. "Does that mean anything? Are you actually gonna tell me if you're in a lot of pain or—okay, jaw-clenched stoicism, I got it."

"It's fine. I don't know why you thought it was too deep for surgical glue."

Buck frowns. "It's way too deep for surgical glue." Suddenly, he beams. "Are you scared of doctors?"

"I'm not scared of doctors."

"I'm gonna ask Hen, maybe she remembers if you are."

"I'm not scared of doctors."

"Hey Hen random question but we're at urgent care and Tommy looks—"

"Maybe I'm uptight because I sliced my arm open and we're at urgent care." Tommy looks over. "You're not actually texting her, are you?"

"Nah, she and Karen took the kids on a day trip somewhere," Buck replies. "Just you and me today."

"No medical vigil for me? I see how it is."

Buck laughs, loud and bright with his whole chest. "I can FaceTime Eddie and see if he wants to hang out with us while you get like, maximum 10 stitches in your arm."

"You're making fun of me. I'm gonna have a scar on my forearm forever and you're making fun of me."

"I'm looking up scar gels," Buck assures him. "Ooh, that's us."

---

"15 stitches," Buck says. "See? I was close."

Tommy's eyes are shut as he nods. "Congrats. Use my phone, buy yourself something pretty."

"Can we get burgers after this? Hey," Buck says, softer. "You're not okay, are you? You can tell me."

Tommy takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out. "I'm fine. I'll be a lot better when I'm stitched up and home. It's fine."

They move into a different room with a bigger setup, trays ready to go and Dr. Donna cheerfully waving them over. "I can sit with him, right?" Buck asks, holding up their joined hands.

"Of course, bring all the moral support in the world," she replies. "Never too old or brave or big strong firefighter to have your hand held while someone sews you up."

"It's fine," Tommy says, absolutely not fine. "I've had staples in the field, I've been sewed up in tents in Afghanistan. This? This is nothing."

Tommy's clutching his hand so tightly that Buck can't actually squeeze back, so he rests his free hand on Tommy's instead. "Can you distract me?" Tommy asks. "Now's a great time to read me like, the entirety of an essay on… something. What are you into right now?"

"Can I look up the history of surgery?"

"A couple of little pinches, just ignore me," Dr. Donna says quickly. "Hey, why don't you tell me how you guys met? Got together?"

Buck leans forward to catch Dr. Donna's eye, which he can't do because she's working on Tommy's arm and whispering to the nurse next to her. "Uh, we can't tell you, actually. It's classified."

"Cruise ship rescue operation," Tommy says through clenched teeth. "Lifeboats, remember?"

"Oh, right, that's what they said."

Tommy huffs out a little laugh, squeezes Buck's hand tighter. "You'll never get security clearance for anything in your life, not ever."

"Yeah, probably not. How about, um. Hmm. Oh! Got together. The first time, I sprained my best friend's ankle because I was jealous, and then we kissed and it was great. The next time, we ran into each other at a bar and hooked up, and then we got back together—" Buck pauses.

"You okay?" Tommy asks.

"It's okay," Buck says. "Second time, we kinda did and didn't get back together, uh, after my captain at the firehouse—he was closer to me than my dad—uh, he died, and we just… got back together."

"I'm sorry, hon," Dr. Donna replies. "That's never easy."

"We both lost him," Buck says. "Yeah, so we were putting our lives back together and then it turned out that my sublet—I was subletting a house from my friend who moved back to Texas, the one whose ankle I sprained—well he didn't mention that the rest of the lease was only four months."

"You didn't read the lease."

"He's my best friend, we don't need leases."

"Clearly, you did."

"I don't have a lease from you. Do we need a lease?"

"Not if I'm evicting you today," Tommy replies.

"Yeah, nice try, who's gonna talk to your plants when you're on shift? And your kitchen would be nothing without me, Tommy."

"I guess that's true. I'd have to buy all those spices again and god knows how long that would take."

Buck smiles to himself; Tommy's feeling better already. "Anyway, the lease was up but I didn't know if I wanted to renew because the landlord wanted to jack up the rent by a lot, so Tommy—"

"I came to the conclusion that we were already living together, pretty much, so why not move into my house—"

"House that you own, with a really nice kitchen that could use all my pots and pans. Dishes, too, it's like you never had anyone over."

"My house that I own, and then—" Tommy sighs. "And then I'll see him every day. And every day he'll talk my ear off about anything and everything under the sun, except today—"

"You're all set," Dr. Donna announces. "That was agonizing, huh?"

Tommy looks down at his forearm, then shows Buck. "Staples would have been fine."

"You would have hated those so much more, believe me," she laughs. "Alright, Shirley's going to get your paperwork and then you can get out of here. Follow up with your primary care doctor or come back here. If it starts to take a turn for the worse: I think you know who to call." She smiles and points at both of them. "Burgers. Treat yourself. Extra carbs."

"Are they good for healing? Carbs?" Buck asks.

She shrugs and waves, then leaves again. "I'm gonna look that up," Buck says. "Can I have my hand back?"

"No."

"Big baby," Buck mumbles, bringing Tommy's hand to his lips and kissing it. "I love your big baby parts."

"That's maybe the worst way you could have put it."

"But you love me anyway."

Tommy's lips are a fine line again, slightly turned downward, but then he brings Buck's hand to his lips, too. "I love you anyway."

[y3sterdaysproblem]

they said speak now - m.s.

summary: you and matt had been best friends since the moment you were born, rarely doing anything without him by your side. your families have always expected the two of you to end up together, but when matt gets a girlfriend that hates you and desperately attempts to destroy your relationship, you’re forced to confront the truth about your feelings for him. will your bond survive the test, or will the pressure of love, jealousy, and change push you apart?

wc: 1.5k

series masterlist

Part six

Everything felt normal for once. No girlfriend, no distractions, not even any brothers around, just you and Matt spending the day together like you used to. It felt good.

“Okay, maybe I was a little too aggressive on that kid, but he called Chris a bitch and that was fucked up! We were kids!” Matt laughs loudly from across the table, sending you into another fit of giggles. You both were at the new cafe in the city you asked to go to, sitting outside in the breezy summer air, each eating a little pastry as you sipped on your drinks.

“I call Chris a bitch all the time,” you remind him, raising your eyebrows slightly as you peer over your sunglasses at him. Matt rolls his own eyes, a sassy expression he’s mastered over the years. “Yeah, but that doesn’t matter. You’re like our sister, you could call us anything.” He tells you, grabbing his drink and taking a long sip of it.

Sister? Maybe to Nick and Chris but for Matt it felt different than a sister. You try to hide the way you want to grimace at his words, not only due to it hurting your feelings but also just the fact that the thought of him thinking of you as a sister felt a little gross when that’s definitely not what you were thinking when you were around him.

“I’m practically just an extension of all of you,” you joke, trying to stay on whatever weird path Matt was on. You both finish up with your pastries and decide to walk around for a little bit with your drinks, popping into a shop here and there, before deciding to plant yourself on a bench on a pier, legs swinging as you look out onto the water.

“So,” you start slowly, turning your head to look at Matt. He looks at you as well, nose scrunched up slightly as he squints to avoid too much sun in his eyes. “You really like Amber, huh?” Matt licks his lips, not fully expecting you to ask that but not completely caught off guard either.

“I do,” he nods, smiling slightly. “She’s really nice, she’s a good listener and likes talking to me, too, she remembers weird little things I tell her about myself or my family…” he rambles for a few more moments before sucking in a deep breath to stop himself. “I really wish you guys could see eye to eye. Every interaction you two have had has been negative and I’m not saying you have to be her best friend but I really do want her around and I just… I guess I’m just asking you to try.”

The way he’s speaking you can tell he’s being genuine. He has no idea you’re painfully in love with him, has no idea that it’s obvious to everybody except for him, including Amber. She could read you like a fucking book, see the way you look at Matt and know all of your secrets. You sigh and shift your whole body on the bench to face him, staring at his scrunched up expression.

“I’ll try,” you tell him, shooting him a tight lipped smile. “I’ll ask her if we can start over, take her out to coffee and we can try to have some sort of relationship. I’ll tell her that we’re nothing but friends and that you don’t have feelings for me.” Matt’s expression lights up at this, eyes wide despite the sun glaring in them. “Really?” He asks excitedly. You nod, reaching for your phone in your pocket. You unlock it and open your camera, holding it in front of Matt’s face and snapping a photo, laughing softly.

“Sun in your eyes,” you tell him goofily, showing him the picture. He laughs, too before bringing his hand up to his face, casting a shadow over his eyes. “I’m gonna go blind from forgetting sunglasses,” he jokes, but you laugh and nod along because that reality didn’t seem so far fetched.

The rest of the day goes by the same way, quality time spent with your best friend completely interrupted due to his girlfriend being preoccupied with her family. You wished it could be like this forever, even if you couldn’t call him yours, you just missed him always having time for you like he used to.

Later in the day, right before the sun was about to start setting, you guys found yourselves at the beach, laid out side by side with your arms folded underneath your head, eyes up towards the sky. “Do you remember your first crush?” You ask Matt suddenly, head turning to face him as he answers your question.

“Like, a real crush or a celebrity crush?” Matt inquires, turning his head to meet your eyes. You shrug as best as you can in this position. “Either. Both, if you want,” you answer him.

He hums, eyes darting around as he thinks. “Well my first celebrity crush was probably Megan Fox. Can’t go wrong with her, she’s been beautiful forever,” he starts, a goofy grin on his face. “And my first real crush was probably… well… you.”

Your eyes widen at his words, not expecting that to be his answer. “Me?” You ask in shock, your expression making him laugh as he nods his head. “I mean, yeah. We were together every waking moment of every day, of course I was going to develop a crush on you. Don’t worry, it went away a few years ago so you don’t have to worry about me secretly being in love with you.”

You laugh like you know you’re supposed to, genuinely finding it funny aside from the part where you wished he still felt the same, still wanted you the way you wanted him, but even if he did have a crush on you, who’s to say if it was even the same as you felt? Your feelings were all consuming, a sickening desire for the boy laid out next to you trapping your every thought, feeling incomplete without him there to be your missing piece. It wasn’t a crush, it was full blown love.

“What about you?” Matt asks, tearing you from your thoughts. “Hm?” You question, momentarily forgetting what you were talking about. “Your first crushes, who were they?” He reminds you.

“Oh, right,” you nod, pondering for a moment. “My first celebrity crush was probably… Logan Lerman in Percy Jackson,” you laugh at the admission, finding Matt’s nod of understanding slightly funny. “And my first real crush was… Chris.”

Matt gasps and his face contorts into disgust, a loud ‘yuck!’ leaving his lips. “Chris?! Not me?!” He squeals, rolling onto his side to face you as you giggled loudly. “He’s funny! He makes me laugh and he’s always been cute!” You defend through your laughter, not fully lying. Chris definitely was cute, but that’s all you thought when it came to attraction.

“But he’s so.. gross!” Matt groans, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I admitted to having a crush on you and you turn around and say you liked Chris. I’m actually disgusted and maybe even a little heartbroken.”

“Do you want me to have a crush on you?” You ask suddenly, secretly hoping he’d say yes, that his feelings never went away and he was just using Amber to try and forget about you. His eyes widen and he shakes his head, cheeks dusting pink cutely. “No,” he says shyly, lips curling into a small smile. “Not now, at least. Maybe a couple years ago but you were too busy thinking Chris was cute.”

You scoff, throwing an arm over your eyes to ignore Matt to the best of your abilities, knowing you’d never live down the admission of your Chris crush, but the reality of living with that versus telling Matt the truth seemed infinitely easier.

Ignoring him didn’t last long when he decided to grab a handful of sand and sprinkle it over your face, causing you to rip your arm from your eyes and smack his hand away as you sputtered and coughed, spitting sand from your mouth. “Ew!” You yell, grabbing your own handful to throw at his face, making him let out a mixture between a laugh and a cough, his eyes clenched shut from the impact.

You continued to play fight in the sand as the sun began to set behind you, the sounds of the crashing waves creating the perfect background music to the happy giggles that squealed from your lips, and you couldn’t help but wish it could always be like this.

But it couldn’t, and your life would never be the same as it was.

[ryoflix]

sukuna as that dad who buys a whole stock of things just because his kids mentioned in passing that they like it | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n fluff, estb. rl ؛ ଓ

the supermarket trip starts off normal — which, in sukuna terms, means a near military operation. he’s pushing the cart with one hand, the other cradling your son like a sack of potatoes while your daughter sits daintily on the cart’s front like a tiny queen surveying her kingdom.

you’re busy comparing cereal labels when the twins spot it.

that thing. some brightly colored, sugar-loaded, probably-no-real-fruit gummy snack hanging near the checkout aisle, designed purely to ambush tired parents and gullible children. your son immediately points. “daddy, look. worms. but with rainbow.” your daughter clasps her hands like she’s about to faint. “it’s sparkly. it’s calling to me.”

sukuna doesn’t even flinch. “keep walking.”

“but—”

“walk.”

“but it’s glowing—”

“it’s plastic,” he barks, wheeling them past the stand like a man dragging his family from the jaws of death. “you think that’s food? that’s chemicals. sugar and glue. probably made in a damn basement.”

the twins pout, your son slumping dramatically across the cart handle, your daughter sighing like she’s just been banished from joy itself. they grumble a little. for about twenty seconds. then they see the bakery section and instantly forget, distracted by the smell of butter and warm bread.

but sukuna... does not forget.

he’s unusually quiet all through checkout. eyes twitching just once toward that stand. you’re too busy unloading the cart to notice, but there’s a new tightness in his jaw. by the time you're all home, he’s already making excuses.

“forgot somethin’,” he mutters, shoving his feet back into his shoes like he's off to duel the void.

you glance up. “what could you possibly—”

but he’s gone.

cut to fifteen minutes later. the front door swings open with enough force to shake the floor. sukuna’s standing there, arms overflowing with about eleven packs of those same rainbow gummy worms, a few extra bags hanging from his fingers, one clenched between his teeth for good measure. “got the damn things,” he grunts triumphantly, hauling them in like contraband.

you raise a brow. “i thought they were sugar glue made in a basement.”

he drops them all on the table. “they are. but they’re happy-shaped sugar glue. and what if you liked them? huh? what if their friends came over and wanted one? you want my kids looking poor in front of guests?”

you glance at the twins, still in the living room, now playing a quiet game of “guess that cloud shape” by the window.

“guys,” you call, “your dad brought you something.”

they both scamper over, faces lighting up as they peek at the stash.

your daughter tilts her head. “...what’s this?”

“the worms,” sukuna says, expectant.

your son scratches his cheek. “...what worms?”

sukuna blinks. “the ones you saw earlier. the rainbow ones. with sparkles.”

your daughter frowns. “we did?”

“you begged for them!”

they look at each other. your son shrugs. your daughter shakes her head. “don’t remember.”

sukuna stares. you’re trying not to laugh.

“you little—i just raided a store for this!”

your daughter picks one up delicately, sniffs it. “can we eat it now?”

“obviously.”

your son tears his open and starts chomping with glee. “it tastes like glue!”

sukuna huffs, collapsing into a chair. “if i ever give you children a kidney, you better remember it.”

your daughter offers him a worm. he takes it without looking at her. you pat his shoulder, grinning. “they won’t remember. but i will.”

he snorts. “good. someone needs to witness my suffering.”

then he promptly steals a gummy. because glue or not, it does taste kinda good.

[rafayelgod]

🔞WARNING THIS IS ADULTS CONTENT🔞

NSFW, Fanfiction, Not for kids!, 18+, Dominance, BDSM

What if They Caught You Watching Porn in Their Bedroom? 🔞💦

🔞 Please be advised: This story contains explicit sexual content, including descriptions of masturbation and consensual sexual interaction, and explores themes of possessiveness and dominance by the character. Reader discretion is advised.

Okay Hunter (MC/You) here are five individual scenarios depicting how each of the Love and Deepspace characters would react if they walked in on you watching porn in their bedroom within this alternative universe.

1. Rafayel

You were sprawled out across Rafayel's ridiculously soft bed, letting the afternoon sun warm your face. He was supposed to be at the studio, sketching or dealing with some gallery drama. Perfect time for... research. You'd found a particularly interesting video online and were completely engrossed, the screen glowing with explicit details.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open with a cheerful, slightly dramatic flourish.

"Cutie! I'm home! Guess what I got you-"

You jumped, slamming the laptop shut with a speed you didn't know you possessed. Your face instantly flamed, blood rushing to your cheeks. Rafayel stood in the doorway, eyes wide not with anger, but with surprise, his signature playful grin already starting to form. He had a small box in his hand, likely a gift.

He tilted his head, purple eyes sparkling with mischief. "Whoa there, Miss Bodyguard. What's got you looking like a ripe tomato?" He took a step closer, his gaze flicking towards the closed laptop on the bed. "And what were you hiding?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in conspiratorially. "Don't tell me... were you watching something spicy?" He wiggled his eyebrows, completely unashamed. "Getting ideas, Cutie?"

Your embarrassment was a physical wave. "N-no! It was... uh... a documentary!"

He let out a light, musical laugh. "A 'documentary,' huh? Does it feature... anatomy in great detail?" He leaned closer still, his voice dropping to a playful purr. "You know, you don't have to watch static images on a screen when you have the real thing right here. Isn't my physique much more... artistically inspiring?"

He reached out and gently traced the line of your jaw, his grin turning softer but still full of knowing charm. "Maybe I could offer a private, live-action tutorial instead? Much more... interactive, don't you think?" He didn't seem jealous, just highly amused and eager to turn the situation into a chance to tease and flirt.

"So," he whispered, his face close to yours, "about that 'documentary'... care to share what you learned?"

2. Zayne

You were in Zayne's impeccably neat bedroom. He had an emergency shift at the hospital, giving you unexpected free time in his quiet, sterile space. You'd been feeling a bit stressed lately and decided a distraction was in order. You found what you were looking for on your tablet, headphones on, lost in the private world on the screen.

The door opened quietly, no preamble, no loud entrance. You didn't even hear it until you felt a presence standing near the foot of the bed.

You pulled off your headphones with a gasp, the bright screen still visible in your lap. Zayne stood there, dressed in his scrubs, looking at you with his usual calm, intelligent gaze. His expression was unreadable for a moment, then his eyes drifted down to the tablet screen.

Your face felt like it was on fire. You fumbled with the device, trying to turn it off, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

"Honey?" His voice was soft, carrying an unexpected hint of surprise but no harshness. He didn't look away from the screen immediately, his expression remaining composed, though you thought you saw the tiniest flicker of something in his green eyes.

Finally, he looked back at you, his expression gentle, almost clinical in its lack of judgment, yet with that specific tenderness he reserved only for you. "Is... everything alright, Baby?"

You stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

He walked closer, sitting carefully beside you on the bed. He didn't snatch the tablet or scold you. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze steady and reassuring. "There's no need to be so flustered, Honey. It's... a natural human interest."

He paused, a very faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. "Though, I must admit, I'm curious. Are you... studying something specific?" His voice was low, simple, devoid of any overt flirtation, yet the implication hung in the air.

He reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Perhaps if you have questions... or require further practical demonstration... you could just ask me, Baby." His eyes held yours, calm, rational, but with an underlying sweetness that made your heart flutter even amidst the embarrassment. "I'm always available to help you... understand."

3. Xavier

You were relaxing in Xavier's room, the one place you both felt truly safe after a long day hunting Wanderers. He'd said he was just grabbing something from his car. You took the opportunity to browse, and well, ended up on a site that definitely wasn't about alien biology. You were captivated by the on-screen action, forgetting about the world outside the glow of the screen.

The door opened slowly, and Xavier shuffled in, looking typically sleepy, eyes half-closed. "My Love, where did you put my..."

His voice trailed off as he saw you, eyes wide with surprise, laptop open on your lap. His sleepy haze vanished in an instant, replaced by sharp alertness as his gaze fell on the screen. His blue eyes narrowed slightly.

Your heart leaped into your throat. You slammed the laptop shut with a cringe. "Xavier! I... um..."

He stood straighter, the charm fading into a look of intense focus. He walked towards the bed, his earlier weariness completely gone. He sat down beside you, not roughly, but with a possessive closeness.

"My Love," he said, his voice low and serious, a hint of possessiveness already coloring it. "What were you watching?" He didn't wait for an answer, his eyes searching yours. "Why are you looking at that?"

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking softly, but his gaze was firm, almost troubled. "Do you... do you need something more than I'm giving you?" The question was laced with insecurity and fierce protectiveness. "Why look at strangers... when you have me?"

He leaned closer, his scent of ozone and something uniquely him surrounding you. His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "Let me show you, My Love. Let me show you there's nothing on that screen that compares to what we have." He leaned in, kissing you with a depth that was both possessive and desperately wanting to prove his point.

"You only need me," he murmured against your lips, pulling you closer. "Just me, My Love."

4. Sylus

You were in Sylus's luxurious, almost intimidatingly large bedroom. He was out handling Onychinus business - something involving 'negotiations' and 'asset management'. You felt brave enough to occupy his space, and maybe just bold enough to indulge in something equally bold on your tablet. You were enjoying the explicit display when a deep voice cut through the silence.

"Well now, kitten. What have we here?"

You froze. Sylus stood in the doorway, a tall, commanding figure leaning casually against the frame. He wasn't smiling, but his dark red eyes held a glint of amusement and something undeniably predatory as they scanned you and then the tablet screen in your lap.

You snapped the tablet off, your face burning. "Sylus! You're back early!"

He pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly towards you, his movements smooth and confident. He didn't look surprised or embarrassed, only intrigued. "Early? Or just in time?" His gaze lingered on the tablet, then back to you, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Getting ideas, sweetie?"

He reached the bed and stood over you, his sheer size making you feel like a tiny creature caught in his gaze. He reached down and gently took the tablet from your trembling hands, placing it aside without looking at it.

"You know, kitten," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated with power and charm. "I find it incredibly... stimulating... knowing you're in my personal space, thinking about carnal things." He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of you on the bed, trapping you.

"But," he continued, his voice turning more dominant, "didn't I tell you? The only man you need to study... is me." He lowered himself further, his face close to yours, his eyes intense. "Let me show you how a real man pleases his sweetie. Let me show you all the things you were only dreaming about."

His smirk widened, bold and unapologetic. "No need for a screen, kitten. The show is live, and you have a front-row seat."

5. Caleb

You were in Caleb's room, which was a chaotic mix of military neatness and personal indulgence. He was often away on duty, leaving you to occupy his space when you missed him. You were watching something particularly intense on your laptop, lost in the visuals, when the door swung open sharply behind you.

"Pipsqueak? Thought I'd find you here." His voice was light, playful, but there was an undercurrent of something else you knew well.

You flinched, spinning around, trying to hide the screen. Your face must have given you away instantly. Caleb stood there, already shedding his jacket, but his playful expression vanished as he saw your reaction and the laptop on the bed. His black eyes, usually warm with affection, turned sharp and intense, the purple depth within them seeming to darken.

He didn't say anything else immediately. He just walked towards the bed, his footsteps deliberate. He reached you and his hand shot out, not to touch you gently, but to snatch the laptop closed with a sharp snap.

"What the hell were you watching?" His voice was no longer playful. It was low, rough, laced with possessiveness and a controlled fury. His eyes bored into yours, demanding an answer.

Your breath hitched. The casual charm was gone, replaced by the dark, obsessive side you knew existed beneath the surface. "Caleb, I... it was just..."

He leaned over you, his body language dominating, trapping you against the headboard. "Just what, Pipsqueak? Looking at other people? Imagining things with someone who isn't me?" His grip on the laptop tightened, his knuckles turning white.

"Didn't I make it clear?" he growled, his voice dangerously soft. "You belong to me. Your eyes are only for me. Your thoughts are only for me." He tossed the laptop carelessly onto the floor. "Why do you need that when you have me?"

He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, his intensity overwhelming. "You will only see these things with me, Pipsqueak. Only me." He gripped your chin firmly, his thumb tracing your lip. "Now, let me remind you who you belong to." His kissed you, not sweetly, but with demanding possessiveness, a clear statement of ownership. "You're mine. And you will never look at anyone else like that again. Understand?"

© Melody (Follow for more hot story) 🔞🌚💋💦

[satorupasta]

jjk characters (doesnt matter, up tp you) reacting to reader asking them to say hawk tuah

WHY OF COURSE ANON

also ur my first req ! ty [heart] sorry 4 the wait

JUJUTSU KAISEN REACTS:

→ to you saying…huh?

CONTENTS paragraphical, internal

dialogue, silly conversation—not meant to be

taken seriously, just for fun WARNINGS

light swearing & death threat ( sukuna )

᭨

INCLUDES gojo satoru, geto suguru

kento nanami, ryomen sukuna

MODERN AU

an. suguru’s part is shorter sorry

actually, all of them feel short ngl sorry

────── enjoy ! ──────

SATORU: He already knows, with a twist.

. The thing is, Satoru Gojo is both popular publicly and online. Not that you mind (excluding when he randomly grabs your phone and compares your profile’s followers to his own). However, since you’ve been joining more social platforms, you’ve been seeing trends. It would be quite fun to participate, but not when he’s ahead of you.

He knows just about every new popular video. Well, before you do, at least. Even the ones that are from a day ago, he’s already aware of them. You whisper the line that goes to a video he knows? He’ll finish it off with that cocky grin of his.

For a good while, you believe he must be cheating. Maybe it was that technique of his—what was the name, Infinity?—that he’s using to cheat. There’s no way realistically, you think.

Other people partake in these activities online, making videos and whatnot. And you can’t do so simply because Satoru is already caught up. Don’t get started on scripts, either.

You were on the verge of giving up, and letting him have the win. But then, a thought crosses your mind. What if I do the opposite?

And that statement is all you need to approach Satoru minutes later, your actively recording phone clasped in the hand behind your back. He senses your presence nearly immediately, grinning back at you (stupidly).

“Got something new for me today?” he questions, referring to your other failed attempts at making him fall into the trap. You don’t reply, because that would ruin your plan.

"Could you repeat after me?" You replied, another question from you making Satoru raise a brow. A moment of contemplation between his internal thoughts, and after waiting a minute, he nods his head, facing you entirely.

You sound out the syllables slowly, having him copy you as requested.

“Hawk tuah?” he says.

Your stifled laughter makes him realize, and for the first time in a while, a feeling that hadn’t occurred to him in a while reintroduced itself. Embarrassment.

“Oh, you think you’re so—were you recording me?!" He quickly stood up from the chaise and stared at you. The redness that was on his ears deepened as he saw the rectangular-shaped device in your hand, confirming his assumption.

He proceeds to chase you around the house for about five minutes, and despite his humiliation from the whole thing, you both find yourselves laughing. Your short-lived, sarcastic rivalry comes to an end, on a surprisingly great note.

SUGURU: He’s indulging you.

@kazuhiratortellini

. Suguru is a friend of yours, and has been for a while. As a Jujutsu Sorcerer, the only time he had for social media was on weekends. He was mostly busy with missions other times, but you finally had a chance to test this new trend you’d seen online with him.

You both were lounging on the couch together, watching some sort of a movie. It was currently paused, since he had been finishing up a meal he made in the background of it. It smelt delicious, and honestly, you were getting quite impatient. You needed a distraction.

Approaching his figure, he’s stirring something at the stove. When you stand beside him, watching him continue to cook, you interject the sounds of sizzling and steam with your voice. "If I asked you to do something, would you do it?"

Suguru raised a brow and glanced at you, but after a moment he nods. "Okay." The wooden spoon he was stirring with is tapped against the pot, and he sets it down to turn to you fully. You tell him to repeat your words. There’s a short intermission of giggling, but he finally does.

"…Hawk tuah," he finished, just as you snickered.

With the amount of times you’d been saying that to him, in person and over text, it was expected.

Suguru laughed along with you, making both of you distracted for a few minutes. It was for a dumb reason, but the two of you couldn’t care.

You both suddenly do find yourself caring when the beep of the smoke detector against the ceiling, and the range hood above the stove has a bit too much steam rising up into it.

"Oh…" Suguru stares, before his hands quickly hurry to turn the knob on the stove off. And still, you don’t seem to notice yet, since he can hear your continued giggling.

The smell of smoke filling your nose made you gasp, and that’s when you can finally understand why Suguru isn’t laughing with you anymore.

“Oh my god!”

NANAMI: He genuinely doesn’t know.

. You’d been bothering and begging for Nanami to just hear you out this once. After all, the man was very stubborn, at least to you. When he had his mind set on something, he wasn’t willing to change it. Especially when you’re pleading him to have an alteration in his mind…to do a trend.

“I’m excluding myself from the conversation,” he mumbled, just loud enough for you to hear, to which in response you shout and grab his arm. “C’mon, Nanami!” Again, your voice rings through the man’s head, almost convincing him to give in. Almost.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Fine, then!” You continue to grasp onto his shirt, hoping he’ll indulge you for another time. You always say that, he thinks. What was it, exactly? Not even minutes later, you answer his question.

“It’ll be the last time I ask!”

Oh, there it is. He remembers now.

For once, Nanami is able to drown out your voice. But only momentarily, and it’s to rummage through his mind for excuses to get out of this. Something that isn’t rude, surely. Just straight to the point. When he can’t find one, he lets out a sigh. He finds himself saying reluctant words that he still isn’t sure if he’s adamant on.

“What do you want?” he huffed out, facing you with a somewhat stiff position.

“I promise, it’s not bad,” you assure, lowering your phone in your hand. It has been playing the same audio for the past ten minutes—the same amount of time that you’ve been bothering Nanami. “I just want you to repeat something for me.”

As he huffs at you again, you know he is finally listening to you. Forcing down the smile forming on your face. After sounding out the syllables, Nanami gives you a blank stare. What does that even mean?

“Come on, say it!” you urge, lifting your phone up to cover your eyes. The screen fills with the man’s deep-turquoise shirt and the yellow, dotted tie. You zoom out, hoping to catch his expression. And you do, but it’s quite lifeless.

“Hawk. Tuah.” he blankly said, and you giggle. When you look down at your phone screen a moment later, you see that the red button on your screen was untouched, and your disappointment is heavy.

“Can you say it again? I wasn’t recording.”

“What?”

SUKUNA: He knows, but who do you think you are?

@francis4evas

. Honestly, this was an insane decision. Does the King of Curses even know what a trend is? Hell, does he even have a cellphone? You are confused, but you can feel the adrenaline from excitement rushing through your veins.

So, you approach his throne, stepping against the piles of skulls, wincing at the slight poke of what seemed to be an animal’s skull horns pushing against your foot.

It takes an extra hour, and you’re out of breath. Even after taking a few rest stops along the way. But you finally make it, peeking above the cliff of hardened remains above you.

You see his figure. It makes you swallow in fear, but…it’s far too late to go back. What would he do if you did, anyway? Kill you? You don’t give into your hesitation, though.

You finally push yourself up, and flinch when a voice suddenly rings out through the crimson and black corridors, menacing and somewhat alluring. “Come, creature.”

When you finally get the courage to step up to him, you’re able to take in his visual, and he’s able to take in yours. A large, tall, pink-haired beast with two sets of eyes and arms. On his lower half is some white, loose pants, a black, drawn string keeping it up. The fabric seems to be kind of ripped, but you doubt a curse cares about his appearance.

Your thoughts are cut off when he speaks, and you flinch, red eyes staring down at your own.

“What do you want, being? Make it worth my time. Or else—“ He pauses, the light maroon in his gaze igniting similarly to a fire. “I’ll slice off your head.” Intimidating, much…

“I…have a request,” you began, looking up at him and almost immediately away. Much, more like a lot.

A request? Sukuna thinks, tilting his head to rest on his fist. He doesn’t out-directly state his curiosity, but you assume he is willing to hear.

“Can you say—“

Before you can finish, all you see is red liquid pooling out of you. You hear the words idiot, puny, and stupid creature, all as your vision turns black. Like nothing had happened in the first place.

→ NEXT: JJK men dealing with jealousy !

[qwanderer]

hey y'all, first off just wanted to let you know that we are adding some of these updates to ao3 here! We'll try to archive more over there if we can.

Also, I have taken so much material from @wordsinhaled and a few things from @autumn-equinox-04 and @nix-nihili to create:

Five Times the Boys hang out at Edwin's place and One time they go somewhere New

(warning for some, ah, undernegotiated kink? they don't realize it's kink because, and I can't stress this enough, they are not yet together when it happens.)

1. The Planning Stages

It's gonna be fun, Charles thinks, doing a cooking show with Edwin. He's obviously brilliant, and so much fun to hang out with.

When Charles goes over to his place for a planning session, they get some brainstorming in before Charles gets drawn in by the beautiful, professional grade kitchen that is the centerpiece of the flat.

Not much.

But after all, Edwin had already floated the idea of filming some cooking segments here; Charles will need to get comfortable with the space, won't he?

It's so shiny, but it's not like a showpiece; it's full of well used and well cared for equipment. Charles takes a look around, trying not to imagine Edwin in here, having a quiet morning, rumpled and soft, using the French press that's sitting in the dish drainer. Tries instead to imagine making a television show, using this space to show off Charles's cooking.

"So we'll set up like this, right," Charles says, gesturing to the gas range and countertop on the island, "with the main cameras overhead and behind the bar? So I'll want to be showing stuff that way." He points to Edwin where he's sitting at the bar.

"I'll play the role of the cameras, then," Edwin says. "Now. If you really want to familiarize yourself with the space, you should cook something."

Charles looks up at him with wide eyes. "Can I?"

"Be my guest," Edwin says with a crooked little smile.

Charles laughs, because yeah, he's kinda playing at being host here. He takes a more assessing look around. "Right. Let's see what you've got. Lemme know if anything's off limits, yeah? Don't wanna accidentally break into your secret stash of something you've been saving for a special occasion, do I?"

"Even if I were prone to such things," Edwin tells him, "I venture to say this would qualify."

"What, as a special occasion?"

"If we cannot celebrate beginning a joint venture in this television series," Edwin says, "when can we celebrate?"

He hadn't thought about it like that. "S'pose you're right about that." Charles's grin feels like it's gonna break his face.

This is important to Edwin, and he wants to celebrate with Charles.

Not anyone else, Charles.

Well, who else does he have to celebrate with, Charles wonders? After the whole "No one has ever cooked for me" bit that first time he'd come to the restaurant, maybe no one.

It dims the joy just a little.

Charles doesn't prod at the subject head on, but he's read enough of Edwin's blog at this point to read some stuff between the lines, so he asks little easy questions instead, the best parts about culinary school, favorite tricks he learned. Hides them in between questions about what ingredients he has stashed away and Edwin's favorite foods.

It's just fun, mostly, it's fun hanging out with Edwin and figuring out the logic of his kitchen and getting sidetracked by the smallest things.

Once he picks a dish and actually starts cooking, he notices Edwin has his phone out.

"What are you doing?" Charles asks.

"You are also going to need to get used to having a camera on you as you cook," Edwin says.

Right.

Charles giggles self-consciously. It is a little weird. "Got me there," Charles says, and tries to shake off the feeling.

But cooking is familiar, and anyway soon another problem distracts Charles.

Not all of Edwin's spices are labeled.

Of course there are some spices Charles and his mum buy in bulk at the farmer's market and then put in an unlabeled jar at home, he's used to the way she does it, but Edwin does it differently. Which is a lot more disorienting than Charles would have thought.

"Edwin, mate, where do you keep the cumin?" he asks absently, staring at the unfamiliar but neat rows of jars on the shelves.

"Top shelf, on the left, with a blue lid," Edwin answers immediately.

Good, it exists. Now. Where the hell is it?

"Is that your left or my left?" Charles asks over his shoulder.

"...We have the same left."

Ah. Right.

Wait. That looks like cumin.

"Is it this one, then?" Charles asks, opening the jar to sniff it.

Ah. Nope, definitely anise.

"Charles. Does that look blue to you?" Edwin says, slightly exasperated.

Charles looks down at the lid in his other hand.

The lid that was on the anise is definitely pink.

"Right," he tells Edwin, and the phone he is still pointing directly at Charles. "No one else can see that video, ever."

"This is why we are practicing filming," Edwin says a bit smugly. "To work out any issues like this before the professional camera crew arrives."

Charles smiles a bit sheepishly. "Guess maybe it is affecting my focus a little," he admits.

"Then we shall have to continue with the exercise," Edwin says mildly. "Go on, tell me how to prepare to make a dish like this."

So Charles gets all his ingredients ready, showing them off to Edwin's phone, then starting in on the chopping.

Edwin is gonna make a great host, Charles thinks, the way he's asking all these interesting questions in his smooth, posh voice.

Then Edwin and his phone are leaning in, focusing on the cutting board. “Show the viewers at home how finely you’re meant to mince the chillies, Charles,” he says.

So Charles does his best, making fine little even dices.

“There we are!" Edwin exclaims. "See how expertly that was done, that’s beautiful.”

Ah, wait, there's something about the way Edwin says the word beautiful that… well. Charles doesn't know if anyone's ever used the word beautiful about him before, even if it's just. No, yeah. It's just about his skills. He tells himself. Firmly.

Fuck, he can feel himself blushing.

I need to get it together!

He tries to push it off, make a joke out of it. “Mate, I’m pretty sure you’re meant to be highlighting the food, not me.”

Edwin gives him an inscrutable look. “Can we separate one from the other, Charles? This show is as much about you as it is about the food. And it is your food, with your soul in it. This dish would not be the same if someone else made it. It is only right that you should be highlighted.”

He’s so vehement about it that Charles has to put down the knife. Just for a moment. For knife safety. Because he is absolutely melting. And just a bit, maybe, falling in love.

Charles can't take the attention all being on him, from Edwin and the camera, so he says, "Right, put the phone away and come here, you know you're gonna be the host and not camera crew, yeah?"

He realizes, once Edwin comes around the island to join him, that it's a miscalculation, but it's such a good one. He only ever wants to tease Edwin closer.

Charles focuses on the food, narrating as he goes, moving to the stove to sweat the onions, adding the garlic, spices and chilies to the pan and stirring, then, when it smells just right, the tomatoes.

"That smells absolutely heavenly," Edwin says, soft and breathy and closer than Charles realized.

"Cheers, mate," Charles replies on autopilot, his conscious mind suddenly coming up entirely empty. And there's nothing much left to do, the sauce just has to simmer for a few more minutes before the lentils and veggies get added.

"Now, do you prefer to cook vegetarian dishes when you can?" Edwin asks, thankfully filling the silence. "For yourself, I mean. I know your restaurant serves meat. But I notice you didn't take any out for this meal."

Well, the truth is, Charles hadn't wanted to use anything too expensive, even after Edwin gave him free rein of the kitchen, so the lentils had caught his eye as something that wouldn't be too hard to replace, if Edwin doesn't end up liking this dish. But he's not gonna mention that.

"Nah, I wouldn't say I'm vegetarian by preference or anything, but I also think a meal doesn't need to have meat in it to be pretty phenomenal."

"Judging by the aroma, I would say you are about to prove that very much correct," Edwin says.

Charles stirs the sauce, and he thinks it's probably just ready, so he gets a spoonful ready to taste.

And then he has an idea. The best, worst idea.

He offers the spoonful of sauce to Edwin. "Tell me if it needs anything, yeah?" he asks.

Edwin brings the spoon to his mouth and tastes. Charles watches, more invested in the reaction than he has any right to be.

Edwin closes his eyes and makes a soft, delighted noise.

It’s right, then, if Edwin is making a face like that.

Well, Charles knows his business, knows he's good at this and he's done his work here, but there’s something about making it taste just right to… someone important.

Something about getting to watch the bloom of joy on Edwin’s face and the way Edwin laughs reflexively as everything sinks into his palate. The absolute focus he devotes to just a little spoonful of sauce.

“Good?” Charles says, grinning like mad.

At that, Edwin opens his eyes and says, “Charles, I do believe you are fishing for compliments.” But he’s got a smile quirking up his mouth. Then he gives a quiet almost-laugh, and says, “Alright, then. Shall I tell you what I really think?”

Charles gives him a daring, gleeful look. “Tell me what Edwin E. E. Payne thinks.”

Edwin beams. “It’s perfect.”

Then they're just smiling at each other like fools, surrounded by the aroma of the simmering sauce, and Charles could swear there's a light, an interest in Edwin's eyes, and he wants to reach out…

Maybe it's… it's probably just… yeah, Edwin is clearing his throat and turning away.

For a minute there, he'd thought they'd had a moment, but nah.

Of course it's about food, the love of Edwin's life is food. It's what brings him into the restaurant, puts that sparkle in his eyes, obviously, that's why he's built his whole life around it on purpose, not like Charles, who just carries on family traditions as best he can.

Charles fell into food. It was kinda always gonna be his life. He loves it, yeah, but not the way Edwin does. Edwin chose it over everything and everyone he knew.

Stands to reason he'd do it again.

2: Shooting Begins

For some reason, Edwin is absolutely turning into a different person as they're wrapping up the first week of shooting at his flat. At first Charles thinks it's another kind of nervous reaction to the cameras, but Edwin is just as weirdly jittery and bouncy and energetic when the cameras get put away and it's just them again.

Charles's second guess is that Edwin has met someone new dating-wise, and is weirdly relieved when he discovers Edwin filling up his French press for the third time in one day.

It is absolutely a bad sign all around, but Charles can't help but be endeared by this new side of Edwin, an Edwin who's a tad bit hyperactive and talks insanely fast and keeps moving and Charles just.

Well. He finds himself thinking, How much more is there to learn about you? What if there's no end to it? What if I could do this for the rest of my life? What if I could see all the different sides of you, all your facets, and know you better than anyone ever? What else could ever make me happier?

Charles can't help but flirt with Edwin when he's like this, so goddamn responsive, quick to smile or laugh or throw some sarcastic quip back (and that is way more endearing than it should be, one of Charles's favorite responses if he's being honest), but Charles tries to keep it… he wants to say subtle, but he knows he's not being subtle.

Tries to keep plausible deniability on the table, is probably the way to put it.

And it's hard for Charles to think about anything except kissing Edwin's lively, coffee-bitter mouth, but meanwhile Edwin is intent on finding new things to worry about, like, apparently he's looked up statistics on what makes a successful cooking show and humor is essential. And now he's stressing over whether he has the comedy chops for the job.

"Was that all right?" he keeps asking, breaking the rhythm of the sequence. "I'm afraid I may not be living up to the potential of the concept."

He looks like he's about to start vibrating at frequencies unknown to humankind.

"Right, time for a break," Charles says, and hauls him out to the balcony again.

Edwin has gotten a second deck chair since the last time Charles was out here, which Charles supposes means he's supposed to sit in it, which is, like, really thoughtful, but it's too far away from Edwin's chair, so Charles drags his over until it's right next to Edwin's, before he can think too hard about that.

"I'm not doing it properly, am I?" Edwin is asking. "And this whole production supposedly hinges on me. As the host. My strengths do not lie in engaging with people."

Charles reaches out to clap a hand on his shoulder. "Mate, you just need to relax a little bit, get a little looser maybe, but you're already incredible, you don't need to stress so hard, they'll all love you —" and he bites off the rest before it escapes, like how I love you.

Edwin doesn't seem to notice the abrupt stop. "You do it all so naturally, it flows out of you, and meanwhile I am simply trying not to snap shut like a clam. For me, that can take a great deal of energy."

No, it's snapping shut that's taking it out of me, Charles thinks.

Edwin rubs at his eyes tiredly, and mutters, "Fuck, I need more coffee."

"No, nope," Charles tells him, leaning in to catch Edwin's eye. “I think we’ve got to cut you off the caffeine, mate,” he says.

“Oh god, no, be merciful, Charles,” Edwin begs, closing his eyes and letting his head roll back on his shoulders.

Charles bites his lip, contemplating Edwin. "No wonder you thought we should practice being on camera beforehand," he says. "This whole thing still really freaks you out, dunnit?"

"Yes," Edwin answers without opening his eyes.

"Well," Charles ventures, "I can give you a pressure point hand massage? They’re pretty relaxing. It helps a lot when I get hand cramps from chopping so much."

Edwin opens one eye, and Charles reaches out, letting his hand hover over one of Edwin's, waiting for an invitation.

Edwin lifts his hand, offering it up.

Charles gets to work, gently at first, watching Edwin's face carefully to see if he's hitting any tender spots. Then he digs in at an angle right in close to the first big thumb bone, a spot that gives Charles trouble sometimes.

Edwin inhales sharply, but as Charles soothes fingertips across the spot, Edwin relaxes into a soft sigh.

"There," says Charles. "Better already, innit?"

A soft hum gives Charles his answer. Then Edwin's eyes blink open, and he's watching Charles slightly muzzily.

(Charles pushes down the thought that he'd really like to see that look, and hear these soft noises, in other contexts. Not important.)

"When." Edwin clears his throat, and tries again. "Ah. When were you going to tell me that you have this skill?"

Charles brushes that question aside to focus on what's up with Edwin. "Why are you so freaked out, anyway? Like, you've got some viral vids out there."

"Those were flukes," Edwin says dismissively. The way his hand twitches and tries to clench in Charles's says he has some big feelings about that, anyway.

"Nah," Charles responds simply.

“Charles, I do not know how to be funny, not on purpose. You have to help me.”

“Mate, what are you on about?" Charles says, shaking his head. "You’re bloody hilarious.”

“Yes, but that is when I’m talking to you, alone. This is." Edwin lets out a breath. "This is different.”

Charles’s stomach swoops, buffeted by turbulent emotions. Edwin can’t be saying that Charles is special in the way that Charles wants to be.

Can he?

"Different how, mate?" Charles asks, eyes focused down on their hands as he is still kneading the tension out of the muscles of Edwin's thumb.

"Charles, you cannot be serious!" Edwin's hand twitches with annoyance in the cradle of Charles's. "There are no cameras on us, nobody watching..."

Charles thinks there must be more to it. The camera crew honestly isn't that big, and they're quickly becoming friends all around. And Edwin is already a public figure, he's been in a couple viral videos, stuff like that.

"Well, yeah," he offers, looking up at Edwin now, "but.... is it because it's me?"

With that question in the air, it's suddenly obvious how close they are to each other, Charles bent over, working the tension out of Edwin's hands.

Hands are full of nerves. It feels intimate as anything he's done with anyone. And he's staring into Edwin's eyes, and Edwin is staring right back.

God, Charles could just lean right in…

Edwin gives a soft sigh, so close Charles can feel it.

"Of course it is you, Charles!" Edwin says with quiet, earnest emphasis. "I am relaxed when I am around you, I am comfortable. You are my friend, I do not feel.... pressured."

If that answer makes Charles feel things, well, he sets that all aside, it's not useful. What does Edwin need right now?

He needs his friend.

"Well, I'll be right there with you, won't I?" Charles tells Edwin with a cheery smile. "Tell me your jokes, show me the food, explain everything in that pretty little head of yours to me. Not the camera. Me."

Edwin blinks at him. "...Pretty little head?" he asks.

Charles does a quick mental replay and oh, oh fuck, that was not supposed to slip out. He thought he told all those feelings to bugger off.

How do I even talk my way out of this one?

Pretty little head, what the fuck was he thinking, that could come across kinda patronizing, huh? Quick. What's the opposite of that?

"Well," says Charles, trying to sound confident and unbothered and probably totally failing. "I just meant that, you know, you're so intelligent!"

Frowning, Edwin says tentatively, "You said pretty," as if he isn't actually sure he heard it.

He's been trying to backpedal, but. Well. The last thing Charles is going to do right now is deny that he thinks Edwin is pretty.

Maybe if he says it, like, casual enough, it won't ruin anything.

Charles shrugs like it's not a big deal. "That's just how I see it, yeah? That's how I see you."

Edwin stares at him for a long moment. Then he clears his throat.

"Right," he says. "Well. I have some material in mind, but perhaps I ought to practice it without the camera on me first. Would you…"

And the conversation just moves on.

Charles tries not to worry.

He literally just said how he likes I don't make him feel pressured. How he thinks of me as a friend.

That was not a friend thing to say.

Well, I said what I said, and he doesn't seem to hate me for that, so it's fine, right?

Right.

3. Filming Continues

Edwin feels drawn to Charles like a magnet, constantly, and although he knows that it is likely unwise to continue organizing his life around any chance he can get to be closer to the man, he can't seem to help it.

There was one instance. One exactly. In the restaurant. When Charles reached out and adjusted Edwin's bow tie for him, and Charles's warm fingers just brushed incidentally across Edwin's neck. And Edwin was left stammering and breathless.

Edwin knows that Charles and his mother would not think less of him for foregoing a tie when visiting their establishment, but Edwin always puts one on, and they get increasingly flashy and eye-catching every time, until Edwin feels as if he is begging, visibly, for that moment to play itself out again, for Charles to notice and reach out and touch.

He feels more alive when he is with Charles. More vital. As if the air is fresher and more oxygenated when Charles is in the vicinity. He yearns for the color and energy that Charles brings into his life seemingly effortlessly.

After today's shoot, Edwin is feeling more than usually inadequate in comparison to Charles. And it's one of the days where he fears that his parents may have been right.

"Law and accounting are in your blood," his father used to say. "You'll realize eventually that pursuing anything else would be pure foolishness."

He knows, intellectually, that he has already proven his father quite wrong. He loves his work, and he is successful. But it doesn't stop the doubts from haunting him.

And today the haunting is fierce. Yes, perhaps Edwin is only good at making an account of food, at measuring it by rules. Perhaps he will never be an artist, never know the heart and soul of food the way Charles does.

The cameras and crew and equipment are gone or stowed away for next time, and only Charles remains, putting the kitchen back in its proper order. Edwin sits down at the bar and sighs.

"Still having a rough go of it?" Charles asks, frowning in sympathy.

How can he explain this? The way the stress is bringing back old doubts. Old demons.

Without making Charles feel that he has to remind Edwin that quitting the show is an option.

"Watching you cook is always a delight," he begins, and Charles beams. "And I know I am… very technically skilled at cooking. But there is something missing that I did not know was missing until I tasted your cooking."

It's an inadequate explanation, and Edwin knows it.

"Edwin," Charles says earnestly. "Your food is amazing. Pretty sure there's not, like, some secret skill you're missing."

"Perhaps. But some days, I cannot help but think there is."

Charles comes around the bar and takes him by the shoulders, looks him in the eye. Presses his lips together thoughtfully.

"Okay, well." Charles takes a breath. "Listen. You know, like, so much stuff about how food works in technical ways, right down to chemical ways. But you’re so stiff and perfect about it. Always expect so much from yourself. And maybe that's the problem. So like. Forget about what's wrong or right. What do you feel when you cook?"

"Truly, that did not factor into my education," Edwin says. "I had to get it right. That was the important thing. And I don't regret learning any of what I did, I could never, but I do have an inner critic which I struggle to filter out."

And Charles's face gets this gleeful, almost wicked look to it, and he says, "Right, we’re trying something. Do you trust me?"

Soon Edwin finds himself blindfolded, Charles standing behind him while Edwin sautees vegetables he cannot see.

He would know by smell if they were burning. It is still an uncomfortable lack.

"See, there," says Charles. "A little stiff, yeah?" And then his hands are on Edwin's shoulders, smoothing away the tension. "Keep stirring, you're doing great."

Edwin lets out a breath, and he keeps stirring.

"Smells good, doesn't it?" Charles asks. "But it needs spices. Hold out your hand."

"Why?" Edwin asks, but he raises his hand anyway. He trusts Charles.

"I'm gonna pour the cardamom pods in there so you can feel them and smell them," says Charles. "Decide how much the dish wants."

Charles's hand cradles his, shaping it into a cup, then the cardamom pods fall into the hollow of Edwin's palm, the gentlest patter of sensation.

This whole exercise, Edwin thinks, is going to ruin him, but he would not move away for the world.

The cardamom smells warm, almost musky, especially when combined with the heat of skin.

Charles guides his hands as they add the spices, and keeps drawing his attention to the little details he can perceive.

“Deep breaths!" he urges. "Breathe in the aroma of what you’re making."

So Edwin breathes.

"Now how is the flavor speaking to you?" Charles asks, his lips just brushing the shell of Edwin's ear. "What does it want to become?"

His hands are on Edwin's shoulders again, his thumbs skimming the base of Edwin's neck through the thin fabric of his shirt. And Edwin can smell the cardamom insinuating itself into the essence of the food.

And suddenly it does all make sense, it makes perfect sense, only it's not about the food, is it? Edwin feels as if he's just short-circuited; Charles is asking him to feel, and Edwin feels, when he is peeled down like this, when he is asked to notice; he notices instinct and flavor and Charles, and Edwin is suddenly consumed with the question, what does Charles taste like? Exactly. What does he taste like exactly in this moment. What elements of flavor linger from one source or another to decorate his natural taste, and what is the base and heart of it?

Edwin has never needed to know anything so badly in his life.

Pinned between the warmth of the stove in front and the warmth of Charles behind him, cradled in the sounds and the scents of Charles's cooking, Edwin is overwhelmed. He's alone in the warm dark with the spectre of Charles. Charles is so close, he's so close, how can Edwin pay any attention to the food in these conditions? There's only one thing he wants to taste.

He fights not to shake with the force of the emotion.

If Edwin is not very careful, he is going to snap and he is going to ruin everything.

He needs to turn and kiss Charles, or he needs to get out of this situation.

He reaches up to pull off the blindfold.

Here is his kitchen, bright and normal. Here is Charles, stepping away.

"Not helping?" Charles asks. When Edwin only blinks at him wordlessly, he says, "Sorry, that was weird, wasn't it."

"No, no, it's," Edwin stumbles, searching for the right words. "It was a clever thought."

"Hey, if it's not your thing, no reason to suffer through, yeah?" Charles steps in to tend the stove, rescuing the food.

Edwin needs to find a way to say that it was precisely his thing, which is the problem. Without. Pushing the issue. "It is… a lot," he manages.

Charles shoots him a regretful look. "Of course, yeah, we already did that whole shoot earlier, sorry, should've thought that one through better."

"Charles," says Edwin, wanting his attention, but finding once he has it that he doesn't know what he means to say. Except.

"Thank you." Edwin takes a breath. "Perhaps… we can try it again. Another time."

Charles gives him a searching look. "Right," he says. "I'll clean this up. You get some rest, yeah?"

Edwin nods in agreement. He is still slightly dazed, so he goes to sit on the sofa, clasping his hands together and looking at nothing at all while his mind spins and spins.

As it turns out, Charles doesn’t just clean up, he finishes the dish, ladles it into a bowl and sets it in front of Edwin.

"Need anything else?" he asks.

Edwin shakes his head.

"Right, I'm off. Call if you need anything. I mean it."

Edwin thinks perhaps Charles presses a feather-light kiss to the top of his head as he leaves, as if it's normal. But he hasn't got the presence of mind to be sure.

After the door has clicked shut, Edwin reaches for the bowl. Has a bite of what they've made.

The taste of it wakes up his beleaguered brain.

It tastes like…

Well, like love, like passion, like all the things Edwin longs for more of in his life. All warm and solid and cupped in his two hands.

And it strikes Edwin then that Charles is the one who arranged them in such an intimate position. He is the one who brushed past Edwin's ear with his mouth.

He must be interested.

Edwin sets the bowl aside so that he can put his head in his hands.

God, I should have asked him to stay over; I am the world’s most hapless man.

But no, Charles wants to help connect Edwin with the food. Food is a sensory experience that Charles gives to hundreds of people every day. He takes pride in it. This could be nothing more than an extension of that.

But most of all. What if Charles is. What if Charles is coming on to him. Not because it's what he wants. But because Edwin, and the show, represent an opportunity. Oh, he would never do it on purpose. Not consciously. But Edwin holds a certain amount of power over him, right now, as the host of a show that will decide how their restaurant appears to the public at large for the foreseeable future. It would be no wonder if Charles felt the need to be… appealing, right now.

There are too many possible factors. Everything is racing through his mind, he needs to set it down on paper, although that is generally more of a morning ritual.

He reaches for his journal, finding the page with this morning's entry.

We have been filming for nearly three weeks now. I cannot tell Charles I love him today. Much as I would like to, much as it threatens to spill out at the most inconvenient moments—when the cameras are trained on me, able to see everything I do, every expression on my face, every time my hand twitches with the need to hold his. Charles is the best friend I could ask for. Perhaps one day I will learn to be content with things as they are and this longing will stop eating me up alive. Yesterday he put his hand on my shoulder to comfort me and it tethered me to the earth. It worked—Charles can soothe my anxieties like no one else can, even when he is the cause of them. But it was also indescribably maddening. His thumb moved in little soothing circles and my entire existence seemed to suspend itself, as it so often does, between his eyes and our single point of contact. I do not know how I am doing this. how I continue to do this, every day. But I must.

Today's session was no different, and it strikes Edwin now how very tactile Charles truly is with him. The number of times Charles has taken his hand to pull him outside onto the balcony for a break, or just casually brushed his hand while handing him a bundle of herbs.

How many times has he interrupted to say something like, "Hey, mate, I think this needs a more vigorous stir," and put his hand over Edwin's around the stirring-spoon to take it from him. When Edwin is giving him something to try off a fork, Charles might be wrapping his hand around Edwin's where Edwin holds the fork to steady it. When they pass things back and forth across the kitchen, whenever it's even vaguely useful; or even when it's not.

Edwin is losing his mind.

Does it mean something?

Well, of course, it means everything. It means more than every touch from every person who has ever so much as shaken Edwin's hand.

More than anyone he has dated, certainly, by far. Those were mere dalliances. Fleeting and messy entanglements that left him feeling cold and lonelier than before. Nothing like the absolute slow-spreading maddening burn that is consuming him now for Charles Rowland. Nothing like being at Charles’s hearth and just wanting to draw closer.

He must know what he is doing to Edwin. He must be doing this on purpose.

Could Edwin be blamed for—

—for taking advantage?

No, he tells himself sharply, this is exactly why I mustn't.

I cannot be the one to make the first move. Not while he is a guest on my show.

He writes it down, underlines it twice, and closes his journal.

—

Blearily stumbling back into his kitchen the next morning after woefully inadequate sleep, Edwin realizes he'd meant to pick up more coffee yesterday, after the shoot, but he'd gotten distracted. He doesn't have quite enough left in the bag for a proper cup.

He is going to have to stop at a coffee shop before filming today's segment at the restaurant.

He goes to glare at the kettle, but finds his view interrupted by something unexpected. A fresh bag of coffee — and yes, it's the right type, identical in every way to the mostly empty bag in the cupboard, except that it is full.

And that it has a post-it note on it.

thought you'd need this - charles

Edwin's resolve weakens as his heart flips over in his chest.

When he walks into the restaurant with his piping hot travel mug full of just right coffee and raises it in a toast to Charles across the kitchen, Charles beams at him.

Charles is absolutely going to be the death of him.

4: Halfway Through the Filming Schedule

Of course Charles meant it when he said they should spend more nights together, if it meant Edwin was more likely to sleep.

He hadn't, maybe, really considered what that was gonna mean when he'd said it.

Doesn't really understand what it does mean until he finds himself standing in the bedroom doorway, trying to explain that there's no reason why they both have to squeeze onto Edwin's little couch like they're trying to hide from sleep to ambush it.

"Mate," he says, exasperated. "If this is gonna become a regular thing, I’m not gonna kick you out of your own bedroom every time, don’t be daft."

Edwin hesitates. "But if the point is for me to feel comfortable because you are next to me…"

"Then that's where I'll be," says Charles, gesturing at the bed. When Edwin still doesn't look convinced, Charles insists, "I promise I'm not gonna make it weird."

Edwin sighs, but he stands and follows Charles through into the bedroom.

And it could be awkward, maybe it should feel awkward, but instead it's just natural to lean up against the headboard and chat. There's no TV in here, but Edwin has so many books, magazines, even board games tucked away somewhere, apparently.

Edwin ends up reading aloud from Julia Child's My Life in France, which he's read several times before, apparently, and his voice softens as if he's speaking about a friend.

“'When I wasn't at school, I was experimenting at home,'" he reads, "'and became a bit of a Mad Scientist. I did hours of research on mayonnaise, for instance, and though no one else seemed to care about it, I thought it was utterly fascinating.... By the end of my research, I believe, I had written more on the subject of mayonnaise than anyone in history.'”

Charles is fascinated by it all, although Edwin had presented it as something tame to settle down with. At least Edwin does settle; he falls into long pauses, and then the book starts to droop, until Charles pulls it out of his unresisting hands and sets it aside.

Edwin falls asleep on Charles’s shoulder, and Charles carefully tucks him into his own bed and stretches out next to him.

Just looking. And longing.

Longing to brush Edwin’s hair from his forehead, but he can't.

Can't break that trust by taking advantage, by taking too much.

Edwin nuzzles in in his sleep, he's so so warm, and that almost breaks Charles's resolve, but he wants so badly to be worthy of the trust that Edwin has placed in him, even if he's not sure he can be (God, why did he suggest this. It's gonna break him, or them, or both).

No, he has to be good enough.

It's the trust that makes Charles's heart go tender, but there's so much more than that.

Like, Charles hasn't even kissed anybody in what's maybe a really long time, for him at least, and it makes him restless, itchy, to be so close to somebody so gorgeous and not do anything about it.

But Edwin isn't just kissable. There's so much more to him, and the stuff that he gets to see, being friends, being a close and trusted friend, that stuff is not a consolation prize. It's everything.

It's Edwin's eyes, the way they change color in different lights, sometimes sea glass, sometimes slate, sometimes a stormy sky, sometimes a lake on a placid day. It's his sense of humor that's always so surprising and pointed, it shocks a laugh out of Charles every time, because Edwin when he wants to can be audacious and incisive and he's so fucking smart, too.

It's the way he speaks, the way he notices everything, observant and ever careful of other people. It's the way Edwin treats Charles's mum, with respect and deference and warmth, and a tiny tinge of fear — just like Charles.

It's the way Edwin holds himself stiffly for everyone, and the soft parts of him that Charles gets to see as the layers fall away, the way he relaxes at the table. The way little tidbits come out slowly, about his childhood, or about his interests, or about his life before they met.

It's the way Edwin likes to project coolness and poise, but inside he has so much fierce caring, such a deep well of affection and vulnerable softness, and an undercurrent of strength. And whenever a tiny bit of that inner Edwin comes out to touch Charles it feels like nothing else Charles has ever experienced. A privilege. A gift.

It's Edwin's smile, his fucking dimples and how expressive his eyebrows are, how he can say so much in a single look, and the language of his hands. How elegant he looks in the kitchen, moving between sink, worktop, and stove like a dancer. His wrists when he stirs, his gestures when he's talking about a new menu item and he's caught in excitement about flavors melding together to tell a story. His attention to detail anytime he plates a dish, tongue caught between his teeth as he places the garnish, and the happy little tiny noise he doesn't even know he makes when he gets it just right. it's the facts he just somehow knows, the languages, all crammed in his brain ready to be called forth at a moment's notice.

It's the Kannada he speaks with Charles's mum, that he learned all on his own, for Charles's family, for Charles. It's the way the regulars at the restaurant know him and he greets them like old friends after a while.

It's the rug in Edwin's bedroom shaped like a dog and the scribbled-on pieces of paper on his bedside table and the vintage prints on the walls of Edwin's flat.

It's everything.

And being surrounded by it all, here, in Edwin's bed with Edwin snuggled against him, makes it impossible to resist touching him, but it also means he has to resist.

He has to.

It's gonna destroy him.

He wants to stay awake and savor it anyway.

—

He wakes to the smell of chai simmering and for a confused minute he thinks he's home with his mum, but no, this is Edwin's flat.

Charles grinds the spices fresh, when he can, like his mum does. And he keeps some here. And how many times has Edwin watched him grind them, he wonders, and put everything in the pot to simmer?

From the smell of it, enough times.

Charles's heart lurches in his chest.

And "everything" means a little bit more.

5: Last Reshoots

Charles keeps spending the night. How can he not? Edwin looks so much better rested when he does.

It's gotten easier (Charles tells himself. He tells himself hoping to make it true. It hasn't) to be around Edwin, to ignore the attraction, the… everything.

He can be just friends with Edwin. He's gotten so good at it.

Doesn't matter how much it aches.

He'll do his best.

Tonight he's watched Edwin try and fail to sleep, can't sleep himself either, not with Edwin so restless, and so they've given up and are playing truth or dare.

Charles has been made to dance the Macarena and done a pathetic attempt at juggling, entirely worth it to hear Edwin laugh.

Edwin has not once picked dare. It's like he doesn't trust Charles! (And that's probably wise, to be honest, especially at this hour.)

Charles so badly wants to get a rise out of him, see him get a little embarrassed too.

When Edwin picks truth again, Charles just plain asks, “Tell me something embarrassing that you haven’t told me yet.” Then watches, enthralled, as expressions cross Edwin's face in quick succession. Widening eyes, set jaw, pensive look. Tiny wince. Resignation.

“Well, I’ve…" Edwin begins eventually, "I may have invented some dishes inspired by you. I know, it’s a bit odd—"

'Odd' is not the word Charles would use.

“Mate! No! That’s brills! That’s… really? Inspired by me? Listen, you’re talking to the bloke who made ‘Edwin’s curry’ a semi official menu item, yeah? So what’d you make?”

"Well… there was a deconstructed tamarind duck that I thought came out rather well…"

"Okay," says Charles, "you have to make that for me." He starts untangling himself from the sheets.

“What, now?” Edwin blinks back at him.

“Yes, now!" Charles gives Edwin his best grin. "What’re we doing anyway? We’re not sleeping. C’monnnn, Edwin.”

Edwin purses his lips, looking uncertain.

"Please?"

"You needn't beg," Edwin says. "I am simply trying to figure out if I have all the necessary ingredients on hand."

"And do you?" Charles asks hopefully.

"I have the duck," Edwin says, untangling himself from the bedclothes with precision, "but it will need to thaw, so best to get that underway first thing. I usually serve it with greens, but I am not entirely sure what I have at the moment." He stands and heads for the bedroom door.

"And the rest of it's basically the tamarind paste and seasonings that go in the sauce, right?" Charles asks, scrambling to follow. "Not sure how you'd deconstruct that, really."

"Actually," Edwin says over his shoulder as they make their way to the kitchen, "I used fresh tamarind to make a jam."

"Woah, really?" Charles ponders that. "And you have fresh tamarind?"

"No. However, the first time I made it, I canned the remainder of the jam. I believe I still have a jar."

"Aces," says Charles, and situates himself on a barstool to watch as Edwin starts his prep.

First Edwin retrieves the duck and makes up a cold water bath for it, then starts getting out his dishes and tools, rooting around in the pantry until he finds the jam.

It's one in the morning, and everything feels surreal, most especially the fact that Edwin is making a whole dish just for Charles because he asked, because of a silly game of truth or dare.

A whole dish inspired by him. With all different parts and everything. And Charles had thought the chutney was amazing.

"So you said this was inspired by me?" Charles asks, wondering how that works.

“Well," Edwin says, retrieving a bag of flour, "duck symbolizes family connections. Protection. Trust. All things that are quite important to you, of course. That much was clear to see after our first meeting.”

“Aw, mate." Charles does a mental double take. "—Wait, hang on, you did this one up after our first meeting?”

“…And tamarind…” Edwin presses on, “often represents a meeting-place… as well as resilience, and adaptability. I admit I thought of the restaurant itself, and I did not know yet how much you embodied both of those qualities when I created this recipe, Charles, but coming to know you only served to assure me that I had made the right choice of ingredient.”

Ah, fuck.

Edwin is so sure of himself when he's cooking, so graceful, and now all of that skill is pointed squarely at Charles, at complimenting him, and how is Charles supposed to survive that?

"And as for the deconstruction," Edwin ponders, oblivious to Charles's quiet crisis, "I wanted something brighter and more lively than the usual tamarind paste sauce, so I broke it down into three main elements, a simple tamarind jam, crispy fried ginger, and a savory fish sauce."

Then Edwin is frowning into the fridge.

"Missing something?" Charles asks.

"Originally I served this with gai lan," Edwin laments, "but kale will have to do." He retrieves the greens.

"I'm sure it'll be great," Charles offers.

"Still. I'll have to make it properly for you someday," Edwin says offhandedly.

Like it's a foregone conclusion they'll keep having meals together like this, even after the series ends, after Edwin has moved on to the next big project.

Charles kicks the legs of his barstool lightly, trying not to think too hard about it.

Edwin sets out his ingredients and then begins peeling and slicing the fresh ginger, narrating in the way he's become so much more familiar with over the course of shooting. Preparing the ginger and the kale passes the rest of the time until the duck is thawed and ready to cook.

"Now I don't have to explain to you how best to cook duck breast," Edwin says pointedly.

"Duck's pretty difficult to screw up," Charles offers.

"Well." Edwin tilts his head to one side. "One would think."

"Oh, there's a story there," Charles prompts, setting his chin in his hands.

"While Crystal and I were visiting New York last year," Edwin begins, "we patronized a heinously overpriced Chinese fusion restaurant. The duck was, technically speaking, not badly cooked, per se, I suppose; the seasoning, however, was baffling."

"Oh, yeah?" Charles asks, enthralled.

"If I order duck, I expect the flavor of duck to factor into the dish at least somewhat. But this was… well." Edwin tuts. "If I am in New York City, and wish to eat something with that flavor profile, I would not go to an upscale restaurant and order duck." He shoots Charles a dry look. "In a city famous for its cheap and high caliber pepperoni pizza."

Charles laughs, full and delighted. He will never get tired of that brilliant, sharp wit.

Conversation turns back to the dish at hand. The carefully removed duck fat goes back in the pan to fry the ginger, and then the greens. It's all more interconnected than most deconstructions, which is promising, in Charles's opinion.

Then it all gets plated, the greens laid down, the duck arranged, the jam spooned, the sauce drizzled, the crispy ginger sprinkled on and then just a couple slivers of green onion.

Edwin sets it in front of Charles, looking suddenly shy.

Charles takes his first bite and it's overwhelming. It fills up his mouth with different tastes and sensations. The flavors and the textures and oh, all the thought and the affection Edwin put into it. Even way back when. Charles kinda wants to cry about it, if he thinks about it too hard, so he focuses back on the food.

The crispy ginger has its own sweetness, distinct from the sugar-and-tart of the tamarind jam. It's really, really good, and yeah, Charles can tell exactly what Edwin means about seasoning duck, like, the duck is great as it was cooked, just done up with salt and pepper, but then you can add on everything else, all the great flavors and textures, and it's lively, like a party. The way the notes don't so much blend as, like, harmonize, but in a bold, jazzy way. Like ska.

Edwin laughs at him when he says so.

Charles wants to bottle that laughter and hoard it away for the cold, rainy London days.

"But really, this is incredible," he says. "You gonna have any?" He beckons Edwin over to the other side of the bar.

"I do recall what it tastes like," Edwin says, "and I made that for you." But he comes anyway, smile soft and fond.

"Well I think we should share it," Charles says. He puts a good bit on his fork, meaning to offer it.

And suddenly Edwin is very close.

Sitting beside him, that makes sense. It's two thirty in the morning, and the whole world feels hushed and huddled close together. But Edwin is warm, and he's looking at Charles as if he expects…

Oh. The duck. Of course.

Charles offers it up. Right up to his mouth, because Edwin lets him.

Edwin hums softly with pleasure, and chews his bite of tamarind duck, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Charles.

This moment is perfect. Almost perfect. If he could just… if he was allowed to reach out, and tease more, different sounds of joy out of Edwin? That's the only piece of the puzzle he's missing.

The thing is, this? The thing he's trying not to lose, the part where they're so close they're family, the part where Charles is welcome here, expected here, the part where the laughter is easy? It's the same thing that makes him want to sink into Edwin's skin and love him from even closer.

And it's driving him crazy.

But there's no way he's risking this now.

+1: Wrap Party

The company's rented a really nice space for the wrap party, and there's music and dancing and all the people Charles has gotten to know over the course of filming, and it's fun but it can't help being just a little bit sad.

Everyone's coming up to him and congratulating him and his mum, who stayed behind to mind the restaurant and, Charles suspects, because she's still a bit intimidated by the whole scene. He promises to pass on everyone's messages.

Edwin is being similarly mobbed, and he looks like he might be wishing he'd opted out too.

When things have sort of tapered off and they do get a chance to actually move around more freely, they gravitate towards each other like always. But things are still loud and chaotic.

Charles is about to ask if they can get out of the crush of it for a bit, but Edwin speaks first.

"Charles, can I speak to you privately?" he says.

The seriousness of it makes Charles wary, but he just nods, leading them off to a quiet corner, a soft sofa and a potted plant separating them from the crowds.

"It's been an absolute delight working with you on this project," Edwin says, "but as it's coming to a close, I find myself…" He trails off, looking uncertain. "Is this a goodbye?" Charles asks bluntly, because he doesn't want to draw it out, if it is. "No!" Edwin says immediately, and then adds, "I hope not."

"But?" Charles asks.

"But, you see, I have been meaning to tell you something and I find myself without any more excuses to hide behind, and so..."

Charles's heart cracks, because that's exactly how he's been feeling, running out of excuses to lean close and act like they're something they're not, and if Edwin asks him to stop, he doesn't think he'll be able to, and this is gonna end up being a goodbye after all, isn't it?

Looking down, Charles braces himself as best he can.

Edwin takes a breath. "I must ask. Would it be terribly out of line for me to ask you to a date?"

Charles can only blink for a moment, playing the words back in his head to make sure he'd gotten them right, caught in the whiplash.

"Ah... you must forgive me," Edwin murmurs, expression closing in on itself.

Charles shakes himself out of it. "No!" he says, and then, grinning, "Yes!"

Edwin still looks wary, watching him carefully.

This needs sorting out right quick. And words may not be doing the job right now.

Instead he grabs Edwin and kisses him.

Charles's first excited press of lips to lips is meant to be all, an answer to a question, the only thing he needs to say right now, but when he starts to pull back Edwin catches him, draws him in with desperate fingers in Charles's hair. And the second time their mouths meet, it's warm and hungry and alive and all those things a kiss can be, but it also feels like a sigh of relief.

Like coming home, stepping through the door after the longest day.

Oh. Here we are. This is right. This is the place.

Thank the whole universe for Edwin Payne.

Charles holds on tight, savoring every little element of this moment, the familiar smell of Edwin, the taste of him, the hush of his breath.

They separate slowly, neither letting go, just breathing against each other's cheeks.

After they've both caught their breath again, Charles loosens his hold just a bit and says, "No, it's not out of line, there's nothing to forgive. Yes to the date."

"Thank you for that clarification," Edwin says, eyes twinkling.

Charles smiles fondly. "Can't believe you waited until the wrap party to ask."

"It was my show," Edwin says, matter-of-fact as anything. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, or to feel like you had to say yes to me simply because of the show. But you could have asked."

That is a fair point, really.

"I thought about it, believe me." Charles shrugs. It all seems a bit silly now, all the excuses. "But we're here now, yeah?"

"So does this mean we are dating?" Edwin asks.

"Yes?" Charles didn't mean that to sound like a question. It sounds so small, though, suddenly, for what Edwin is to him.

Edwin frowns. "Are you not sure?"

"I'm sure about you," Charles tells him firmly. "Not sure how I like that word."

"Are you not… ready, to be out?" Edwin asks, and he looks like he's folding himself down smaller again, bracing himself.

"That's not it at all!" Charles says, because it isn't. Because he'd do anything to stop Edwin from shrinking himself like that.

"Tell me," says Edwin. "You can talk to me, you know."

Of course Charles knows, he'd love to tell Edwin, if he could just sort it out himself.

"Dating," he says, tasting the word. "It sounds like… a beginning. Like, I'm thinking about what it's usually been like when I've been dating people, and honestly, dating sounds kind of like a downgrade from how we've been living in each other's pockets, putting this whole show together. You know?" He looks at Edwin, pleading for him to understand. "I don't wanna only see you for dates. I don't wanna start something new, like, start over because I don't wanna stop…" he shakes his head, sighing, not sure how to encompass it in words, what they've been to each other. "…Any of it."

There's a moment, then, where they're just looking at each other, where Charles can see that Edwin is recalculating some things.

Then Edwin gives himself a little shake. "Well then. Would you like to move in?" He smirks just a bit. "Officially, I mean."

Charles stares at him. Then he smiles, too brightly. He doesn't know whether to take the offer seriously; it feels too good to be true, so maybe he's just joking.

"One kiss and you're already asking me to move in," Charles says, shaking his head in wonder.

"Of course, if it's too fast," Edwin backtracks, which is not what Charles wanted at all.

He never wants anything less than everything Edwin will give him.

And maybe that really is okay.

Charles wraps his arms snugly around Edwin, drawing him in close. Kissing him again, firm and breathless.

"I didn't say no."

"Good," Edwin says, smile soft and relieved. "I'm afraid I've gotten rather attached to you."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Edwin confirms. "I'm terribly in love with you."

"Me too," Charles says fervently. "God, so much I'm drowning in it."

"I feel very much the same," Edwin says, and then, with a slightly more hesitant look, "So. Shall we go home?"

Oh. Home. To Edwin's, not just Edwin's anymore, theirs. He means it.

Home. To the bright clean flat with the beautiful kitchen always full of good food and conversation, the sofa where they sat tangled together watching endless documentaries, the fragrant, thriving herb garden out on the balcony, the bed where… where Edwin is so soft and warm and trusting…

Oh, God, the bed, where they can…

"Right," Charles says abruptly. "How fast d'you reckon we can get home from here?"

Edwin gives him a knowing look, a smouldering look that makes him go weak in the knees.

"We'll find out."

They exit the party hand in hand, in a bit of a rush, to the faint sound of Niko squealing happily in the distance.

—

They could've been doing this like, the entire bloody time!

…On the other hand, trying to hide the hickeys from the cameras would've been hell.

3/? - Restaurant owner / chef Charles / Food critic Edwin AU - continued!

Hello, lovely folks - the restaurant AU continues and has outgrown its last thread, which is amazing! Here's a new reblog chain to reblog from and continue the journey <3 I'll also be updating the masterpost to add this one!

You can read the AU from the beginning here!

The masterpost for the AU is here!

[rans-prettydoll]

YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVE SEEN ALL THESE FRAT PARTIES FICS AND TBH CAN YOU WRITE ONE FOR CHOSO OR WAKASA?? like they meet at a party with reader and etc etc. dont have to do both if you dont want to of course!

OF COURSE. SEE IDK WHY I DIDN’T THINK OF THIS BEFORE BUT TYSM. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT. I chose Choso btw . ♡ I might make this into a series also, it depends though..🤭

NOT READ OVER SO MIGHT BE TYPING MISTAKES .

Choso was at yet another frat party, not that he minded because he never spoke much anyway. He sat in his black tank and gray sweats that hugged his athletic figure so well that all the girls there were practically drooling over him. He would get surrounded by these girls while on the couch, they were all giggly and rubbing up on his built arms talking about how cute he was with his two ponytails. He would smile and nod but he didn’t of course like any of these girls. No one caught his eye until he saw you. You were there with a group of your friends, who you happened to be dancing with, but you ended up getting a bit tired. You walked over and grabbed yourself a drink before you made your way over to the couch and plopped down right beside Choso. You laughed and watched as your girlfriends danced along with some of the other frat boys. You finally looked over at Choso and you instantly gushed. His cute ponytails and gosh just his whole vibe had you in love. “Awwww I’ve heard all the girls talking about you. You are cute!! I didn’t believe them at first!!” You would say as you smiled and giggled at him. Did you think that he was gonna be like all the other frat boys? I mean like yeah he was popular with the girls but not because he was all loud and obnoxious like the other guys! He was calm, respectful, and strong which he had shown off in one of the lifting contests that had happened at one of the previous parties for free extra drinks but that was beside the point. He didn’t want you to think he was like the others, he was different but yet still a frat boy. That’s when he realized he was getting lost in thought and that he had been staring at you. He shook his head and sighed as he saw you staring at him back with an eyebrow cocked but a silly smile on your face. “You like what you see? I'm just playing with you, cutie!!” You said as you laughed and slapped his bicep playfully. You only did that so you would have an excuse to touch him, I mean like who wouldn’t wanna touch him? But back to Choso, No he did like what he saw, a lot actually but then he realized he hadn’t said anything that whole time. He opened his mouth and let out a chuckle to match energy “I didn’t know I was that popular. You said you heard about me? Hope it wasn’t anything bad.” He said in a smooth calm tone as he looked at you in the eyes. He couldn’t help but notice the way your eyes would drift down to look at his shredded body. You were definitely looking, shit almost drooling!! While in your state of distraction, you accidentally ended up slipping your drink into his lap. You gasped and I quickly grabbed some napkins that had been thrown out on the table to clean up spilled drinks and stuff. “Oh, I’m so sorry!!” You said as you patted his crotch area, trying to clean up the spilled drink. Choso hissed and he simply grabbed your hand to pull it off his lap while he shook his head, “no no no..it’s fine. I’ll just go clean myself up.” he would say before standing up, walking off to his bedroom.

After Choso went up to his room, he would be changing when he heard the click of his door opening. He turned around to look and see you standing there. Jaw practically dropped as you shamelessly stared at him in his boxers, you couldn’t help yourself from making a cheeky comment. “Shit..didn’t know you were big down there too.” Maybe it was the liquor you had been sipping on all night or something but shit you were bold. Choso cocked a brow and sighed before putting on a new pair of pants. Now that you were standing in front of him, he could get a good view of your outfit. You were wearing a skimpy black dress that barely covered your ass and your cleavage, with some black heels. Shit, you were so hot. He knew he couldn’t let any of the other frat boys get to you, knowing damn well that they were or probably already had tried talking to you. But if that was the case..you must’ve turned down their advances right? I mean like you were standing in his bedroom, commenting on his dick size with no shame whatsoever on your pretty face. He didn’t know how the rest of the party was gonna go but all he knew was that he was gonna spend it with you. By the end of the night, he made sure to get your number, walking you to your car as you got in all giggly. Your girlfriends who were in the car with you, all smirking and laughing as you hugged choso goodbye. Telling him about how you will be calling him soon. He would be waiting for it.

[em-harlsnow]

drunk ian devouring his husband send message

Ian usually doesn't get this drunk. He drinks, sure, probably more than he should, but he acts mostly the same when he's tipsy.

But Mickey hasn't seen Ian this drunk in a long time. Not since they were teenagers. Definitely not since they've been married.

Someone threw a small party in the Alibi, Mickey doesn't remember who or why. Everyone else has forgotten too.

He's at the bar, drinking whiskey with Carl and arguing about guns. Kev and Veronica add their own opinions every once in a while when they aren't pouring beers from drunk and disorderly patrons. Mickey's mid-way through his sentence on how much better Mickey is at shooting than Carl when he feels something heavy hit into his back.

"Heyyy, Mickey." Ian slurs into his ear, giggling to himself.

"Hey." Mickey laughs, raising his eyebrows.

"How're you?" Ian says, the words all mingling together.

"I'm good, man. How much've you had?" Mickey asks, eyebrows raised.

Ian shakes his head. "None, none. I'm sooo sober." He mumbles, reaching over Mickey's shoulder to his half-filled glass of whiskey.

"Yeah, no. I don't think you need any fucking whiskey right now." Mickey says, sliding the glass out of reach.

Instead, Ian grabs Mickey's arm instead of the drink.

"You've got good arms, d'y'know that?" Ian asks, groping up Mickey's biceps.

Carl starts chuckling, gripping his stomach. Mickey snorts.

"C'mon. We're gonna sit you down." Mickey says. "Before you can't walk anymore."

"Wanna sit me down on you." Ian slurs.

"Yeah, that doesn't make much sense." Mickey says, getting up from his stool and pulling Ian towards one of the booths. He can still mostly walk, but he keeps tripping over or getting distracted and almost drifting off.

"You got a good butt." Ian sighs into his ear while Mickey's trying to wrestle him into a seat. Mickey feels one of his hands pinch his ass, and Mickey rolls his eyes, pulling Ian's hand away and setting it down on the table.

"M'gonna get you some water, kay? Stay here." Mickey says, swaying as he stands back up again. He's a little drunk himself, but he's much more coherent than Ian.

"Where're you goin?" Ian asks, iron grip on Mickey's wrist.

"To get you water." Mickey laughs. "I'll be back in a sec."

"Stay here."

"I will, okay? Just gotta get you a bit more sober so you don't got your head in the toilet tomorrow." Mickey reasons, prying Ian's fingers off him.

Just as he turns around, he feels Ian pulling him backwards by his belt. "Mickeyyy." Ian laughs. "Come back."

Mickey laughs at him. "You're an idiot. Lip!" Mickey calls, waving Ian's brother over. "Can you watch him?" Mickey asks, pointing to the ginger sap trying to simultaneously feel him up under his shirt and undo his belt buckle. Mickey bats at his hands.

Lip wanders over, and Ian groans. "Make Lip get water. Mickey can stay."

"Jesus, how much did he drink?" Lip asks.

"Hey, Lip!" Ian smiles, as if he hadn't already noticed his presence.

"Yeah, hey, Ian." Lip smirks. "I'll go grab him some water. Kev might have some bread or some shit behind the counter."

"Good, Mickey stays. C'mon, we can fuck under the table." Ian tries to whisper, noise level rising much more than is socially acceptable.

"Your dick won't fit under the table, never mind your whole body." Mickey snorts.

"No, c'mon. Just sit on my lap and no one will know." Ian giggles, fingers hooking into Mickey's belt.

"You're shouting, I'm pretty sure everyone will know." Mickey says, letting Ian drag him onto the seat beside him.

"Everyone knows you're my husband, everyone knows we're fucking." Ian adds, head landing into Mickey's shoulder.

"Yes." Mickey agrees. "Everyone knows that, but I don't think they need a live show."

"We'll hide under the table." Ian says, like Mickey's stupid.

"No, we can fuck in the bed we have at home." Mickey says. "When you won't fall asleep halfway through, though. So not tonight." He adds, which Ian pouts about.

"Fine, I'll just suck your dick under the table, then." Ian grins, about to shuffle himself onto his knees.

"God, please don't." Lip mutters. "Here's your water. Kev didn't have any food."

"Don't want water. Want another real drink." Ian grumbles.

"Yeah, this has vodka in it." Mickey lies, pushing the water towards his husband. "S'a new thing. Water and vodka. Try it."

Ian frowns like he doesn't trust him, but gingerly reaches for the glass and sips it. "This doesn't taste like vodka."

"Exactly. The water hides the taste." Mickey says. "Have some more."

"Doesn't sound right."

"Just drink more." Mickey says, shoving the glass into Ian's hand.

"Fine." Ian gives in, chugging the whole thing down at once.

Lip sits across from them, starts having a conversation with someone Mickey doesn't remember the name of. Once Ian's done, he's immediately feeling Mickey up under his shirt.

"Man, you gotta stop." Mickey laughs. "You're fucking handsy when you're drunk."

"Can't help it. We're married." Ian mutters. "And you lied to me about vodka being in that water, so I'm mad at you."

"You aren't mad at me, you're smiling." Mickey argues.

"I'm smiling. Yeah, I'm smiling, because you're taking care of me." Ian grins. "I'm gonna suck your dick so much when we get home."

"You're gonna be asleep when we get home. Better not throw up tomorrow."

"You'd hold my hair back." Ian slurs.

[sukunaforlife]

Lover, You Should've Come Over.

Pairing: Sukuna x Fem!reader

Warning: Yearner!Sukuna, Yearner!Reader, angst, smut, insecurities, toxic relationships, lots of hurt and comfort

Note: Was supposed to be pure smut but I always get caught up in the story! Reader has no set appearance except gender. This is a one shot!

Ryomen Sukuna was not a good man, it didn't take a genius to know this. Even he was aware, he had his own twisted morals that he believed somehow made his despicable heart okay. He didn't date, he viewed women as someone to use to distract himself, sex, it was like therapy to him. He never spoke his emotions out loud, not the raw, delicate ones he doesn't let breach the surface. Throughout the years, he'd only gotten worse, more closed off, more angry. Often, he looked for a replacement. He looked for you in everyone. He did it without realizing, it wasn't always physical, yet that played a factor. Most of them having your hair color, your same sweet view on life, or close to it. Your eyes, he never found someone with them, a sickening reminder that they'd never be you, along with their laughs. They all sounded taunting when yours brought him comfort. He never told you that, did he? He didn't tell you a lot of things, he never told you why. Never gave you a reason before closing that door, for Ryomen Sukuna was not a good man.

He tells himself you're better off. That love, real love, requires a kind of selflessness he never learned. So he leaves you in the past like a scar he traces when the whiskey runs dry. You were everything—too much, too good—and he couldn’t hold you without breaking you. But now, every night feels like a funeral for a life he might’ve had if he’d just come home.

You had always waited. Through the slammed doors, the long silences, the broken promises—You waited. Not because he asked you to, but because you believed he would remember how to love you before it was too late. But time passed, and your faith wore thin. Now, wrapped in a life you never meant to build without him, you still dream of his voice calling you back. On sleepless nights, you replay the moments he almost came home, but didn’t. You still set your alarm early, like you did when you used to wait for him to come home at dawn. You tell everyone you moved on, and maybe you have, mostly. But there’s a box of his old mixtapes, the ones you always slip in your cassete player, never getting to dust despite it's age, the ones you keeps under the bed, the semblance of him you can keep and tell yourself you don't miss him, even while listening to his favorite song, letting the ghost of him slip under the covers one last time.

It had been years since you both parted, yet, even though you tried, you dated, you slept with men of all kinds, you couldn't replace him. A part of you believed you couldn't love again, and slowly, that part became your whole. He had taken your heart when he walked out the door, he took it without looking back. His profile was in your search even though it'd been years since you last looked, almost taunting you, luring you to see him again, even if he didn't see you. Perhaps that's how it always was, you were looking at him, but he was looking somewhere else. At someone else, maybe. You never let yourself speak of it, the pain that lingered. Everyone believed you'd forgotten him, Hell, he probably forgot you. That was always your biggest flaw, most say, you love too deeply and when you finally realize how far you'd dug yourself into that hole, it was too late. No one would come to save you, not that you'd let them, it was almost as if you couldn't handle loving anyone else. You were loyal to a man that didn't want you. So loyal that you didn't move from your small town house in a place you knew he'd never touch again. He was larger than this now, better than this. You didn't change your locks incase he kept the key you'd given him, you kept your ring finger bare in case him came home. If only, that is. Soon, longing came to anger, you felt pathetic, knowing he most likely forgot how you felt in his arms, your scent, your eyes, when that was all you could think of from him.

Whenever anyone saw him, they knew he was no good. He radiated danger, everything about him rattled a warning, like a snake just before the lunge. Just dont get too close. He sent off in waves, even if he was doing simple things - such as now. Many nights led him to this, lingered at a club, even though the music was so loud he felt it in his blood, he could distract himself here. Women clung to him, thighs spread as he tilted his glass towards his lips, eyes lowered. When he said he wasn't a good man, he meant it. He was in buisness that was known, yet never spoke of. Not even police interfered, if anything, they guarded. Trying their hardest to keep it a secret. He had it all, drugs, money, women - yet his heart could never be replaced, you kept it with you.

A kick to his shin made him wake up from his daze, "Sukuna! Are you even listening?" The whine fell from pouted lips of his, well. coworker would be the best word for it. Ally, in a sense. They both run in the same circles, yet ran their own businesses. Satoru Gojo, often annoyed by his presence, yet the man seemed to believe they were friends. How charming. "No," He spat before standing abruptly, shoving the girls that were giggling at his sass towards his colleague, gasping as they bounced onto the sofa at his abrupt push. "I need another drink," Just as he spoke, Satoru clapped his hands together, beaming like he had any reason to. "Get me-" He couldn't even finish his sentence before Sukuna stepped away from the lounge, tugging his coat over his shoulders. He could hear the white-haired man's protests, although it all started to buzz out into nothing. That was a common occurrence, tuning everything out. He mumbled his order, whiskey on the rocks, as the bartender fumbled to find another glass, he leaned his forearms against the wood. Dark eyes flitted around, not really looking, just... Observing, that was until a familiar laugh sounded through the buzz, causing him to stand up straight. The bartender spoke to him, most likely telling him his drink was there due to him not registering it's existence, yet now, now he was looking. Then, he saw you. Perched on a bar stool near a window, head in you hand while the other stirred your much too sweet drink, with a quick look, he already knew, strawberry daiquiri. Time seemed to stand still as he viewed you, eyes sparkling as the warm light from the bar shone on you. You were speaking to someone, probably a boyfriend, a husband even. It's been years. Although, he couldn't stop searching your face for that look, the one you gave him, he found it, he did, but not whenever you were speaking to whomever had their back facing towards him, no, your eyes locked with his, and his heart dropped.

Your smile slowly faded as you dropped your colorful straw in your drink, your friend continued to rant about whatever story she'd been speaking about, you were listening before, yet all thoughts left you when you saw him. You thought he was gone, dead maybe, somewhere, anywhere but here. You thought...

Well, it didnt matter what you thought, you were wrong, for he stood mere feet away, just as stunned as you were. As if he had the right to be, he was the one that left you, that closed the door, that walked away. He didnt deserve to- "Hey," He sounded different, he looked different. Bigger, broader, more tattoos littered him, you wondered, bitterly, if he kept the one that inked your name beautifully across his bicep.

Definitely not.

"Hi," You finally spoke, drinking him in. You finally noticed he dyed his hair, something so out there, something that you would never see and think 'Sukuna,' yet, it fit. He had a black coat slung over his shoulder, a red button up that clung to him like a second skin, the first few buttons undone. He looked good. Too good. "It's been a while," He shifted slightly, as if he was nervous. You doubted it, looking back down at your drink as your friend looked between you before stuttering out an excuse, most likely a quick 'restroom,' before scrambling away, anything to get away from the tension between you two. "Who's fault might that be?" You said simply, placing your straw between your lips, watching as his gaze lingered there before snapping back up. "Baby-" "No, you don't get to call me that, not after you threw me away like I was nothing." You tried to keep your voice down, really, but the feelings you harbored were too great. Too much. People started to look, started to whisper. "Can we talk?" He mumbled, brows creasing, yet remaining ever stoic. You hated that about him, yet loved it all the same. You told everyone you didn’t love him anymore, but fuck, seeing him in front of you, you never stopped loving him, did you?

"Please," He whispered, and without a verbal response, you moved, for he was your weakness. Stepping off the barstool, and walking towards the door, expecting him to follow. You wondered how you could trust that he'd be there for you after all this time, yet you did. You never changed your locks, for fucks sake. He never tried to come home, you wondered what you'd do if he did.

Your name was spoken quietly, almost as if it resembled a secret. You faced away from him, the road in front of you had little to no traffic, yet cars parked all along the sides, yours included. You thought, for a moment, wondering if he remembered which one was yours. If he knew you were here. You doubted he did, he probably wouldn't have walked in if he knew.

"Why all the sudden?" The words hung heavy, yet your heart felt heavier. Turning around to face him, eyes sparkling from unshed tears. "It's been years, do you think you have any right to talk to me now?" You felt breathless, inhaling deeply, "After what you did?"

"No," Before you could scoff, yell, do something, he continued. "I don't, never did. Never the right to be near you in the first place." His words made your heart shatter, what was left of it, at least. You looked up at him in disbelief, his cold expression dimming. "I thought-" You stuttered out, "Did you not love me, even a little?" That rendered a reaction, eyes widening, jaw set as his brows furrowed. "What-" "I've waited for you for nearly a decade, Ryomen. I waited for you to come home, you left me without saying a word, now you have the balls to talk to me like that was nothing?" You sobbed, his hands shot up from his sides, hovering awkwardly near your arms before he let them fall once more.

"You... You don't understand," your eyes snapped to his as you took a step forward, "I understand clearly, you didn't want me anymore, you got bored, but you were too scared to tell me straight up." You snapped, causing his jaw to tick, just as you began to speak once more, he cut through the air harshly, "I will never be anything close to what you deserve." The lights from neon signs, blinking and outdated flashed against the sides of the two of you as he looked down at you, exhaling through his nose. "You know I'm no good, but don't ever say I don't love you." His tone was aggressive even though his words were not quite reaching his demeanor, "Dreamed of you, cant get you out of my head. No matter who I fuck, no matter what I do, you won't leave me." You open your mouth to speak, but it was his turn to silence you, "don't want you to," shaky words left him, softer now. "Fuck, I can't do this anymore."

Neither could you, perhaps it wasn't always the literal door you always kept open for him. The opportunity he could always take but chose not to, your soul was always open for him to come back in and crawl into the void he'd left and make you whole.

Affection never felt the same since he walked away, you thought even if he came back, that you'd gone numb. Sukuna always found a way to prove you wrong, his large hands on either side of your face as his lips crashed into yours, clumsy, like it was the first one all over again. Like you both were high-school sweethearts once more, hiding from the wrath of your parents as you pressed your lips against the man known for breaking hearts and bones. You didn't resist the urge to wrap your arms around his neck, leaning on the tips of your toes. A mess of teeth and tongue, salty from your tears.

You softly pulled from him, even as he tried to chase your lips. "You can't just walk out again," your voice soft, yet it was all he could hear. Even as patrons from the club started stumbling out, shoving past the two of you, but it was if their touches didn't register, too involved with one another.

The same song and dance that you both had partaken in throughout the years, without even thinking, your house was in view before you even realized. He'd gotten a new car, more expensive, newer. The gravel sounded beneath the tires as he slowly pulled up, you snapped your seat belt off before looking up, finding his eyes already on you. "How do you know I still live here?" Hesitating, he opened his mouth before closing it. The two of you gazed at one another before he spoke again, "Your flowers," He said softly, tips of his ears turning a warmer hue. The daffodils, newly blooming after the winter, were illuminated from the headlights. Hope, you'd always kept them, always holding hope, ever since you were young. It's not as if they were your favorite, he knew that, but there was an attachment. They were, for lack of words, you.

It'd taken too long for you to realize he kept the keys, the ones you'd given him, looped on a separate chain from his others, having it's own hoop, along with the keychain you'd gifted him, the smiling cartoon character smiling at you, paint faded from age. "You..." The lock clicked, door being pushed open as your world finally opened up to him. Dark eyes wondered across the decor you'd placed upon shelves, the pillows and blankets upon your sofa. Everything, you. Although, when his eyes met yours, your tears were all he saw and he froze. "I'm sorry, I keep crying, it's just-" The soft coo of your nap caused your hesd to snap up to look at him. "I'm here," He spoke softly as if you may break, causing your querying - "But what if you leave again?"

A chuckle sounded within the gentle night, his warm hand caressing your cheek. "I don't think I ever left, maybe physically, but I've always been here." He was tense, almost as if he was afraid. Ryomen Sukuna was scared? Him? There was a first for everything.

Your lips met once more, this time more gentle, more thought out. Quiet, calm. He lead you into your house, your room being his goal and the two of you stumbling inside. Your soft sheets caressing your skin, the tight dress you'd put on sliding against you, always adorning yourself with beautiful fabric. His palm rubbing across your waist, his dark lashes casting a soft shadow across his sharp features. "You've always been so perfect," Sukuna whispered, eyes flickering up to yours in questioning, one you answered by unzipping your dress - pulling the fabric off, causing his head to drop, a groan falling from his lips, pressing his forehead against your chest. Calloused hands brushed against soft skin, the same that he had touched so many years ago. How had he ever let you go?

Right.

He wasn't good enough. Although, just as his mind raced, telling him to retreat, you looked at him so fondly. He's never quite seen eyes like yours, frozen for just a moment before his gaze found your center. A patch of arousal being obvious, saliva building in his mouth in anticipation, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. Teeth latching onto the lace of your panties before being tugged down, just as filthy as you remember him. You whispered a complaint, telling him he 'didn't need to,' which only caused a glare from him, a glimpse of the old him returning. He tugged your panties the rest of the way down, shoving them in his back pocket, an act you didn't quite catch. Before you could repeat your guilt in being the only one recieving pleasure, he attached himself to you, eyes rolling back as he repositioned himself. Broad shoulders pushed your thighs wider apart, hands groping at your ass as if he never left. His tongue glided across your folds, strong nose pushing against your clit as he feasted. Your wetness started dripping down his chin, moans were whispered against you, a secret shared between the two of you.

Sukuna didn't ravage you like you remembered, he didn't fuck you. No, he was making love, something he never did. Perhaps he was trying to prove a point.

His mouth now focused on your clit, feeling you tighten around nothing, you were close. The man between your thighs moved his tattooed hand from your ass to where you needed him most, sinking one finger in, and even if it was only one, it felt like two of yours, longer than yours, though. He grunted against you, causing more vibrations against your senstive bud. "Still so tight, baby." Sukuna spit on your pussy, smiling, teeth glinting at you as he leaned up, tossing his coat to the side with one hand as his other continued relentlessly sliding into you, "No one can fuck you like I can, yeah?"

"No one," your moan surprised you, arching up into him as he slid another finger in, his rough thumb caressing your clit so gently. Finding it with no struggle, as if the last time he came to your bed was just the night before. You tried resisting your upcoming orgasm, wanting to last longer, needing to. Yet, he knew how to touch, how to please. He knew you.

You broke, your slick covering him as you came all over his fingers, dousing his wrist. He moaned with you, as if he came aswell. Perhaps he had, you were too distracted, seeing stars, to notice the large patch soaked through his slacks, nor the way he sucked on the fingers that had been inside you.

As you regained consciousness, or a semblance of what was left, he had been kicking off his boxers, his body bare before you. He was still so beautiful, perfect.

He really had gotten broader, more tattoos littered him, your heart ached, he lived without you, where you froze in time. Yet, when you were searching, without meaning to, without wanting, you saw it. Your name, written on his bicep, you'd thought he'd gotten it covered up or something, no, you were wrong. Warmth spread through you, arousal aswell upon seeing he not only kept the tattoo, he added onto it. Daffodils were placed carefully and prettily along your name, so feminine compared to his rough demeanor. Hope.

Perhaps he was telling the truth, somehow his twisted morals caused him to believe you were too good for him. That he didn't deserve you.

"What are you thinking about that's so important that you're not looking at me?" His snappy tone brought you back, causing your eyes to lift, looking at him through your lashes before tilting your head up too. Soft thighs wrapped around his large torso, pulling him closer as he grunted at the contact, his arousal shoved against your slit. "Just thinking about..." You trailed off, your smaller hand reaching down and grabbing his length gently, guiding him towards his entrance, gaze intertwined with his. Sukuna looked breathless, his muscles straining as if holding a large weight on his back. "Thinking about how glad I am that you're home," you whispered before he pushed forward, causing a cry to leave you.

"Never leaving you again, can't-" A huff left him as the first few inches shoved inside. You were so tight, his hands grabbing onto your sheets, if you were more aware of your surrounding - you might’ve told him to be careful, not to rip them. Not that it mattered, he could ruin as many sheets as he wanted if it meant he was inside you. He finally bottomed out, his head dipped as he caught his breath, your nails digging into his back. You whined and squirmed against him, he pushed you down with one palm, keeping you stable. "Good?" A husky whisper came from above you, barely audible, a desperate 'yes,' leaving you was all he needed. Everything happened so fast, he was gone for nearly a decade and you let him in like he never left.

His pace was gentle at first, yet he touched places no one has been able to fill, your hands desperately grabbed at his arms, trying to stabilize yourself when he quickened. It wasn't punishing, yet it was still fast, powerful. His feral, desperate grunts leaving him as you let out noises of pleasure you thought would never leave you again.

Promises unspoken, but you knew, you knew when he whispered in your ear that he loved you as he huffed out from extortion, twitching inside you. Perhaps your memory was playing tricks on you, but he felt even bigger than you remembered, stretching you past your limits. "Ryo," the whimper of his name left you, leaving him to drop his head to your shoulder, his free hand groping at your breast. You arched your back into the touch, "That's right, say my name." Sukuna groaned, the mattress springs aching from how intense his pace had devolved into. "Missed you, fuck-" Strong teeth latched onto your shoulder, muffling his desperate whines. "I'm a moron for ever leaving you, you're perfect." His words quickened, grunts between every word while his thrusts began to lose rhythm, "perfect pussy," lifting your legs and throwing them over his shoulder, pressing them against your tits - therefore bending you in half. While his actions came off as possesive, which you knew they were. Yet - his eyes held unshed tears, lip bitten between his teeth. Your hands moved from their place on the sheets, instead holding his face like he had yours just hours before, caressing him as if he wasn't ramming into you like his life depended on it. He finally broke, shooting hot ropes of cum deep into you while his sudden orgasm caused yours aswell, the warmth inside you making you arch into him, crying out - "I love you," and maybe, maybe he said it too. The kiss he gave after your words were spoken told you, told you that he did.

He always had, too much for his own good. For if you were anyone else, he wouldn't have left in the first place, he wouldn't have held you so high, believed you to be above him in all ways, that you deserved better and even at his best, he couldn't be that. Although, he grew. Not only physically, he developed, he started to realize that even if he 'wasn't enough,' he was yours. Seeing that you clung to him, that you held hope for his return, that you let him in. He knew. It was never over.

[ang3ltine]

"𝐒𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐞?" - CW Bucky Barnes x Super Soldier freader

Bucky pretends to hate your snarky remarks and your youthful energy. But deep down, he knows that he needs someone like you in his miserable life.

a.n - You guys are on the run from the law, so that meant sticking together and finding a new place to stay | Sam is fed up with you both

This is just a teaser for my upcoming fic!

After the death of many civilians and the King of wakanda back in Vienna, Austria. The bounty on Buckys' head only doubled.

Steve brings together a small group of friends to outrun the law to help clear his best friends name. He only needed one more addition. Which is when he contacts you through a burner phone.

Despite being an Avenger who has been working by Tony Starks' side for a while. You take up Steve's offer, knowing that the whole Sokovia deal felt wrong.

Lucky for you, Tony was distracted and hadn't even thought about the possibility of you betraying him. After packing your stuff, you stay under the raider as you head to the location Steve had given.

"You brang your Camaro?!" Sam yelled as you pulled up with your dark red Camaro with white race stripes. It was a retro car from the 80s but you made a few adjustments so that it functioned better.

Steve and Bucky joined him by his side as you exited the vehicle with your keys in hand.

"Hey, unless you wanna use Steve's beetle? Don't complain," you retorted with a hint of sarcasm as you step out. Sam shuts up after the mention of Steve's car while you gave him a smile of satisfaction.

"Oh, don't even get me started on how I got these." The boot to your car opens to reveal Steve's shield and Sams wings.

"I guess I owe you," Steve says while giving you a pat on the shoulder.

"You better! I had to bypass the security system to get these for you. Not to mention, Tony's probably never going to trust me again." You sighed as the actions of what you had done began to sunk in.

Steve gives you a reassuring smile that lets your tense shoulders relax as he brings you into a warm hug. "It's good to have you here."

Your eyes drift over to Sam, giving him a small smile before turning your attention towards the man next to him. You found his features to be really pretty despite his roughed up exterior.

"You remember Bucky right?" Steve chips in as if reading your thoughts. He noticed the way your cheeks dusted pink before adding another comment.

"He's single by the way." The last sentence was for only you to hear and almost caught you off guard. You look up at him in disbelief before playfully hitting his arm while he laughs.

"Cut it out would you? Just because I mentioned one time that he was cute." You hissed while you felt your cheeks practically burning at this point.

It's true you did meet him once, but that was back when he was the winter soldier.

You look back to the brunette in front of you. Bucky's eyebrows were furrowed as he studied your face, as if trying to figure out if he's met you or not.

Steve introduces you to Bucky and vice versa. The interaction between you both was brief but intriguing.

Bucky felt some sort of electric shock when your hand touched his. He flickers his blue eyes up to yours while you slowly retract your hand from his. It seemed like you felt it too when your eyes met his.

Sam and Steve exchange knowing looks at one another at the two clueless people in front of them.

"Hey, you think she's his type?" Sam mumbles under his breath.

"Hmm, seems like it," Steve whispers back with a smile while watching his friend listen intently to your animated conversation.

After heading back inside the warehouse, you began to work on a weapon you were going to use for the upcoming mission. The helicopter that you hired was going to take a while to come, so you thought you'd make a few adjustments before leaving.

While you work, you feel a pair of intense eyes bore through the side of your head. The man was standing there for a while but chose not to say anything. He was beginning to distract you, which made you snap your head towards the culprit.

Bucky puts his hands up in defence as you give him a light glare.

"Sorry! I just wanted to see what you were doing." You let out an exasperated sigh before letting him stand next to you. The warmth radiating from his body got you a little nervous as his shoulder lightly nudges yours. He was taller than you but not to the point where he was towering over you.

"What type of gun is this?" He asks while you tweak your blaster.

"It's a heavy blaster rifle that is a more powerful version of a standard pistol. Instead of small, less impactful hits, mine deals more damage with just one hit." Bucky listens carefully while you complete the final touches.

"Can I have one?" He asks, completely forgetting his manners when you look up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Please?"

"Fine," you sighed in defeat as you hand him an extra blaster. The one you gave him was slightly bigger than yours as you choose to have agility over bulkiness.

"Just please don't break it."

"Yes ma'am," he replies, giving you a small yet appreciative smile.

"Hey uhm... I know you shouldn't really hear this from me. But I should apologise for the way you've been treated."

Bucky flickers his eyes back to your form while your back leaned against the table as you carried on.

"Yeah, sure you're a super soldier, but past all that... you're just a human being. Trust me, I know how it feels to be accused of something that you had no control over." You sighed before turning back to him to give him a sympathetic smile.

"Oh uh...I appreciate it."

Bucky was taken aback from the sudden remark but silently acknowledged your apology. Somehow, deep down, he knew that you were someone that he could trust.

Little did he know, was that the other reason why you felt obligated to back him up was because you too were in a similar situation....a long time ago.

Taglist:

@marianastudiesart @ordelixx @starktonyx

@hisredheadedgoddess28 @avatarobsessedgirly

[sunandflame]

If your requests are open can you do corazon with a wife who is a captain of a pirate crew and her crew calls her mom and they start calling him dad

Captain Mom and Dad Corazon

Warnings: fluff, humor, domestic vibes, found family

Word Count: 901

Pairing: Corazon x Pirate Captain!Wife

crossposted on AO3

The first time someone on your crew called Rosinante “Dad,” he nearly choked on his cigarette.

Not that he smoked very often anymore—just when things got tense or when the crew docked at a particularly lawless port. Which happened often, considering you were the captain of a pirate crew, and he was a former Marine, technically dead to the world.

He’d been lounging on the deck that morning, long legs stretched out, coat draped haphazardly over his shoulders, pretending to read a newspaper upside-down because he was distracted watching you bark orders at the crew. There was this glow to you—equal parts strength and softness. Stern but kind. The exact thing that made a bunch of wild, misfit pirates start calling you “Mom” sometime last year.

You hadn't picked the nickname. You’d just patched up too many wounds, remembered too many birthdays, and screamed too many threats on behalf of people who barely knew how to tie their boots.

Rosinante thought it was the most you thing he’d ever seen. Loud, ridiculous, and completely heartfelt.

So when one of the younger crew members—a sharpshooter who still couldn’t grow a full beard—passed by Rosinante and casually nodded with, “Morning, Dad,” like it was the most natural thing in the world, he froze.

The sound of the newspaper crinkling and the cigarette rolling from his mouth was immediately followed by a loud, crash!—as the bench he'd been balancing on one leg finally tipped over.

You turned your head at the noise. “Rosinante? You okay?”

He popped up from behind the railing, hair sticking out in all directions. “D-Did he just call me—?”

You shrugged with a sheepish grin. “I mean… yeah. I guess it was only a matter of time.”

Rosinante blinked. Then blinked again.

And then turned a brilliant, scarlet red from ears to collarbone.

~~~

It didn’t stop there.

In fact, once word spread, it caught like wildfire.

“Dad, can I borrow your coat? Mine’s soaked.”

“Dad, we saved you the last dumpling.”

“Hey, Dad, Mom said we could go to the port tonight. You coming?”

At first, Rosinante tried to deny it. Hide behind corners. Mumble under his breath. Whisper, “I’m not your dad,” every time one of them beamed at him like he’d just given them a Christmas present.

But the truth was—he secretly loved it.

Because these people, these half-feral, too-loud, too-sincere pirates you’d adopted like stray kittens, they adored you. They’d die for you, follow you into a storm, cry if you stubbed your toe. And for them to look at him, awkward and towering and kind of a disaster, and decide, “Yeah, this one’s ours too”? That meant something.

He hadn’t been called something like that in decades.

~~~

The night they threw a “Mom and Dad Appreciation Party” was the night he gave up pretending.

Someone brought fireworks. Someone else made a cake out of questionable sea beast meat and frosted it with some kind of sweetened seaweed glaze. It was horrifying. You laughed so hard you cried.

He sat beside you, your shoulder tucked into his chest as the crew danced and sang drunk sea shanties under the stars, and for a moment he just stared at the scene—at the motley family you’d both somehow found—and thought, If this is what being ‘Dad’ means… maybe it’s not so bad.

~~~

Later, as the night died down and the younger ones curled up in hammocks or on deck with full bellies, you pulled him aside, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of spiced tea.

“You okay?” you asked gently. “You’ve been quiet.”

He smiled, a little dopey from warmth and exhaustion. “I was just thinking… I never saw this coming.”

You leaned against him, voice quiet. “The pirate part, or the fake children?”

“The… whole thing,” he admitted with a breathy laugh. “You. This crew. The way they look at me like I belong here. Like I deserve it.”

Your fingers brushed his jaw. “Rosinante. You do deserve it.”

He looked at you—eyes soft, lashes low. For all his height and strength, he still wore his heart too close to the surface sometimes. It made you love him more.

“They don’t call you ‘Dad’ because of me,” you whispered, forehead bumping his. “They do it because you take care of them. You make them laugh. You show up. That’s more than most of them ever had.”

He closed his eyes at your words. Held onto them. Held onto you.

And when he kissed you, it was slow and quiet, like saying thank you with his mouth.

~~~

The next morning, when someone tripped over their shoelaces and whined, “Dad, can you tie it?!”—Rosinante didn’t even flinch.

He crouched, tied the knot with surprising finesse, patted their head, and said in a gruff voice, “Double knot next time, kid.”

You leaned against the mast, arms folded, a crooked grin tugging at your lips.

“Look at you. Dad of the year.”

He turned pink again but smiled through it. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting. In fact,” you said with a glint in your eye, “next port, I’m getting you a mug. World’s Greatest Dad.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“You know I will.”

He sighed dramatically, then turned back to help someone fix a broken lantern.

And all you could think, watching him move between your crew like a gentle giant, was this:

You had a home. You built one.

Together.

[twyudai]

pls soft dom jo ik everyone sees him as a sub but i will forever defend shy soft dom jo. just imagine yapping about ur day to him but he cant seem to focus when all his focus is on the way how your lips move...

📬 i stand firmly on the soft!dom jo agenda—he reminds me of a lover boy who dates to marry and not for fun. i can see why people think he’s a sub but but he gives me soft puppy boyfriend. i also write predominant dom!idol so that could also be my daddy issues talking + jo is my top 3 so. i’m gonna enjoy writing this one.

he’d be staring so hard. listening to you, or not. throwing it random ‘damn really?’ or the iconic ‘oh wow,’. “yeah and then the manager, comes to her and it’s like a whole thing. she literally curses the manager out! i mean i understand but damn girl now you don’t have a job.” you laughed, rambling to your boyfriend like you did everyday after a hard day of working—but it was something about today.

joist couldn’t seem to focus on the topic at hand, the conversation. the way your curled up next to him with his hands placed on your legs. in which he’d placed over his lap when you both finished settling down for the night. “and she so annoying jo, seriously.. it just gets to a point.. i should probably start looking for another job.” he watched your lips, your eyebrows when the furrowed from talking about what was going on—how pretty you looked for him right now.

“baby,” jo blurted, his finger rubbed circles over your thigh, ghosting them “you know i love hearing you talk… but you’re sitting here looking like this.” his eyes were dark, the energy in the room changed just in an instant. “this good.. how could you expect me to focus so well?” he moved closer, placing a kiss on your jaw, you let a smile form on your lips. “shut up…” you muttered playfully.

but jo made his way between your legs, resting his body there as he kissed your lips, softly. with intent. and of course you’d melt underneath him—kissing him back with quickness because missing out on that would not be an option. “keep talking baby,” he whispered, lips moving down your neck—his hands slipping underneath his your shirt.

“well..” you felt his hand brush across your chest. rubbing your nipple and kneading your breasts, eyes fluttering shut. “i-.. i.” -/ “you what? what happens next baby?” you were lost in his touch. the way his fingers dragged so carefully and softly across your chest, like he was scared he’d break you. his hand began traveling south.

it was like you knew to spread your legs a little wider, bending the knee gently as his hands slipped into your panties. that could be another reason why he was so distracted, you weren’t wearing any bottoms—nor were you wearing a bra. you were ready for bedtime, but not on jo’s watch. once he felt your hips buckle under him—he knew he had you.

fingers pressing down on your clit, he gave them small rubs in circles. cutting your breath short—getting caught in the back of your throat. the soft padding of his long finger always sent you places—places you love visiting. because when no touched you it felt real.. like he could take his time with you and not worry about either of you getting bored.

“that’s it baby, those pretty sounds..” he listened to your moans, ears next to your mouth. was it a reach to say jo (or you) has a voice kink. and it was so obvious, the minute you’d start talking—your voice would drip down his ear, or down his chest. and sometimes he just could help but get hard—cock twitching in his boxers. feening to be touched.

jo slips one finger into you, earning a gasp from you, which sent him over the edge. “you’re doing so well for me..” he added another finger, a drawn out moan slipping. louder than before. it was deliberate—every thrust and curl of his fingers we feel and meant something. and when his thumb rubbed your clit—you were heaven sent.

“oh my god..” you whispered, fingers lightly digging into his wrists. back lightly arching off the couch. he stared at you, eyes dark but filled with pure love and lust for you. he looked at you like a fine china, handling you carefully and delicately. “r..right there.” your whimpers grow shakier, your hand gripping his hoodie, head buried against his neck as he keeps you close, murmuring praise right into your skin.

the sounds of your soaked, sopping cunt is what really sent him. the wet sound of your cunt, his wet fingers dipping in and out repeatedly—oh god jo was in love with every part of you.

biting my fist… that should be ME.

[holyblonded]

Well hello there!!!

Do you have any hc about our little soft soleil and her energetic wonderful girl Estrella on a day when nobody's home?

Hope you had a good day

👌🇨🇵

my day was pretty good! i was literally at school the whole day cause i had a track meet. i usually run at the saturday meets but i was lowkey being punished for not being at practice last week 😭

— soleil wakes up first, always does, but instead of getting up, she just turns over to watch estrella sleep. her girl’s face is soft, mouth slightly open, curls messy from the night, and soleil just rests her hand over estrella’s back and lets her breathe in peace for a little while longer

— when estrella finally stirs, it’s with a groan and a dramatic arm flopping over soleil’s chest. “what time is it?” “who cares,” soleil whispers, smiling into estrella’s hair. they stay like that for a while, a tangle of warmth and lazy kisses

— estrella makes pancakes. burns the first two, gets flour on her cheek, ends up flipping one onto the floor. soleil doesn’t mind. she leans against the counter, watching with a hand covering her smile, then slides up behind estrella to hug her waist and rest her chin on her shoulder

— they eat on the balcony. soleil’s in estrella’s hoodie, legs tucked into her lap. estrella feeds her pieces off her plate like soleil’s a baby bird. soleil acts like she hates it but she opens her mouth every time

— they spend most of the afternoon in sweats and socks, estrella putting on loud music and dancing around the living room, dragging soleil with her. soleil’s not a dancer but estrella spins her, dips her, lifts her hand and twirls her like they’re in a ballroom and soleil laughs so hard she can’t breathe

— eventually soleil flops onto the couch and estrella climbs on top of her like a weighted blanket. “what now?” soleil hums, brushing curls from estrella’s forehead. “nap,” estrella mumbles. “you’re always napping,” soleil says, but she kisses estrella’s temple anyway

— they paint each other’s nails. estrella picks some outrageous glittery pink for soleil and soleil makes a face but lets her do it. soleil picks navy blue for estrella and estrella pretends to protest but holds her hand out obediently

— they cook dinner together but get distracted kissing at the stove so the pasta ends up overcooked and they eat it anyway. estrella throws a piece at soleil who throws one back, and they dissolve into laughter until estrella trips over her own feet and they both end up on the kitchen floor

— when night comes, soleil plays the piano for her. estrella lies on the rug, eyes closed, and listens with her whole chest. when she’s done, estrella whispers, “marry me,” like a joke, but soleil’s cheeks go pink anyway

— they fall asleep curled together, the kind of sleep where their hands are still linked even in dreams, the world outside silent and forgotten. no one else home, no one else needed. just them, in their little bubble of sunlight and love.

[touchtheinvisiblestars]

Close To Home

Knew what was coming, still was not prepared for that episode... Needed to write something that distracted me from it!

***

It had been one of those long weeks—relentless and exhausting, the kind where everything seemed to pile up all at once. Papers to grade, parent emails to respond to, lesson plans to tweak. By the time Friday night rolled around, your brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. So when a few friends invited you out for a drink, you didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t going to be anything wild—just a low-key night at a local bar, the kind of place where you didn’t have to shout to be heard or worry about getting dressed up. And after the week you’d had, that sounded like heaven.

The bar was alive with a familiar hum, cozy and dimly lit, its wooden booths and low-hanging lights gave it a warmth that cut through the evening chill. The place smelled faintly of beer and old leather, the kind of scent that wrapped around your shoulders like a worn-in jacket. You spotted your friends near the back—already half a drink in—and slid into the booth with a tired smile.

Laughter came easily. The comfort of old friends, shared stories, and a couple of appetizers helped ease the tension that had been coiled in your spine all week. You sipped your drink slowly, letting the low buzz of music and conversation soften the edges of your stress. It wasn’t a remarkable night by any means, but that was the beauty of it—simple, effortless, grounding.

Then you saw him.

He was at the bar, leaning one forearm casually against the worn wood, his broad shoulders relaxed but purposeful, like someone who carried himself with quiet control. His flannel shirt was open over a faded black tee, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms dusted with a few old paint or drywall marks he probably hadn’t noticed. His hair was dark and just a little messy, like he’d run his hand through it on the way in, and his profile caught the low lighting in a way that made your heart stutter unexpectedly.

There was something about him—familiar, but not in a way you could name. You were sure you’d seen him before, maybe around town or in passing somewhere. He wasn’t flashy. If anything, he blended into the room more than he stood out. But something about his stillness, his grounded presence, pulled your attention and held it.

Then he turned, just slightly, and his eyes met yours.

There was a pause. Just a breath. His gaze lingered, and there was a flicker there—curiosity, recognition, something unreadable that sparked beneath the surface. He gave a small nod. Nothing more.

Your stomach fluttered, uninvited but impossible to ignore. You quickly looked away, unsure if you'd imagined the whole moment. But even as your friend nudged you, asking if you wanted another round, your mind was already halfway to the bar.

“Sure,” you said, standing up and smoothing down your shirt, brushing off the hesitation.

You made your way toward the counter, weaving between tables. He hadn’t moved. Still leaning casually, eyes on the bottles lined up behind the bartender, but now and then glancing around the room like he wasn’t fully absorbed in anything—just... present.

You stepped up beside him and caught the bartender’s eye, ordering your usual.

“Evening,” you said, your tone light but deliberate, letting your body angle just slightly in his direction.

He turned to face you then, slow and unhurried, as if taking the time to read the moment. His lips curved into a small smile, eyes soft but searching. “Evening,” he replied. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You blinked, thrown for a second. “Oh? You recognise me?”

“Yeah,” he said, a gentle rasp in his voice. “Seen you around. Thought you looked familiar.”

You laughed quietly, a little flustered but oddly pleased. “Guess that makes two of us. I thought the same about you.”

“Small town,” he said with a shrug. “We’re bound to cross paths sooner or later.”

You nodded, watching as the bartender set about making the drinks you ordered. “Needed to unwind after a long week.”

He gave a knowing look. “I hear that. It’s been a rough one on my end, too.”

“What do you do?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“Construction. Contracting work mostly. My brother and I run jobs around town—renovations, repairs, new builds when they come through.”

“Working with family,” you said, amused. “That sounds... chaotic.”

He chuckled lowly. “It can be. Tommy’s got a lot of energy. But we make it work.”

There was something easy in his presence, something grounded and honest. The kind of person who spoke with purpose and didn’t waste words. You liked that. You didn’t even realize how long the two of you had been talking until your friend sent a teasing glance your way from across the room.

You ignored it, your focus on the man beside you and the comfort of the slow conversation. It didn’t feel like a typical bar interaction. No performance, no pressure. Just two people talking like they’d known each other a little longer than they actually had.

“I’m Joel,” he said eventually, offering his hand in a quiet, steady gesture.

You gave him your name, shaking his hand, his grip firm and warm.

“I should probably get these drinks back before they send out a search party,” you said, gesturing toward the small tray the bartender had just handed you with your friends’ orders.

Joel nodded, that small, quiet smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess I shouldn’t be the one to get you in trouble then.”

You chuckled. “No, probably not. Though I’m pretty sure you’d be forgiven.”

He didn’t respond to that with words—just a look, one that lingered a beat longer than necessary. There was something unreadable in his eyes. Not forward, not demanding—just observant. Curious.

You turned and started to make your way back toward the booth, weaving through the crowd carefully with the tray in hand.

You rejoined your friends, placing the drinks on the table to a few cheers and playful jabs about how long it had taken you. You laughed, brushing them off with a shrug, settling into the rhythm of conversation again—but it didn’t hold you.

Every so often, your gaze drifted toward the bar. Joel was still there, leaning one elbow on the counter, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his glass. He looked completely at ease, like he wasn’t waiting for anything or anyone. Just... there. Present. Steady.

After a while, your own glass was nearly empty. You turned it idly in your hand before setting it down with a quiet clink and slipping out of the booth.

“I���m getting another,” you said casually. “Anyone else want one?”

Your friends shook their heads, mid-conversation about someone’s new apartment or bad date—you weren’t really listening anymore. With your now-empty glass in hand, you headed back toward the bar, but this time your path curved just enough that you brushed by Joel.

He looked up as you neared, the edge of a smile already on his face.

“Back so soon?” he asked, voice warm with amusement.

You lifted your glass slightly. “Figured I’d earned another.”

Joel tilted his head, eyes flicking to the stool beside him. “Didn’t take you for the kind who drinks alone.”

You smiled. “I’m not. But the company at the bar’s better.”

He let out a quiet laugh and gestured to the seat. “Then by all means.”

You slid onto the stool next to him, resting your glass on the bar and signaling the bartender for a refill.

“So, Joel,” you said, lips curving slightly, “you come here often?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You really gonna hit me with that line?”

“Absolutely,” you grinned. “Gotta start somewhere.”

Joel leaned back in his seat, watching you like he was trying to figure out where you'd come from—and maybe why it felt so easy to be sitting beside you.

***

You stayed at the bar longer than you’d planned. The conversation with Joel had unfolded slowly, like the kind that slips easily into the kind of quiet rhythm you didn’t even realize you were craving. He was easy to talk to—direct without being pushy, funny in a dry, unbothered sort of way. Every now and then, his eyes would flick to your lips when you laughed, and you’d feel your stomach tighten just a little.

Eventually, you glanced back toward your table and winced a little. Your friends were still there, but one of them caught your eye and immediately smirked. You sighed through a smile.

“I should probably check in before they think I've dropped off the face of the earth,” you said, slipping off the stool.

You made your way back to the booth, and as soon as you were close enough, the teasing began.

“Well, well, well,” your friend said, lifting her eyebrows. “Look who remembered we exist.”

“You were gone forever,” another added with mock betrayal. “Should we be mad or impressed?”

You held up your hands. “I was just having a conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” one of them said, stealing a look over your shoulder. “Conversation with the guy in the flannel who’s now definitely watching you walk away.”

You tried not to smile—tried. “It wasn’t like that.”

The table groaned collectively, unconvinced.

“So, what’s the plan?” your friend asked, nudging your leg under the table. “You heading out, or are we pretending we don’t see that look on your face?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll stick around a bit longer.”

They gave you a knowing look but let it go, the conversation moving on. Still, you felt it—the way your thoughts kept pulling back to him.

After another five minutes or so, you said your goodbyes, hugging your friends, accepting the raised brows and whispered 'text me later' comments with a shake of your head and a smile that probably said more than you intended.

When you circled back to the bar, Joel had stood and was leaning slightly against the counter, drink now empty, jacket in hand.

“Thought you might’ve disappeared,” he said.

You shrugged. “Just tying up loose ends.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then offered a quiet, “You wanna get outta here?”

Your heart gave a quiet little lurch, your answer already forming before you even paused to consider it. You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

***

Read part two here!

[zylphiacrowley]

I have Evidence™

I HAVE BEEN PERCEIVED!

I don't have my emotes turned on so I was trying to emote at you both but it didn't work (I have them on hotbars and I've had too many instances of accidentally clicking them during fights and emoting at the boss) but I was literally just talking to some friends about how fun it is seeing people you know in the wild.

I want you to know that I literally said "heywaitaminute" out loud right before I typed it in chat lmao.