#briefly mentioned it in my fic too but I should work more with this

[nekrosmos]

Went on a walk under the rain and now I'm drenched to the bone. Which is giving me NikPrice ideas .............

[always-just-red]

I wanted a slightly suggestive fluff with the twins if that's alright👁️👄👁️

A scenario in which they're finally done with Sylus's tasks for the day and get to spend some time with MC

CRYINGGG anon I low-key did deviate from the brief but I had this idea and I just ended up running with it. I hope you enjoy, regardless! I went into this ambivalent towards Luke and Kieran but something just possessed me honestly. Also dragged Sylus into it because there's no way in hell I wasn't subjecting him to this dynamic!! 😇 (I made MC here separate from canon MC for plot reasons, but if you want a fic with the twins and canon MC, just let me know!)

Onychinus' Finest

Luke and Kieran x Reader

Summary: All in a day's work for Sylus's loyal and committed worker bees crows

Genre: fluff & shenanigans

Warnings/Additional tags: MDNI (not smut but it's a lil spicy and I'd rather play it safe tbh), f!reader, nonMC!reader, platonic Sylus x reader, humour, swearing, suggestion, kisses, the twins are just obsessed with your legs honestly and who could blame them

| Word count: 2.1k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Your call connects almost instantly.

“What?” Sylus hisses from the other end, and you get the impression he’s disappointed.

“Oof,” you groan, smiling, “what’s the matter, boss? Waiting on a call from a certain Deepspace Hunter?”

There’s silence in your ear, but not far from you, Kieran snickers. Your smile broadens. “You have three seconds,” Sylus seethes, with the precarity of a pot that could boil over at any moment, “to tell me what I want to hear.”

Three seconds is a bit of a push. You’re sat on a desk and Kieran is tapping away at the computer beside you, the light of the screen catching the sharp features of his mask; he looks like something from a horror story. You nudge his knee with your foot. He glances at you.

Wrap it up, you signal with a twirl of your forefinger.

His mask tilts downwards, almost imperceptibly, and you know he’s glaring at you from behind it. He flashes his middle finger back and you chuckle, watching him return to his work. “Files should be on their way shortly,” you explain to Sylus, because you know when to stop pushing your luck. “Ever’s upped the security on these damn computers. The device that guy sold you didn’t do shit.”

It’s also now pieces of a device, shattered against the floor from when Kieran had thrown it down and stepped on it in frustration. You’re not gonna mention that.

Sylus sighs impatiently, but there’s a hint of regret. “I knew there was something off about that deal. Do you think he tipped them off?”

You glance around the room and it’s littered with bodies. Not dead! Just… unconscious. At least, most of them, you think. “Yeah…” you muse. It was a lot more security than there should have been in a high-rise office in the middle of the night. “You might be onto something there, boss.”

Another sigh from Sylus. You watch Luke as he finishes looting— wait, no— checking the last of the security guards for anything helpful. He’s found a phone and he’s staring down at it, head tilted, reminding you of Mephisto. You briefly wonder what came first: the crow masks or the crow-like behaviour. Maybe you’ll ask Sylus one day.

Luke lifts the phone, holding it at arm’s length, and you realise he’s taking a selfie. He pivots until you and Kieran are in the background, and you lean into the frame, making a peace sign with your free hand. The moment is captured. Luke tosses the phone over his shoulder and it hits the floor with a crack.

“Are you all alright?” Sylus checks, and you know his eyes are burning with frustration, even though you can’t see them. He wears a mask too— most of the time— it’s just a little more figurative than yours or the twins’. You’re an expert at reading past them by now.

“Yeah,” you say, “we signed up for this, remember? You’ve got the best of the best, right here.” You glance between Luke and Kieran. “Well, the best of the best and her sidekicks.”

“Hey!” Kieran interjects. “You wanna have a go on this computer?”

“No,” you lilt back sweetly. What’s he gonna do— make you? Sure enough, he goes back to tapping away, his head sagging slightly, and you can tell he’s pouting.

Luke has wandered closer to the pair of you. “How much longer?” he whines, throwing himself into a wheely chair, setting it on a slow collision course with Kieran’s. You stop it with your leg.

“Shut up,” Kieran snaps. “At least I’m doing something.”

“I can do something,” Luke retorts. He captures your ankle, pulling it away from the leg of his chair, and rests a hand on your shin.

“Something isn’t in the mood right now.” You lift your foot from his grasp, inching it up his lower abdomen, and he groans as you plant it against his chest. “So unprofessional,” you tut.

You’d stifled your phone against your chest, but you can hear a deep voice leaking out of it. “Say that again, boss?” you request, bringing it back to your ear.

“How long is this going to take?” Sylus repeats.

“Not long. You know what they say, though…” You meet the eyes of Luke’s mask. Your tone drops: “All good things to those who wait.”

Luke’s chair squeaks, rolling back as you push him away with a soft kick.

“Fine,” Sylus murmurs, “Mephisto is with me. Stay on the line, and send the files through when you can. I’ll check them before you leave. If they knew we were coming, there’s a chance that—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture,” you interrupt. You get Kieran’s attention again, then gesture between the computer and the phone. The beak of his mask dips as he nods.

Luke has used your lapse of focus to draw himself close to you again. He takes your ankle once more and guides it to rest in his lap, one hand tight— holding you in place— and the other deftly undoing the buckles on your boot. After a few clinks, he pulls it from your foot, the leather dragging down over your skin and leaving it cold. He throws the boot at his twin’s leg.

Kieran huffs as it tumbles to the floor. He doesn’t look away from the computer, but you know he wants to. Now that’s professional.

Decidedly committed to another priority, Luke draws shapes on your lower leg, his finger grazing over your shin and ankle. He’s staring down, fixated, and maybe they aren’t shapes— maybe they’re letters. Every stroke of his finger is deliberate. You could ask what he’s writing, but you really don’t care so long as it’s more than a word or two.

If it is, he doesn’t have the patience for it. His fingers walk higher, stopping only as they reach your knee. The fabric of your dress is draped over your leg and he pushes it aside, letting it slink closer to the floor. He looks up at you, head angled like a question.

“Any progress?” Sylus asks.

You’re holding your phone between your ear and your shoulder, both hands splayed on the desk beside you so you can lean slightly back. “Getting there,” you say, lips curving. You’re not looking at the computer.

You could swear you hear Luke laugh, but it’s ever so faint. He rests his whole hand on you, warming your lower leg with broader strokes, and whatever he wrote has been erased. Your breath catches as his touch moves above your knee, and it’s a tiny sound; no-one would notice.

Kieran’s mask turns towards you. “Oh, come on,” he sighs. “No fair.”

It’s an intimate art: seeing behind a mask. You have to notice everything.

“So hurry up,” Luke answers, his voice heavier than the last time he spoke. His chest rises and falls with every breath, just a little slower, a little deeper.

Kieran rolls his eyes—you guess, from the listless way his attention goes back to the screen— and you detect a huff. “Not fair,” he says to himself. He repeats it as he punches keys with his fingers: “Not fair. Not fair.”

Luke shakes his head gently: a fond exasperation rather than anything serious. He rolls his chair closer until he’s framed by your legs, then lifts your ankle to rest on his shoulder. His fingers curl, the pads of them brushing over the top of your foot idly, but it tickles, so you try to pull away. He grasps your ankle again. “Nuh-uh, kitten,” he teases.

It’s one of your favourite in-jokes; you laugh. Sylus can still hear you, and you’re glad he doesn’t know it’s at his expense. “Something funny?” he asks. Maybe he does know.

“Yeah,” you say. He could string you upside-down with his Evol and you’d still never tell him what.

Luke is chuckling to himself, and the sound changes as he lifts his mask just enough to free the lower half of his face. It’s not the first time, but it sobers you instantly. He turns to press his lips to your ankle, leans in— kisses further up. Leans in again— his mouth moves higher.

“Why so wriggly?” he speaks into your knee. “Stop.”

“You stop,” you counter, reaching forward to grab one of the horns peeking out of his hood. You use it to pull him away. Make him look at you. “Your little book on conquest doesn’t work on me.”

His lips widen into a smirk.  

“What book?” Sylus’s voice echoes.

You smirk as well. “Ask your pet hunter.”

You’re interrupted by a thud and your head spins. Kieran is standing up, slapping the top of the computer in frustration. “C’mon, work!” he urges. “So freakin’ slow.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” You shoo him away from the computer like you would a too-friendly pigeon from your lunch.

He flaps back in answer, his hand engaging yours in a brief slap-fight before he backs down. He slumps into his chair, defeated. “It’s almost there,” he groans, folding his arms. “Hey, Luke? Wanna swap?”

“No.”

“Do it,” you prompt.

Luke’s head rolls begrudgingly. “Yes ma’am. Jeez.” He plants a warm kiss on your leg again before clambering out from underneath it, pulling his mask back down over his face.

Another moment later and Kieran is in front of you instead. “You ok?” you wonder out loud.

“Bored.” He rests his head sideways on your thigh. His fingers find your bare lower leg and he runs them up, down, up, down, but it’s soft and purposeless. Soon, his head lifts— thin, red eyes staring up at you. The gaze doesn’t waver as he leans back in his chair and starts to unfasten your other boot.

“She’s gonna get cold,” Luke quips from the computer.

“Nah. She’s not.”

Your skin prickles as Kieran pulls away your boot, like a reflection of his brother, but tortuously more slow. He lets the cool air of the room set in. “Huh,” he corrects himself. “Maybe she is.”

You get the sense you’re being punished; both of them are petty. You’re pettier, though. “Sylus?” you speak into the phone.

“Mmm?”

“Did I ever tell you about the time that Kieran— ah!”

In a heartbeat Kieran has lifted his mask— not enough, but enough— and planted a kiss above your knee. His hand is around your leg, pushing it further from the other, and you can’t help but gasp again.

“What are you…” Sylus starts to ask, but then he changes his mind. “No. I don’t want to know.”

“You sure, boss?” you chuckle breathlessly. “It might surprise you.”

“Nothing would surprise me at this point, sweetie. Those files had better be on their way.”

You tear your gaze away from Kieran to glance over at Luke. He’s sat, propped on an elbow, his chin in his palm, and he’s definitely not looking at the computer. He sits up straight under your scrutiny. Turns to the screen. After a few more drums of the keyboard, he gives you a thumbs up.

“Got it,” Sylus chimes in, no doubt perusing the files already. “Nothing seems amiss. Nice work.”

“Thanks, boss,” you grin. “I’ve been working very, very hard.”

The phone is snatched from your hand. “She has, sir!” Kieran speaks into it. He stands, putting it on speaker before setting it down beside you. “I think she deserves the night off.”

There’s a crash as he shoves the computer from the desk, and Luke leans back, swinging his feet up onto the now empty space. He lifts his mask marginally to put two fingers to his lips, whistling in celebration. There’s a slow clap for good measure, too.

Kieran bows to him with a flourish. Then to you; you bow your head back.

“I’m hanging up,” Sylus states plainly.

“Ok,” you chirp, distracted. “I hope she calls you soon, boss!”  

“I don’t… I’m not…” your leader stutters. He reconsiders. “Thank you. Don’t think, however, that I’m—”

He doesn’t get to finish the warning, threat, or whatever else it was. Luke’s finger stands proudly on the phone, still connected to the ‘end call’ button. “What?” he dismisses as you and Kieran look at him. “I slipped! If boss asks, you saw me slip.”

“I did see it,” Kieran nods.

“I saw it too,” you add solemnly.  

There’s silence for a single moment, and there’s never silence with you three around. It lasts as long as it usually does.

You all burst into laughter.

[getitoutofmymindwrites]

The crushing | joel miller x f!reader, 5.2k

Summary: This is the story of a man who had everything in the palm of his hand and traded it all for an empty space in the hollow of his heart. Or This story follows Joel, two to three years after he cheated on his wife.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, ANGST, cheater!Joel, Joel's POV, this is NOT “The Falling” from Joel's POV, brief mention of smut (p i v) but nothing too graphic (I think), self-loathing, depression, therapy, flashbacks and memories from the past, alcohol consumption, Tommy being a supportive brother (eventually), as always let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: Ok, so, Joel gave me a whiplash on this one, he was either staring at me through the screen giving me nothing, or he was mumbling unintelligibly in my ear while I was trying to keep up with him. It started out as a final chapter, but I really think that this part should be Joel's POV and the next and -probably- final one should be the resolving, however that may come. I guess it can be read as a standalone, but if you're interested, it's a sequel to “The Falling”. I edited it seven thousand times because I kept adding things along the way, so I hope it all makes some sense and there are not too many mistakes.. Thank you for taking the time to read anything I write! Love you all! 🥰😘

P.S.: I just wanted to take a moment and let you know that I really appreciate everyone who has read, liked, commented, reblogged and asked about “The Falling”. I honestly didn't think a single soul would take the time to read that kind of story. It means more than you know and I didn’t take lightly how close to home this fic hit for some people; yet you’ve given it a chance, sharing some of your own experiences with me. I love you all, take care and I'll see you -hopefully- in the comments! 🥹🫂

Dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics

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...need your reassurance...

...your only focus…

...for the foreseeable future...

He did make it his sole focus. Because of course, he closed the deal, even after he left that damn table like a madman. He still found a way to get what he wanted. That's the man he was. And he wasn't sure if he hated himself for it or not. But self-loathing was a daily occurrence now, so one more reason added to the list was nothing he couldn't handle.

For two years he would wake up every day, is it called waking up if he doesn’t sleep at all?, he would work his ass off, he would go home, he would sink into despair and then he would start all over again the next day. A vicious cycle consisting of 730 days in a row. The deafening silence within the walls of the house was excruciating, the loneliness was unbearable. Even the light penetrating through the windows seemed different than when you were there with him, a dullness surrounding every corner of the now barely lived in space.

You. He hadn’t seen your face in 730 days. He hadn’t smelled your scent or touched your soft skin. He barely listened to your voice anymore, any form of unavoidable communication, you preferred to be conducted by the lawyers, or via text messages, at the most. At the 731st one, he finally knew, something had to change. He couldn’t repeat another day, like all the others that came and went. He simply couldn’t.

Tommy suggested that therapy might help Joel, a few times, but he refused every one of them. Maria was keeping her distance, her place was delicate, being his brother’s wife but also his wife’s best friend. Surprisingly, she was the one who finally got through to him.

“Are you gonna stay a recluse for the rest of your miserable life, then?” Maria wonders, switching her gaze between Joel and the dining room. Everything was untouched, as you left them when you moved out, but the place felt empty, depressing, probably mirroring Joel’s existence.

Joel sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “I’m not a recluse..”, he snarls through his teeth, rolling his eyes at her. He was more than eager to be done with the dinner his sister-in-law insisted on having in his house and be left alone, in his natural state. Alone. Infuriating woman.

“What do you call that?”, Maria persists, goddamn lawyer to the bone.

“What?!” Joel spits back pissed off, looking at his brother next, for support.

“That!” she gestures around his body and his surroundings. “The way you go on for the past two years! Either get over it or do something about it!”, she doesn’t hold back, even when Tommy proposes a gentler approach. Yeah, look where it got you, is the paid answer, so Tommy steps back, shaking his head and raising his hands up in surrender.

“You’ve got him on a leash, hm?”, Joel jokes absentmindedly, “Can you breathe alright, Tommy boy?”, earning himself a hard glare from Maria.

“Maybe the wrong Miller is on a leash..” Maria mutters, causing Tommy’s eyes to widen in horror.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”, Joel retorts doing a double back at her.

“Means that freedom is for those who can bear it.”, Maria throws her napkin on her plate and leaves the room. Joel remains silent, pondering the meaning of her words. It would be a long time before he understood what she meant.

Therapy was hard.

Therapy was hard because he had to do it for himself. He had to concentrate on himself. He thought, being the contractor that he was, that he would walk into the room, get the answers he needed and fix his marriage, just as he rearranged the bricks and the wood and the steel on the construction sites.

But this wasn’t about his marriage. His marriage and the way it crumbled down was the aftermath, he came to learn. It was the outcome of insecurities, selfishness, lack of communication, ungratefulness.

He got it all wrong. Everything. Every little thing. He had to rewire his brain and change every point of view he was holding onto. Honesty. Honesty was the key.

“Why didn’t you reach out to your wife after that night?”, his therapist insists.

“I respected her boundaries.”, Joel was quick to respond.

“And what were those?”

“She didn’t want to see me.”

“Did she say that?”

“No-, I mean-, the way she left that night, she didn’t say much in general. But she blocked my number, so.”, he shrugs in defence.

“So, how can you be so sure that she didn't want to see you? Even if you're right, it doesn't mean that she didn't expect a reaction from you, or that you weren't allowed to try, if that’s what you wanted.”

“Why would she? I upset her, she needed time to think, work things out.”, Joel explains.

The therapist swipes her fingers over her lips, contemplating her approach. “Joel, you walk into your bedroom, into what is supposed to be a safe place and you see your partner with another person in an intimate moment. How does that make you feel? Just say the first words that come to mind.”, his therapist changes the point of view.

Joel shudders just at the thought of it. You, naked, flushed, lips parted and swollen, skin sweaty, breaths short and pupils blown wide, coming for anyone other than him. It would utterly destroy him. “Furious, pissed, betrayed, heartbroken.. I think I would lose it, if I’m honest.” he admits instantly, in his haste to throw the abomination of this image from his thoughts.

“I see. But in her case, you think your wife was just upset?”

“No, of course not.” Joel slightly frowns, shaking his head.

“Do you think she felt all those feelings that you just described to me?”

“I believe so, yes.”, god this is so hard.

“You believe so?” the therapist pushes, again.

Joel’s nostrils flare from the sharp inhale, “I know so.”

“So, she wasn’t just upset.” the therapist concludes and Joel agrees without meeting her eyes, “No, she wasn’t.”

Over time, Joel came to realize that his choice of words was a subconscious attempt to diminish the seriousness of his actions.

“You said in a previous session that you gave space to your wife to work things out.”

“Yeah, it was only fair.”, Joel confirms.

“So, it was hard for you to give her that space?”

“Yes, of course, I missed her every day.”

“Was that a constant in your relationship?”, the therapist wonders.

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“How did you work things out as a couple, before? I assume you had difficult times as partners, no?”

“Nothing major to be honest, my wife was a very calm and reasonable person. If anything occurred she would talk to me about it.”

“And how did you respond to that?”

“Uh, I was there to listen, we always found a solution together as a couple.”

“Hmhm, so, what changed this time?”

“What do you mean?” He knew exactly what she meant.

“Why didn’t you talk to her? Communicate with her? Maybe help her see your side of things, like you did before, find your way out of this together, as partners.” his therapist explains. “And even before the infidelity, did you let her know that something was bothering you, that you felt differently?”

"I didn't feel differently about my wife. My feelings for her never changed.", he immediately corrects her. "My love for her was never the problem," he confesses and it's the first time since his therapy began that he's shared something so personal, so private.

“But there was a problem, something was wrong if you felt the need to be intimate with another woman. So, why did you keep that from her?”

Joel opens his mouth already knowing he does not have an answer. Or that he doesn't want to give one. He shakes his head, raising his brows in a silent admission that he can’t answer that. Or he won't. His gaze is fixed on a loose thread on the fabric of the couch, his fingers keep picking on it.

“Joel?”

“I- I don’t know what you want me to say, I don’t know.” he keeps shaking his head. He can’t answer that. He won't.

He was so angry when he left the session that day. He was so angry at you. He was angry at your honesty, your clarity, your courage to have a mind of your own and to speak it freely, knowing full well that probably no one else shared the same opinions as you did. That's what he loved most about you, but now he hated it.

“Own it, Joel. Own what you have done. At least that way it will be worth something. Otherwise it was all for nothing.”

This was one of the last things you said to him on the phone, while he was trying to persuade you to change your mind about the divorce. You were always so brave about those matters. Matters of the heart, of integrity. He remembers you always talking about things that he found admirable but utopian. Easy in theory, hard in practice.

“I need to be able to sleep at night. I need to own my decisions; not because I’m always right, far from it, but at least I know I’m being honest with myself. And that matters.” he recalls one of your late-night talks.

You usually found it easier to share your most vulnerable thoughts once you were thoroughly fucked and satiated. When Joel held you in his arms, your breaths almost shared over the same pillow, your scents and your fluids mixed together.

“We’re all imperfect beings, flawed; we all feel embarrassed when we fuck up,” you continue, “it’s hard to admit our mistakes to others, I get that. But deep down we always know what we’re doing and why we’re doing it. Admitting it only helps us to be present in our lives.”

“Be present?”, Joel seems fascinated by the way your mind weaves your thoughts together into deeply rooted beliefs.

“Yes, my love, there's no greater freedom than to live your life truthfully.” you smile at him, softly. Your sleepy eyes roam his face affectionately. Your fingertips caress his jawline, your thumb pressing lightly against the bare patch of his beard. He can feel your devotion pouring from your fingers and sinking into his skin at that moment.

“That’s one of my greatest fears, you know. Living my life in ignorance, in a lie.”, you whisper your deepest insecurity against his soft lips. His hold on you tightens as he rolls you onto your back, nestling his hips between your welcoming thighs. You are safe in these arms. His arms. You surrender to him, body and soul. You can feel his growing erection pressing between your folds, already wet from your combined releases. He tenderly brushes his lips against yours and slowly licks his way into your parted mouth, as he intertwines his fingers with yours. He enters you in one fluid, slow thrust, his warm exhale cooling your wet lips. “Then let me give you something real.”

Thinking back to those moments, Joel couldn't reconcile himself to the fact that he was the one who had brought that fear of yours to life. What broke him was that it was not a lie. Your life together had not been a lie. He loved you. In fact, he was burning up for you. He was a man of control, but not with you. Never with you. You consumed his every thought; being around you for too long made his lungs constrict in pain, begging for a deep breath. Sometimes he was worried sick that if he completely let himself love you like he needed to, he would suffocate you. He loved you. And it killed him that his actions suggested otherwise.

But at some point he had to be honest with himself. He was just protecting his ego. He was trying to get the upper hand out of a shitty, compromising situation. He wasn't being thoughtful, he was being selfish. He was biding his time. He thought the longer he left ‘it’ untouched, the less it would hurt when the inevitable time of confrontation came. He was scared out of his mind that he would lose you forever. No second chances, no redemption, no reconciliation.

No lingering scent on his pillow as your hair pools there, under his chin, as you nestle your face between his neck and shoulder, breathing him in. No laughter through the enormous house, damn, why did he build it so big; you never clarified what the disbelief in your eyes meant when he said he built this house for you, while he pulls you up on your feet for a silly cowboy dance.

No more gentle touches, no more noses brushing together as a silent goodbye in the kitchen before you rush off to work. No more turning around just before you open the door to leave, running to him like a little girl, giving him quick, hungry pecks on the lips while he laughs on your mouth, squeezes your butt cheek and slaps it playfully to say goodbye. Later, baby, he would promise you, his teeth nipping at your earlobe and he could feel your skin crawling with anticipation.

No more I love yous, either breathed, either whispered, either panted, as he makes a home for himself inside your warmth.

When did he fuck you last? He used to have you every day. You craved it every day. You craved him. Why did he stop telling you he loved you every chance he got? When was the last time you said it?

A week before that fateful night, when you touched him longingly, aching for him to touch you back and he told you he had work to do, he wasn’t a teenager anymore. Why the hell did he say that? Why did he sit there and watch the light fading from your eyes? I love you, you said with a sigh against his temple and walked out of his office defeated. Why did you say that? Did you know? Did you suspect? Why didn’t you fight him? You should have said something, anything, pushed him, punched him in the chest, woken him up. Would he have woken up? Or did he need that to come to his senses? Does he have to fall? Does this falling ever stop? Does he have to let you go? Will you come back to him? Does he deserve you?

Days blurred seamlessly into one another. Joel drifted further and further away from everyone. The house haunted him, all the progress he was making within the therapy walls was dissipating once he stepped inside the cold space of his empty house. Leaving the confines of it was his first thought in the morning, while he hurriedly dressed to go to his office far earlier than necessary and his last when he closed his eyes, as he laid his weary limbs on the couch, chasing still your now long gone scent on its fabric, knowing another sleepless night was his only companion until the first rays of sunlight hit the floor-to-ceiling windows to announce the beginning of another day.

People at work tiptoed around him, not knowing how to act. It was as if he was there, but not really. He was focused solely on the Marks project, mechanically going through board meetings, paperwork and supervising the construction site. He. Just. Wasn’t. There.

Joel, will you please sign the papers?

He simply stares at the text message for a good full minute, his thumbs hovering over the screen of his phone. This was one of the rare occasions you had initiated communication with him, always about the progress of the divorce.

No, no, I won’t, the little toddler in him screams, stamping his little feet on the ground.

The papers are not ready.

Joel texts back. He keeps it simple, frightened he might not get an answer back.

Joel, we both know they are. I don’t want any of your assets or your money; this is an easy signature, please.

An easy signature? You think he cares about the houses, or the cars, or the money?

You know I can’t accept that. The house is yours and so is a good part of the money.

The point was to share this house together, Joel, don’t you think us splitting up kind of defeats the purpose? And what on earth makes you think I would ever want to go back in there?

So, there’s nothing I can do to make this easier for you?

Easier? You think money or property can make up for what you’ve done?

Of course not, I wasn’t implying anything like that. Just wanna do something for you, anything.

Can you turn back time?

Of course, he can't. So, he doesn't know what to say to that. He just keeps staring at the screen, lost in thought. After 2 minutes another text follows.

?

You know I can’t..

Sign the papers. Please.

“Is there anything in particular you want to talk about today, or should I take the lead?”

“Actually I’ve been thinking a lot about that night.”, Joel suggests for the first time. He usually lets the therapist decide where to steer the conversation, then simply refuses to elaborate until he feels ready to talk.

“What about it?”, he shifts his gaze from the window to the direction of her voice.

“I should probably rephrase that. I’m always thinking about that night, repeating it in my head again and again and I’m troubled by something I realized.”

His therapist nods to signal that she's listening.

“Why did she just leave? The more I think about it, the more it doesn’t make sense to me. She just left. No shouting, no breaking things, no attacking either me or-”, her. “Why she didn’t stay? Why she didn’t insist that I leave? She was just- so quiet.”

The therapist smiles in recognition of Joel's near breakthrough. They were beginning to get somewhere, his empathy nudging him under the surface.

“I'm really glad you mentioned that, Joel, so I'd like to take you back to that night and try to understand what might have been going through your wife's mind at that moment," she explains.

“So, she walks into the house, finds her safe space violated by her husband, and she chooses to handle the situation calmly and quietly-” Joel tries to stop her, but she already knows what he's going to ask. “I can't tell you why she chose that path, that's for her to answer, only she knows why.” His therapist continues, “She is making one request of you and one request only, can you tell me what it is?”

“She asked me to leave the house.”

“Hmhm.” the therapist looks at him expectantly.

“I just wanted to talk to her.”, Joel elaborates, “I thought that if I refused to leave, she would accept to listen to me.”

“So you forced your needs on her, while she was in a particularly fragile state of mind.”

“I should have made my intentions clearer, you mean?”

“I mean, that maybe you shouldn’t have had any expectations in the first place. Why do you think was so important to you, to explain yourself right at that moment?”

“Because I knew it was probably the last time I would see her for a while, I just wanted to ease her pain, why is that so wrong? Should I be indifferent? Would that be better?”

“Did it ever occur to you that you might be depriving her of her right to choose?” Come on, Joel, break some eggs.

Joel now begins to make connections. He rubs his hand over his face, the realization of what has really happened crushing him. “Oh, god, I-” He's been so selfish from the start. He hasn't shown you any respect, not even at this delicate moment. He didn't give you a choice as to whether you wanted to listen to him or not. He didn't even let you choose where you wanted to stay. He just made you leave the house. Did he make you believe he wanted you to leave? That he wanted her to stay? Because he didn’t. Fuck. “-I never thought about it like that.”

Fuck.

How could he be so blind? Why was he so blind?

His therapist insisted on it. Because no matter how much progress Joel made over the course of a year, he never revealed the true reason behind his infidelity.

“Joel, we’ve talked about a lot of things; you’ve tried really hard to make this all about your wife and about understanding what she was feeling and how your actions have affected her, but as I keep reminding you”, she smiles understandingly, “you’re the one in therapy, you need to heal your wounds before you even attempt to heal hers. And although it is in fact a really noble thought, this” she gestures between them, “can only work if you do it for yourself. I know it may sound selfish, but I promise you, it is not. It is the exact opposite.”

Fuck.

“Yeah?”, his voice hoarse from sleep as he answers the door after the insistent knock at it. Tommy looks at him surprised once he opens it, “You’re sleeping, already?”. No, he wasn’t. He wouldn’t call it that. But when he goes almost a week without any proper rest, passing out is the right word for what he’s doing. “Yeah, I guess I dosed off..” Joel lies. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.” Tommy responds as he squeezes himself through the door to enter the house. “Yeah, sure, come on in.”, Joel mutters under his breath. “You just saw me at work this morning, is everything all right?”

“I just came to check on you.” Tommy confesses uncomfortably.

“You could have called.”

“Would you have answered?” Tommy deadpans.

Touché.

“Tell Maria I’m fine, Tommy, no need to worry about me; go spend the night where it counts.”, Joel replies in an attempt to push him away, as he walks farther into the house, rounding the kitchen island.

“Hey, brother, I’m here, I am here for you.” Tommy’s eyes narrow in pain and concern as he stares at his sibling's back, following behind him.

Joel exhales hard through his nose, his grip tight as he grabs the edges of the counter, his head lowering between his shoulder blades.

“You shouldn’t, nobody should.” Joel sighs, rubbing the pads of his fingers across his forehead.

“Ok, that’s enough.” Tommy snaps at him. “Enough self-loathing, enough resignation. Enough. You’ve punished yourself enough.”

Joel laughs at that. “Is that right? Is it enough for you? What about her?” he asks, his head turned to the side, looking at his brother over his shoulder.

“What?” Tommy is genuinely confused.

Joel turns his back, resting his waist on the edge of the counter, now looking straight at Tommy. “I should have what? Just get on with my life? Let it all be water under the bridge? Disrespect her even more?”

“Jesus..” Tommy mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, the other resting on his hip, his eyes shut in frustration.

“Are you doing this for her? Does she even know that?”

“It doesn’t matter, Tommy!” Joel raises his voice, exasperated. “I’m not doing this for her, I’m not doing anything for her, apparently and that’s the problem.”, his voice breaks, the lump in his throat too big to push down. “She’s not here anymore, Tommy.” he’s standing fully on his feet now, pushing himself away from the counter, leaning slightly forward, like he’s trying to make his brother understand; his eyes are glazed, Tommy had never seen him so devastated before. “She’s gone. I’ve lost her.”, his palms clenched in fists in front of his chest, resisting the urge to wrap them around his shirt and rip it to shreds, as he wants to do with his heart.

��I thought therapy was working..” Tommy whispers, his eyes dropping to the floor beneath him.

“Oh, it’s working, all right!” Joel chuckles in irony, sniffing his nose. “I’m getting a front-row seat, witnessing what a piece of shit I am-”

“Hey!” Tommy tries to cut him off.

“-what on earth was she doing with me to begin with, is beyond me.”

“HEY!” Tommy's eyes bulge out of his sockets, angry at his brother's self-deprecating words. Joel bends his waist forward, puts his elbows on the island in front of him and lets his head sink in again.

“Ok.” Tommy breathes deeply to ground himself, his hands in a position of a prayer in front of his mouth, “Ok, we could both use a drink.” he realizes, as he moves to open the cupboard to grab two tumblers and the whiskey from the shelf with the drinks. “..or five.”

The two brothers drink their first round in silence, both calming their nerves down. Tommy refills their glasses without asking; he knows this is going to be a long night.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Tommy begins, pushing Joel’s drink back towards him. Joel wringles his brows in confusion, “What are you talking about? You’re always there for me.”

“No, I haven’t, not really.” Tommy admits, “I let Maria take over when all this happened and I’m sorry.”

“There was nothing you could do, Tommy, don’t sweat it.”

“Let me say this, please.” Tommy raises his hand, his palm facing his brother. “I was just- fuck, we all knew how much you loved her, how much you loved each other, so when it all went down, I just didn’t know how to deal with it. What to say to you, how to comfort you. I didn't know how to deal with you.”

“You blamed me.” Joel says matter-of-factly.

“No-”, Tommy weakly refuses but Joel shakes his head dismissively, interrupting him. “It’s ok, Tommy, you should.”

Tommy looks embarrassed, his cheeks slightly pinkish, not only from the whiskey. “It’s just that I- I couldn’t reconcile the image of the man you were with her, with.. you know..”, he stutters.

“..the image of a cheater. Say it.” Joel adds.

Tommy shakes his head, like he still can't believe what's happened. “Besides, while she was staying with us those first few weeks I saw how devastated she was, man- she was a shell of a woman, so I was confused, I didn’t know how-”

“Tommy. Tommy, it’s fine.” Joel feels his skin crawl visualizing you like that in his head, cutting his brother off once again; he deserves every ounce of mistrust and he knows it.

“No, it’s not.” Tommy insists. “Yes, you fucked up. Brother, you really did. You did a number on her-”, Joel’s body tenses instantly at his brother’s words, his jaw clenching as his eyes darken, moving down to his hands, his grip on the tumbler tightening, his knuckles turning white and Tommy stops abruptly, “shit, sorry, I didn’t mean-”, his face twitches with regret.

“It’s the truth. That’s exactly what I did.” Joel’s gaze seems detached as if he's somewhere else right now.

“What I meant to say, is that I should have been there for you in spite of what has happened. I can see you're suffering, it's taking its toll on you, it has been for some time now; tell me what I can do. How can I help you?” Tommy seems almost desperate, like he’s the one in need of redemption.

Your text flashes through his mind, can you turn back time?, making him smile bitterly.

“Can you turn back time?” Joel's repeating your question and as the words leave his mouth he can feel your presence next to him. That's the most he felt of you for the last three years. He's almost blissful.

“You know I can't.” Tommy sighs. Joel laughs earnestly, the irony of the moment too good not to appreciate.

“Joel, brother, please, just talk to me. Help me understand. You act like you’re the one who’s been cheated on. So, what happened? Why did you do it?” Tommy is pleading with him to give him anything.

Silence fills the room for much longer than either of them would like. Joel feels torn between telling his brother everything or keeping his mouth shut. He wants to tell him, he hasn’t told a soul, but he’s not sure he can get the words out. He’s not sure he can bear to hear the words coming out of his mouth. He’s not sure he can substantiate it, make it real. Because that’s how it feels. He talks about it and it becomes real.

But maybe this is the right thing to do. That’s what needs to be done. He needs to talk about it. He needs to tell the truth and admit the pain he’s caused. Make it real for you, too. Perhaps it is time for him to give you what is rightfully yours. Acknowledgment.

Joel’s made up his mind. He’s gonna talk to Tommy. He lifts his glass to down his drink for some liquid courage, freezing his hand in mid-air as the next words fall from his brother’s mouth. “First of all, who was it?”

“What?” Joel's eyes search Tommy’s through his glass for an explanation.

“Who did you do?”, Tommy clarifies.

Joel feels like he’s been struck by lightning. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Who did you fuck, Joel?”, Tommy begins to feel confused, are they not on the same page here?

“You don’t know?”, Joel can barely speak now, his voice low in shock.

“No one does, not even Maria; she never told anyone.”

You told nobody? Not even your best friend? Why on earth would you do that? Did you feel ashamed? Was it just too much to talk about?

But his brain takes pity on him, helping him for once to understand. He’s connecting the dots while your voice fills the corners of his mind through his memories. His head is swarming with images of you standing in that walk-in closet, remembering what you said the last time he saw you. You’re the one I married, not her. I expected better from you, Joel, not her.

You were right.

It didn’t matter who it was. That is why. He was the one making the choice. He was the one breaking his promises, breaking your trust, breaking your heart; breaking you. He was the one who should have known better. He was the one who should have been honest. Easy in theory, hard in practice.

He feels a fresh wave of pain scattering through his body. He welcomes it. Damn, he’s craving it. He’s glad you chose to withhold the identity of the woman. Not because somehow it’s making it easier for him to defend himself, on the contrary.

There’s no one else to blame. Nobody. Just him. All of the anger, the resentment, the disappointment, all of them on him. He embraces them all. Everything. He will take it all, swallow it down and let it rot inside of him.

Joel tells Tommy everything. Everything, but her name.

previous | next

Taglist: @southernbe, @orcasoul, @auteurdelabre

[cwritesforfun]

Hi!!

So, I'm so desperate for a Emma D'arcy x Fem Reader fic!!

Pleeeasee

Ok here you go: hope you enjoy!!!

Emma D'Arcy x Fem!Reader: Co-Workers or Something More? (Request)

Y/N = Your Name using She/Her/Hers pronouns Emma's pronouns are They/Them ** I do not own any House of Dragon plot points briefly mentioned

Y/N's POV

Getting the role of Alicent on House of Dragon was nerve-wracking. You were a huge fan of Game of Thrones and even read all the released books. You've been working for years towards getting a role in any TV show or movie. You have been in some indie films and when you got the call to be Alicent, you thought you were dreaming. It was amazing. It was probably one of your favorite days to ever exist.

At the table read for the first season, you were pouring a cup of coffee for yourself when you heard, "So you're playing Alicent?" You turn and see someone beautiful staring at you. You felt lost in their soft blue eyes for years if you could. You instead say, "Yes I am, my name is Y/N. Nice to meet you, what's your name?" The person standing opposite you says, "It's lovely to meet you, Y/N. Y/N is such a beautiful name. I'm Emma D'Arcy and I'm playing Rhaenyra." You reply, "Emma is a beautiful name for a beautiful person. Rhaenyra is a Targaryen, so I am jealous." Emma lets out a laugh and says, "I'm flattered. Say, do you want to grab a bite to eat after this?" You nod and answer, "Sounds great." You both take your seats next to each other, and the table read begins. It lasts several hours.

Afterward, you and Emma make your way out to a restaurant that claims to have great cocktails. You arrive, get seated in a booth, and both order drinks. Emma orders a Negroni Sbagliato with prosecco in it and you order a Gin Martini with a twist. (If you know, you know.)

The night carries on with you two discussing your career, your lack of a love life, and dragons. It's a great night with even better company.

The next 10 months as you film season 1, you become close with the cast, especially Emma. You both hang out outside of filming time and you really like Emma. You find yourself dreaming of Emma some nights and you can barely meet their eyes. It's so embarrassing to have a crush, especially on a coworker. Emma also flirts when they get drunk and it's always directed to you. You don't know if they're just drunk or actually like you.

Season One finishes filming and the whole cast is at an open bar. You're sitting sipping your second gin martini and you are starting to feel tipsy. You hear, "Is this seat taken?" You see Emma standing there in all their glory and you shake your head. Emma sits next to you, leans back, and puts an arm around the back of your seat. Should you lean back... or what...? You lean back and Emma's hand finds your shoulder. Emma exclaims, "I was wondering if you were going to move closer." You reply, "Sorry, what was that? I keep getting lost in your eyes, what too cheesy?" Emma laughs and asks, "Is that why you've been avoiding me on set?" You shrug and answer, "Yes, you exist in my daily life and in my dreams. It's hard to look at you after I dream about you." Emma raises an eyebrow, places their other hand on your thigh, smirks, and asks, "And what are we doing in those dreams, may I ask?" You place one of your hands on Emma's hand on your thigh and answer, "Oh you know hot stuff." Emma smiles and asks, "Wanna get out of here?" You nod.

You both leave the party together and head to Emma's place.

When you get there, Emma complains about being hungry so you agree to cook with them. You both cook pasta, listen to music, and dance together. You both eat dinner so fast while laughing whenever you make eye contact.

You both walk to the couch and Emma asks, "Just a question, but when you said hot stuff in your dream with me, does that mean you have a crush on me?" You answer, "It's so embarrassing being a 30-year-old with a crush, but yes I do like you like that." Emma says, "I think the only embarrassing thing would be if I didn't feel the same way... I like you too. I really like you. I want to kiss you, but I know we're both really tipsy." You reply, "We can still kiss tipsy. I give my consent." Emma smirks and replies, "I think if we kiss, I won't be able to stop." You smirk and ask, "OK then what should we do?" Emma answers, "We could just watch a show or sleep."

You both watch a part of a movie until you both start falling asleep and waking each other up. You go to the bedroom to sleep and you wear one of Emma's shirts to bed. Emma is the big spoon and cuddles you as you drift off to sleep.

You wake up cozy and with a raging headache. You groan and twist a little. You hear Emma groan next to you and they say, "Morning. Is it just me or did those drinks really break your head?" You say, "I'm in pain. Yeah... but I liked waking up next to you." Emma replies, "I liked waking up to you too. You're a good cuddle buddy."

You both get up, you borrow clothes from Emma, and you go out to eat breakfast. You eat breakfast sandwiches and start to feel like a human. You go back to Emma's place, get back into pajamas, and turn on the TV to watch something.

Emma exclaims, "Let's kiss." You smile and say, "OK." Emma cups your face gently and you kiss. It's even better than in your dreams when you kiss them.

Part Two

[planetpedri]

aaron… hotchner… you were always there for him, maybe one day he snaps? “listen, im sorry, but i don’t need you here.” and she’s like oh well girl shit okay, but she obliges of course and he just feels guilty and apologizes? (angst/comfort/fluff)

Night shift — Aaron Hotchner.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your husband was overworking himself, so you thought it would be a nice gesture to bake his favorite cookies and make him coffee to help relax him. Until that plan back fires and he snaps at you.

Word count: 602

Disclaimer/s: slight yelling, mentions of a child murder/abduction case, hurt to comfort. established relationship (married)

A/N: omg i haven’t written for cm since my emily fic hi!

Aaron was overdoing it, no doubt. He had only briefly explained some of the case details as he made his way towards his office. “Two kids abducted and murdered, now another body has been found.” That was all he said as the oak wood doors slammed behind him. Closing you off completely.

So, you’d decided making his favorite cookies and some coffee would help ease his spirits as it usually did. Throughout the few hours it took to make and prepare it all, you’d checked in on him every thirty minutes.

You simply received a few small, ‘i’m working’ or ‘not now’ every time you tried to talk. But you didn’t take it to heart, he got like this during particularly hard cases.

Once the cookies were finished, you grabbed his coffee in your free and and slowly made your way into his office with a warm smile.

“Hey, hon?” You say gently, trying to gain his attention. Placing the cookies down and holding out the coffee for him to take.

You’re only met with a, “hmm?” instead of actual words. Aaron doesn’t look up, he doesn’t do anything except for flip to the next page of the case file. His eyes scanning the paper trying so desperately to find a missed detail.

“Aaron.” You sigh, “I made you—“

“Listen, i’m sorry, but I don’t need your distractions right now.” His voice raises into his angry voice, his eyes only darting up to look at you for a second before looking back to the papers.

Flinching at his words, you nod shortly. “Oh. Okay.” Setting his coffee mug down on the desk, you take a few steps back. “Well, they are there is you want them.” And without another word, you make your way out of the office, shutting the door quietly behind you.

The second you leave, Aaron rubs his temples, guilt seeping into his every crevice. He was stressed and overworking himself, he didn’t have a right to take that out on you.

You were trying your best to make him feel better and all he did was snap at you. His eyes then flicker to the cookies at the end of the desk, then to the coffee, then to the door. Even in your anger and hurt, you’d still shut it gently.

Taking in a deep breath, the man stands from his seat and exits his office. You weren’t in the living room, and he had a clear view of the kitchen, which you also weren’t in.. next was the bedroom.

Walking down the hallway, past Jacks room, where he caught a peep of his sleeping son, then toward their bedroom. The second the door opened he caught sight of you sitting on the bed running a stressed hand through your hair, his eyes softened instantly.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs out, taking a few strides toward you. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice.” He finishes softly, the bed sinking down as he sits beside you.

“It’s fine.” You mumble, looking at your husband. His eyes were tired, his hair was a mess, his tie loosened around his neck. “You should get some rest.”

Aaron nodded, “okay. I will. Soon. I just need to—“

“No, Aaron. Now.” You say, this time more firmly. “Sleep, now.” Your hands reach forward to undo his tie, “I know child cases are hard on you, but you can’t do your job properly if you aren’t sleeping.”

The dark haired man’s lip turns upward ever so slightly, but you caught it. “Okay. Sleep it is.” He finally caves, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

DTS , @halfwayhearted !

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: hey there! i never actually planned on writing a sequel to ‘9 pm’ but a few anons asked about it and i liked the idea of giving them some happiness following that fic! the perfect title gave me the idea for the fic and here we are ☺️ i hope you guys enjoy!!

word count: 2.8k

tw: brief and minor mention of a miscarriage, pregnancy

direct sequel to 9 p.m. in vancouver

summary: andrei’s off on a road trip and you’re more exhausted than normal. once you realize why, you have to call andrei immediately

It’s barely ten at night and you’re falling asleep on the couch, Friends rerun playing at a low volume on the TV. Your blinks get longer, eyelids heavy, while Joey yells about the Coast Guard.

A yawn creaks at your jaw and you try to blink away some of the sudden exhaustion in your body. It doesn’t really work, another yawn catching you a few minutes later. You wrap your arms around one of the throw pillows, cheek smashed up against the pillow tucked under your head.

It’s been a long few days, work overwhelming you and Andrei up in the tri-state area for a mini road trip. The Canes had lost to the Flyers before beating the Devils. They’re currently up two goals on the Rangers, according to your NHL app updates, with just a few minutes left in the third.

The team will spend the night in the city before heading to Long Island for the second half of a back to back tomorrow.

It’s a grueling schedule so early in the season, four games in six days, and you know Andrei will be exhausted when he gets home on Monday morning. At least they’re off for two days before hitting the ice for a home game on Wednesday. You yawn again and decide vaguely that maybe you’ll go to the game, if you can keep your eyes open. It’s been a while since you went to the arena and you miss watching Andrei play live.

You can’t help but think briefly about the game in Vancouver last November, almost a year ago now, and your hand drifts to your stomach.

The baby would’ve been four months old, probably keeping you wide awake right now.

You don’t really think about the loss as much anymore, you can go long stretches of time without thinking about him - because you’d decided that it was a boy, even though it was too early to ever tell. Your due date had come around at the end of July and Andrei had spirited you out of the country, the both of you quiet and moody for a few days.

And then training camp had started and you’d gotten busy with work and then the season started and you didn’t dwell on the loss for a while.

But now it’s late and you’re tired and you haven’t seen Andrei in a few days and you should be cuddling a baby right now.

A few tears trickle down your temple and you swipe at them, emotion clogging your throat.

“God, get a grip,” you mutter to yourself, shaking your head slightly. It’s not even like you’re on your period to be so hormonal right now. Your brain takes a second to process the thought and when it does, your eyes widen and you kick your legs out, struggling with the blanket to try and sit up.

“Oh, oh my god,” you scramble for your phone, tossing blankets around until you hear the tell-tale thunk of the phone hitting the floor. You lunge for it, the TV remote going flying, but you barely pay attention to that as your fingers wrap around the loop on the back of your phone case and snatch it off the floor.

Your hands shake violently as you unlock your phone and thumb over to find your period tracker app. The app takes seconds to load, seconds where your heart beats wildly and your vision goes a little blurry. You mutter, “come on, faster, faster,” under your breath and suddenly the screen loads and there in the center of the screen, in bold font, is the notice that your period has been late for more than thirty days.

You’ve missed two periods.

Without even realizing it.

To be fair to yourself, after the miscarriage, everything was thrown off and you’ve only had seven or eight periods in the past year. So it’s not totally crazy that you didn’t realize you missed two cycles.

Your stomach lurches a little bit and you chew at your lower lip. You probably should take a test. But do you want to know without Andrei, again?

It didn’t work out so well last time.

You’re probably not even pregnant, you rationalize, it’s the stress of a new season starting and your body getting back to normal.

Never mind the fact that you’ve long been cleared to get pregnant again and your gynaecologist hadn’t said anything was wrong at your last appointment.

Your phone vibrates in your hand, nearly scaring the shit out of you. It’s just a notification from the NHL app - sometime in the last few minutes, while you’d been spiralling, the Rangers had tied the game and it was going to overtime.

Overtime anxiety is better than maybe-pregnant anxiety, so you tune into Bally, the sudden brightness of the glare off the ice making you blink. You’re half-heartedly paying attention, fingers tapping against your thigh while the players zip up and down the ice, trading scoring chances. Andrei’s on the ice for a shift and then he’s back on the bench. Pyotr makes a save and then another and then he doesn’t.

You frown at the TV, watching Andrei and the guys file off the ice, miserable for the team’s loss. You change the channel back to Nick at Nite, not interested in seeing the post-game analysis of the loss.

The audience laughter from the show echoes around the living room and you chew at your lower lip anxiously. Andrei won’t be back to his hotel room for hours, the post-game process already underway, but between media, a shower, and the travel. Well, it’ll be at least close to midnight before you can talk to him.

He’ll reassure you that you’re overthinking, that it’s nothing. But a quiet part of your brain is insistent that you’re pregnant and it just won’t shut up.

The smartest thing would be to take a test, find out once and for all if you’re even going to mention anything to Andrei. You’re pretty sure there’s no tests left after last time and if there are, they’re probably expired.

Your fingers tap at the screen of your phone almost by memory, the Google search showing that there’s a twenty-four hour CVS just a ten minute drive away.

The episode ends and another begins while you sit on that information, giving yourself a moment to imagine what you’ll do if the test is positive. He has to know immediately this time, you don’t think you’d be able to wait.

“Oh fuck it,” you mutter to yourself, pushing the blankets off your legs and getting up from the couch. Your vision goes fuzzy, briefly, the blood rushing from your head. You blink and everything shifts back into focus, your heart hammering a little.

Before you can overthink it, you turn off the TV and head for the front door, making a stop at the front hall closet to grab a jacket. Your fingers close around the sleeve of one of Andrei’s, the jacket dwarfing your frame as you slip your arms into the sleeves. You shove your feet into a ratty pair of Uggs and drop a faded Canes ball cap on your head.

You look insane, more like a college kid doing a walk of shame than a married woman, but Andrei’s scent embedded deep into the collar of his jacket is comforting you.

At CVS, you grab at the pregnancy test boxes like a woman possessed - Clear Blue, First Response, and the CVS generic brand all go into your basket, along with a bag of pumpkin shaped Reese’s Cups and a pack of Twizzlers. Something about the waxy, artificial strawberry ropes seems appealing right now.

Thank God for self-checkout, you don’t think you can face another person right now.

The pregnancy tests feel like they weigh a million pounds in the plastic bag and you gnaw anxiously on a Twizzler as you drive back home.

It’s well after midnight by the time you manage to drink enough water in order to pee on all the sticks and this round is more anxiety producing than when you’d done it over a year ago. Once you’re done, you set the timer on your phone and flip each stick over on the counter, so you can’t see the displays.

Instead of waiting in the bathroom, which is feeling small and stuffy despite how large it actually is, you pace around your bedroom for the few minutes it takes for your timer to count down. You wonder if you could call Andrei now, be on the phone with him when you look at the display, but if you’re not pregnant and he’s on the phone, he’ll be disappointed right before the next set of games. He’s been talking about it a little more lately, in the abstract, how nice it’ll be to have a baby one day. And you maybe haven’t been as enthusiastic as he’s been, so you don’t want to get his hopes up.

If you’re not pregnant, Andrei doesn’t need to know that you worried yourself into a tizzy over nothing.

But if you are? Well, Andrei will be the first call anyway.

The timer goes off on your phone and the sudden, shrill noise makes you jump. Your stomach lurches and you flatten your palm over it. Underneath the anxiety, there’s a little bubble of excitement growing, the thought of a baby providing a little spark of joy.

You wander back into the bathroom and close your eyes before flipping the tests over with shaking hands.

The plastic clatters against the countertop and you squint one eye open and then the other, vision focusing on the little displays.

“Oh!” You gasp, eyes immediately filling with tears, hands flying up to cover your mouth.

All three are positive, the little Clear Blue display declaring you ‘Pregnant’ in tiny letters.

Tears slip down your cheeks and you start giggling wildly, overwhelmed in the best possible way. Your hands press on your stomach, palms flat and fingers splayed.

“Hey there, baby,” you murmur, looking down. “Stay safe in there, okay? We want to meet you.”

The tears fall faster and you wipe at them with your shoulder, a damp splotch forming on the fabric of your sweatshirt. It’s so late, but you need to tell Andrei, and you move on autopilot, climbing onto your bed and finding your phone among the messy covers - the bed hasn’t been made in two days because Andrei is more of a stickler for that than you are and you like to get right back into the nest of blankets at the end of the day. It’s on your list of things to do before he’s back in a few days. Now, you pile yourself into a little cocoon of the blankets and comforters, warm and happy.

You text him first, just a quick ‘you awake?’ that you know he’s going to read as a request for phone sex.

True enough, your phone vibrates in your hand a few seconds later, Andrei’s name at the top of the screen. You grin and slide the bar to answer, “hey there.”

“Is late,” he replies, a faint laugh in his tone. “Thought you would be sleeping.”

“No,” you giggle, feeling a little unhinged. “Not asleep. Couldn’t sleep. Um, are you alone?”

Your husband laughs fully now, the sound echoing over the line. “Solnyshka, been a long day. I love you, but we have early morning,” he teases and the rumble of his voice makes you smile.

“No, not for that you perv,” you shoot back, twisting your fingers in a loose thread. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

You know you’re sounding vague and strange, but to his credit, Andrei doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he’s quiet for a second before your phone vibrates against your ear, signalling an incoming text. You pull the phone from your ear and tap over to your messages, laughing when you see the picture Andrei just sent.

The hotel room is nearly pitch black, but you can still make out the shape of Martin Nečas passed out in his bed with what looks like an eye mask covering his face. Andrei’s grinning face is cut off in the corner of the picture.

“Guess that’s a yes then,” you smile, bringing the phone back to your ear.

“Neci has earplugs in too,” Andrei informs you. “Says I snore, which is lie.”

It’s not, but you don’t feel like relitigating that particular point with him right now. So you move on.

“I know I should’ve waited, done something cute, but I’m bursting,” you let the words come out in a rush, feeling lightheaded with excitement. “I couldn’t, I had to tell you right away, Drei, baby, I’m pregnant.”

Andrei’s silent on the other end and a slightly manic laugh bubbles out of your mouth while you wait for him to say something.

“Pregnant?” He repeats, sounding like he’s just taken a blow to the stomach - winded and hoarse. “Like, with baby?”

“Yeah, mhm,” you hum, just letting the news soak in. Andrei’s breathing is audible in your ear, a soft ‘huh’ puffing out.

He starts to laugh and you can hear the grin in his voice when he says, “oh, solnyshka, fuck, I’m… ya chertovski schastliv.”

He slips into Russian and you’re not totally familiar with the words, but he repeats them in English, “I’m so fucking happy. Are you okay? How you feel?”

“I’m okay, I was feeling a little tired earlier,” you say. “That’s kind of why I took the test, just to see.”

Without asking, Andrei switches the call to a FaceTime and you pull the phone back, his grinning face taking up the entire screen. He looks lighter and happier than he has in months and the sight of him, of that smile that you love so much, makes you emotional.

“I wish I could kiss you,” he shakes his head, still smiling. “Hold you, something other than smile like idiot on phone.”

“I’m just happy to see your smile,” you say truthfully. A hug wouldn’t be unwelcome, but just seeing Andrei’s face has you calmer. “It’s late,” you continue, catching sight of the time in the top left corner of your phone - nearly 1:30 in the morning. “You should get some sleep.”

The adrenaline is starting to wear off now and you slump back against the pillows and headboard.

Andrei nods. “Call me when you get up,” he requests, phone bouncing slightly as he shifts on the bed. “We leave early, but call any time, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, pressing your lips together to smother a yawn. “Hey, I love you.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Andrei replies in Russian, warm and awed. “You and baby, both.”

You’re both quiet for a bit, comfortable and sleepy, reluctant to end the call. You just want to enjoy his long-distance presence and this little bubble, but eventually Martin lets out a snore on his side of the room, startling you since you forgot he was there. Andrei laughs faintly and reluctantly ends the call, after telling you he loves you again.

Now that Andrei knows, your whole body relaxes and you sink happily into the nest of blankets and pillows, curled up in a c-shape, one hand on your stomach.

There’s a million things to figure out in the coming days, weeks, and months, a million worries to ruminate on, but for now, you fall asleep with a smile on your face and pure happiness bubbling in your stomach.

The next morning, you snooze your alarm and allow yourself to wake up slowly and lazily. It’s an easy morning and you don’t plan on getting out of bed until you hear the doorbell ring.

With a grumble, you climb out of bed and shove your feet into a pair of slippers to pad downstairs, wondering who could be at the door this early.

It’s a delivery man, half-hidden behind a huge bouquet of flowers. You accept it, surprised at the delivery but not at the sender.

The oversized bouquet made up of baby roses, baby’s breath, and a few other types all in various shades of baby pink and baby blue can only be from your husband. Your face hurts from the size of your smile and you dig out the little card from between a pale pinks rose and a light blue hydrangea.

‘I love you, we will celebrate as soon as I am home. A hug and a kiss from New York for you, mama. -A’

It’s not Andrei’s handwriting, but you trace your fingers over the letters and feel tears well up. Any concerns or worries you might have about having a baby are pushed aside.

Andrei’s going to be the best dad and you’re so lucky to be doing this with him.

[pampushky]

Teaser: My Name Is Brutus (And My Name Means Heavy)

Alpha! Lando Norris/Omega! Lauda! Reader

oooo what's this?? me dropping a juicy little teaser of probably one of my favorite things I've written??

so. this is basically an ABO au with a race engineer & lauda mc, with the wonderful trope of enemies to lovers thrown in, as you will soon see from the scene I'm releasing a bit early.

other things about the fic: slow, and i mean fucking slow, burn. exploration of what disabilities would look like in the ABO world (especially centered around the sense of smell and how that could be considered a disability if someone doesn't have one in a world where most things are communicated by smell), societal pressures about what the ideal alpha/omega/beta should look like to the rest of the world which leads to Lando making assumptions about MC's secondary gender/sex, mentions of past emotional & mental abuse, PTSD, scarring, and worries about self-worth. Oh. and obvious hurt/comfort. But again, and I cannot emphasize this enough. Slow. Fucking. Burn.

uhhh i guess i'll do a tag list too for this so. tell me if you wanna be on that.

“I do have… issues, with the way you run things here,” you scratch your claw into the wood of the table, a low rumble in your throat. The scent blockers you have on are distracting to Lando. He wonders, briefly, what your scent is like, when it’s not so medicinal. “You need more discipline. Less media. It makes you seem… soft.”

“Soft?” Lando leans forward, tilting his head. You look back at him with your constantly blank stare, a slight frown on your lips, icy eyes that challenge even the Lauda death stare. “What do you mean?” You hesitate, looking to Zak and Andrea, who both gesture for you to continue. You then look at Oscar, who bites his lip and makes eye contact with you, and shrugs softly, as if permitting you to say whatever you were about to say.

“....you will take offense to what I’m about to say, I’m warning you.”

“Please, I’ll be fine,” Lando waves it off, grinning lazily. His nose twitches. The heavily medicinal smell of your scent blockers is getting to him. Do you truly need to cover your scent that much? Are you worried that he’ll act aggressively because you’re also an Alpha?

“.... no. You won’t. I’ve seen your interviews.” You say dryly, and fold your arms. Lando balks. 

“I beg you pardon?”

“You don’t take criticism well.”

“I take it just fine!” Lando shoots back, feeling himself starting to get frustrated. Why did you have to wear them? Even if you are an Alpha, the medication provided by the FIA should be more than enough to keep anyone’s tempers from flaring.

“Then you won’t throw a hissy fit when I list out all my problems with the way you work?” 

Your tone is icy. Even. Perfectly calculated. 

“Oh, you know I want to hear about your issues with me,” Lando slams his hands down onto the table, and you just raise an eyebrow at him. He’s down to his undershirt, his fireproofs hanging at his waist as you stare at him. “So say it! Don’t hold back!”

Andrea just massages his temples as Zak looks like he wants to be anywhere else. 

“Only if you don’t throw a tantrum when I’m right.” You state, examining your nails from where you sit, as though this is boring for you. Monotonous and icy-calm. 

Lando hates your voice. Specifically how robotic and monotone it sounds. What little he knows about you— which is as much as the rest of the world, with how private the Lauda family is— is that you apparently have some vocal chord and brain damage. Nothing substantial enough to impede your thought process or the way you speak to make you mute, but enough to have caused the monotonous way you talk. A small enough problem that Lando doesn’t feel like a total dick for what he’s about to say.

“Oh, just fucking say it, you robotic bitch!”

That gets your attention. You pause, slowly bring your hand down, and look at him. With the classic, terrifying Lauda glare. Your eyes pierce his soul, and for a second, just a second, Lando considers apologizing. Tucking his tail between his legs, his ears folded back. But then, he remembers who he is, and he meets your glare with his own, lips drawn back to bare his teeth....

[itshype]

How I Met Your Brother (DC x DP)

Dan joins the Justice League - not as part of his rehabilitation, but as a reward for doing so well.

Tucker makes the grave mistake of mentioning Dan in front of Jazz. And as an eldest sister myself I would not be happy about an alternate version of my sibling being left completely alone in the world, no support, no family to then be turned into a psychopath. And I would be furious for them to then be imprisoned - not for life but for all time?

However, unlike me, Jazz is the world's foremost authority on ghost psychology. She has Dan out of his Thermos and in a larger enclosure within the week.

Now, a lot of fics have Jazz as a magical therapist who can say a few sentences and make any bad guy cry. Sorry, not today though.

First, they resocialise Dan like a feral cat (solitary confinement does make people get loopy), sitting outside his enclosure and hanging out, doing homework etc. This sort of gets him to figure out emotionally that he's no longer in the timeline where everyone he ever cared about died.

Danny discusses with him how many nightmares he's had over just the idea of losing his entire support network the way Dan did and he can't imagine what he's been through. But no emotions are not, in fact superior to having negative emotions.

After a few months, he decides that he does in fact want to actively try and get better. He goes to a therapist (because family members can't do therapy!!!) who's just unhinged enough to get a kick out of counselling a ghost from an alternate timeline.

There's only one relapse. Clockwork fixed it and they don't talk about it.

A month or so later they let him out of the enclosure for good. They offer to symbolically destroy it but Dan thinks they should keep it just in case.

While Dan's humanity has returned, his actual human half is gone forever. But he's interested in doing something with himself. He can't get a GED, or a degree, or be an astronaut. Maybe something in entertainment?

Tucker makes the grave mistake of mentioning that the Justice League headquarters are in space. Dan isn't as powerful anymore now he's no longer a halfa, but he knows he's handy in a fight. He loves space and due to having them repeatedly and ineffectively implemented against himself - a deep knowledge of international war tactics.

NGL, this isn't where I thought this story was going. But Dan is now an international politics, war policy and foreign affairs expert, I guess.

He helps a fair bit on the team, but his key contributions are his encyclopaedic predictions of how different international communities will react to events. If an out of control meta in Paris takes down the Eiffel Tower, he predicts which countries will immediately 'crack down' on their superpowered citizens - that sort of thing. It's invaluable for their PR team and young meta safety.

He's a friendly guy, doesn't judge anyone for losing control of their powers or going 'too far' on a villain who hurt their friends and family. And he never shuts up about his kid brother who is apparently also his best friend. He briefly mentions a baby sister he's never met and that makes everyone pretty sad.

He doesn't consider this Jazz his sister. He's already had a sister named Jazz and isn't looking for a 1:1 replacement. This Jazz is more like a mum-friend. However, he never had a Danny or an Ellie in his last life.

"My little brother told me about the trick to this level in Doomed 17, want me to explain what you're missing?"

"Sorry, I really can't possess you, even for 'anti mind-control' training. That isn't how overshadowing works, you can't become immune without exposure to ectoplasm in dangerous doses. No, I can't get you some pure ecto, my baby brother would kick my ass to hell."

"Yeah, my baby bro and I both wanted to be astronauts, I died so it's not in the cards for me anymore, but he has a real shot still, we're all rooting for him!"

Most Justice League members think he's a dead eldest brother with living siblings he's still in close contact with.

It's all fun and games until he tries to take a bullet for Batman during an ambush and it's actually an amnesia ray designed to make Batman forget about a specific case until the bad guy can complete his plan.

"I killed you all before, and I will do it again."

[htchnr]

★ gentle hands ❥ A. HOTCHNER.

➻❥ masterlist. ➻❥ patreon.

CW ➥ reader has issues with eating ⋆ very brief mention of an alcohol problem ⋆ mention of binge eating or not eating ⋆ sweet and sappy comfort fic ⋆ if i missed anything, lmk!

WC ➥ 1,3k. SONG ➥ chocolate mint , duster.

SUMMARY ➥ you've always had issues with food, you either eat too much, or not enough, or not at all. you've always struggled with it yourself, but now that you live together with Aaron it's a little difficult to avoid or hide. so when you tell him about your struggles, he comforts you. as requested by an anon, but i lost the ask 😭

AUTHORS NOTE ➥ i'm getting a little bit better! still feel like i've got the flu, but i've atleast been able to concentrate on writing a request! 😁 i'm gonna try my best to finish up the remaining Kinktober posts, those will at the very least be all done before the end of November!

★ - © 2023 HTCHNR. do not copy, share or translate my work to this platform, or any other! - ★

you rolled on your back, eyes glued to the ceiling as you tightened your jaw. the clock had briefly flashed 3:28AM when you moved. your hands clenching and unclenching at your sides.

the urge to eat something was so overbearingly painful. you weren't necessarily hungry, you just need something to eat. you've tried explaining it to therapists before, but it never came out the way it needed to. you've briefly talked about it with Morgan once, though ended up not continuing the conversation after you got a call about a case and left.

and you didn't want to bring it up with Aaron; he already worried about the smallest things, the tiny bad habits you had. Aaron was one of the best people you've met, but you felt like you only burdened him with your flaws. though if Aaron ever heard you say that, he'd crush you in a hug and force you to apologise. to yourself, for ever daring to think that you were a burden to him.

your fists clenched one more time before you sat up, rubbing your hands across your face in frustration. some nights food was comforting, other nights; like this night, it was a nuisance and it frustrated you so much, your self image took the bullet for it.

you carefully moved the blankets off of you, letting your feet quietly hit the cold wood floor of your bedroom. you glanced behind you at the figure in your bed; Aaron laid peacefully, the deep creases in his face looking more relaxed as he slept.

you brushed a hand through your hair as you quietly left the bedroom and walked towards the kitchen. you yawned as you pulled open the main cupboard where you kept most packaged foods like crackers, cookies, cereal etc. one hand holding the door, the other on the bare skin of your waist, you hadn't bothered putting anything else on beside the bralette and the pair of pyjama shorts you had worn to bed.

you hesitated, i should shut the door and just go back to bed, you thought to yourself. but your body moved on it's own accord, grabbing a box of cereal and two granola bars. your hold tightened around the bars, plastic crinkling in your grip before you set the items on the counter. you pulled open the fridge to grab the milk, and pulled out a rather large clean bowl from the dishwasher. you made a mental reminder to empty that out after you were done eating.

you poured the cereal into the bowl, hoping the sound didn't trigger Aaron and then twisted open the cap of the milk before pouring it in, the quiet 'crackle' of the cereal filling your ears.

you cracked open the dishwasher once more, grabbing a spoon and shoving it in the bowl, stirring and coating all the cereal in the milk. you took a bite, your tense form almost instantly relaxing a smidge as you chewed on the cereal. see? eating was a good idea. you stood facing the counter while you ate, stuck in your own headspace.

so much so that you hadn't noticed that Aaron had left the bedroom. you rather quickly finished the bowl of cereal, putting it down on the counter beside the sink. as you grabbed for one of the granola bars, a pair of warm, gentle hands slid around your waist and their fingers splayed across your stomach, followed by a pair of lips pressed against your bare shoulder.

"what are you doing up honey?" he asked quietly. he noticed the atmosphere the second he entered the kitchen. your hand tensed around the granola bar, before shoving it against the counter and letting it go. your frame was still tense, even against Aaron's warm body. you don't need the granola bar, you eat enough as it is.

you shook your head a second after Aaron's question. "it's nothing, i was just-" you paused. don't tell him, you'll just give him more to deal with. one side spoke. while the other side encouraged you to open up to him about this. "what's wrong? i can hear those brilliant gears turning. talk to me dear." he spoke endearingly, a slight tease to his tone, that left as soon as it came. you turned in Aaron's arms, your lower back now against the counter, the granola bars behind you as you faced Aaron's bare chest.

"it's nothing Aar, go back to bed.." you insisted, still not meeting his eyes.

Aaron's hold tightened a little on the swell of your hips before lifting one hand to tilt your chin up to face him. "i know when something's wrong, please just talk to me about it." he spoke in a tone a little higher than a whisper. he leaned in and placed a gentle kiss against your forehead.

"it's just that," you paused. are you doing this right now? "i," you suck in a breath. you couldn't seem to find the words now.

Aaron stroked your cheek. "hey, take your time." you encouraged you gently, a reassuring smile on his lips.

you nodded, looking down at your hands. do it, come on. "i have a problem with eating." there, it wasn't that hard, was it? Aaron nodded lightly, prompting you to continue. "i, i either eat too much or nothing at all." Aaron's hand returned to your waist, his thumbs rubbing reassuring circles into the soft flesh.

this wasn't as hard as you made it out to be. "some nights i feel like the urge to eat is so strong, that it eats away at me until i eat. though i'm not always even hungry, i just, have to eat. that doesn't make sense does it?" you chuckle sadly, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his warm chest, your arms still hanging at your sides. "and some days, i just avoid food all together. it's like the feeling of eating makes me feel so sick? not necessarily physically sick, but mentally." you continue, a slight crack in your voice.

Aaron's heart breaks at your confession. he knew something was going on, but not that it ran this deep. "and some days, i just drink all day. being drunk blocks out all the issues with eating. either i eat a normal amount, or i don't really eat at all, but it takes the bad feelings about each away." you mumble. this is embarrassing. Aaron lowers one of his hands down to one of yours, intertwining his fingers gently with yours. your thumb fiddled around with his thick fingers.

"i'm sorry i'm laying this all on you i know-"

"hey, don't." he speaks, his voice still gentle and quiet, but more assertive. you look up at him. "don't be sorry about something you can't control. as for not talking to me about it, i'm not mad at you, i just wished you'd come to me with these things more often. i know you're struggling, but i have no way of helping you, or even just being there if i don't know what's going on in that gorgeous mind of yours."

tears well up in your eyes. Aaron's thumb coming up just before a tear rolls down, gentle wiping it away. "come to me when you feel like this okay? come to me when you're having one of those days where eating pains you, or when you crave to eat the whole day. i'm here for you okay honey? i'm here for you, no matter what." he's here to help you, so let him.

you nod, licking a tear off your lips. he wraps an arm fully around your soft bare waist, the other one wrapping around your shoulder as he pulls you against him. your arms wrapping around his waist as you hold him tight. "thank you." your voice is muffled by his skin, but Aaron hears it. "i love you." you hold him tighter, pressing your face against his warm chest, the feeling of being held by him calming down any negative thoughts or feelings.

"i love you too." he whispers back, placing a firm kiss on the top of your head.

he pulls away, his thumb wiping away some tears. "do you want to eat something before we head back to bed?" he asks you, he had already spotted the granola bars behind you. you think for a second before nodding.

Aaron nods along, reaching for one of the bars behind you. he opens it, leaning away from you for just a second as he throws away the wrapper and hands you the bar. his hand wraps around yours as you take the bar from him, his thumb rubbing brief but gently against the back of your hand.

you eat the bar slowly, having Aaron stand in front of you calms the intensity of the craving. and when you're finished with the bar Aaron smiles. he leans down and captures your lips in a soft kiss. you wrap your arms around his neck as you lean into it. Aaron leans down, his warm gentle hand sliding down your waist and hips until they reach the back of your thighs, pulling you up and into his arms. you wrap your thighs around his bare waist and lean your head on his shoulder as he carries you back to the bedroom.

tonight might've been conquered, but there's still many more nights and days to go. though, now they don't seem as dark and daunting..

[sweetmisery]

bet on love | pt.1

summary: a risky bet between Jiung and Intak threatens to damage both their friendship and their relationship with their stylist

pairing: jiung x intak x female!reader

genre: angst, fluff

warnings: conflict, jealousy, mention of injury

word count: 6.4k

a/n: hi!! omg it's been a while since i've been on tumblr but i've recently got back into writing stories and i'm really excited to share some of my fics with you. i'm also open for any request, just go to my profile and send me a message ♡

part 2

It was another busy morning in the dressing room, with the distant hum of fans gathering outside and the buzz of production teams setting up equipment. The air smelled of hairspray and powder, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee from the table in the corner.

You pulled your kit closer, glancing at the schedule taped to the mirror in front of you. Today was going to be hectic - a photoshoot followed by a fan meet-and-greet. Your main focus, as always, was Intak and Jiung. They'd been with you from the beginning, and you'd gotten used to their personalities. But lately, something had shifted.

Suddenly you heard a familiar voice behind you. "Morning, y/n!" Intak strode in, flashing his usual bright smile. He always came in with a burst of energy, like a firework.

"Hey, Intak!" you replied, rummaging through your makeup kit. "You ready for today?"

"Of course," he said, dropping into the styling chair. He ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes gleaming. "You’re gonna make me look amazing, right?"

Before you could respond, Jiung strolled in, carrying his own aura of quiet coolness. He gave a small wave. "Morning, y/n."

"Morning, Jiung," you said, returning his nod as he sat down in the chair next to Intak.

Immediately, the tension was palpable. Intak’s lighthearted teasing and Jiung’s calm, collected demeanor never seemed to match. And when it came to who got styled first, they had turned it into an ongoing contest. You didn’t know what it was about, but it was always the same.

"So, who's up first?" Intak asked, leaning forward in his chair with a grin that looked a little too competitive.

Jiung crossed his arms, glancing briefly at Intak before looking at you. "I was here second, but I think I should go first today."

You sighed inwardly. Here we go again.

"Seriously, Jiung?" Intak scoffed. "You've gone first every other time this week."

"No, I haven’t."

"Yeah, you have!"

You tried to focus on your work, pulling out your comb and hair products, but their bickering was like background noise you couldn’t tune out. Lately, it had been getting worse, and it was starting to affect your flow. You could handle the occasional quip, but this was on a whole other level.

"Guys, I have both of you to get through," you said, trying to sound diplomatic. "Let's just keep it easy today, okay? There’s enough time for everyone."

But Intak shot Jiung a sideways look. "He’s just mad because he knows I’m your favorite."

Jiung scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "That's just in your head."

You blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, what?”

Intak shrugged, smirking. “I’m just saying, I think you like working with me better. Don’t you, y/n?”

Your mouth opened to respond, but the way Jiung’s eyes flickered with annoyance stopped you. Was this more than just their usual banter? You had no idea where this was coming from, but the heat between them was starting to get… weird.

"You’re being childish," Jiung muttered, shaking his head as if he were over it, though his voice had a sharp edge to it.

"Am I?" Intak shot back, still grinning but with a challenge in his tone.

Inhaling deeply, your fingers gripping the hairspray can tighter than necessary. "Look," you said, keeping your voice calm, "let's just get through today. No favorites, no competition. I’ll style Intak first, and Jiung, you're next. Okay?"

You expected them to relax, but instead, you noticed Jiung’s jaw tense as he gave a quiet nod, while Intak looked smug, folding his arms as if he’d won some unseen battle.

Somehow you couldn’t help but feel the weight of their rivalry pressing down on you as you started working on Intak’s hair. What was going on between them? It was like you had become the invisible referee in a game you didn’t understand.

As you ran your fingers through Intak’s hair, his eyes flickered to yours, a little too intense. “Thanks, y/n,” he said softly, his smile lingering longer than usual.

“Sure,” you muttered, focusing on your work, your mind swirling with thoughts. Something was definitely up, but you couldn’t place what.

And then, just as you finished Intak’s hair and was moving to Jiung, you overheard them again - this time in a lower, more serious tone.

"Bet you she likes me better," Intak whispered.

"You wish," Jiung replied, his voice equally quiet, but just as sharp.

You glanced between the two of them, trying to piece it together. They were acting more competitive than ever. But why?

Eventually, you would have to figure it out, but for now, you had a job to do. Even if these boys were driving you up the wall.

The day unfolded with rehearsals stretching long into the afternoon. You were busy touching up the boys' hair and makeup between their practice runs. P1Harmony was set to perform in front of a live audience for a special event tonight, and tension hung in the air, heavier than usual.

Standing offstage, you took a moment to yourself. You watched as the group ran through their set, each of them moving in sync, their energy electric. But your focus kept shifting between Intak and Jiung, their dynamic different from the others. Their performances were as sharp as always, but during breaks, they exchanged glances that felt like daggers, and you couldn’t help but notice how much their rivalry had intensified since the morning.

Suddenly, Keeho appeared by your side. The group leader had an innate sense of what was going on, always keeping an eye on his members, and apparently, on you as well.

"Busy day?" he asked casually, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

You nodded, exhaling. "You could say that. How’s the rehearsal looking?"

Keeho glanced over at the stage, his sharp eyes catching every detail. "Looking good, but…" he hesitated, and then with a small smirk, added, "those two, huh?"

Your heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"

He chuckled as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Come on, y/n. You really haven’t noticed? Intak and Jiung. They’ve been practically at each other’s throats for weeks. You’re in the middle of it."

You blinked, your breath catching. "W-what?"

Keeho raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. "You’re telling me you haven’t seen the way they look at you? They’ve got it bad."

For a moment, you just stared at him, your mind racing. You had always thought their banter and bickering were just part of their personalities clashing, but this - this was something else. "Wait, are you saying-"

"They both like you," Keeho cut in smoothly, his voice casual but filled with amusement. "And they've made it a competition."

You felt your face grow warm, your pulse quickening. "That’s ridiculous," you muttered, but your mind started connecting the dots - the way they fought over who went first, Intak’s teasing comments, Jiung’s more intense glares. Could it really be true?

Keeho shrugged, his eyes glinting mischievously. "If you say so. But trust me, they’re not as subtle as they think."

Before you could respond, Intak’s voice rang out from the stage, breaking the moment.

"Yo, y/n!" he called, waving at you as the group took a break. "Come over here, we need you!"

Keeho chuckled under his breath. "See what I mean?" he said, giving you a knowing look before heading back toward the other members.

Still processing Keeho’s words, you walked toward the stage where the boys were sitting in a circle, catching their breaths. As you approached, Jiung glanced up at you, his expression unreadable, while Intak flashed his usual teasing smile.

"Can you fix my hair?" Intak asked, running a hand through the strands, slightly tousled from the intense choreography. "Gotta stay fresh for the fans."

You nodded, reaching for the comb, but as you moved to stand behind him, Jiung interrupted.

"Actually, y/n," Jiung began, his voice smooth and quiet, "I think my mic might be off. Can you check it?" His gaze held yours for a moment, longer than necessary, and there was something soft, almost vulnerable in his expression.

Your heart skipped again, caught between them. "Uh, sure," you said, feeling suddenly flustered.

Intak shot Jiung a playful glare. "Come on, man, your mic’s fine. She’s busy."

"Just because you got your hair done first doesn’t mean you get to hog her all day," Jiung countered, his voice calm but with an edge.

There was a strange pressure building, their unspoken competition becoming increasingly obvious now that Keeho’s words were rattling in your mind. You crouched down to check Jiung’s mic pack, though you knew it was fine.

Just as you were about to finish, the music director called out for a soundcheck. "Jiung, you’re up! Let’s hear that angelic voice of yours!"

Jiung stood, walking toward his mark, his gaze lingering on you before he picked up his mic. His voice filled the room, soft and ethereal, as the first few lines of the ballad rang out. Every time he sang, you were reminded why you loved working with him. His voice had this pure, calming quality like it could lift the weight of any bad day.

But as soon as Jiung’s part ended, Intak grabbed his mic, his eyes flashing with that competitive spark. His voice cut through the air with bold confidence, his rap fast, playful, and teasing - just like him. It was fresh, a burst of energy that was impossible to ignore. You couldn’t help but smile, your body moving slightly to the rhythm of his verses.

The contrast between their performances was striking, and it reminded you why you admired them both so much. Jiung’s soft, angelic tone that soothed the room, and Intak’s lively, teasing flow that brought it to life.

Suddenly, the music director called for a full group run, and as the boys took their positions, the tension between Intak and Jiung seemed to hang in the air, heavier than before.

And then it happened.

Just as they began the choreography, Jiung misstepped, his foot slipping. It happened in an instant - he stumbled forward, and Intak, too close to avoid him, tried to brace the fall. But instead of catching him, both of them went down in a tangle of limbs.

The room froze. You gasped, rushing toward the stage as Keeho shouted, “Stop! Everyone stop!”

As you reached them, you saw Intak sitting up, rubbing his head, while Jiung groaned, clutching his ankle. The rest of the members gathered around, concern etched on their faces.

"Jiung, you okay?" Keeho asked, already calling for the staff.

You knelt beside Jiung, your heart pounding as you saw the pain in his eyes. "Jiung, let me see."

He winced but nodded, letting you examine his ankle. It was swelling fast.

“Intak,” Keeho said, his voice suddenly serious, “you okay?”

Intak nodded, still catching his breath. "Yeah… yeah, I’m fine." But his usual grin was gone, and his eyes were fixed on Jiung, concern flickering across his face.

Your mind raced as the situation sunk in. This was bad. Really bad.

And yet, you couldn’t shake the thought: Was this accident just that - a coincidence? Or had this competition between them gone too far? The rehearsal room buzzed with tension as staff members rushed to help Jiung. He winced as they carefully lifted him to a nearby chair, his ankle already swelling beneath the ice pack someone had quickly provided. Intak stood to the side, unusually silent, his eyes locked on Jiung as if replaying the moment over and over in his head.

You hovered nearby, torn between concern for Jiung and the strange guilt that seemed to radiate from Intak. You could feel the heat of their unresolved tension burning between them, but now it was no longer just verbal jabs and playful rivalry - something had broken.

Keeho stepped in, taking control of the situation with the calm authority that always marked him as the leader. "Jiung, you’re sitting out for now," he said firmly, addressing the group. "We’ll finish the run-through without him and see how bad the ankle is afterward."

Jiung clenched his jaw, clearly frustrated. "I’m fine," he muttered, though the pain in his voice was undeniable.

"Take it easy," you said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You don’t want to make it worse."

He glanced up at you, the tension in his face softening for a moment. "I know," he whispered, but his gaze flicked briefly to Intak, and something unspoken passed between them - something that made your chest tighten.

The rehearsal resumed, but it felt different now, heavier. The usual energy that sparked between the members was muted, like a fire that had been doused. You watched Intak as he rapped through his verses, his usual swagger subdued. His glances kept drifting toward Jiung, who sat quietly at the side, lost in thought.

The room felt charged, like a storm waiting to break.

When the session finally ended, the rest of the group slowly trickled out, leaving just you, Intak, and Jiung in the quiet backstage space. You busied yourself packing up your equipment, trying to keep your mind off Keeho’s earlier comment. They both like you. The words kept circling in your head, making every glance and interaction between the two of them feel magnified, more intense.

"Hey," Intak's voice broke through your thoughts, startling you. He was standing closer than you expected, his hands in his pockets, eyes flickering between you and Jiung. "About earlier…"

You looked at him, your heart quickening. "It was an accident, right?"

Intak hesitated for just a second too long. "Yeah," he finally said, but his voice lacked the usual confidence you were used to. "Of course."

Your stomach twisted. You glanced over at Jiung, who had been quiet for the past few minutes, still sitting on the chair with his ankle propped up. His expression was unreadable, but the tension between him and Intak felt thick enough to cut.

Just as the silence threatened to stretch unbearably, Jiung tried to stand, wincing slightly as he put weight on his injured foot. "Y/n," he said, his voice softer now. "Could you help me out to the car?"

You blinked, torn between them. "Uh, yeah, of course."

Intak’s jaw clenched, though he didn’t say anything. You took a deep breath, walking over to Jiung’s side. His ankle was propped up with an ice pack, and he looked annoyed more than anything, as if the pain in his foot was secondary to something deeper.

"You really should get that checked out," you said softly, your eyes scanning the swelling with concern.

Jiung nodded, his jaw clenched. "Yeah," he muttered, clearly frustrated. Then, with a quick glance toward Intak, he added, “This wasn’t just an accident, you know.”

Your heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"

Intak straightened, his expression suddenly defensive. "Jiung, come on. Don’t make this into something it’s not."

But Jiung wasn’t having it. He looked up at you, his eyes filled with something heavy - something raw. "He wasn’t paying attention. And I got hurt because of it."

Your stomach dropped. You had seen their competitive streaks before, but this - this felt like it had crossed a line. "Intak," you said slowly, turning to face him, your voice sharp with confusion. "What happened?"

Intak’s hands shot up, as if to defend himself. "It wasn’t like that, y/n. I didn’t mean to knock him over. It just… happened."

Jiung scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a wince. "Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve been more careful."

Your pulse quickened, your eyes narrowing at Intak. The playful teasing from earlier now felt dangerously close to something reckless. "You hurt him," you said, your voice lower. "You weren’t thinking, and now Jiung’s paying for it."

Intak’s eyes widened, clearly taken aback by your sudden shift in tone. "Y/n, it wasn’t on purpose! You know me better than that."

"Do I?" you snapped back, surprising even yourself with the sharpness in your voice. You looked back at Jiung, whose frustration was now written across his face. "I don’t care if it was an accident or not. What matters is that Jiung is hurt, and it could’ve been avoided."

Intak flinched, like he had been struck, his usual carefree attitude nowhere to be seen. He opened his mouth to argue, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the way you were looking at him - disappointed, angry - or maybe it was the way Jiung sat there, quiet but firm, the tension between them simmering beneath the surface.

"I… I didn’t mean for it to go this way," Intak finally muttered, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

You weren't having it. You turned back to Jiung, reaching out to help him. "Come on," you said gently, your hand slipping under his arm to support him as he stood. "Let’s get you to the car."

Jiung gave a small nod, though his eyes never left Intak, the air between them still crackling with unspoken words. As you helped him toward the door, you could feel Intak’s eyes on you, a mix of frustration and guilt hanging in the air.

"Y/n-" Intak started, but you cut him off with a sharp glance over your shoulder.

"Not now," you said firmly. "I need to help Jiung."

The words stung, and you knew it. Intak, usually full of quick comebacks and playful banter, fell silent, his expression clouded with something you hadn't seen before. But you couldn’t think about that right now. Jiung was hurt, and that was all that mattered.

As you made your way outside, the cool evening air hit your face, offering a brief reprieve from the intensity inside the rehearsal space. Jiung leaned on you slightly, careful not to put too much weight on his injured foot.

"You didn’t have to do that," Jiung said quietly as you reached the car, his voice softer now.

"Do what?" you asked, adjusting your grip as you paused by the door.

"Get mad at Intak," he replied, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. "I don’t want you caught in the middle of this."

You sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "It’s too late for that, Jiung. I’ve been in the middle for a while now, haven’t I?"

He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said enough. He shifted his weight, wincing slightly, and you helped him into the back seat of the car. As you stood back, your heart ached at the sight of him, so different from his usual calm, collected self. The tension from earlier still gnawed at you, a persistent feeling that something had shifted irreversibly between them all.

You closed the car door and stood there for a moment, staring down at your hands. This wasn’t just about a simple accident, was it? The competition between Intak and Jiung had always been there, lurking under the surface, but today had felt like the beginning of something more - something darker.

And for the first time, you weren't sure how you fit into it.

The days following Jiung’s injury felt like a blur. With him sidelined to recover from his ankle sprain, you spent more time with him backstage than you ever had before. It was strange at first, seeing Jiung away from the spotlight, but the quiet moments between the both of you soon grew into something you hadn’t expected.

You talked a lot - about everything and nothing. Jiung was easy to be around, his gentle demeanor making the hours pass quickly. You laughed more than you had anticipated, sharing inside jokes and teasing each other about little things, like how Jiung couldn’t stand the way the others always left their stuff lying around. And the more time you spent with him, the more you found yourself appreciating his sweetness, the way he always checked to make sure you weren't overworked, and the small compliments he gave without making a big deal out of it.

“You know, you’re really thoughtful,” you said one afternoon, as Jiung shifted on the couch, carefully propping up his foot.

He gave you a shy smile. “I just try to make sure everyone’s okay. Especially you.”

His words warmed you, and for a second, your eyes met in a way that made your heart flutter. You laughed it off, nudging him playfully. “Stop being so nice, you’ll make me soft.”

Jiung chuckled, his voice soft and melodic, the same way it was when he sang. “I’m serious though. You do a lot for us.”

You smiled, but before you could respond, the door burst open, and the noise of the stage flooded the room. Keeho, followed by the other boys, came rushing in, sweaty from their performance and ready for a quick touch-up before heading back out.

The room instantly became a whirlwind of chaos. Keeho was barking out orders, Jongseob was fixing his stage mic, and Soul was already halfway out of his costume, while Theo grabbed some water. It was the usual madness that came with concert prep, but you were used to it by now.

And then, there was Intak.

He was the last one to come in, his shirt already half undone as he made his way toward you. You felt a jolt of something - annoyance, maybe? - but your eyes betrayed you. You couldn’t help but notice the way his toned chest caught the light as he moved, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he peeled off the rest of his shirt.

You turned your attention back to fixing Keeho’s hair, trying to ignore the way your heartbeat sped up when Intak came closer. But of course, Intak wasn’t one to let things slide.

He stopped just behind you, his voice low and teasing. “You like what you’re seeing, y/n?”

Your hand froze in mid-air, the hairspray still in your grip. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you could feel the heat rising. You turned, wide-eyed, meeting Intak’s smirk head-on.

“What- no!” you stammered, your voice higher than intended. “Put your shirt on, Intak.”

But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned casually against the counter, still shirtless, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Come on, admit it. You’re impressed.”

You glared at him, trying to muster up the same annoyance you´d been holding onto since Jiung’s fall, but the truth was, you couldn’t completely ignore the fluttering in your chest. “I’m still mad at you,” you said, turning back to Keeho. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Intak just chuckled, his voice a low rumble. “Sure it doesn’t.”

The moment lingered, and your mind raced. You wanted to stay angry at him, but the teasing, the playfulness - it was just so… Intak. You had always appreciated his energy, but lately, it had started affecting you in ways you didn’t expect. He knew how to get under your skin, but it wasn’t just annoying anymore. It made your pulse quicken, made you hyperaware of him every time he was around.

Jiung, who had been quietly watching from the couch, looked visibly annoyed. He shifted, his gaze hardening as he glanced between you and Intak. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” Jiung muttered, his voice edged with irritation.

Intak raised an eyebrow, smirking as he slowly pulled his shirt back on. “Jealous much?” he shot back, his tone still teasing.

Jiung’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he turned his attention to you, his eyes softening when they landed on you. “You don’t have to put up with him,” he said, quieter now.

You gave Jiung a small, reassuring smile. “It’s fine, really,” you said, though your heart was still racing from Intak’s teasing. You finished up with Keeho, watching as the boys filed back out for the next round of performances. Intak was the last to leave, throwing you a wink as he disappeared through the door.

As the room settled back into its quiet, Jiung sighed, leaning back against the couch. “He never knows when to stop,” he muttered, his annoyance clear.

You sat down beside him, the earlier flutter in your chest still lingering. “He’s just being Intak,” you said, trying to sound casual, though the truth was, you weren't quite sure what you felt anymore.

“Yeah, well, he’s obnoxious,” Jiung replied, though there was something more in his voice - something that hinted at insecurity. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at his injured ankle. “I’ll never be like him.”

You frowned, your heart softening. “What are you talking about? Jiung, you don’t have to be like him. You’re you.”

He looked at you then, his expression serious. “Yeah, but it’s different. You saw the way he was acting - he knows he can get to you.” Jiung’s voice was quieter now, almost vulnerable. “I can’t… I can’t be like that.”

You felt a pang in your chest. Jiung was sweet, thoughtful, and kind in ways Intak wasn’t. They were opposites, but that didn’t make one better than the other. And yet, here you were, feeling torn between them.

You sighed, leaning back against the couch and staring up at the ceiling. “It’s complicated.”

Jiung gave you a sideways glance, his voice softer now. “Yeah… I guess it is.”

The truth was, you were starting to feel something for both of them. Jiung’s sweetness and the way he cared for you was undeniable, but Intak’s boldness and charm had its own pull, one that you couldn’t shake no matter how much you tried. It was becoming harder to ignore the way your heart reacted around both of them.

But there was one thing you knew for sure - their weird rivalry, their competition for your attention, had definitely affected your feelings. And now, you were caught in the middle, not sure what to do.

It was late afternoon, and the backstage area had settled into a rare calm. Jiung was resting on the couch, his ankle propped up, while you worked on cleaning up the leftover mess from the earlier touch-ups. The soft chatter of the other crew members filtered in from the hallway, but for the moment, it was just the two of you in the room.

You had been enjoying the quiet moments with Jiung over the past few days. You had grown closer, more comfortable around each other, and despite everything that had happened, you found yourself smiling more often than not when you talked.

Jiung shifted on the couch, glancing at you as you neatly arranged your brushes. He hesitated for a moment, chewing on his lower lip, before finally speaking.

"Hey, y/n?"

You turned, catching the slightly nervous tone in his voice. "Yeah?"

Jiung sat up straighter, looking a little tense but determined. "I was thinking… since it’s been so hectic lately, maybe we could hang out? You know, outside of work. Just chill."

You raised an eyebrow, surprised but curious. "Like… a break?"

"Yeah," Jiung said, his voice gaining confidence. "Like, this Saturday. We could go to a karaoke bar. I know it’s kind of random, but I thought it might be fun to just relax and forget about work for a while."

You blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion. “Karaoke?”

Jiung chuckled, the tension easing from his face as he leaned back. “Yeah, don’t worry. You don’t have to be a singer or anything. It’s about having fun, not being perfect.”

You smiled, though a small laugh escaped you. “Jiung, I can’t sing.”

“That’s the point!” Jiung grinned, his voice warm. “No pressure, just for fun. It’s a good way to unwind.”

You bit your lip, feeling a strange, excited flutter at the idea. It sounded fun - unexpected, but fun. And the thought of spending more time with Jiung, just the two of you, outside of the usual chaos, made you smile. "Okay," you said, your tone brightening. "That sounds like a good idea. I’m in."

Jiung’s smile widened, his eyes lighting up. "Great! Saturday it is, then."

As you returned to organizing your kit, you couldn’t help but feel a little thrill of anticipation for the weekend. A night out with Jiung, away from the pressure of work, sounded perfect.

But later that day, as the boys prepared to head out after rehearsals, Intak caught up with you just as you were packing up your things. He was as confident and energetic as ever, flashing you a grin as he leaned against the doorframe.

“Hey, y/n,” he said casually. “So, I was thinking… there's this new Marvel movie out, and I was wondering if you wanted to check it out this Saturday.”

You paused mid-action, your heart suddenly racing. Intak had never asked you to hang out before, and the invitation caught you completely off guard. Your mind immediately flashed to your plans with Jiung.

"Oh, uh…" you stammered, feeling your face grow warm. "I, uh, actually already made plans for Saturday."

Intak raised an eyebrow, looking curious. "Oh yeah? What kind of plans?"

The words slipped out before you could think. "I’m going to a karaoke bar with Jiung."

For a second, Intak’s expression froze, and you realized too late what you had said. His playful smirk disappeared, replaced by something darker - jealousy. "Karaoke bar?" he repeated slowly, his tone edged with suspicion.

You felt a pang of regret. You hadn’t meant to tell him, not like that. "It’s just - Jiung asked, and we thought it’d be fun… you know, to unwind a bit."

Intak’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he crossed his arms, leaning in closer. "Sounds like a lot of fun," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "In fact, I think I’ll join you guys."

Your heart skipped a beat, panic rising in your chest. "What?"

"Yeah," Intak continued, his voice carrying a teasing edge, but there was a clear layer of jealousy underneath. "No way I’m letting Jiung have all the fun alone with you. I’ll be there too."

You blinked, feeling the weight of the situation crash down on you. This was not what you had planned. You wanted a quiet, fun night with Jiung - just the two of you, away from the usual chaos. But now, Intak was determined to crash your plans, and you knew exactly why.

"But-" you started, trying to find the right words to convince him, but Intak just grinned, his usual cocky confidence back in full force.

"Don’t worry," he said smoothly, standing up straight. "It’ll be fun. I promise not to out-sing you. Much."

You could barely manage a weak smile. "I… I guess I’ll see you there, then."

"Great," Intak said with a wink before heading out of the room, leaving you standing there, feeling flustered and guilty.

As soon as the door closed, you let out a long sigh. What did I just get myself into? You hadn’t meant to let Intak in on your plans, and now you were stuck. The last thing you wanted was for Jiung to find out that Intak had invited himself along - especially since Jiung had clearly been excited for some one-on-one time with you.

And yet, there was a part of you that couldn’t ignore the flutter of excitement at the thought of seeing both of them outside of work. Intak’s boldness and charm always made your heart race, even when he was being insufferable. And Jiung’s sweetness was something you had grown to love in these quiet moments together. But now, the tension between them was more obvious than ever, and you found yourself right in the middle.

You knew you couldn’t tell Jiung the truth - that Intak was coming too. Not yet, at least. You needed to figure out how to handle this before Saturday.

But as the week ticked by and Saturday loomed closer, all you could do was hope for the best.

The karaoke room was cozy, bathed in dim neon lights with plush couches that made it the perfect spot to relax after a long week. You sat back, your laughter still bubbling from Jiung’s last performance. He had come back to the room with soft drinks and snacks, and now he was up at the mic, goofing around with a light-hearted song, making funny faces and exaggerated dance moves that had you giggling uncontrollably.

Jiung had this way about him - his natural sweetness, paired with his quiet confidence, made him easy to be around. Every now and then, he’d flash you a shy smile, as if making sure you were still having fun. And you were. More than you had expected.

The door to the room was still shut, and you found yourself silently hoping Intak had forgotten about this. He hadn’t shown up yet, and the thought of having this time alone with Jiung, just the two of you, felt like the perfect break you hadn’t realized you needed. No teasing interruptions, no rivalry - just Jiung and his easygoing presence.

"Okay," you called out with a grin as Jiung finished the song, "your turn for a serious one."

Jiung grinned, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Alright, alright," he said, walking over to the tablet to scroll through the song list. "What do you want to hear?"

"Surprise me," you said, leaning back into the couch, her heart still light from all the laughter.

Jiung scrolled for a few seconds, then nodded to himself before selecting the song. As soon as the first chords started playing, you recognized it: "Leave The Door Open" by Bruno Mars. The smooth, soulful tune filled the room, and Jiung stepped up to the mic, his expression changing from playful to something more serious, more emotional.

You watched him intently. His angelic voice had always been a favorite of yours - soft, pure, like honey to the ears. But this time, there was something different. As Jiung sang, he closed his eyes, pouring his emotions into every note. His voice flowed through the song effortlessly, and it hit you in a way that made your heart skip.

There was something about the way he sang, the way his voice carried the emotions of the song, that pulled you in deeper. Your gaze stayed fixed on him, watching every expression, every slight movement. He wasn’t just singing; he was feeling it, and somehow, you felt it too.

Your heart fluttered as you listened, your pulse quickening as the lyrics washed over you. You knew this song was about more than just the words - Jiung was telling you something through it, something that had been growing between both of you, something unspoken.

When he finished the final note, the room fell into a brief, charged silence. You couldn’t help but smile, your hands coming together in applause. "That was amazing," you said softly, your voice filled with genuine admiration. "You were incredible."

Jiung gave a small, bashful smile, sitting back down beside you on the couch. "Thanks," he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost shy. "I’m just… really happy we’re doing this."

You looked at him, your heart still racing, feeling a warmth settle in the space between you. "Yeah, me too," you replied softly. "I didn’t realize how much I needed a night like this."

Jiung shifted slightly closer, his eyes meeting yours in a way that made your breath hitch. "I’ve been looking forward to this for a while," he confessed, his voice tender, his cheeks faintly pink. "Just… spending time with you. I always wanted to, you know, just us."

Your heart skipped at his words, your gaze locked on his. Your usual playful banter had fallen away, replaced by something deeper, something real. The space between you seemed to shrink, and for a moment, all you could focus on was the softness in Jiung’s eyes and the way your pulse pounded in your ears.

Both your hearts beat faster, synchronized in the charged silence that followed.

Jiung leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "There’s… something I’ve been meaning to tell you, y/n."

Your breath caught in your throat as you watched him, the weight of his words hanging between you. Your heart raced, anticipation and uncertainty swirling together. Jiung’s eyes held yours, full of emotion, and you knew whatever he was about to say would change things.

But just as Jiung opened his mouth to speak, the door swung open.

"Yo, what’s up?" Intak’s voice rang through the room, shattering the moment in an instant.

You flinched, your head snapping toward the door. Intak stood there, grinning as if he hadn’t just interrupted something intimate. He casually glanced around the room, his eyes flicking between Jiung and you as he stepped inside, completely oblivious to the tension in the air.

"Karaoke bar, huh?" Intak continued, raising an eyebrow as he plopped down onto the couch across from them. "You guys started without me?"

Your heart plummeted. You had been so caught up in the moment with Jiung, so close to hearing whatever it was he had to say, and now Intak had arrived, throwing everything off balance. You glanced at Jiung, whose expression had hardened slightly, the softness from moments earlier now replaced by frustration.

Intak stretched out, completely unaware of - or perhaps purposefully ignoring - the charged atmosphere he’d just walked into. "So," he said, smirking, "who’s up next?"

You shifted uncomfortably, your thoughts swirling. You had no idea what to say. The tension between the three of you was undeniable now, and you knew that whatever was happening between you and Jiung, it wasn’t going to stay private for much longer.

You glanced at Jiung, whose jaw was tight, clearly struggling to hold back his irritation. His eyes flicked toward you, silently asking you what to do, but all you could manage was a small, uncertain smile.

"Uh, I guess we could let Intak sing," you offered, your voice sounding far too strained for her liking.

Jiung sat back, his expression unreadable, though you could see the disappointment flickering in his eyes. Whatever he had been about to say was lost now, buried under the weight of Intak’s arrival.

"Alright!" Intak said. He grabbed the mic, scrolling through the song list with his usual easy confidence. "Let’s see if I can top Jiung’s performance."

As Intak selected a song and the music started, you couldn’t help but feel a sinking sensation in your chest. The night had been going so well - until now.

And as you watched Intak start singing, you couldn’t help but wonder: had you just lost the chance to hear what Jiung had been trying to tell you?

to be continued

© sweetmisery - please do not repost my works! ♡

[auspicioustidings]

Ae Fond Kiss - Part 8 (Final)

A Red, Red Rose

Summary: A bombshell is dropped and you look to the future. Words: 2k TWs: mention of miscarriage

So I've lost interest in this fic hence why we have a rushed wrap up because I didn't just want to abandon it :') All parts - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

“We gonna do this forever then Johnny?”

It was a form of torture Simon was sure, them having lunch together once a week every week and making small talk. He missed his best friend. He missed being able to say something outrageous and knowing Johnny would call him a sick bastard and then immediately try to outdo him.

“Eat lunch?” Johnny replied a little miserably, shuffling pasta about his plate.

“Johnny…”

“What dae ye want me tae say LT?”

“Not your LT anymore, retired remember? And Price told me about your promotion.”

Captain John MacTavish did have a nice ring to it, and Soap had more than earned the stripes. In another world he’d have grinned at Ghost, smug as anything and making some comment about being able to order him around now. But instead he frowned and Simon hated it. 

“Talk to me for Christ sake!”

“I cannae! Ye want me tae tell ye how much I miss your wife? How it kills me that she’ll never forgive me and that she’s right about it?”

“Johnny…”

“Or were ye hoping tae hear that I dinnae even regret Las Almas? It’s ruined everything, but I’ve loved you since I broke my fingers on that stupid bloody mask and I didnae even realise until we nearly fucking died! Ignored it even when I did, had 9 years tae think about how either way I was breaking my own heart because it decided it loved two different people!”

Fuck. He was crying. Johnny was crying. And Simon was caught between wanting to kiss him or kill him. He had never expected to be loved back was the thing. He did something unbearably selfish on the understanding it was all one sided, that the fuck was just the adrenaline from thinking they were going to die and they’d forget it ever happened. And then everything had went to shit and he had fallen in love with Johnny’s widow. He’d already lost one person he loved because he was too scared to admit it, he just couldn’t do it again,  selfish asshole that he was. 

“You should regret it. You… we hurt her. Hurt her so bad that we might lose her.”

“Aye. I deserve tae lose her though, never deserved tae have her in the first place anyway. I just caught you in the crossfire of my sins.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Simon said with full derision.

This has gone on long enough. So what? Everyone was just supposed to be miserable forever? They were supposed to just lay down and take it? Johnny looked at him, hurt and confused. 

“I watched you fight every break up. You fought tooth and fucking nail to make it work. When you fucked up you made it up to her. When she fucked up you forgave her. And what? Now that Johnny is dead? Either you still love her and are willing to fight to get her back, or any part of the man I loved died in Russia.”

“You’ve lost yer fucking mind Si, she’s your wife!”

Simon stood, determined.

“And our wife needs to remember who she belongs to and who belongs to her.”

As he started marching off Johnny near choked and scrambled to follow.

“Ye cannae be serious! Leave her be Si! Ye cannae just barge in and-and-”

“And tell her she’ll try forgive us because we’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to her? That we can start right now by showing her how well you can follow orders and how well I can give them for her benefit? I bloody well can and I’m bloody well going to. Either you’re with me or you can stay and mope.”

“...aye sir.”

–

Once upon a time Joey being at a sleepover was exciting, it meant some much needed alone time with your husband. Now though? The house felt cold, empty. You considered asking Gaz and Price’s partner if they’d come round to hang out, but it felt so messy when they were just as much Simon’s friend as they were yours. It would somehow make you miss him more. 

Everytime he was at the house briefly and you made polite conversation you wanted to cry. You had a few times, only after he was gone of course. That big fucking lummox. You wanted to strangle him, but then again that wasn’t exactly new. And you wanted rhubarb and sugar. Oh you could murder some rhubarb dipped in sugar like your parents used to give you as a kid. 

The door went just as you finished pouring a large glass of wine. Simon stood looking like he sometimes did when you were about to get absolutely ruined in bed and you swore your heart nearly stopped. Johnny was by his side, pupils blown with a blush crawling up his neck as if he somehow knew exactly what images just popped into your mind. Oh. Oh you suddenly wanted them so badly it hurt. 

And damn them for knowing you so well, for being able to fucking tell. Simon’s lips were on yours as he walked into the house, you being led backwards. You were clawing at his shirt as he squeezed your ass until you bumped into the kitchen island and realised how insane this was, pulling away to try find Johnny. He had followed, was swallowing thickly as Simon started to kiss and nip a path down your neck. This was insane. This was certifiably mental. You could not… have a threesome? Have a threesome with your husband and your husband who had fucked each other ten years ago on a mission before one faked his damn death. 

“W-what are you doing? We can’t…” you mumbled, trying to get your head on straight since currently your brain seemed to reside between your legs.

“Tell me what you need princess. Want me on my knees begging against your pussy? Want Johnny to fly you to Hawaii and keep you in the lap of luxury for a month? Want us to be here every single day in the garden announcing to the neighbours that we deserve a fucking whipping for how badly we fucked everything up with the gorgeous mother of our child?”

Christ almighty. So much for Simon being the unemotional and ineloquent one. You couldn’t handle this. You couldn’t handle how much you wanted to just give in. He made it sound so easy, like you could have them both, like they would give you whatever you wanted just to stay by your side despite what they’d done. He was going to his knees in front of you.

“Rhubarb!”

The room froze for a moment as Simon hit the ground with his knees and just stared at you.

“...is that, uh, a safeword?” Johnny asked, seemingly surprised out of the slack jawed, dazed state he seemed to have been in. 

“No. I mean I… rhubarb. You asked what I needed. Rhubarb and sugar, but we have sugar in the cupboard so… just the rhubarb.”

“...ok, rhubarb. We can do rhubarb” Simon said after a moment, taking it in his stride as he snuck a peck to your stomach where his head currently was and then stood. 

If they just left and went to the shops maybe you could… you didn’t know. Maybe you could hurriedly touch yourself to get rid of the ache between your legs and then neck your wine to get rid of the one in your chest. Simon turned and nodded to Johnny and took a few steps, so you picked up the glass of wine to calm yourself down only for Johnny to pluck it out of your hands.

“Unless you’ve suddenly developed a taste for red wine I’d appreciate that back” you snapped at him.

“And since you’ve suddenly developed a taste for rhubarb I’m naw giving it tae ye.”

“MacTavish” Simon scolded, sure Johnny was about to ruin what he was hoping was some reconciliation here.

“That’s not…” you started before you went pale. 

“How ye been feeling recently hen?”

Oh no. Not now. You just assumed you felt sick because of the stress. But then the take away food had seemed so off despite you usually loving it. You kept having to throw up. You were lethargic. And now you needed rhubarb and sugar, something you had only craved twice in your adult life, the most recent being over a decade ago. The last time you were pregnant. 

“What’s going on?” Simon asked, not liking at all how your face just fell as he strode back to you. “What did you do Johnny? It’s ok sweetheart, I’m sorry we just showed up, seemed like a good idea at the time. Just missed you so much.”

The universe had a sick sense of humour. Over a year of trying for a baby with this man. 18 fucking months. And you get pregnant right before your other husband comes back from the dead, the one it turns out your current husband has slept with behind your back? This could not be happening, but all the signs were there. When had you last had a period? You hadn’t even noticed that you were late with everything going on. 

You tried to do the maths in your head. It had been a few months since Johnny had come back, so you were at the very least that far along. 8 weeks. You had miscarried at 10. Maybe you were further along, maybe you were past the worst of the danger. God you prayed you were past the worst of the danger. 

“Si, gie her some room would ye? We’re right here, if ye want us tae be. It’s up to you, you dinnae have tae…” Johnny said, struggling to get out the words.

There was no thought in your mind that you would get rid of this baby, but the fact that he was putting that option out there when he himself had always been so desperate for a big family was something you appreciated more than you could say. Goddamnit, he still loved you. 9 years away and he still bloody loved you. Would still do whatever it took for you to be happy. Even if in that case this meant not having another baby.

How strange that you thought of this baby as his. How strange that you just as strongly thought of it as Simon’s. If the past few months had shown you anything it was that you could look after a child between the three of you, so it wasn’t like they had to be with you to do it. Even if you’d like them to be. Despite it all, you’d really fucking like them to be.

“Princess?”

You took a deep breath and smiled softly at Simon who was looking increasingly alarmed. You caressed his face and it felt like relief to touch him. 

“Maybe we can go a trip to the doctor on the way for the rhubarb Casper. Think we might be pregnant.”

–

A very healthy baby girl with an incredibly healthy set of lungs. You sang to her, love like A Red, Red Rose for your little Rose. You bawled your eyes out when Joey refused to turn down his hearing aids even when she was screaming at the top of her lungs because that was his baby sister and he would never not want to hear her. It was a good thing you could all sign with the way she drowned you all out, even Johnny as clumsy as his hands were with it had dedicated himself to learning since he had got home. 

You were fairly certain your little Rose was making Price broody with Gaz and their partner finding their grumpy old man losing his mind over a chubby baby adorable. Although there was a good chance Price wasn’t making any babies with how you had planted your foot in his groin when he finally came out of hiding. 

You were still figuring things out, but right now? Right now you were happy. You had two perfect children by two imperfect husbands. It was up in the air what your family was going to look like in the future. Did you want to forgive them? Even if you did, would you be friends and co-parents or something more?

That you hadn’t quite decided yet. But you were determined that whatever the future held for you, it was going to be a future full of love and laughter.

[zentraex]

Could u do an arrange/forced marriage of aizawa fic please ❤️ (Maybe mafia AU?)

Thank you so much for this request! This is my first one and it made me so happy! I hope I didn't disappointed you or something like that.

Like always, English is not my first language and German grammar is a lot different than English grammar. So, sorry for any mistakes.

Trigger Warnings: forced marriage, slightly yandere, mentioning of a gun

Also, I got an inspiration for the last few sentences from a picture in Pinterest. So, it wasn't really my idea, but fitted really well.

I hate you

The detailed planning should make you feel like you're floating above clouds.  The closer the day gets, the wilder the butterflies should fly in your stomach.

It should be the most beautiful day of your life: your wedding day.

A nightmare. This is a nightmare.

But why is it exactly the opposite for you? 

Locked up in your room, the only retreat you had left until now, the day scratched squeaking at your door. 

You dreaded this day, so much that the nausea in you grew bigger and bigger.

It is the worst day of your life: your wedding day.

Clack

Clack 

Clack

The shackles around your hands are straining at your wrists. Just...what shackles? The ones you imagine?

How could you end up like this?

Your gaze wanders to the empty seats which are reserved for your parents. 

True, they are to blame... Or rather yourself? 

When did it all start?

Your family was a normal baker's family, nothing special. You were happy to follow their footsteps and take over the shop later.

You would have had regular customers, 70% of them would have been old seniors, and you would have chatted happily with them. Who knows, maybe that's how you would have found the love of your life? 

Your future partner wouldn't have wanted anything big, just a few rolls, but he wouldn't have known which ones. You would have advised him and your way of talking and smiling would have charmed him. He would have come again and then more regularly, and slowly, the two of you would be something more.

You've always raved about it. Who would have thought that this dream turned out to be a nightmare? 

Shota Aizawa or Eraser Head as he is called in his mafia group, was actually the one customer, “your true love".

Your parents wanted to have an evening to themselves, so you had to take over the shop. 

"Welcome," you smiled. The man in front of you was tall. His black hair was disheveled and hung down to his shoulders. His red eyes were only half open. He looked like he had been through several sleepless nights. 

"A few bread rolls."

For a moment, there was silence between you as you waited for him to give a more precise order.

"Which ones and how many?"

His tired eyes wandered through the variety of bread rolls your bakery had to offer. 

"Which ones are good?"

A proud grin formed on your lips. 

"I'd say they are all of the best quality, but if you ask me what my favorites are, it's definitely the milk bread rolls."

"Yes, then I'll take those."

You almost sighed out loud.  What was with that guy?

"And how many?"

His eyes glanced briefly at your smile. 

"All of them."

Your eyes widened when you heard this almost absurd order. Unsure, you analyzed the stranger in front of you, only to get a completely serious look in response. 

"Okay... do you want another coffee? You look very tired."

"No, the work just gives me a lot of headaches. That's all."

"Oh, I know that only too well! I always catch my parents feeling exhausted after a day full of work."

The man in front of you raised an eyebrow.  "Your parents?"

"Yes, they own the store. Normally I just help out, but every now and then I get to take over.

The stranger just nodded.

"So, that would be then..."

Your neighborhood was known for having a dangerous mafia group. There were many reasons why, despite all this, so many lived here. One of the reasons was because the rents weren't too high. Aside from that, it was rather on the edge of the town and therefore there was not really anything going on. The neighborhood was peaceful, if the mafia was left out. Most people were always nice to you and only a few were bullies. But the smiling faces could never hide the fear in the eyes of the people. Many shops had to close out of nowhere and many people disappeared suddenly. You could never be sure if someone was a member of the mafia, as no one dared to reveal their identity. 

That's why you didn't recognize him, just like all the other times: the man everyone feared the most. 

How could you? Not even the members of the mafia gang themselves knew what their boss looked like. 

That's why you always greeted him with the widest smile you've had. First week after week and then day after day. A friendly smile quickly turned into a loving one...

"It's funny how long we've known each other and yet I never got your name."

"It's also the first time you've brought it up, Reader. Do you want to know?"

But there is one thing everyone knew about the boss of the mafia... 

"Don't ask if you already know the answer," you answer with a wink.

The name.

„Shota Aizawa.“

Your eyes widened and your breath stuck in your throat. 

"W-What? I don't think I got your name right."

Casual as always, he rested his head on his palm and looked at you with a smirk.

„Shota Aizawa.“

Your profuse sweating lasted until he left. Did he mean it as a joke? How could you talk so peacefully with a criminal for so long  ?

Even worse, how could you fall in love with someone like that?

Since that day, you had avoided working in the bakery and spent a while in a friend's apartment. Maybe that was the most decisive mistake you made. 

"500,000 Dollar or our store closes? What have we done to make it happen to us?"

Nothing. Your parents had absolutely nothing to do with it. It had been your fault that you had bewitched him and then disappeared. 

"How are we supposed to get so much money together in three days?"

You had ridden your parents into misfortune.

The three days passed slowly. Your family came to terms with the fact that you can't get the money together and so you all just waited for your end. Shota didn't show up during that time either. 

Too your surprise, The boss himself was present at the day of reckoning. This time, Shota was  wearing a suit and his hair was styled back. He was bent forward, his arms resting on his knees, and his hands are intervened. Typical for him are his half-open eyes and the corners of his mouth pulled down. Usually it made you smile, at that time it sent shivers down your spine.

"The money?" he asked. During all this, he hadn't even given you a quick glance.

"Unfortunately, we don't have it. You know-", your father couldn't even finish talking, Shota immediately interrupted him with a shot of his gun. Your breath trembled, and your sweat ran down your face continuously. 

"I don't want to hear excuses," Shota muttered and sighed. "You know what that means?"

None of you cried or pleaded. You have already finished with your lives three days ago.

"Normally, you have to pay with your life..."

That was true. In the best case, one was allowed to die, otherwise most women became prostitutes and men became slaves. It hit you very badly when one were given the title of a pet. You only heard rumors of how one had to eat dog food.

"But I'm generous today." 

 A wide grin suddenly spread across Shota's lips.

"Either the two of you," he said, pointing to your parents, "die or you give me your daughter as a bride. You can even help with the planning."

You didn't even have the right of codecision. It was also the last time you saw your parents. As far as you know, they had packed their things and moved…wherever. 

While Shota was bursting with satisfaction, your world collapsed. 

And this is still the case today.

Why me?

The wedding march in the background, which made you dream of your future in the past, sounds distorted to you, like the music in a horror movie. Even though the walls of the church are colorful, you see them only with a black and white filter.

Why do you progress so fast when you walk as slowly as you can?

Stay away from me, I hate you.

Worst of all, however, is his mangy grin. Everything in you is screaming out to rip it out of his face.

I hate you!

Except for the 4 closest confidants of Shota, there are no other guests. Your parents have received an invitation, but why should they come? 

When you arrive at Shota's side, the first tears roll down your face.

"We have gathered today because Shota Aizawa and Reader want to enter into the covenant of marriage. Love..."

Love? What love?

"... endures everything, believes everything, hopes everything, withstands everything. Love never ends."

No, I hate you. I don't want any of this. 

"And so, we hope that it will succor you."

Your grip on your bouquet crushes the poor plants. 

"So, I ask you, Shota Aizawa, will you honor and love your wife in good and in bad times? So answer with: yes, I do."

I don't want to be honored by you. 

"Yes, I do."

No! I hate you! 

"And so I ask you, reader, will you honor and love your husband in good and in bad times? So answer with: Yes, I do."

No, I don't want to!

No!

No!

No!

There is silence in the room for a moment. The lump in your throat is too big to get it down all by once. Your silence meets the warning gaze of Shota. 

"Yes, I do."

"So now, by virtue of my office, I declare you husband and wife.  You are now allowed to kiss the bride."

You assh*le, wretched b*st*rd. Don't touch me with your disgusting lips!

As soon as his lips touch yours, it feels like a plague is spreading throughout your body.

The ring he puts on you weighs tons, at least that's how it feels. Your skin burns underneath.

"Look, now you're officially mine. You can't imagine how long I've been waiting for this moment."

"A cageed animal is not immediately yours. I'll get away from you."

"We'll see."

[missfrustration]

thirty-six pushups (serirei mp100 nsfw fic)

rating: explicit 18+, minors do not interact!

pairing: serizawa katsuya x reigen arataka

tags: pwp, smut, anal sex, fingering, top serizawa, bottom reigen, sweet/hot, hand jobs, boss/employee, office sex, desk sex, first time, loss of virginity, spit as lube, whimpering, old men yaoi, and yes pushups.

A/n: as soon as the pushup challenge on tiktok started popping off, I knew I had to make this. guys IFKYK. on ao3 here!

word count: 4.9k

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

“I’m telling you, Serizawa! If Mob can do it, I can too!” 

Reigen stands before Serizawa in the Spirits and Such Consultation Office, looking childishly proud.

This conversation sparked after Serizawa and Reigen finished up with their last job of the day. A gym owner claimed their dumbbells would randomly fall on the toes of guests. After briefly searching the facility, they exorcised the spirit of a washed-out bodybuilder who was spiteful of anyone more buff than him. The owner promptly thanked them with a lifetime membership, even inviting them to compete in a push-up challenge. 

Although caring, Reigen decided to turn them down. Serizawa asked why Reigen didn’t participate. 

“Ah, you see, Serizawa. I have been creating my secret training regime where I have reaped better benefits than going to some sweaty gym.”

On the way back to the office, Reigen revealed the details of his secret training regime: the Remote Psychic Muscle Activation Technique. Reigen uses his psychic powers to target each muscle in his body, producing his "current muscular physique." Thus, he was confident he would win that competition and didn’t want to hurt those gym bros' egos. However, the more Serizawa asked questions, the more Reigen shifted around to find answers. 

Once arriving at the office, Reigen had beads of sweat dripping down him, which he immediately wiped off with a towel when he reached his desk. Serizawa enjoyed hearing about his boss’s stories; it was another side of Reigen he didn’t experience in the office. It was refreshing to Serizawa to hear Reigen talk about whatever he wanted just for him to listen. 

After Reigen wiped himself off, he continued with the discussion on push-ups. They mentioned Mob’s recent accomplishment of doing 35 push-ups in a row, which both men were amazed by. 

Thus comes the current conversation. Serizawa stands in awe of Reigen, smiling back at his boss, “I think you can too, Reigen. You could do anything if you put your mind to it.”

Reigen face warms up, swatting his hand as to dismiss him. He bashfully shakes his head, saying, “Come, Serizawa, that is too nice of you. Alright, I have made up my mind. Watch me as I perform the most pushups humanity has known!” 

Serizawa is pleasantly surprised that his boss would want to demonstrate something like this in front of him, “Oh, I believe in you. You can do it!” He quietly claps as he sits down. 

In a flash, Reigen swiftly slips off his suit jacket and undoes the buttons on his dress shirt before tossing it, revealing the white T-shirt hiding underneath. Reigen hits the floor and gets in position.

In reality, Reigen doesn’t have a plan. Hell, the last time he worked out was the last time he jogged with Mob for his marathon, and even then, he tapped out after 10 minutes! 

He looks back at Serizawa, debating if he should smooth talk his way out of this or not. Serizawa looks back with awe and determination in his eyes, ready to see his boss ace this challenge. The twinkle of excitement in the hues of his pupils strikes a chord in Reigen. How could he possibly turn down a face like Serizawa’s?! 

He sighs in self-defeat, now knowing he has to do it. He can’t flake right now, not after all that talking up! He probably could pull it off if he did those modified pushups… no, but girls usually do that.

“Okay, here goes,” Reigen is unprepared for what the next few minutes will bring him. Nevertheless, he inhales deeply and starts.

“One! Two! Three! Hey, this is easier than I thought!” Reigen says pleasantly. “Piece of cake already.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, sir.” Serizawa says, “Keep going!”

Reigen feels warmth on his cheeks from the compliment Serizawa gives him. A boost of motivation hits him immediately, and he keeps his arms pushing like a hot knife on butter.

“Six. Seven. Eight. Nine-”

Reigen immediately recognizes that his mouth feels dryer. His arms are starting to shake. There's a slight tremble in his voice after counting each rep. 

This is not a good sign for Reigen. 

“Ten.” He stammers. Reigen feels weak already. “Hahaha, man. Eleven.” Maintaining his previous swagger in front of Serizawa is getting more challenging now. Screw it. He will just have to keep going until he can’t anymore. 

“Twelve. Hahh.” A now-winded Reigen pauses to catch his breath before continuing to push out more in hurried intervals rather than the past cadence he started. He manages to push out 3 or 4 reps each time before needing a few moments to recuperate. Slowly, though, Reigen finds it more challenging to keep a strong voice. 

“Twenty-two. T-twenty-three.” Reigen accidentally whimpers but doesn’t give up hope. Sure, he sounds like a total weakling, but as long as he shows he can do enough, maybe Reigen can squeeze away with all the panting by his ad-libbing. He can’t bear to see Serizawa’s face in the middle of this; he is way too embarrassed.

Serizawa quickly notices this but doesn’t think much about it.

“Twenty-four.”

Of course, that is the best way for Serizawa to help his boss create a positive work environment! Supporting others is always necessary.

“Twenty-f-five.”

There is nothing more than professional work going on, after all.

“Hahh. Hah, twenty-six.”

A disciple should support their boss just as much as Reigen helps him.

“Twenty-seven.”

So why does Serizawa feel weird? Why is his face so hot and his chest tight?

“Twenty-eight.” Reigen whimpers again as his arms begin to shake.

Serizawa can’t believe what he’s feeling. It’s an overwhelming feeling he hasn’t ever had to this degree. Not with anyone but… 

“Twenty-nine.”

Serizawa knows. He’s felt this way about Reigen dozens of times since they met. Whether it was the first act of kindness when Reigen offered to hire him, the times they would eat lunch on break together, or how much it meant to him when he smiled. He’s felt this way about Reigen before, but not to this degree.

Thirty.

Serizawa knows what this is now. Reigen’s noises are starting to make him feel very unforgiving thoughts.

Thirty-one.

Serizawa can’t help but imagine Reigen moans like that for different reasons. He can’t help but think of Reigen moaning because of him . He’s been holding it back since he first realized what he was thinking, but the need got increasingly hungry.

Thirty-two.

Serizawa can’t keep his erection down. He has never needed to handle himself this hard in public, much less in the office--only in his private time. He feels the pulse in his groin, straining increasingly against his tight suit pants. He has an animalistic desire to touch it, palm it, do anything to take care of it. But Serizawa is in the worst position for this. 

Thirty-three.

Serizawa looks at Reigen, panic in his eyes. He can tell Reigen might stop any moment. Oh god, Serizawa can’t stop thinking about the most degenerate things. The thought of Reigen’s face of pleasure, his body, the feel of his skin, the panic of how fast he needs to get together, the sound of Reigen’s whimpers right now. 

Thirty-four.

This is too much pressure. Reigen’s pushups are starting to slow down between each repetition. Serizawa is panicking about what to do next. He rips his eyes off Reigen, trying to curl his body in on himself. If he could do anything else– think of anything else–then there has to be a way he can come back from this.

Thirty-five.

Anything will help right now. Anything!

“Thirty, thirty-six. Uf!” Reigen stops, panting and falling back onto the ground to collect his breath. “Hah. Hahahahhh, see?! I’m not just a smooth talker, after all. Heh, alright!”

Reigen catches his breath, feeling very confident in himself. He overlooks Serizawa’s minor life crisis as he kneels on the floor.

“Well then, Serizawa, I showed you how it’s done, didn’t I?” Reigen fixated his eyes on the carpet, focusing on evening his breath. “Hey, hah, hand me a towel from the cabinet over there, will ya?”

Silence fills the room, save for Reigen’s pants. “Serizawa?” Reigen raises his head to see if Serizawa heard him. 

He pauses to see Serizawa’s body practically curled into the chair, purposefully avoiding eye contact with Reigen. 

Immediately, insecurity washed over Reigen at why Serizawa was acting like this. Oh crap, is he disgusted by my struggle to do pushups? Did I need to do more to impress him? Is he trying not to laugh? 

Reigen swallows his insecurities and adjusts his tie.

“Hey, Serizawa? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, sir,” Serizawa whispers. Though, it’s obvious to both men that this is a lie. Around the two, things start to float up and down in the office. Reigen is the first to see it, however. 

“Hey, now. I can tell when you are not like yourself. More than anyone. Especially with this,” Reigen gestures around, which Serizawa notices and immediately places down all the objects, “Please, Serizawa. What can I do to help you?” Reigen asks.

“I'm sorry, but,” Serizawa uncurls himself, now turning away from Reigen by swiveling around the chair. “You can’t help with this.”

“Of course, I can. What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t come to the aid of my employees?” 

Reigen steps in front of Serizawa before he can curl himself up again. Serizawa is too late to cover up the large tent in his pants that Reigen just saw.

“Ah, Reigen! It’s not, ah, well, it is, but- wait, no!” Serizawa stammers, scrambling for anything to save this. Under all this pressure, he cannot lie anymore. “I’m so sorry! I have been thinking… horrible thoughts about you. When you were pushing up, you were making noises. I turned to dirty thoughts, and I–” Serizawa eyes wide, realizing how quickly the words slipped from his mouth. In times like these, lying is impossible for him. This is it for him. He’s going to get fired for sure!

“Serizawa…” Reigen is stunned, but things are now starting to click for him. His hand goes to his tie to try to fidget with it, immediately adjusting it until it rests flush with his collar. He clears his throat from any frog before opening his mouth.

“I can… take care of that too, you know.” The statement and his voice cracking at the end sounded like it didn’t even come out of the always-confident conman’s mouth. What escaped him was more meek, as quiet as a church mouse that Serizawa almost didn’t hear.

Serizawa sits straight up and meets Reigen’s eyes with his bewildered expression. Reigen looks back at him with a pink blush blooming across his face. The eye contact between the two men is electric when they realize what is slowly unraveling.

The air goes silent before Serizawa breaks it. “Reigen, what do you mean? Did… did I hear you right?” Serizawa’s Adam's Apple bobbed up and down in disbelief. It feels unreal. He needs to snap out of it, but Serizawa wants this to be real. It's so bad he needs proof that he is dreaming or living in this moment.

“Ahem. Well, as your boss, I- no… it’s more than that now. I want to help you with this because I,” Reigen leans forward, gently placing his hand on his shoulder before looking down at Serizawa, “We’ve been working together so well, and I’ve started to feel things. Unprofessional things.”

Reigens hand softly sweeps off the tall man's shoulder, now moving to the middle of his thigh. He softly laughs, “And this? Seems right up my alley.” 

Serizawa can’t believe what he’s hearing. Something in him snaps. All the days of suppression, all the days he’s cared for Reigen, all the days after work that he couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was enough to spring him up and unintentionally jump Reigen, causing his back to push against the wall in surprise.

“Woah, big guy! Hah~,” Before Reigen can speak, Serizawa’s arms slam on either side of Reigen, caging him between the wall and the tall man. 

“Reigen, I can’t hold these feelings back anymore.” Serizawa leans forward and rests his head against the wall right above Reigen. His eyes knit together, trying desperately not to go any farther or even say anymore. But it’s too late. 

Reigen raises his head high enough to see the agony on Serizawa’s face, fully understanding what is happening. His hand reaches up to caress Serizawa’s cheek. “I get what you mean. Please, just for me, you don’t have to hold back anymore.” 

God, I hope I can do this right. Serizawa thinks.

Immediately, he raises his head from the wall and smashes his lips onto Reigen’s in a hungry lust. Serizawa can’t control himself, pressing himself intensely into Reigen, practically smushing the shorter man into the wall. 

The passion is unleashed on Reigen, making him groan on the lips of Serizawa. They part lips and dance their tongues together in a rather clunky manner. It feels right before them, though, even with the minor teeth clashes. 

Reigen meets the man’s face with his hands, deepening the kiss. Serizawa awkwardly grabs Reigen’s shoulders with an immense grip, making him grunt. The noise Reigen makes goes straight to Serizawa’s pants, making him want the kiss even harder. He can’t control his wants any longer. 

Breaking the kiss, Reigen and Serizawa’s saliva connects to each other’s lips in a thick line. Both men gasp for air as they look at each other.

“How do we… what do we do with this then?” Serizawa's mind is dizzying, having no clue how to handle the peak in his suit pants.

“Well, the best way we can.” Reigen handed Serizawa’s pants, earning a long sigh and twitch from his member. 

“Reigen, I-I can’t stop holding back if you do that.”

“You don’t have to anymore. Plus, it feels good, right?” Reigen addresses Serizawa’s uneasiness, “Tell me how you feel. Should I keep going?”

“You don’t understand. I want you to sound like earlier when you were doing those pushups. I want that to be because of me . I don’t know what I’ll do if you keep going.”

“I think we can find something to help that.” Reigen sighs, trying to figure out exactly how he wants to take this. He looks at Serizawa, who seems seconds away from bursting, then at the desk just inches away from the two, and an idea creeps into the forefront of his mind. If he wants to do it, though, Reigen must prepare both.

“Let me show you.”

Per Reigen’s instructions, Serizawa flushes as he helps Reigen against the desk. Reigen sighs when his backside reaches the chill wood of the desk. They quickly use their nimble fingers to remove his suit pants and boxers gingerly. Serizawa thinks he’s going to pass out on cloud nine. His hand grips the small of Reigen’s back, making him instinctively arch himself, giving Serizawa a generous view of Reigen’s erect penis twitching against his stomach.

 “Hah… Do you like what you see?” Reigen neck leans forward to meet gaze with the man over him, entirely in awe of the sight.

“Absolutely.” 

“Go ahead then. I’ll be patient.” Reigen gasps when Serizawa places his shaking hand on the exposed skin, palming his ass with rough desperation.

The only time Serizawa has touched someone in any sexual way is himself. He seldom has watched porn, much less gay porn. His head spirals in confusion, but Reigen sees this quickly; he knows what to do next. 

“I know what to do. I can help lead you.”

“Okay. W-what should I do now?”

“You can use your finger to start. Put it in your mouth–make sure you coat it, and,” Reigen paused, looking away to hide his face from Serizawa’s gaze. “It will warm me up for the next steps.”

Serizawa does what he’s told. He looks at Reigen inquisitively with his digit still in his mouth, “What do fingers have to do with this?”

Reigen grunts, “...You know,” Serizawa’s face tells him he doesn’t know. Reigen continues, “You need to warm me up with fingers before that . I think…” He nods to Serizawa’s hard tent, “I need you to put your fingers in my ass. It has to be wet first for it to work.”

“R-right. I can do that.” He turns around and watches Serizawa coat his forefinger and middle with his saliva. His finger comes out with a string connecting him to his mouth. He awkwardly holds his fingers out, looking almost innocent as he waits for Reigen’s following instructions.

“Just know, I’ve never done this before. So just go easy on me.” Reigen says, looking away. Serizawa nods before not so subtly pulling into Reigen’s desperate lips with his tie. Reigen's face tells of nothing but timidness, yet still with needy lust. His body shivers with want as he reaches to find the hands of his employee, still covered with spit. He moves Serizawa’s fingers down, and down, and down. Serizawa can feel Reigen’s hands tremble when he touches something warm. 

Reigen guides Serizawa’s fingers to his hole. At first, it takes Serizawa a moment to process what he’s being guided to while he gently kisses Reigen’s face, still held close to him by his tie. Reigen’s other hand fumbles Serizawa’s hand around, trying to find the spot he needs Serizawa to fill while also hiding his face during their kisses. 

When Serizawa feels his fingertips protrude Reigen’s entrance, he knows what to do. 

As soon as he feels pressure on his asshole, Reigen’s death grip on Serizawa's tie pulls him closer into the kiss. He can’t bear to look at Serizawa’s face, who he’s adored so long. He can’t bear to see those eyes like it will wake him up from his remarkable dream. 

Serizawa’s hand presses gently inside, and soon, the pads of his two fingers are warmed by the inside of his boss. He can feel Reigen shift into the kiss.

Reigen grabs his arm, slowly pulling him into one knuckle deep, then two, to the fullest extent. Reigen completely freezes his mouth on Serizawa’s tongue, breathing quickly through his nose.

Reigen pushes Serizawa’s arm, awkwardly stopping at his fingertips before Reigen guides him back. Serizawa feels extreme pressure around his fingers when they are thrust inside. Reigen makes a slight squeak against his lips before hastily making Serizawa thrust into him again.

Reigen fully guides each thrust of Serizawa’s fingers as they continue, slowly loosening himself up in the process. Soon, however, the gentle pace changes. 

Reigen’s hands are gripping Serizawa’s arm and tie, giving him erratic and fast pushes into himself. Reigen’s voice fails on him, slowly humming into each sharp exhale he provides. He tries desperately to keep himself from sounding like a dog, but when he feels Serizawa’s fingers take the lead without his guidance, he can’t help but pant. 

Serizawa knows what to do for now. As Reigen showed him, he pulled his fingers out before sloppily pushing back in. He feels the walls of Reigen slowly lower themselves.

“Okay, Serizawa. You can curl y-your fingers now.” Reigen meekly whispers against his lips. 

Serizawa isn’t confident about what he means but tries to enact what Reigen asks in a wordless agreement. He slowly bends his fingers. 

Reigen let go of his tie, leaning against the table with his palms as the sensation felt too much. 

“You can’t do this to me, Serizawa. The way you’re looking at me, I– Ah!” Reigen arches into the desk when Serizawa’s fingers reach a delicious spot in him. 

Serizawa twitching cock is reaching its limit. There’s only so much the man can take before he crumbles under pressure. 

Suddenly, Reigen feels two firm hands placed at both sides of his face that causes him to snap out of his twitches. 

“Reigen, please let me push this further.” Serizawa’s face is stone; besides the sweat on his face, you would think he is back in his first job interview with Reigen.

“Idiot, I was gonna say yes to that.” Reigen scoffs, grabbing Serizawa’s tie. He solidifies his want by kissing Serizawa deeply. Their tongues touch again, causing Serizawa to huff and press his hard tent against the conman. 

“Please, for the love of god, take it out, Serizawa.” Reigen whimpers against his mouth. 

Serizawa didn’t need to think twice. It's a surprise to him when he knew exactly what Reigen was referring to in the first place. In a flash, his cock was free from his clothes, pinkened and twitching. Nobody had ever seen this part of him before, but Reigen looked at it like it was the sexiest thing he’d laid eyes on. The way his eyes lingered, the way he bit his lip, and the way he seemed to sweat a little more made Serizawa groan. 

Maybe Reigen let his eyes stay on Serizawa a little too long out of anxiety because, damn , his employee was fucking packing. This entire time Serizawa was carrying a fucking package on him? Reigen swallowed. Even if he’s never seen another man's dick in real life, he wouldn't have known they could have that many veins on them, even in porn. 

“I need you to go slow, okay?” Reigen says, now shifting his legs apart, gingerly holding them against the desk as he leans back. 

Reigen doesn’t know if his words reach Serizawa at this point. Serizawa practically jumps at him like he’s never seen a tastier meal. Serizawa’s thick cock presses down Reigen’s crack, making him tremble on standby. 

He can feel his breath quicken when he helps Serizawa line him up to the hole. 

“P-please, go-ah!” Reigen gags out as Serizawa begins to push in unceremoniously and can already feel pain searing into his asshole. 

“Sorry, I will go slow, but it just, you feel so,” Serizawa’s cockhead slips into Reigen’s body, now pausing to adjust Reigen before inching in more. “So good.” 

Reigen practically whimpers in Serizawa’s hold, but tries to play it off as a clearing of his throat. He grips onto the hands that hold his small hips, letting himself relax for the man who keeps sinking deeper. 

It takes a hot minute until Serizawa’s girth is fully inside, many times Reigen needed to stop and pause to take a breather, whimpering like a dog in heat. Once it was in, Reigen felt his cock twitch up in excitement. The pain subsided as the pleasure started to rear its head.

“Please, Serizawa, start moving your hips,” Reigen pleads, tapping his foot against Serizawa for some friction. 

Serizawa breaks loose, immediately thrusting out before putting his whole cock back inside. Reigen can’t keep the noise he makes down as his voice chokes from the pressure. He sputters on Serizawa’s cock as it keeps moving, slowly making his rational spiral into something unintelligible. 

“Reigen,” Serizawa groans out. “God, I’ve never felt anything like this. You’re so warm.”

He continues his tirade, practically thrusting his hips into Reigen as fast as his heartbeat. 

Reigen tries to collect himself to complain to Serizawa, to say that he can’t possibly keep up that pace if he has anything to say about it. The neighboring offices can only ignore so much noise before they file complaints, even worse, Reigen’s moaning louder than a train station. But he can’t get himself to spit the words out. His tight ass starts to loosen in Serizawa’s rugged strokes, now replacing the searing pain with white, hot pleasure. It’s a feeling he cannot help but ride. He pants out, only mumbling small obscenities and panting like a dog. 

Serizawa sees Reigen huff into the air, practically growing hearts in his pupils from the sight. 

This is the exact picture he wants to frame. Reigen’s legs hang in the air, constantly thumping to and fro from each jerk of Serizawa’s hips. His hands do little in gripping onto his legs, and his face is so blissed it’s driving Serizawa crazy. His eyes are dilated, Reigen rolls his eyes into the back of his skull every few seconds before trying to focus on the man in front of him, only to be hit into a particularly delicious spot, hypnotizing his sight and causing his vision to blur. Again. His pretty tongue that once led the kiss now peaked out of his mouth, lips plumped from kissing and agape, huffing and moaning every single octave his voice could possibly ring out. This same kind of face was what Serizawa wanted to give Reigen. It’s what he wanted to recreate. 

He wanted to ruin that pretty little face of his boss, and he was going to do more of just that. 

“Reigen, please look at me.”

Reigen's pretty legs dangled in the air as he tried to come to his senses, now trying to fully focus on Serizawa but blurring out every now and then. It wasn’t until Serizawa grabbed his chin and leaned in close that Reigen sharply looked at him. 

Serizawa was closer, angling his thrusts into Reigen just right that he practically yelps into the taller mans mouth when he was pulled in a sloppy kiss. God, it felt so satisfying, Serizawa almost drools at the way Reigens face deliciously contorts. And it’s all because of him . 

“Please, don’t stop,” Reigen whimpers.

“Never, darling.” Despite his sweet words, Serizawa continues his impossibly fast pace inside Reigen’s tight ass. 

Reigen’s pretty cock was rock fucking solid, and it gave Serizawa the perfect idea. He wraps his big hand around Reigen’s shaft and begins to stroke it languidly.

Reigen’s eyes practically bulged; the sensation was so delirious that he couldn’t speak. He tries to hold the same contact with Serizawa, but the stimulation causes his eyelids to flutter each time.

He unintentionally jerks his hips anywhere near Serizawa, and his teeth are gritting together. His weak hands grab into the hands that grip his ass, pulsing his hold the way his asshole puckered. 

“That feels so good, and please don't stop. Please don’t stop.” The constant whimpering from Reigen now turns into moans, until moans become begging that Serizawa keep going, over and over and over again, until Reigen is an uncontrollable, overstimulated mess. Serizawa keeps a relentless pace of pumps on his cock, as well as in his ass. It’s all so much that Reigen’s overbearing core is starting to bubble over. 

In between Reigen’s range of noises, he squeezes out, “Seri, I’m gonna, I’m gonna cum for you.” He rasps. 

“Please, Reigen. Let everyone know how I make you feel.” Serizawa grunts. He relinquished his grip on Reigen’s hips before latching onto his trim waist. Reigen’s delicate waist could perfectly fit inside Serizawa's large hands, practically made to fit like puzzle pieces. Serizawa hunches over and starts to thrust into Reigen like never before. The thick girth that Reigen was once nervous about now makes his frame convulse in pleasure.

Reigen screamed out, tightening his asshole so much that Serizawa’s cock completely halted inside of him. The tightness clamps down on Serizawa, and he can only watch Reigen orgasm, spouting white, warm cum all over Serizawa’s suit and his skin. His dick just bobbed up and down, his pretty pink cockhead looking so inviting to Serizawa. 

What Serizawa needed to do now was so clear to him. Before Reigen could finish his ecstasy, Serizawa hungrily took his twitching cock in his lips, sucking out the rest of the cum from his head. The warm, salty, thick cum massages down his throat while Reigen’s finger clamored to Serizawa's soft brown hair, practically drumming his hands all over his head and shoulders, seizing any sort of bodily function. 

Serizawa’s desperate mouth milks out any more seed he possibly could out of Reigen until his writhing ceases. He only needed to thrust in Reigen’s sodden hole a little bit more before he released himself in Reigen’s ass, pulling out to reveal a mouthwatering cream pie. 

Reigen’s face relaxed from his orgasm, relaxing his spread legs, giving a generous view of his chest, nipples still hard and face still red. 

“Jesus, Serizawa, I didn’t know you were packing a fucking snake in your pants,” Reigen said, throwing his head back. “If I had known this would happen, I would’ve stretched myself better. You… liked that, right?”

“Reigen, that was wonderful. I didn’t know that something would feel that good,” Serizawa’s blush was the cutest thing, but what Seri said was more concerning. 

“Hold on, was that…?” Reigen couldn’t believe it when Serizawa confirmed his suspicions, internally freaking out, but calmly sighed. “Well, I'm glad you feel that way.”

Serizawa couldn’t keep his love in any longer; he grabbed the face he always thought was beautiful, one that he saw every day as his boss, and now one that he could call…

“Reigen, would you do me the honor of calling me yours?”

“You think you need to ask that at this point? Jeez…” Reigen could barely contain his excitement, grabbing his hand and kissing it gently. “Of course I will.”

The two men embraced in a way they never thought would be possible. If this wasn’t the best outcome of a set of pushups, they didn’t know what would be.

[covetyou]

fools just wanna have fun

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo x fat contortionist f!reader rating: Mature (18+ only!) warnings: no smut, Dieter's cock and balls, arguing as foreplay, references to past and hoped for sexual encounters (fingering, squirting, oral), clown!Dieter is a menace (but not explicitly clowny at all in this, for those with coulrophobia), drug use, reader is referred to as Sparkles and has a briefly mentioned latex allergy. word count: 1k summary: A quiet night is all he wanted. It's what he deserved after sweating his balls off out there in the ring all night. But, you have different plans - plans, he's certain, involve riding him until the sun comes up.

A/N: this is a follow on to for one night only (Frankie x Reader), but can be read totally independently of that fic. if you'd like more of this pairing, check out jester little bit more.

follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future work

when the workin' day is done, oh fools, they wanna have fun, oh fools just wanna have fun...

Bravo the Clown's balls were sweating. They had been all fucking day. It's simply what you get when you're in the asshole of Florida dressed head to toe in colored polyester.

But he was free now. Free for the night, free from another fucking show and, most importantly, his balls were free.

He'd just pulled them out actually, yanking his waistband below them, letting them bunch up under his flaccid cock as he rolled another joint. The one he had just before the last show didn't quite hit the spot, but this one was sure to do the job. Especially now that his balls were finally cooling down.

Not that the peace and quiet lasts too long. It never does.

Before he can so much as find a lighter to light the joint resting between his lips, you slam your way into his trailer with a bang.

"What the fuck?!" He shouts, flinging the nearest thing to him - which just so happened to be his fucking lighter - at you as you stand there panting.

"Don't you dare light that," you say, pointing to him as you catch your breath. "Condoms. I need condoms."

This isn't the first time you've stormed in here, demanding sex of him wearing nothing much at all. It is the first time you seem to have ran here though. You're never usually this desperate for it, but he supposes there has been a lot of tension between the two of you lately. Not exactly sexual tension, more extreme general frustration directed at him rather than anything particularly mutual. Still, it was there, he'd sensed it, and now here you were, demanding a fuck from your favourite clown, already looking positively fucked out -

Wait.

"What the fuck," he says again, pointing right back at you. "I am not giving you my condoms. What about me?! I know that look, you're not leaving me high and dry, Sparkles."

You're practically snarling at him now, and fuck does he love you like this. Feisty. Definitely wet too, even if it's not because of him. Don't ask him how he knows, but there's something about the way your sweat smells that changes when you're get horny that never fails to make him hard.

"What about you? You are not cock blocking me again, Bravo."

Dieter scoffs. You always brought this up. It wasn't exactly his fault you were fucking a civilian out in the open like that. He was well within his rights to walk over and take one of the blankets you had under your head that day. They didn't belong to you, they didn't belong to anyone. They were communal. "That was one time, and he was a nerd anyway."

"A nerd with a massive dick and button mashing fingers. He was about to make me squirt and you came stumbling over. And you're forgetting the girl with the nipple piercings!"

With each angry flap of your arms, he can see your panties as your t-shirt rides up on your thighs. They look wet and fuck if he isn't jealous of whichever asshole is getting a turn between your legs tonight. It should be him, with his condoms. It's not fair.

"That doesn't count," he answers, crossing his arms over his bare chest with a pout.

"It does!"

"If there was no cock involved, I didn't cock block shit."

His dick is at full mast now, and he's surprised you haven't noticed. If you have, you haven't said anything, and usually you were very good about shouting at him when he had his dick out.

Instead, you just sigh. You give in. To him.

"I don't have time for this shit. The condoms, Dieter. Please."

And, quite frankly, it's no fun fighting with you if you're not going to fight back. That doesn't mean he's going to put his dick away, of course. There's no point. He's only going to play with it when you leave.

What he does do is point you to his condom stash kept in a tin under his trailer bench. He didn't exactly use them often. He didn't like them. But he did use them with you, or if he was taking a little knock at someone's backdoor, or even if someone looked a little less sanitary than he'd like. He did have standards.

He also could've got them out for you. But if he did that he wouldn't have been treated with the view of your ass he's currently getting. You always wear the tiniest little thongs for shows. They're the only things that won't show up around the edges of your glitzy costumes. It gets him going just thinking about them wedged up your ass as he watches you perform some nights - an activity that has made him late to his own performances more than once.

Right now, that tiny little thong is nestled right between your ass cheeks, your t-shirt hiding none of your modesty now that you're bending over in front of him. The gusset of your panties peeks out from between your plush thighs too, and it is absolutely fucking drenched. If he knew you'd be amenable to it, he'd be on his knees eating you from the back already, but he knew you. Only the lucky asshole waiting for you would be getting that privilege tonight.

"Gold packet," Bravo grumbles as you rifle through the tin, picking out a small handful of condoms like you plan on having a very eventful night.

"I know what ones are latex free, Bravo."

Because that is why you came here, to him, and not to anyone else. He's probably the only person in this whole place that carried the condoms you could use - the latex free ones that didn't smell like balloons.

You finally stand just as Dieter idly wraps a hand around his balls, giving them a gentle little squeeze, and with nothing more than a middle finger and the poke of your tongue, you go to leave his trailer.

"Oh, and Dieter?" you say, stopping in your tracks halfway out the door. "Max was looking for you."

"Shit."

His wank would have to wait.

tagging previous lovers of clown!Dieter: @beefrobeefcal @sp00kymulderr @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @clawdee @chronically-ghosted @dieterbravobrainrotclub @for-a-longlongtime

[earl-grey-teacake]

so how are we feeling after that news.

I am not sure how I feel about everything since I just keep finding out more stuff and it makes me feel worse and worse. I’m sad, and upset, and it feels like a tinge of grief. Not for my own dreams or aspirations but for Logan’s. That being said, I will continues writing my Baby!Loscar AU and I will continue/ start my other Loscar fics. I feel like it is a tough time and I hope to make it a little bit lighter.

I think my biggest feeling is overall disdain and disgust for how Williams went about this. My biggest issue is the whole situation being portrayed as “Williams is a business, this was a business decision. No emotion here” Businesses are not faceless entities, they are teams of people. It’s why teams put a lot of effort in PR and companies invest so much in HR. They are comprised of people and we as spectators and fans also play a role in the business that is Williams. Fandoms are profitable, fan content keeps people engaged, and those who are engaged spend money. This decision has shot William’s PR and whatever goodwill they managed to achieve last year. Logan is a martyr in the eyes of fans and James Vowles has come off as a deranged man. For the past month, any comments to the media are either of him passive-aggressively calling Logan a failure or thirsting after Carlos in a way that makes me want to call HR.

This decision isn’t even a money decision either. They talk about the upgrades, and need for points but are putting their faith in a driver that is clearly being brought up from F2 too early. They are taking risks that genuinely make no sense to me and I am afraid it may damage this new rookie’s confidence on top of it.

I cannot tell if James Vowles is doing this because he wants to live a bit wild before Carlos comes, has a vendetta against Logan, or he is just off his rockers.

I am happy Logan is out of there though and wherever he goes, I go. I hope he goes to Indycar. This is not me seeing Indycar as so lesser sport where unsuccessful F1 drivers should go it. I have great admiration for Indycar and genuinely enjoy watching it more than F1. My wish for Logan to go to Indycar is for the general vibe and how friendly everyone is and for the fact that I live 3 hours away from a track and will absolutely take PTO to see Logan race.

Personal feelings are below if anyone wants to read them.

I got into F1 last year around September but really dove into it around the beginning of November. Logan was someone who never really stood out to me in the beginning but I began to notice him more and more around October and November and I couldn’t help but sympathize for him. I remember how anxious I was waiting for him to be re-signed and the relief I felt when it happened.

I wanted him to do well and succeed so desperately and as it became more and more apparent that James and Williams, were doing, I became a bigger and bigger fan of him. I know I’ve mentioned it briefly on here before but near the end of last year and the first half of this year, I was dealing with a toxic workplace and an abusive supervisor. As the months went on, the treatment towards me got worse and worse and so did Williams’s treatment of Logan. Our workplace started to mirror each other.

The remarks, the veiled threats, the passive-aggressive comments that points to the same message “you’re under-performing, you’re not good enough”. Most of all, the expectation to practically perform miracles with tools and equipment that was vastly behind the rest of the field. I know very well how heavy and oppressive the work environment must have been. I can’t imagine how awful it must have been to have to be doing it everyday, to have to perform for the public like everything is fine, and take the abuse from James, from journalists and commentators, and social media. I was already breaking under my supervisors treatment of me, I definitely would have snapped in Logan’s shoes. However, while my supervisor got kicked out of their position, Logan was the one who got kicked off the team. I do hope he takes the summer to enjoy himself and heal.

I feel so bad for him and I’m so upset at how I didn’t know this was his last race. I had Abu Dhabi planned out thinking that was going to be Logan’s last and now I’m just a bit crushed.

[avastrasposts]

A Baker's Dozen - Nine

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

Pedro boy number nine is waiting in the wings but I need to add some warnings before anything else. This chapter contains mentions of blood, a small injury and fairly detailed description of cleaning said injury.

I want to dedicate this chapter to @leslie-lyman and her wonderful Stranger at my Gate fic which I absolutely love and gave me a new found love for this Pedro character. ❤❤❤

Series Master List

You’re not often scared in the bakery, even though you often work early mornings and late nights. But when you suddenly hear the rattle of the dumpster outside your back door, and a muffled gasp as if someone’s in pain, your heart flies into your throat. It’s been dark for a few hours, evening coming early as the heavy rain refused to let up. You’re clearing up after preparing for next weekend’s wedding cake, and it’s already late when you’re startled by the sound. Grabbing your rolling pin, you carefully nudge the back door open and peer out into the dim light, rain dripping down from the eaves of the building. The glow of the street lamps don’t reach too far and most of the back yard is cast in shadows, made even dimmer by the heavy rain. But you see the source of the disturbance straight away, a man is crouched down by the dumpster, his hand held tight to his chest as he curses in a low voice. 

You clear your throat lightly, “Umm, are you ok?” you ask. 

The man immediately snaps his eyes to you and straightens up, his hand still cradled against his chest, but his other hand drops to his hip and for a fearful second you think he’s reaching for a gun. But his hand pats his side and when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for he quickly scans the ground around him and curses again, giving an exasperated sigh and briefly glancing up at the sky. 

You’re not sure if you should slam the door shut and lock it, but the way he winces when the movement jostles his hand keeps you from retreating. 

“Is your hand hurt? Do you need some help?” you ask, still only opening the door a little bit. The man sighs again and nods, looking up at you. 

“I think I cut it when I fell,” he replies, looking down at his hand and carefully unfurling his fist. 

“Ok…” you say, trying to figure out what to do, let an injured stranger into your kitchen late at night, or just call an ambulance? 

“How bad is it?” you ask, “Can I see it?” 

The man nods and cautiously holds out his hand, but doesn’t make a move to come closer, and you suddenly realize that he looks a lot more hesitant than you feel, his eyebrows are bunched together, and mistrust is written across his dark features. 

“Uhm…could you maybe come over here, the light’s better,” you say gently, opening the door a little more and, in a sudden decision, put the rolling pin on the shelf behind you. The action seems to earn you a bit of trust and the man takes a few tentative steps forward into the light. He holds out his hand and you step down on to the stairs and look at it. 

“There’s quite a bit of blood,” you say, carefully nudging his fingers tips back so that he opens his palm a bit more. 

“Hands always bleed a lot,” the man says curtly, “It’s not my first injury, and I can move my fingers, I just need to clean it.” 

He has an accent that makes you look up at his face as he speaks, his voice low and rough but not unpleasant. The scar that cuts across his left eye draws your attention, and when he catches you looking at his face he meets your eyes, his eyebrows still bunched together as he points with his good hand to the scar. 

“Does it scare you?” he asks, scowling, and you pull back from where your fingers were gently touching his injured hand. 

“Should I be scared?” you ask in return, challenging him a little with your tone. 

“No, not if you don’t intend to steal from me,” he says, and you can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. He’s a sorry sight, wet to the bone by the looks of it, injured and bleeding, and he’s worried you’ll steal from him? 

“I promise I won’t steal from you,” you smile softly, taking a step back and opening your door wider, letting him in, “C’mon in, you look soaked.” 

He hesitates for a few moments, glancing around him and then back at you. 

“Thank you,” he nods, not smiling, the scowl a permanent fixture on his face, as you lead him through the back room and into the kitchen. 

He looks around the space with cautious eyes as you go to the sink, and as you turn, you notice his clothes for the first time. He’s dressed head to toe in faded black, an old fashioned shirt billows half way down his thighs. Underneath you can see dirty trousers and well worn leather boots with an intricate pattern in the leather. He looks very much out of place, especially as he widens his eyes and seems to stare at the water running from the tap into your sink. 

“Are you ok?” you ask for the second time of the night, tilting your head and giving him a worried look. Maybe he’s hit his head too, he looks dazed when you motion him over to the sink. 

He gives a curt nod, still looking at the streaming water as he takes a few tentative steps forward. 

“It might sting a bit but rinse it out and I’ll get my first aid kit,” you tell him, handing him a roll of paper towels, “And I think I have an old hoodie that might fit you, if you want to change out of that wet shirt?” 

Confusion flits across his face again as you speak, his guarded eyes moving between the water and you, but eventually he carefully puts his hand under the stream. As you fetch the first aid kit and the hoodie, you hear him wince and mutter low curses in a language you can’t make out. 

You put the hoodie on the bench next to the sink and open up the first aid kit, pulling out the disinfectant and motioning the man to sit on the stool you’ve rolled over. 

“Do you know what you cut yourself on?” you ask as the stranger watches blood drip from the gash on his palm into the sink. 

“Broken glass, I think,” he mutters, “it was too dark to see but the cut looks sharp and clean.” 

“It does, it should be fairly easy to patch up as long as we get it clean,” you reply, unscrewing the disinfectant, “Do you want to clean it yourself, or do you want me to do it?” 

He looks up at you then, the scowl on his face softening into what you think might be surprise. He hesitates, but then he holds out his hand to you. 

“Please.” 

“Ok then,” you reply, “this shouldn’t sting too much but let me know if it hurts.” 

“I’ve had worse injuries,” he replies and you glance up at the scar across his eye.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to-” 

“No, I know,” he interrupts, “but I don't want you to worry you’ll cause me pain.” His tone is low, almost hesitant, as if the sincerity in his voice is unfamiliar to him. Your eyes meet his for a few moments as you both try to find balance with the person looking back, you can feel a shift in the room. Nervously you swallow and look down at the strange man’s hand. You realize you don’t know anything about him yet, not even his name, so to distract him from what you need to do, you start talking again. 

“You have an accent I can’t place,” you say as you gently make him open his hand, water still streaming over the cut, “but it’s very beautiful,” you give him a small smile as you glance up and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It is,” you giggle at his dismay, “I like your accent.” 

“Thank you,” he mutters, looking almost ashamed and you change the subject. 

“What’s your name?” you ask instead, turning off the water and starting to drizzle disinfectant over his hand. 

“Pero Tovar,” he replies, and the way he rolls the r’s in his name sends a little shiver of pleasure down your back.

“Pero Tovar,” you repeat, trying to roll the r the way he does, but you can tell from his small chuckle that you’re not successful. 

“Almost,” he says and when you look up, you catch the smallest of smiles on his face. 

A sharp hiss from Pero pulls your attention back to his hand. He’s opened the hand flat to let the liquid rinse his injury, but the movement has revealed a small shard of glass still pressed in at the edge of the cut. 

You quickly reach into the first aid kit for the tweezers and take hold of his wrist, bending down to grasp at the edge of the shard. 

“This might sting, but I’ll try to be quick,” you say and Pero grunts in response as you pull the sliver of glass out of the cut, dropping it in the sink. 

“I think that’s all, how does it feel?” you ask him and Pero gingerly moves his fingers as you drizzle more disinfectant over his hand. 

“Better,” he nods as you turn to take out what you need to close the cut from the first aid kit. 

“You’re lucky you ended up at front of my door, Pero,” you say, “I’m an expert at cutting my fingers, and therefore, an expert at taking care of them too.” 

The man only grunts in response, tugging at his shirt and you suddenly hear it rip, as he pulls a strip from the hem. 

“Tie this around my hand, it will stop the bleeding and then I’ll leave,” he says, “Thank you for your help.” 

“Pero, that’s dirty, you can’t put that around your hand,” you exclaim as he holds out the rag to you. 

“It will do,” he scowls, “it’s what I usually do.” 

“You’ll get an infection, please, let me put a proper bandage on it,” you point to the sterile compress and Pero’s eyes narrow as if he’s considering a potential risk, before he glances back at the door where the heavy rain can still be heard. Then he nods, looking at you again, dropping the dirty strip from his shirt on the edge of the sink. 

It doesn’t take you long to bandage up his hand, wrapping surgical tape around the back to keep the compress in place. As you turn his hand over and press down the tape you can’t help but notice the many faded scars that marr his skin, and you run your finger lightly over a long one. 

“A knife,” Pero mutters, and you look up at him. “A thief tried to take my coins and he had a hidden blade. It was a nasty fight.” 

“It looks like you’ve been in a lot of fights, Pero,” you say, touching an uneven scar from something slashed across his wrist. 

He doesn’t reply to that, just grunts again and pulls his hand back, getting back up from the stool. But he doesn’t get far, on unsteady legs he stumbles across the floor and puts his uninjured hand out to balance himself, briefly closing his eyes. 

“Careful,” you say, reaching out to steady him, your hands on his wet shirt, as he suddenly sinks down to the floor, his back against one of the shelves, “you’re very pale, maybe you need a few minutes rest?” 

Pero shakes his head with another grunt, “No, I should..” he tries to stand up again but sinks back down, his eyes closing as he tips his head to his chest, breathing hard through his nose. 

“At least change your wet shirt, please,” you say, grabbing the dry hoodie from the bench and holding it out to him and Pero opens his eyes, “you’ll feel better if you’re dry.” 

He regards the hoodie for a few seconds before giving in, taking it from you. You turn your back to give him some privacy and you hear him tug the shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor with a wet sound. 

“Thank you,” comes his rough voice from behind a few seconds later and you glance over your shoulder. The navy hoodie fits him and he’s leaned back against the wall again with his eyes closed, his skin still paler than you suspect that it should be. 

You open one of your storage cupboards and pull out a container, bringing it over to Pero together with a bottle of water. Kneeling down in front of him you peel open the lid and hold it out to him. 

“Here, your blood sugar is probably low, maybe a bit of shock, have a couple of these,” you offer him and Pero opens his eyes enough to see the cookies that are starting to spread their chocolate scent. They widen further when he sees them clearly, darting up to look at you before he tentatively takes one and flips it over in his hand. He smells it and then takes a careful bite. 

His reaction flips a switch in your head, a light bulb moment, as his eyebrows furrow at the flavor. His tongue comes out, almost as if he’s about to spit the cookie out, before he grimaces and swallows, eyeing the rest of the cookie with suspicion. 

“Pero…” you ask hesitantly, “where are you from?” 

He looks up at you for a beat before he answers, running his tongue over his lips. 

“Asturias,” he says, “but I haven’t been back in many years.” 

“In Spain?” 

“España, sí,” he nods, eyeing the cookie in his hand, “This…this food is very…sweet?” He looks up at you again and almost looks apologetic as he brings it to his mouth again. 

“You don’t like it?” you ask, “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it, maybe it’s too sweet for your palate.” 

“I’ve never tasted something so sweet before, I’m not sure…” he trails off, taking a small bite again. 

The penny drops, impossible as it may seem, but his clothes, his wide eyed reactions to your kitchen, the fear and mistrust, the pieces seem to fit together, and you sink down on the floor in front of Pero, the container of cookies forgotten next to you. 

“Pero…” you begin again and he tilts his head as you seem to study the pattern on his well worn leather boots, “A-are you…do you…w-where…- “

“I’m not from your time,” he interrupts your stuttering question, holding your eyes as you meet his gaze, your eyes are the ones that widen this time. 

“How?” is all you manage and he shrugs. 

“I do not know, a curse, a blessing, just chance?” he shrugs again, “All I remember is darkness and then bright lights, as bright as the sun, but much closer, a terrible noise, and then I ran.” 

“Here?” 

He shakes his head, “Not first, I think that was yesterday, or maybe two days ago, I found somewhere to hide, a small tunnel, but the rain made the water rise too high so I was forced to leave.” 

“You must be hungry, Pero,” you suddenly realize, “how long has it been since you last ate properly?” 

“Two days, maybe three,” he says, rubbing his good hand over his belly that rumbles at the mention of proper food. 

“I haven’t got anything but hang on, I’ll order something,” you go to stand up when you realize he won’t understand what that means. Your head suddenly reels with the implication of having Pero in your kitchen. 

“I mean, I’ll make someone bring food, but don’t worry, I won’t say anything about you,” you hurry to add as you see him shake his head. 

“Thank you,” he sighs, looking relieved, “I don’t know what dark forces brought me here, but it doesn’t feel safe.” 

“Just wait here, I’ll be right back,” you say to him, leaving him sitting on the floor, “You’re safe here, I promise.” 

You hurry out to the shop and pull out your phone to place an order through the delivery app when you’re suddenly stumped, what the hell would Pero be most comfortable eating? A stew maybe? Meat, veggies and bread seems like something people have eaten through the centuries, so you quickly scroll through the options and find a local place that offers Boeuf Bourguignon. A rich, hearty stew must be something Pero will be familiar with even if it’s not exactly something he’s eaten before. You quickly place the order and hurry back to the kitchen to find Pero getting to his feet, holding on to the shelf for support. 

“Someone is coming over with a meat stew, how does that sound?” you ask and Pero nods. 

“Thank you,” he replies, letting go of the shelf and standing a big steadier this time. 

“I have some bread and butter for you while we wait, it’s stale bread, but it might make you feel a bit better.” 

“Thank you”, he says again and you go to your big walk-in fridge and pull it open. Pero follows you cautiously and peers into the large space. 

“It’s cold?” he says, taking a tentative step into the fridge. 

“It’s a special cold storage,” you explain, “it stays cold even though it’s warm outside, the food stays fresh longer in here.” 

Pero nods as if he understands exactly what you mean but you can tell by the way his eyes scan the shelves that he’s distracted by the produce that lines them. 

“Would you like to try something?” you ask, “Maybe some fruit?” 

He looks over at you and nods carefully, as if he’s uncertain if he should say yes and you’re suddenly hit by how much mistrust he holds on to. Even though he’s a little bit more relaxed now than when he first arrived, it’s clear that he’s not a man used to trusting people easily, and just the simple gesture of accepting the apple you hold out to him seems to test his instinctual reaction to say no. 

You take the butter from the shelf, fish one of yesterday’s loaves from the bread basket and slice it up on the counter while Pero slowly walks around your kitchen, the apple you notice, is already gone. 

“Here, eat this, slowly, it should help you feel better.” 

“Thank you,” he replies again, taking the thick piece of bread and carefully smelling it just like he had with the cookie. You cut yourself a slice and spread butter on it before biting in to it and jumping up on the work bench surface. 

“It’s not poison, I promise,” you wink at Pero and he scowls back at you, but it’s not intimidating this time, there’s a slight smirk to it as he realizes you’re teasing him. 

“I’ve never seen bread this white,” he says, coming over to the bench and heaving himself on to it too, “Bread where I come from is much rougher, this is like something a king would eat I think.” 

“It’s just the way the flour is milled and sifted,” you explain, “we make bread the same way now as we’ve always done. Water, flour and salt.” 

Pero takes a large bite as you speak and he hums as he chews, “It tastes almost the same,” he says, “I like it.” He takes another big bite and the whole slice disappears within a minute. 

“I’m glad you like it,” you smile at him, “I made it, I’m a baker.” 

“You’re a baker?” Pero asks, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. 

“We still have bakers in our time,” you laugh but Pero shakes his head. 

“I thought it would be your husband who baked, I have never met a woman baker.”

“Oh, yeah, I suppose that would’ve been pretty unusual back in your time,” you say, smiling at Pero’s surprise, “Many of the jobs only men did in your days are now done by women too, a lot has changed that way. And I have no husband.” 

Pero seems to consider this for a few moments while he eyes the loaf sitting on the counter across the kitchen. 

“Do you want another slice?” you ask him and he nods. 

“Yes, it was very good bread.” 

“Go on then, but remember there’s meat stew on the way so don’t eat too much or you might be sick,” you say and he slides off the workbench and grabs the  knife. 

“It’s good that you can be a baker too,” he says as he slices the bread, “I’ve seen women be warriors, generals even, why should women not be able to have the same professions as men?” 

“You’re pretty progressive, Pero,” you smile, “not even all men nowadays would agree with that.” 

“Fools,” he scowls, buttering the slice and coming back over to you, “I’ve seen many strange things in your time, but nothing that a woman couldn’t do as well as a man. The general I knew would scare the wits out of the men I’ve seen here so far.” 

“What year are you from, Pero?” you ask and he shrugs, it seems to be his standard response when he has no answer. 

“I do not know, I’m a sell-sword, a mercenary, what year the priest  says it is doesn’t matter to someone like me.” 

You think back to your high school history lessons, chewing your bread as you try to figure out how to pinpoint what age he might be from.

“Are there any big events you know of that happened in your time?” you ask and Pero furrows his brow for a few seconds before he shakes his head. 

“I’m not educated, I can write my name, read a little, but that’s it,” he shrugs again, swallowing the last piece of bread, “I follow whoever pays my wages and don’t ask questions.” 

His face softens slightly as he sees the disappointment in your face and he turns towards you, “I apologize, these things are not important to me, but I wish I’d paid more attention to them now, so that I could tell you more about where I’m from.” 

“It’s alright, Pero,” you say, giving him a smile, “I’m just curious, just tell me to stop asking so many questions.” 

He actually chuckles at that, only the second time you’ve heard him laugh and it makes you feel warm as his face transforms into a beautiful smile. 

“Ask as many as you want, you’re feeding me, you patched me up, you’ve shown much more kindness than a broken sell-sword could ever expect. The least I can do is to feed your curious mind.” 

Now it’s your turn to shrug, “It was nothing, you were hurt, I couldn’t leave you out in the rain, anyone would’ve done the same.” 

Pero tilts his head to the side and regards you with wonder, “Maybe your world is very different, querida…” he says as he tentatively reaches out and carefully wraps the fingers of his good hand around yours, “but in my world, I don’t know anyone who would’ve looked at my scarred face and let me in.” 

He gently lifts your hand and brings the back of it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss there, before holding it to his heart. 

“Thank you.” 

You feel heat rush to your face as he places your hand back on the bench, letting go of it as you fumble for something to say and coming up with nothing, just biting your lip and nodding as he continues to look at you, his face unreadable but gentle. 

“What do you bake, apart from bread?” he asks after what feels like an eternity and your brain still hasn’t kicked back into gear, the warm mark of his chapped lips still on the back of your hand. 

“Ahh…most things,” you stumble, “cakes for weddings, for feasts, cookies and pastries, anything sweet really, if people want it.” A thought suddenly hits you, “Do you have a favorite, Pero? Maybe something I could make for you here?” 

He looks taken back by the question, starting by shaking his head almost on impulse, “No, I never had cake, or sweet things, maybe just a simple fruit pie if I had coin, but it has been rare. Although….” he suddenly looks up, his words lost in thought as he looks at you as if you know the answer to what he's thinking of. 

“There was a baker in my hometown, he was not from Asturias. He made sweet bread from Albion, with dried fruit and honey,” Pero licks his lips at the memory and grins, “that was the best bread I ever had, he would give me the scraps if he burnt a loaf and even burnt, it tasted like heaven.” 

“Albion,” you hum, thinking out loud, “that’s the old name for Britain, so maybe he made something like barmbrack, or bara brith…” you slide off the workbench and go over to the bookshelf and run your finger along the spines of the books. “But what dried fruit would they have then? Raisins? Maybe…the Romans made wine in Britannia after all, the climate was warmer… maybe apricots? Cherries?” You pull out a well worn copy of The Love of Cooking, and take it back to the work bench as Pero regards you with a curious grin. As you flip the book open his eyes go wide as he sees the colored photographs of food, the fine print in neat rows. 

“This is a book?” he asks, carefully sliding his fingertips over the page and you nod. 

“They invented a machine that can make copies of what we write very fast, so they’re cheap to buy nowadays,” you explain as you flip back to the index, looking up barmbrack, “I think this recipe might be similar to what you’re familiar with,” you say, finding the right page and pointing to a dark loaf filled with dried fruit. 

“Can you make it?” Pero asks, his eyes locked on the image as if he wants to chew on the paper and you smile. 

“It’s a pretty fast thing to make, if I make it now it’ll be done by the time we’ve had our dinner.” Pero’s eyes are still glued to the page, a hungry expression on his face.

“I would very much like that,” he says, tearing his gaze away and grinning at you, “Put me to work, what can I do?” 

“You want to help?” 

“Of course, teach me how to bake, mistress baker,” he winks and again his usually scowling face is transformed, a warm smile lighting up his sharp features as his brown eyes soften. You smile back at him, marveling at how he transforms from a sourly looking soldier to a handsome man when he lets himself smile. 

“Ok then, Pero,” you grin, “time to learn a new profession.” 

Under your direction Pero pulls out the necessary ingredients and tools, making comments about the flimsy quality of the metal in your kitchen. 

“This would not hold up in a kitchen or on a battlefield,” he remarks, holding up one of your stainless steel bowls, “It would melt over a fire and even a child’s arrow would pierces this, I’m sure.” 

“It’s stronger than you think,” you laugh, setting a bag of dried cherries down on the workbench and giving one to Pero to try. He sucks on it, smiling at the familiar flavor, and nods in approval as he goes in search of a knife. He finds your custom chef knife, your name stamped along the blade, and this is the only item that gets his commendation. 

“This is a good weapon, querida, if any more strange men turn up at your door. You should keep it on you at all times,” he says, effortlessly spinning the knife in his hand, testing its weight and balance. 

“I hope no more strange men come tumbling into my backyard,” you laugh, “what would I do with you all?” 

“If fate lets me, I’ll stay here and keep you safe, just feed me,” he grins, coming to stand next to you and placing the knife on the workbench. 

“That sounds like a good deal for me, Pero,” you smile back at him and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs, a beautiful sound in your kitchen, his rough voice smoothed out by the warm vibrations. 

“Querida, even if you only fed me your bread and butter, I would be the winner in that deal; a full belly and a beautiful mistress? What man could ask for more?” 

He sees the way your shy smile reaches your eyes before you look down at your hands on the recipe book. Heat creeps up your neck and you have to squeeze your lips together to stop a silly grin from splitting your face open. You can feel Pero’s smiling eyes on you as he waits for your reply, and when he wraps his fingers around your hand on the book, you almost jump, his grip a gentle touch. The fingers on his other hand find your chin, softly bringing your face up to look up at him. 

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, the rough pad of his thumb caressing your chin as your heart rate picks up and you part your lips.  

“Now put me to work,” he smiles, “So I can have this fruit bread again.” 

You draw a deep breath, your heart fluttering in your chest as you pull your eyes away from Pero and down to the recipe. 

“S-so…ok, we need tea, I’ll make that if you fill this with flour and put it in the bowl. Then crack an egg in there too.” 

“Your wish is my command, mistress,” Pero replies and your cheeks heat up again, but you can’t help the wide smile and it makes Pero grin as you fumble for a saucepan to fill with water. 

He completes the tasks you set him, and then comes to stand next to you as you spoon tea leaves into the kettle and pour the boiling water over it. 

“I visited China once,” he says, “They drank black tea, it’s strange to see it here too.” 

“This tea comes from China, we started importing it a long time ago. I’m going to soak the fruit in the tea, it really should sit overnight but it works like this too, just a bit less flavor.” 

What Pero said suddenly hits you, and you turn to look at him as he stirs the dried fruit through the tea, “You went to China? That must’ve been such a long journey?” 

Pero nods, his face falling back to his default scowl as he pulls his eyebrows together at the memory. 

“It was very long, dusty and dangerous. Both there and going home, I’ll tell you about it someday when you know me better, but you’ll still think I’m a liar, it’s a hard story to believe.” 

“Sounds like it was an adventure,” you reply and Pero shrugs, shaking his head a little. 

“A storyteller would call it an adventure, I would call it a terrifying nightmare,” he grumbles, taking the fruit back to the workbench and changing the subject, “I can’t read your book, what should I do now?” 

You pass him a loaf tin, “Smear this with butter and I’ll mix the rest of the ingredients together.” 

Pero nods and takes the butter in his good hand and gets to work while you mix the dough. You leave out some of the spices that would be too foreign to Pero you think, and reduce the sugar a bit. From the corner of your eye you see Pero watching you work, and as you mix the fruit into the dough you glance up at him and give him a small smile. He looks lost in thought for a moment, before he smiles back at you, a much softer looking man as he almost seems to be shy, handing you the prepared tin. 

“You look very capable,” he says, taking a few small steps closer to look at the dough, “more capable than any baker I’ve ever seen.” 

“Thank you, Pero,” you reply, smiling to yourself as you pick up the bowl to tip the dough into the tin. 

“Oh! I almost forgot!” you exclaim and put the bowl back on the counter, hurrying over to your small desk while Pero looks surprised. From a box you remove a gold ring and quickly wash it in the sink. Bringing it back to Pero you hold it up. 

“It’s tradition to mix items into the barmbrack, some things for bad luck, some for good luck. But I prefer adding only things for good luck so I usually add this ring. It was my grandmother’s wedding ring and she was a baker too,” you flip the ring over and show the date written on the inside of the ring, “June sixth, nineteen forty-one, her wedding day.”

“It will bring luck?” Pero asks and you nod. 

“Whoever finds it in the cake will have good luck,” you reply, “Well, as it’s a ring it’s meant to mean that you’re getting married within a year, but I prefer to think of it as good luck.” 

“I’ve heard of superstitions like this one before,” Pero says, “I don’t know if I believe in them, but it’s probably not wise to ignore them.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” you smile as you toss the ring into the dough and mix it again, “I’m just going to put the dough in the tin and then bake it.” 

You’re interrupted by the doorbell on the front door, and you look towards the shop. 

“That’s our food I think, take over here and I’ll go pick it up,” you say, handing the bowl to Pero. You hurry to the door and tip the delivery guy, bringing back a bag of food. Peros is carefully patting down the dough with serious concentration and it makes you smile to see him looking so focused on his job. 

“It looks great, Pero,” you say and he looks up, giving you a quick smile. You’re struck by the difference a little bit of time with him has made, his distrust has disappeared, replaced by curious looks and grins. You realize again how handsome he is as he stands up and holds out the tin to you, his deep brown eyes warm instead of cautious, and the near permanent downward turn of his mouth has been replaced by the soft smile he gives you as you take the tin from him.

“Thanks,” you say and hand him the bag, “There’s food in there, get us set up while I put this in the oven, then we can eat.”

Pero inhales deeply as the scent reaches his nose and his stomach growls as he hastily grabs the bags and looks for a spot to sit. 

The oven is ready to go so you just put the barmbrack in and turn back to Pero, grabbing cutlery as you go. He’s on the floor, leaning against the bookshelf again, and is unpacking the food. Sinking down next to him, you groan at the relief of getting off your feet and sitting down. You tip your head back against the bookshelf and let slip a deep sigh that turns into a yawn. Pero chuckles next to you as he peels the lid off one of the containers. 

“You’re yawning but I’m the one who spent a night inside a cramped tunnel,” he says and you clamp your hand over your mouth, giggling.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day, I get up very early to bake every morning,” you say, stifling another yawn as Pero picks up one of the containers with stew, looking at it with hungry eyes. 

“It smells incredible,” he says, taking the spoon you hand him.

“Eat, Pero, you look hungry,” you smile and he flashes you a quick grin before digging in. 

The stew is good, rich and hearty, with big chunks of meat. Pero demolishes his portion and you get the rest of the loaf of bread, watching him tear chunks out of it to mop up the sauce. You’re sitting close together, his shoulder against yours, the warmth of his body a comfortable presence against your arm as you eat in silence. Pero groans as he does so, a deep moan escaping him when he scrapes up the sauce.  

“Feeling better?” you ask as he swallows the last piece of bread and sets the container down on the floor. He nods and tips his head back towards the bookshelf with a contented sigh. 

“Yes, much better, it was the best stew I’ve ever had,” he says, tilting his head to look over at you, “A full belly and your company, you’ve cured me.” 

“Happy I could help  you,” you smile at him, “you seemed a bit lost.” 

“I still am,” he says, his eyes slipping down to your lips, almost as if he doesn’t notice he’s done it, until he catches himself and snaps them back up and meets your eyes, “But I feel…safe, I think, here. With you.”  

His voice is low, softer than before, a quiet rasp in the silent kitchen. The rain is still rushing down outside and the white noise wraps you in a bubble as he carefully moves closer. You feel his hand, rough and calloused, come up and gently stroke your face, his eyes watching his fingers trail along the edge of your jaw, cupping your cheek and letting his thumb run over your bottom lip. 

“So soft,” he whispers, his breath tickling your lips as you close your eyes. 

The kiss is gentle, featherlight, but he stays close, pressing his lips against yours again and again, and you relish in the hushed words he whispers in another language, praise you can’t understand. But the way his lips never leave yours for more than a second, his reverent tone in every phrase, makes you feel cherished as his words wrap around you. 

When he lingers against your lips, you bring your hand up and touch his cheek, slipping your hand around his neck, holding him close so that he knows he can stay. You hear a rumble in his chest as he pulls you in closer, pulling you over his lap, his arm coming around your waist to keep steady, the other still cupping your cheek. You test his mouth, the slight parting of his lips where his soft bottom lip has a divot, and he groans, pulling you impossibly closer. His hair is still damp when you curl your fingers into it, still dirty from two days of wherever he managed to seek shelter when he first fell into this time. But under it, he’s warm and solid, his mouth hungry as he opens up and lets his tongue taste yours. 

Pero grows bolder as you guide him, pulling your leg over his lap so that you straddle him. As your hands caress his hair and explore the firm muscles of his shoulders, he seeks out the edge between your shirt and your trousers. The skin there is soft and smooth and he runs his hands over your waist, mumbling into your mouth between kisses. He pulls back a fraction and lets his hands slide high up on your back, under your shirt, pressing you into his chest.  

“Hermosa…” he whispers, “you’re so soft, your skin is like silk under my rough hands, so soft, warm, I’ve never…” he trails off, reaching up to claim your mouth again and you bend down to meet him. You can feel him grow hard under you, he’s holding back from rutting up, panting harder as his fingers dig into your waist. Gently you pull back from him and lean your forehead against his. 

“Pero…Pero…Pero…” you whisper, catching your breath as his grip on your loosens, his hands resuming their soft caresses up and down your back. 

“Querida,” he smiles, pulling back a little so that he can look at you, his dark eyes warm now, softer than ever, as he brings up a hand to cup your cheek again. 

“Come home with me tonight, I can’t send you away to sleep in a tunnel again,” you whisper, closing your eyes as his fingers trace across your lips. 

“You would let me?” he asks quietly, “You trust me, a stranger?” His hand goes still on your cheek and you look at him again. 

“You’re not a stranger anymore, Pero, I trust you. If you trust me to not steal from you that is,” the last thing you say with a small grin, and Pero laughs, a deep rumble as he wraps his arms around you again. 

“You’ve already stolen from me, querida,” he smiles, “you think all these kisses were free?” 

“I’m paying in food and more kisses,” you tease him, pressing your lips to the tip of his nose and he wrinkles it, his shoulders jumping as he laughs again. 

“Steal all my kisses, hermosa, you can have every single one.” 

Somewhere behind you the oven timer goes off and Pero stiffens for a second before he relaxes under you again. 

“Only the oven telling us the barmbrack is done,” you smile, pushing yourself off Pero’s lap and standing up. He holds out his hand for you to grab, and you pull him to his feet too. 

“Feed me,” he smiles, snaking an arm around your waist as you turn the oven off and open the door. 

“It needs to cool a bit first, I’ll put it in the fridge,” you wriggle out of his arms with a giggle as he tries to hold on to your shirt. When you close the fridge door behind you, the barmbrack safely on the shelf, he’s behind you again, bending his head to your shoulder. 

“Are you really letting me stay with you tonight?” he asks, his voice betraying that he still can’t quite believe that you’re trusting him. 

“Pero,” you reply, turning around and taking his hand, “I was scared when I first saw you outside, you looked frightening. But you also looked scared, like you needed help, and something told me I could trust you. And you’ve done nothing to make me regret that. I trust you.”

He looks at you for a few moments, uncertainty flitting across his face, “Not since I became a man has anyone seen my face and trusted me like that. No one but you.” 

“I’m sorry, Pero,” you reply but he shakes his head, suddenly crowding you, making you walk back towards the work bench. 

“If you’re the only one to trust me, I think that will be enough,” he smiles, his eyes soft again, the uncertainty gone as he puts his hands on your waist and lifts you up to sit on the counter, stepping in between your thighs. You feel him push his calloused hands under your shirt again, moving over your back, softly kneading at your curves as you pull him closer, making him bend his head to yours. 

“I trust you, Pero,” you mumble, tracing your fingers over his face, his short, uneven beard, the sharp curve of his nose, carefully moving up to gently caress the scar across his eye. He closes his eyes as you touch it, mapping the way something sharp has cut across his eyebrow, down onto his cheek. 

Pero’s hands have gone still on your waist, warm palms gripping your flesh as you reach up and press your lips to the spot over his eyebrow where the scar begins, moving your mouth further down, a brief whisper against his eyelid and then a firm kiss at the top of his cheek, the jagged point of the old injury. 

“I think whatever brought me here was a blessing,” he mumbles and you nod as he opens his eyes again to look at you. 

“I’m glad you found your way here, Pero,” you reply, moving your hands up to cradle his face, finding his lips against yours again. 

The rain continues outside, flashes of bright light shining in through the window split seconds before rolls of thunder move in. But neither of you notice, lost in the sensation of warm hands and soft lips exploring something new. Pero buries his face against your neck, inhaling deeply as you wrap your fingers around his curls. You can feel his lips leave small, wet kisses all along your neck, rubbing the cool tip of his nose against the soft spot under your ear where your pulse flutters. 

“Pero,” you mumble, pressing a kiss against the tip of his ear, and he lifts his head, meeting your eyes with a warm smile, making you kiss his lips again, losing several more minutes as you both savor the moment. 

With a giggle you finally pull away a little as he chases your lips with a protest, “Let me cut the barmbrack and then we go home,” you say and he pulls you off the counter. 

“I will take it as payment for all the kisses you have stolen,” he mumbles, pressing another one to your mouth as you laugh into it. 

The barmbrack still holds some warmth when you cut it, and the rich smell that it emits as the slices fall makes you salivate and Pero groans next to you, his hand shooting out to grab the thickest piece. 

“Wait, we need butter on it too,” you laugh, slapping his eager hand away and he repays you by sinking his teeth into your neck instead, playfully biting the soft skin. 

“It smells too good, querida,” he grumbles as you spread butter on the slice and hand it to him. 

“Impatient,” you smile at him as he takes a first giant bite of the barmbrack, grinning at you around the slice. You butter your own slice and Pero hums, muttering his praise between bites until his teeth clink against the ring. 

“Oh, you got the ring in the first slice!” you exclaim, “That’s really lucky!” 

Pero carefully spits the gold ring into his palm, “I feel like my night has already been lucky,” he smiles at you, holding out the ring for you to take it. 

“No, wash it off and then keep it, until we make a new barmbrack. It’s your lucky charm for now.” 

“Are you certain?” he asks, rinsing the crumbs and butter off the heavy gold ring at the sink, and holding out to you again. 

“Absolutely, you found it, it’s yours for now,” you say, finishing your own slice as Pero slips the ring into a pouch on his belt and eyes the rest of the loaf, “Do you want another slice, Pero?” you ask with a smile and he grins back at you. 

“It reminds me of the one I had as a child, but it tastes much better. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says, coming to stand behind you as you prepare a second thick slice for him and wrap the rest of the barmbrack to take home. 

“Thank you, I’m glad you like it,” you smile at him and he takes the slice. 

“Querida, I love it,” he says, smiling back at you, “it’s almost as good as your kisses…” he quirks his eyebrows and leans in to capture your lips with his again, making you open your mouth to his eager tongue. 

“Still the best thing,” he mumbles as he pulls back a little, both you catching your breath. 

“Let’s go home,” you whisper back at him, “I’m just going to make sure everything is locked up, we’ll go out the back way."

He nods and you reluctantly disentangle yourself from him and walk out to the main shop, checking the door and the alarm. When you come back, Pero is sucking on his fingers, the second slice disappeared as fast as the first and he grins back at you as he notices your look. 

You flick off the main lights, Pero’s eyes widening in surprise as the kitchen is cast into darkness, and lead him to the backdoor and let him out. The rain is only a drizzle now but the thunder is still rumbling through the sky and Pero looks up as he goes down the stairs, waiting for you to set the alarm and lock the door. 

A bright flash of lightning cuts across the back yard, followed by a loud clap of thunder that makes you jump and let out a yelp. 

“Oh shit, that scared me,” you laugh, locking the door and turning around, pocketing the key, “the thunder must be right above us.” 

But the yard in front of you is as empty as every other night. No trace of Pero, only the dim light of the street lamps and the light patter of rain drops. 

Your heart clenches in your chest, you can still feel his lips on yours. 

It’s not until a week later that you see the article. A patron has left a newspaper behind and as you clear the table, a headline catches your eye. 

Modern ring found in 11th century grave

Archeologists at a dig in Sevilla, Spain, were surprised when excavating an 11th century grave. The site is being prepared for a new residential area and the grave is being moved to a nearby churchyard. The remains of an 11th century man was found in the grave, and around his neck was a thin gold chain, also 11th century in design. What surprised the archeologist was the modern gold wedding band hanging on the chain, with the date “June sixth, nineteen forty-one” engraved on the inside.

“The grave was undisturbed, and the chain was intact, clearly placed on the man in the grave either while he was still alive or before he was buried,” said chief archaeologist Maria Ruiz. “It’s impossible, of course, for a man from the 11th century to be in possession of a 20th century ring, but at the moment we have no explanation as to how the ring ended up in the grave with him.” 

Part Ten

Some author notes here at the end too; I don't think it's canon that Pero is from Asturias, but Tovar is an Asturian name and I have a personal connection to the region so it felt right.

I have no idea if barmbrack was a thing in 11th century Europe, the earliest sources are from the 18th century. But it's bread with fruit, seems doable in any age really. If you've never had it, give it a try, it's a very easy recipe and it goes amazing with butter and a cup of tea.

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