#but my phone does not want to display fluorescence very well

[sodacowboy]

fun sort of chaos today

[duskholland]

Ritual || Boxer!Tom Smut

boxer!tom x reader — smut.

summary ↠ with the championship fight less than two weeks away, tom adopts a series of frustrating pre-match rituals.... based off the request ↠ ‘boxer!tom refuses to have sex for two weeks before a big match then he wins a belt and becomes the top boxer and his s/o patches him up like she does after every match, but it quickly turns into really intense victory sex with dom!tom’ I changed a couple bits but this is pretty much the same :)) warnings ↠ this gets very, very smutty. for that reason, 18+ pls !! extended nsfw warnings are beneath the cut but this spirals into v intense smut. so just. watch out pls. word count ↠ 8k a/n ↠ I almost died when I wrote this. truly. I felt a piece of my soul leave my body. sheeeesh. anyway uh... this was a lot of fun to write! I found out so many fun facts about sports psychology whilst researching this, so thanks boxer!tom for enlightening me on the fun world of pre-match-rituals. enjoy!

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

extended nsfw warnings: fem masturbation, oral (fem and male receiving), mentions of vibrating egg, edging and denial, dirty talk, reader definitely has a pain kink (...): biting, spanking + hair pulling, face-fucking, dom!tom, rough sex™️, shower shenanigans, doggy-style, unprotected sex — please wrap before you tap if you do this irl thank you very very much !!

*:·ﾟ✧Ritual ✧·ﾟ:*

Thump. Smack. Thump.

Tom’s fists rain down over the punching bag, and there’s a metallic clicking sound as the object goes spinning in the air. You watch as he pirouettes around the bag, dodging its movements between swings, getting in hit after hit after hit. He slowly works his way around the object, his face screwed into an expression of empowered determination as he alternates which bright red glove he uses to pound against the fabric.

You sigh, loudly, the sound dying in the near-empty gym. There’s just something about Tom in the days preceding a fight that makes you squirm.

He’s different. Still the man you know and love so effortlessly, but heightened in the most attractive ways. His senses pull sharper, his jaw carrying a firm line to it, his eyes like roaring fires. As Tom pounds his fists against the bag, his sweaty brown curls stick to the top of his forehead, contrasting the bright pink tones staining his cheeks. You watch the muscles in his arms tense and flex, pale skin on display due to the tight black vest that clings tightly to his torso. You know if he turned around properly, you’d be able to make out the sunken lines of his abs, packed rigidly with muscle.

You bite your lower lip, stifling a moan. You find Tom attractive enough under normal conditions, let alone when he’s like this: eyes glowing with determination, body burning with passion as he takes swing after swing at the punching bag like he’s got a personal vendetta against it.

“Having fun?”

You startle, clutching at your chest as you turn around to look at Harrison Osterfield, Tom’s sports psychologist. A frown instantly springs out across your mouth, and you reach up to begrudgingly take the bottle of water he offers you.

“I hate you,” you grunt. You sit up a little straighter before leaning back against the wall. You’re waiting for Tom to finish his workout, sitting on one of the benches in the gym. You’d started out the session sparring together, but you’d called quits after twenty minutes against him. Unlike Tom, you don’t have the biggest fight of your career in two weeks—and, honestly, you enjoy watching him like this more than you enjoy trying to keep up with him in the ring.

Harrison frowns as he drops to sit beside you, nudging your shoulder.

“I’m wounded, love,” he says, smirking at you. “What have I done this time?”

You roll your eyes. “You know exactly what you’ve done, Haz.”

Harrison raises an eyebrow, tutting. “You know this is for the best, Y/N.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Fuck the best.”

When Harrison had joined Tom’s team at the start of the season, he’d come boasting all the new sciences of a young university graduate. He’d suggested Tom adopt a series of rituals to help him focus before a big match—small things, initially, like taking cold showers and limiting the time he spends on his phone. Yet, as the competition has progressed and Tom has risen further and further up the ranks, the rituals have grown more intense, more focused. It’s reached the point that now, two weeks before the big match, Tom has reached his final form. As instructed, he visits the sauna every other day, receives daily massages from the most esteemed sports therapists in Europe, drinks multiple cups of pure, fresh herbal tea a day. There are no distractions—his phone is permanently on silent, he’s cut out naps, he’s eliminated music. No distractions, no impurities, no sex.

No sex, because according to Harrison, nothing gets adrenaline rushing and frustration festering like an extended period of denial. No sex, which is a problem, for you, because Tom has never looked as fit as he does now, launching himself at the punching bag, sweat dripping down his forehead. His biceps flex and bulge and you have to cross your legs as you tighten your grip on the water bottle.

“He’ll win,” Harrison mutters, lowly. You glance towards him, taking in the sight of the older man with his face doused in the harsh fluorescent lights of the gym. “He’s good. Got the best form I’ve ever seen.” He lowers his voice, glancing at you shrewdly. “Don’t distract him, alright? He’s on fire.”

You grumble something incoherent beneath your breath before sighing and sitting up straighter.

“It’s fucked that you get to decide when I get laid, Haz. You know that, right?”

He raises an eyebrow, cheeks blushing a light pink. “Uh, well, I didn’t actually know that he’d go through with that part of it,” Harrison admits. “But if it works, don’t knock it. He wants to win.”

You sit back, resting your shoulders against the wall as you groan. “I want him to win, too,” you say. You look down at your fingers, playing with some of the rings sitting behind your knuckles. “I think it’ll kill him if he doesn’t.”

Both of you look back at Tom, who’s ditched the gloves. You watch him talk with his coach, running a hand through his sweaty hair as he nods, looking focused as he listens to the pointers and tips. You release a relieved sigh as Tom’s coach pats him on the back and walks off, leaving Tom to pick up his towel and his bottle before sauntering over to you and Harrison.

“Hi.” Tom tosses his stuff onto the bench before reaching for your hands. He pulls you up easily and quickly, causing you to squeal as you find yourself in his arms. He’s hot, his entire body flushed with the sweaty, adrenaline-filled afterglow of a good, long workout, and you laugh as he dives down to kiss your neck, soft curls tickling you. “Missed you, darling.”

He works his way up your neck, nibbling softly at your skin before pressing a kiss to your jaw, then your chin, and then, finally, your mouth. It’s light, but then you push against him eagerly and wrap your arms around his neck, and pull him deeper. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you moan happily as you enjoy the feeling of Tom, his skin warm and flushed, his pulse vibrating against you, and his mouth, coming over yours again and again.

“I’m right here,” Harrison mutters, speaking up from behind you. You groan, give Tom a final kiss, and then begrudgingly pull back.

“Sorry,” you call out, stepping closer to Tom as you turn your head to look at Harrison. Tom’s arms come around your waist, and he holds you nearer, humming as he presses his face into your shoulder. “You can always leave.”

Harrison rolls his eyes as he flips you off, causing Tom to chuckle.

“Y/N,” Tom mumbles, voice fond. “Harrison can stay if he wants to stay. I was thinking we could all go get dinner or something.”

To your relief, Harrison is quick to shake his head. He pulls on his jacket as he looks between you and Tom, his eyes lingering on you for a moment as they twinkle with amusement.

“It’s fine. I’ll leave you both alone. I think Y/N’s had enough of me, anyway.” He’s teasing, and you all know it, but you still throw out an easing pout as you shrug.

“Night, Haz,” you say, leaning further into Tom, who echoes your sentiments. As soon as Harrison’s gone, Tom spins you in his arms, his brown eyes bright and glowing with adoration. He kisses you again, and you sigh as you melt further into him, the spark in the pit of your stomach roaring back to life as Tom’s tongue teases your lower lip.

“Come shower with me,” Tom murmurs, hands roaming your back. He pecks the side of your mouth a few times as you hum.

“I can’t,” you find yourself saying, though it pains you considerably. Tom abruptly stops his kisses.

“Why not?” He pouts, pulling back to stare at you. He looks a little bit like an injured puppy, eyes wide with hurt. He squeezes your waist for emphasis.

“We’re in the two-week window, Tom,” you remind him. You reach up, lightly cupping his very hot, very sweaty face, in your palm. “You know we can’t.”

He groans, then dramatically lets his forehead fall to rest on your shoulder. You chuckle, rolling your eyes as you let him pout and rub his back.

“I love you,” he says, after a moment. He pulls back, kissing your neck briefly before sighing. “Thanks for putting up with this.”

“It’s okay.” You bite your lip, tilting your head to the side as you examine him carefully. “It’s kind of hot. You get so frustrated.”

Tom just narrows his eyes, staring at you with an expression mixed between amusement and frustration.

“Go on, champ,” you say, pushing his shoulder gently. “Go shower so we can go home, yeah?”

Tom begrudgingly steps back, opening and closing his mouth a few times as if he’s going to try and change your mind again, but he doesn’t. As much as you know he wants to drag you into a steamy cubicle, his desire to win his match is stronger.

“Be back soon, darling,” he says. “Don’t miss me too much.”

———

The days burn by slowly.

About a week in, you find yourself snapping. You always try to adopt pseudo-chastity with Tom, feeling a little guilty every time you sneak your hand between your legs and chase the highs he can only dream about finding. Yet, you end up reaching breaking point and giving in to temptation one evening, alone in your flat. Tom’s out late at the gym, at the point in the regime where he’s spending most of his days hauled up in the large building, and you just can’t help yourself: you’re so horny.

If you asked him to get you off, you know he’d agree, never wanting to deny you anything. Tom loves you, loves watching you fall apart for him, loves the power trip that comes with knowing your pleasure is in his hands, but you’d just feel too mean. His refusal to have sex in the lead up is as much psychological as it is anything else—you know he finds energy in the ritual, finds aggressive, fiery hormones in the fourteen days of denial. You’d never want to put him in the position where he got tempted to break, no matter how badly you want to cum.

So, you decide to take care of your ache yourself. Or, at least, you try to.

You start off strong. Teasing yourself over your panties, drawing your fingers over the front of your covered sex. You let your eyes flutter shut as you think about Tom, recounting some of the last few sessions you’ve witnessed at the gym. You think about him, his biceps flexing and curling, the subtle curves of his long, slender fingers, his mouth. His features blur, and you find yourself moaning as you dip your fingers beneath the soft cotton and start to stroke your folds. You circle your clit for a while before dipping down to your entrance, touching the pool of your arousal and groaning as you wet your fingers. As your arousal starts to build, you tease your clit, accompanying the action with your other hand after a while. It feels good—so, so good—as you tease your g-spot with your fingers, keeping your thumb on your clit, edging, and edging, and edging, and—

You can’t cum.

A frown settles on your face as you start to grow frustrated. You try to change things up, slowing your movements, letting the high ebb away before trying again. Instead of reaching climax like you crave, you find yourself resting on the edge instead. You’re aroused, your cunt throbbing, your clit tingling, but you can’t quite get there. It’s frustrating.

You’re so caught up in your irritation that you miss the loud slam of the front door, too absorbed in the sounds of your wetness to hear Tom’s yell of greeting. Your eyes are shut as your boyfriend enters the bedroom. You’re not aware he’s home until you hear him tutting, his voice stacked full of amusement and lust. Your eyelids flutter open, and you find yourself looking at him, wide-eyed like a deer stuck in the headlight.

“T-Tom,” you whimper, your movements stilling. You have your legs spread wide open, two fingers buried in your heat, your other hand draped over your bud. A shy smile finds its way across your lips as you batter your eyelashes at him, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of your boyfriend, drowning in a black hoodie and tight blue denim jeans. His hair lies in fresh, air-dried curls, his eyes dark pools of lust. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Tom repeats, imitating your tone. He pushes himself away from the bedroom wall, walking towards you like a lion stalking his prey. You whimper when he reaches down to touch your leg, sliding his hand over your shin teasingly. His eyes glint as he hears you, gaze fixed on the spot between your legs where your hands have stilled. “Oh, please don’t stop on my account, darling,” he teases, smirking. “Keep going. Just because I can’t have fun, doesn’t mean you should have to suffer too.”

You bite your lip, recognising all too well the teasing glint in his eye.

“I can’t,” you admit, shifting around on the mattress as Tom kneels on the end of the bed. Both of his hands are on your legs now, slowly, teasingly, dragging his touch up your shins. Your breath hitches as he slowly works his way up, dipping his head so he’s able to kiss each of your knees, his lips warm and tender.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

He’s lying down, settled between your legs, slowly kissing up the inside of one of your thighs. It’s hard to concentrate with him so close to your centre.

“Can’t get there,” you mutter, slowly pulling both of your hands away from your mound, leaving you exposed. Tom leans up, raising his eyebrows until you offer him the fingers you’d had buried inside your entrance. He hums as he sucks on your fingers, the sight of him making you moan softly. “I get so close, but I can’t get over the edge.”

Tom licks at the tips of your fingers before releasing them, smirking slowly. “What a shame,” he drawls, sounding the opposite. Both of his hands go to the soft sides of your thighs, and you let him pry your legs apart. He’s so close to your cunt that you can feel his warm breath fanning out across your bud, your folds, your entrance. “Looks like neither of us can cum this week, hmm?”

Before you can reply, Tom drops his head and buries it between your legs. You cry out, sensitive from your edging, your clit throbbing as you feel his tongue, warm and wet, circling the bud. His hands push your hips back down, holding you firmly in place as he moans, drawing his mouth all over your sex.

“Stay still, darling,” he murmurs, voice thick. He glances up at you, a wild look in his eyes. “Be a good girl and let me have a little taste.”  

Your eyes roll back, and you try to lie as still as possible. Tom’s fingers slip into your cunt, exploring your passage, curling up against your g-spot as you whimper.

“So good,” you moan, already feeling your climax twitching in the pit of your stomach. One of your hands goes down to grab at his hair, digging into his curls and keeping his face exactly where you need it, and the other fists the sheets. Your chest rises and falls, your heavy pants mixing with the sounds of Tom’s fingers, fucking your wet heat, and his tongue, teasing the life out of your tender clit. “Please, please.”

“Hmm, you don’t want to cum, do you?” Tom’s words are coupled with a gradual slow in his pace, and you feel your orgasm drifting away as he stills his fingers. He laps over your clit a final time before sitting up a little straighter, looking at you straight on as his chin glistens. “If I don’t get to cum, it doesn't seem fair that you do either, does it?”

His voice is hypnotising, and when his free hand goes to rub warm circles on your inner thigh, you find yourself nodding, transfixed.

“I- I guess.”

Tom smirks, dropping his lips so he can kiss your clit, lightly.

“Are you going to wait for me, sweetheart?” He asks, pink lips puffy and inflamed.

You bite your lip. “Tom,” you whimper, frowning when he lets his fingers pull away from your heat. You watch as he licks his digits clean, still with that wide, confident smirk on his face.

“Hm?” Tom kisses your thigh. “I can make you cum, if you really want to, darling. Just thought it might be nice to do this together.” He rolls both of his hands over your legs, battering his eyelashes at you. “Promise I’ll make it worth your while. Just think about how good it’ll be to wait until next Saturday.” He pushes himself up your body, anchoring himself with a strong arm either side of your head as he suspends himself above you. Tom kisses you, roughly, but only for a moment, letting your lips pull apart when he feels you trying to slip your tongue into his mouth. “Let’s do this together, yeah?”

You hum, thinking on it for a moment, but the scent of his cologne and his fresh shampoo scramble your mind. You find yourself nodding, distracted by the glint in his eyes.

“Okay,” you agree, rolling your eyes when he grins. “We’ll do it together.”

“Good girl.” Tom kisses you, grinning against your lips. “This is going to be fun.”

———

If you’d thought the sex ban was difficult to cope with in the first week, it only gets harder in the second. After giving Tom the green light to have his way with you, he seems to channel all his frustration into you—or, more specifically, into making you as frustrated as possible. He teases you, makes you squirm, beg, cry, letting his mouth wander over your sex or his fingers explore you, any time, any place he feels like it. He never allows you to roll over your edge, just watches, usually smirking, as you try to convince him to let you climax, only to kiss you, softly, and pull away each time.

It happens in the locker room—he pushes you up against the metallic lockers and slips his fingers into you, whispering gentle words with sinful intent.

“Gonna stay quiet for me, darling? Cunt feels so desperate... So tight, so hot. Fucking snug around my fingers, aren’t you? Shh… I know, I know. Feels good for you too, doesn’t it?”

In the showers, when you’re both hot and steamy—Tom drops to his knees and slings one of your thighs over his shoulder, nuzzling his face into your heat.

“Wish I could taste this pussy for the rest of my life, love. Tastes like paradise.”

It even happens in the gym, when he pushes a vibrating egg into you and enjoys teasing you, never warning you before he ups the pace of the bullet, watching with that signature mischievousness on his face.

“Don’t get all shy now, love… I can see the way you’re squirming for me. Bet you’re making a mess in those panties, hmm? Yeah… You can’t hide from me.”

It drives you crazy—beyond crazy. If you thought you’d been mad at Harrison before, you’re practically incandescent with rage by the time fight night comes around.

As your frayed arousal combines with the nerves of the big night, you find yourself alone with Tom, half an hour before the most important match of his career. Your priorities have shifted, your mood sobered by the situation.

“Visualise it,” you murmur, voice soft. You roll your hands over Tom’s shoulders. “Think about how good it’ll feel to hold that belt in your hands.”

Tom hums. He’s sitting on one of the hard wooden benches in the locker room. You’re kneeling behind him, occasionally dropping your lips to kiss the top of his head. After months of supporting him before a fight, you know exactly what he needs: you, touching him, grounding him. He doesn’t like distractions so near to the fight, which is why he has his eyes closed. Whenever he opens them, it’s only to look at the bright red gloves settled in his lap. You know that he appreciates you, even when he’s unable to vocalise it, too lost in his thoughts.

“You’ve trained your whole life for this moment, Tom. You deserve it.”

It’s a mantra. Harrison had taught it to you. Small words of affirmation, repeated softly over the lead-up, speaking them into existence. Tom hums, listening intently.

“You’re going to win,” you speak, your own eyes shut. You focus on the feeling of his shoulders, packed firm with muscles between your hands. “You’re going to win, and then you’re going to fuck me.”

Tom shifts, his posture straightening a little, and your eyes widen as you realise you’ve let your inner thoughts interrupt the ritual.

“I don’t think that’s on Harrison’s script, darling,” he mutters, voice amused.

You reach forward, drawing one of your hands over his forehead. Your fingers play with his hair, and you scrunch up your nose as you chastise yourself for your deviation.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Just fucking horny. Your fault.”

“Mm, sorry.” Tom grunts when you pull on his hair a little harder, and you repeat the action. “Fuck, love.” He groans louder and tilts his head to the side, exposing the pale column of his neck. “Give me a hickey?”

You oblige, dipping your head so you can rest your lips on his neck. “Where?” You ghost your lips over varying points on his skin, teasing him with light nibbles.

“There,” Tom mutters. One glance at his face confirms he’s still got his eyes shut. When you give in to his desire and start to suck a deep hickey to his skin, he grunts and reaches up to grab at your hands, squeezing your fingers roughly. “Shit.”

“There you go,” you say, voice soft as you pull back.

“Thanks, love,” Tom mutters. “Want to wear it in the ring. Good luck charm.”

You bite your lip, your centre throbbing as you listen to him. You kiss the mark, stained dark against his skin.

“You’ve got this, Tom,” you whisper, redirecting your lips to his ear. His neck prickles with goosebumps when you kiss his earlobe, softly. “You’re going to win, then you’re going to come back, and we’ll celebrate together. Okay?”

Tom’s still holding your hands, firm and eager, and you smile against his neck when he squeezes them.

“Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll win. I’ll do it for you.”

You kiss the back of his head, his soft curls gentle against your cheeks.

“Love you, champ.”

He coaxes one of your hands to his face and kisses the back of your palm.

“Love you too, darling.”

———

The atmosphere sharpens when Tom gets out to the ring.

It’s a big match. The press is here, the fight streamed live to thousands of people across the world. As Tom strides into the ring to take on his opponent, you settle at the side of it, looking up through the ropes with Harrison by your side.

Tom starts off strong—a few hard jabs here, some quick punches there. He dodges and rolls, his bright red gloves raining down over his opponent. Yet, both Tom and his rival are the best of their class, so it’s a nail-biting half-hour spent with your fingers crossed, eyes trained on your boyfriend as he throws everything he has into the ring.

When they break halfway through the match for a few minutes of respite, you’re quick to slip up into the ring and assist Tom’s trainer as they patch up his injured hand. Tom doesn’t say anything, his teeth frozen in the hard white mouth guard, but he squeezes your hand before you step out again, and you know he’s still in there.

The second half only gets more intense—both of them knowing how close the match is, and adjusting accordingly. Tom and his opponent are more reckless, more brutal, and you watch your boyfriend take risks he’d promised to never try to take. It leaves you an anxious mess, but you can’t help but watch him in awe.

Tom’s time in the ring is a performance, beautifully violent, elegantly composed. Spit sprays, sweat drips, blood rolls. He’s loud—very vocal, his sounds almost brutish. His eyes glint black, brown curls stiff with sweat, face on fire. You find it incredibly attractive to watch him in his element, not just because he physically looks incredible, but also because he’s so utterly committed to his trade that everything else fades away. His passion burns, scorches the ground, ripples over his opponent, and in the end, Tom rises, and his rival sinks.

It’s close, and though you have the suspicion that your boyfriend might have snagged it, you hold your breath until it’s confirmed. Your grip on Harrison’s hand is so tight that he curses, but you don’t release it until the MC yells Tom’s name as champion and thrusts his arm triumphantly into the air.

The arena explodes. Your ears ring as you clap and cheer, tears of pride pooling in your eyes. The first thing Tom does is turn around, looking at you with an expression of elated shock on his face. Then, after accepting the belt and speaking a few hurried words of thanks into the microphone of the leading journalist, he comes straight to you.

“Tom!” You exclaim, shaking from emotion. It’s a blend of adrenaline, pride and nerves, cooling your body, making you quiver. Tom reaches down from the ring and grabs both of your hands, jerking you up to him. You dodge past the ropes, almost tripping in his haste, but he grabs you.

Still with the bright stage lights blinding the ring, Tom sweeps you into a deep, passionate kiss, his hot hands burning into your waist. You release a loud noise of surprise, taken entirely off-guard but rolling with the punches. Tom pushes you back against the ropes of the ring as your hands curl into his sweaty hair, and your brief hope that they’ve stopped broadcasting live is set aside as Tom comes closer, caging you in with his buff arms. It’s messy and dirty, his tongue twisting against yours, lips firm, intense, but it’s everything. As you let go of the tension you’d been harbouring all evening, another very prominent emotion burns to the surface: arousal.

“I fucking did it,” Tom breathes finally, forehead pushed to yours. He sounds so proud of himself that it makes you smile, tears reappearing in your eyes as you nod.

“You did,” you confirm. You pull on his hair and push him back so you’re able to see his eyes, dark and hungry. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you.”

He stares into your eyes for a moment, and then kisses you again, with so much intensity it knocks your breath from your lungs. When he pulls back, he uses one very hot hand to cup your cheek, holding you tightly.

“I have to do some interview shit,” Tom says, grimacing. He tilts his head at the championship belt, which now lies on the floor of the ring, discarded. He’s smirking as he brings his gaze back to you. “Meet me in the locker room? Ten minutes.”

You nod.

“Don’t be late.”

———

You wait for Tom in the team’s locker room, taking the time to lock all of the side doors that lead out from the room. His team has been around the two of you for long enough to know that it’s best to give you a wide berth in the few hours after Tom’s won a match, but you can never be too sure. Once you’re finished with that, you go to the liberty of pulling off your shoes, your jumper, and all the jewellery you’d put on for the night.

Then, you wait.

You wait, and you think about how magnificent Tom had looked as he’d fought, arms flexing, jaw set firm in a focused grimace. You rewatch the scenes of him thrusting the belt into the air, yelling elatedly. You think about how fucking mad he’s made you feel over the last two weeks, edging you and denying you, over and over again. It feels as though you’ve been permanently aroused for seven days straight, and now is no exception: just from spending all evening ogling him, you can feel your arousal wetting the front of your panties.

“Fuck,” Tom exclaims, suddenly bursting into the locker room. You turn around to watch him sling the championship belt over his shoulder as he hurries to flick the lock on the main door, knowing the routine as well as you. When he gets it, he turns and stalks over to you, picking up into a jog. “That took so fucking long,” he groans. He throws the belt away and pulls you from the bench, pushing you until your back bumps up against one of the metal lockers. Tom grins, his nose pressing to yours as he smothers you, hands back on your hips, forehead to yours, breath spreading over your face. “Couldn’t wait to get back here and see you.”

You draw your hands over his back, feeling his muscles tense and flex.

“Just see me?” You ask, ghosting your lips over his.

Tom tightens his grip on your waist. “No,” he mutters darkly. He kisses you, only for a second, but very hard. “Couldn’t wait to get back here, rip your clothes off, and finally give you everything you deserve.”

“Everything I deserve?” You raise your eyebrows, running your hands lower. “I think you deserve more, baby.” You smirk against his lips. “You just won the biggest fight of your life.”

“That’s true…” Tom steps back, only for a moment, and you watch as he reaches beneath the waistband of his gym shorts and grunts. A second later, he pulls out the hard protective cup that shields his lower half from injury in the ring, and he groans, loudly, his forehead pressing to yours. “I’m so fucking hard, darling,” he whines. He steps closer, and you feel him, stiff as a rod, pressing into your thigh. “Need to get it out of me.”

You nod, your head moving back as Tom runs a hand over your throat and tilts it to the side. His lips attack your neck, biting hard kisses to the side of your throat that make you moan, your pulse feeling strong between your legs.

“Shit,” you curse. “Get in the shower.”

Tom sucks a harsh hickey just below your ear before pulling back to wiggle his eyebrows. “The shower, eh?”

“Yeah.” You step out of his hold and start to tear off your clothes, your skin rippling with heat. “Gonna suck you off.” You fling your t-shirt to the ground and roll down your jeans, watching as Tom does the same. “Then… Then, you can fuck me… Shit, I’m definitely going to need you to fuck me.” You throw your bra aside and then push down your panties, the waistband rolling in on itself due to your speed. “I’m so wet, Tom.”

“You don’t need to convince me,” Tom says, eyes taking in your bare form. “Been dreaming about feeling you again, love.” He finally pulls down his boxers, and his hard cock springs out. “Two weeks is far too long. Get over here.”

Tom grabs your hand and tugs you into one of the wide shower cubicles. Both of you curse as he turns the valve and the water comes out freezing cold, but the stark contrast to the raging fire burning up your insides is nice.

You kiss him for a while, as the two of you get soapy and Tom washes away the grime. His skin is soft beneath your hands and the noises he makes as you massage his dodgy shoulder would be erotic enough without the presence of his cock, hard and leaking precum, resting between your thighs. You make out for a while, savouring every moment and enjoying the fact you’re now able to kiss him for longer than two seconds without worrying about exciting him too much. It’s still just as intense as before, but less hurried, and more passionate—Tom’s fingers pushing your damp hair out of your face, water droplets rolling down your figures. To be so bare in front of him and have him so ravenous for you makes you want him more than anything.

“Get back,” you murmur, pushing his shoulders. Tom obeys, his body pressing against the yellow tiled wall. You run a trail of kisses down his torso, paying attention to both of his pecs before his abs, then his v-line. Your knees bend, and you kneel on the floor, kissing up his thighs briefly before finally taking him in hand.

“Fuck-” Tom yells. His hands wind into your hair, flat palms grasping at your skull when you drag your tongue over his tip. “Been so long, love, I won’t last long at all.”

You hum as you tenderly lick over his head, absorbing his salty precum and moaning at the taste. “I know,” you say, your hand slowly tugging his length. You give his tip a chaste kiss as you blink up at him, smiling innocently. “I don’t want you to last long. I want you to cum down my throat.” Very slowly, you envelop his tip in your mouth, bobbing your head gently. You pull back after only a few moments, needing to add, “Want you to fuck my face, Tom.”

Your boyfriend moves one of his hands to your cheek, his voice strained from the way your hand is pumping his lower shaft. “Are you sure? Might not be gentle.”

“Yeah.” You nod your head too. “Want it rough. ‘M so fucking horny, and so are you. Want you to make my throat ache tomorrow.”

Tom curses, his eyes fluttering shut. “You’re so sexy,” he whines, slapping your cheek gently. “Thank you.”

You consider telling him that it’s almost as much for you as it is for him, but then you decide that the sight of his cock, flushed red, leaking precum, is your number one priority. So, you loosen your hand on his member and remove it completely, then soften your jaw and start to take him in your mouth, deep-throating him like you’ve ached to do for two weeks.

Tom’s fast to use his leverage on your head, guiding you with shaking hands. Both of you know that all you have to do to tap out is press his thigh, so you let him use you however he needs. Tears pool in your eyes as he fucks your mouth hard, his tip hitting the end of your throat until you gag. The lewd sounds mix with the pounding of the shower against the tiles and Tom’s grumbled groans that spiral up into the air.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he says, voice raspy and light. “So good, sweetheart, fuck. Such a pretty mouth. Feels so bloody good.” He breaks off for a moment, and you feel him shifting around on the wall, indicating he’s near his peak. “So messy too, fuck. Missed this. Watching you on your knees, gagging on my cock.” He tightens his grip on your hair and pushes you deeper, groaning loudly as he does so. “Fuck, I’m gonna blow. Gonna cum all down your throat. Shit, shit-”

Tom stops moving your head as he yelps, one of his hands curling into a fist and hitting back against the wall as he cums suddenly. You swallow around him, pulling up until your lips are at his tip, and your hand goes up to pump the rest of him through his orgasm. His entire body shakes, releasing the pent-up frustration that comes with so long in denial, and you take joy in the light whimpers he deposits into the air as you suck on his tip, cleaning him up.

“Holy…” Tom grabs your hair and pulls you back up, slumping against you instead of the wall as he pants. After taking a moment to gather himself, he pulls back to look at you, his thumb coming up to play with the beads of his cum that stain the corner of your mouth. “Made a mess,” he coos, pushing his seed onto your tongue. You grin as you suck his thumb further into your mouth, delighting as he curses. “You’re going to be the death of me, sweetheart. You really are.”

You release his finger with a pop, shrugging. “How was that?”

Tom groans again, the sound almost orgasmic. “So good,” he mumbles. “Been so long, darling. So, so long.” He kisses your face, dusting your cheeks in light, loving kisses. When he pulls back, his eyes are a little darker. “Bet you’d like to chase that high too, wouldn’t you?” He accompanies his words with a sly hand, slipping down between your legs. When he feels your slick, so pronounced it’s coating your inner thighs, he tuts, smirking. “All this for me?”

You nod, whining breathlessly as he slips two fingers up to toy with your bud. You feel like a livewire—strung out and pulsing, white-hot. Unlike him, you’ve had some stimulation over the last two weeks. Just, you’ve also been cruelly pulled away from the edge, every single time.

“Just for you,” you agree. Your face drops forward, and you find yourself biting Tom’s broad shoulder as he curls two fingers into you with ease.

“You’re so hot in here,” he mutters, “and so wet, too. Fuck, love. You’re dripping down my hand.” When he angles his digits up to caress your g-spot, he strikes it immediately, and you moan noisily. “There you go, baby. Shh. It’s okay.” Tom fucks your tight heat, gradually unravelling you. “I’ve got you.”

Your moans come out strangled, and you feel yourself clenching around his fingers as your high builds quickly. It won’t take much to push you over the edge, and as much as it pains you—

“I don’t want to cum on your hand, Tom,” you manage, your voice betraying you by splitting into a whimper. “Want to cum on your cock.”

Tom slows his fingers, but he keeps thrusting them into you, just too slowly for you to peak. You groan, your centre pulsing as he keeps you burning near the edge, his lips on your neck again. He gently kisses up to your ear, mouth feather-light.

“Are you sure?” He coos, nibbling at your earlobe. “Feels like you want to cum.” When Tom adds his other hand, two fingers gently stroking your tender bud, your knees almost give out. “Can feel you clenching around me, Y/N, naughty girl.” He kisses just below your ear. “If you want something, you know how you need to ask for it.”

You’re all over the place, your eyes squeezed shut, sweat breaking out over your forehead, your cunt clenching and releasing every other second. You’re so close you can almost taste it, but you try to exercise self-control.

“Please, Tom.” It takes everything in you, but you manage to stand up straighter again, looking at him straight-on. His eyes dance dark with power and lust, his smirk unmoving as he thrusts his fingers a little faster. “W-Want you to fuck me. Been waiting so long, don’t want to fall apart if it isn’t with you behind me. Please, please, please, please-”

He cuts you off with a hard kiss, and finally, Tom pulls his hands away. He runs them both through the stream of water before reaching back to clumsily turn off the valve.

“I fucking love you,” he tells you. “Couldn’t deny you anything. Not really.” Tom takes your hand. “C’mere.”

Tom carefully pulls you over to one of the wooden benches. After draping a towel over the wooden slats, he pushes you down onto your hands and knees, his fingers spreading your legs. You whimper as you feel his cock, hard again, refracted in the interlude he’d constructed with his hands working you into insanity. Your knuckles clench around the slabs of wood, and despite already feeling the ache in your knees, it only spurs you on. You love the pain, love the visible, throbbing reminders of Tom, and he knows it just as much as you do.

“Look so pretty like this, darling,” Tom says, voice drifting through the air. Both of his hands go to your ass, roughly massaging your skin until his right hand slaps down across you, stinging bright hot. He repeats the action when you moan loudly, the slapping sound ringing out through the air. Each time his hand falls over you, you only grow hotter. It doesn’t matter that you’re still covered in water from the shower, you’re burning up. “G’nna let me take you like this, eh? Fuck this tight little pussy, like I know you’ve been dreaming of.”

When Tom lines his tip up with your entrance, you find yourself clinging to the edge of the bench with your fingers.

“Yes,” you beg, backing up against him. You feel like you might dissolve into a mess of arousal, tears, and desperation if he doesn’t satisfy you soon. “Please.”

Tom runs a hand up your back, fingers drifting over the line of your spine. He drops his lips and kisses the lower part of your back, so delicately it makes you quiver.

“Okay,” he says. “G’nna give it to you good.”

He enters you quickly and easily, and you almost lose it from the first thrust alone. You’re so slick that Tom’s swift in pulling back and then slamming back into you, his hands holding your hips back and in place as your arms wobble and your figure loses control. You drop your head between your arms, the blood rushing to your skull and making you feel light-headed as he rocks into you, over and over again, giving you everything you’ve ever wanted and more.

“Tom,” you gasp, your breaths heavy and inconsistent. It feels indescribable—the final denouement of your time apart. Each drag of his cock through your heat has you reeling, your walls quivering and clenching and trying desperately to keep him in, keep him nudging your g-spot, stimulating your passage. You’re moaning louder than you’ve ever moaned before, the coil in your stomach building and building without warning or direction.

Behind you, Tom seems to be enjoying it just as much as you. His libido strong and healthy and his body pumped full of pre-match adrenaline that it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest that he’s being so hard and purposeful in his movements. His groans are like music to your ears, small grunts of affirmation that he too has missed the paradise that unfolds when you join together.

“So fucking tight, angel,” he rasps, again letting his hand fall over your ass. He soothes the skin with his palm, and then he repeats the action two more times. “Feel you clenching me every time I do that.” He pinches your hip with his other hand, and you find yourself biting your forearm, embarrassed by how loud you think you’d moan if you were able to. “You love it rough like this, don’t you, darling? Mm… I know you do.”

It’s a dizzying blur of skin on skin for a while, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge on multiple occasions. It’s as if your body is holding back though, waiting on Tom to near it too before you’re able to fully let go. Almost sensing this, he reaches down and shoves his fingers in your hair, roughly tugging you up until your back is pressed against his front. The angle pushes him deeper, and your eyes flood with tears as you find yourself unable to comprehend just how good it feels.

“Y’like that?” He rasps. Tom drags a hand down to your clit, able to access it better now that he’s holding you so much closer. His pace is slower, but he’s going forcefully, his head hitting your g-spot every time. “Fuck, darling, I’m gonna cum if you keep clenching like that.”

You whimper, your chest heaving.

“Yeah,” you moan. His name pours from your lips like a prayer, rising in desperation as you slip back down, hands grabbing at the slats of the bench as you hold on for dear life. “Fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

“Come on,” Tom urges. “Do it. I want to feel you squeezing my cock so tight, like you always do. Always makes me lose it, doesn’t it, love? Shit, you’re so perfect. Go on. I’ve got you. Get my cock nice and wet, and I’ll fill you up. You’d like that, eh? Feeling me cumming inside this pretty pussy? Come on. You know what you have to do.”

It slams into you, pouring down over you in waves that submerge you entirely. You feel boneless but also rigid at the same time, your jaw slack as your vision blurs. Pleasure ripples out from your centre, dousing your aching cunt in relief that feels so sweet, only growing richer and more fulfilling when you hear Tom grunt and feel his cock pulse in you. You come together, bodies moving in sync, perfectly, despite the time apart, and it’s so good that it takes you out of it completely.

You’re so absorbed in your climax that you end up drifting, opening your eyes a few moments later only to find yourself lying on your back, staring up at the bright white lines of the locker room ceiling. Your eyes blur with tears, but just for a moment, because then Tom’s palm swims into vision, drifting above your head until he finds the right angle that blocks out the light.

“Hey, darling,” he coos. He brings one of your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly. “Are you okay? Lost you for a second.”

A very lazy, content smile finds your lips.

“Yeah,” you say sluggishly. You ache all over, but it feels incredible. You’re buzzing with the kind of energy that only comes after a session like this—after you’ve let him dismantle you completely. “Are you okay?”

Tom nods, his wet hair flying everywhere. “Fantastic,” he confirms. He glances down your figure, then offers you a soft smile. “I’m going to take you home, run you a really, really nice bath, and then we’re going to cuddle.” He drops your hand and instead cups your face in his palm. You nuzzle into it. His eyes are so soft as he gazes at you tenderly. “You’re so lovely, Y/N. I love you.”

You smile softly. “Love you too.”

Tom leans over you and kisses your lips, very gently, before shifting his mouth all over the rest of your face. He goes from one cheek, over to your forehead, down your nose, to the other, before circling back to your mouth. By the time he reaches there, your smile has grown to a grin, and you feel grounded enough to reach up and loop your fingers into his hair.

“Thank you,” he says, speaking earnestly, “for always being here for me. For supporting me, and putting up with all my crazy ideas, and being incredible, always. You are my inspiration, and I love you more than anything.”

You feel your heart throb in your chest, and you have to focus really hard on stopping the swell of emotion from leaving through your tired eyes.

“Any time,” you say, nodding to emphasise your point. “I love you, and I’m here for you. Whatever you might need, I’ll do it.”

Tom’s warm brown eyes meet with yours, and the smile on his face shows no sign of leaving.

“All I need is you,” he says. His lips come down to yours, softly, just resting there. “All I’ll ever need is you.”

—

———

:)) I rlly like this tbh. I hope you do too !

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[spookysanta]

braided. (c.e.)

Summary: she hates when he’s right, but she hates it even more when he knows he’s right and won’t shut up about it. or, he likes to do her hair more than she does.

Pairing: Husband!Chris Evans x Black!reader

WARNINGS: none

i don’t hate it anymore, thankfully.

UNEDITED

***

“Y’know,” he said as he entered the bedroom they shared from his shower, his waist wrapped in a towel, white steam trailing behind him from the hot bathroom. “I could ask what you’re doing, though I’m not entirely sure I’d like to know.”

“I’m not entirely sure I’d want to tell you.” His wife shrugged without missing a beat. She didn’t want to tell him that she learned a new hair-braiding technique on social media and decided to give it a try, only to stop halfway because her hands began to cramp.

“Well, it seems to me that you started on your hair and got tired.”

“Shut up.”

She hated how he just knew stuff.

And of course, she’d expected him to already have known what she was up to.

She didn’t have to tell him what was happening, because he just knew her. He knew that this would be bound to happen, especially now that she’s home full-time. When she isn’t working, she scours the Internet to find something new to do; today’s activity must’ve been hair related. She knew he would tease her for quitting her hair halfway through (like she usually does); but sometimes, she just loses interest, or her hands cramp up, she can’t help it.

“And here I was, about to offer my services to help. But no, you don’t deserve it since you’ve chosen to be mean to me.” His feet padded across the brown carpet floor over to their dresser to pick out clothes for an interview later in the day. “I was ready and willing to be the helpful husband.”

“Were you?” she retorted.

“Yup.” He discarded the towel around his waist, displaying his chiseled frame for his wife to see just because he could. He dressed himself, putting on a plain black button-up shirt and dark jeans despite the interview being conducted via video conference. “I was. I’d consider myself a nice guy, doll. I’m very helpful when I’m needed.”

He finally carried himself over to her, who was sat on their shared bed with her back against the headboard. He leaned over her tauntingly. “You sure you don’t want help?” he mumbled, lips brushing hers in a way that intimidated her.

“No.” she huffed.

“Fine.” He gave a peck to her bottom lip, standing up straight and heading toward the door. “I’ll be in the dining room if you need me…until then, have fun.”

He winked at her before exiting the room.

**

Did she mention how much she hated when he was right?

There aren’t many times when he’s just right about things, but when he is…it makes her blood boil. It’s not just that he was right, it’s the gloating that follows.

It makes her want to make him sleep on the porch.

After his interview—which had to have gone well, from the sounds of his infectious laughter coming from downstairs—she sent him a reluctant text.

 To Chris:

Okay. Fine. You win. Can you come help me now? My hands hurt.

First, it was quiet. Then, there was a loud cackle that made her hands cramp more.

She heard his footsteps (along with Dodger’s, for obvious reasons) bound up the stairs. He let out a breath as he entered the room, holding back laughter. “You rang?”

She cut her eyes at him, but softened her eyes when Dodger jumped onto the bed next to her and rested his head on her thigh.

He moved her so that he could sit behind her, the bed sinking to accommodate his frame.  She sat in between his legs. “Show me what you were trying to do.” He motioned to her phone that was tossed to the side.

She showed him a set of box braids that, to him, looked a little different that what he was used to. “Here.”

He usually helped her with her hair when she wanted to do protective styles like this—either she gets sleepy and she asks him to finish; or her hands cramp; or she gets bored; or he gets bored…

Regardless of why, the fact of the matter is now he knows how to do her hair and she planned to use it to her advantage—without the gloating, preferably, but she can only ask so much of him.

“Why do they look different than the other ones?”

“They’re knotless.” She replied. “I saw them on Twitter and tried to do it.”

“And…?”

“It’s too hard.” She groaned, plopping her head behind her on her husband’s chest.

He sat her up and looked at her hair. “You didn’t get very far.” He noted. She’d completed about four braids before he went to his interview, and since then, she’d only done two more. “How about we do the rest the way we know how, okay? It’ll go by faster.” He kissed her temple.

“Ugh.” She gave up. “Fine.”

“I know that’s not what you want—”

“At all.”

“—but you’re tired and I know you’re not going to help me until the end, and I don’t know how to do them the knotless way.” She felt him shrug. “Or, you can just have these four and be done.”

She nudged his chest with her elbow, making him chuckle.

He started reluctantly, first taking the rat-tailed comb and creating a part in the back of her head that spanned from ear-to-ear in width. She reminded him gently as she turned on the television, “don’t forget the gel”; and he knew all about the gel, by the way. The gel that smelled like heaven but was sticky and hard and was oddly fluorescent in color, and he had to use it because, “it keeps things neat”.

If it were up to him, they wouldn’t use the gel at all. But it’s her hair and what she asked for, and all he wanted was to make her happy.

Taking a piece of synthetic hair from its wrapping and folding one strip over the other like she taught him, he pressed it to the square part of her hair, braiding it into her scalp.

She’ll admit, he’s gotten quite good at it.

She won’t tell him that, of course—his ego’s already the size of Jupiter. But she will say, it’s a lot cheaper to have the two of them tackle the apparent feat of doing her hair as opposed to having to pay someone to travel all the way to their home to do the same job. In her mind, she was much more willing to spend the $80 on buying the hair and supplies, than the $250 (plus a generous tip) to pay one of her friends to do it.

He got on a lot easier than she seemed to. He completed six braids by the time Belle’s father was taken into the Beast’s castle; he’d done another five by the time Belle and the Beast played in the snow.

They made some conversation as he braided, but it was mostly her reminding him not to braid too tight. “It’ll pull when it’s time for them to come out.”

“I know, I know.” He replied gently, tapping her on the shoulder to hand him the gel when he needed more to lubricate his fingers.

Thankfully, these ones were were relatively large in size. Where they would usually be doing this all day, he was closer to being done in four hours. By the time he got towards the top of her head, Beauty and the Beast was over and she—much to his dismay—put on Age of Ultron.

Let’s be clear: she only puts on Marvel movies to fawn over her husband (and his castmates)—she already watched all the movies before they were married and knew their respective plots.

“Do we have to?” He groaned. “I’d really appreciate it if we watched something else.”

“Why?” she groaned back, mocking him playfully, reaching behind her and pinching his thigh. “You look pretty in your outfit.”

“You’d think so, huh?”

She laughed, watching the man that swept her off her feet quite literally fly through the air, his red, white, and blue shield in tow. Her eyes darted to the same shield that sat framed in a case in the corner of the room.

(He planned to move it to its own display in the living room, but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet.)

As if he read her thoughts, he mumbled to himself, “I gotta move that shield downstairs.”

“You said you were going to do it last week,”

“I meant to,” he turned her head to the side so he could start a new braid above her ear. “but I got sidetracked with work—I had meetings all week last week, remember?”

She nodded slowly in understanding, her head beginning to ache on her neck from having to remain still for so long.

She sat up straighter when she felt him get closer to the front of her head. She held up a mirror to see where his most recent part stopped, then she parted her own hair in the same way, taking pieces of synthetic hair and starting on the very front.

“Now you want to help me?” he laughed. “I’m almost done.”

“I needed a break.” She shrugged.

“I think four hours is plenty of break time, don’t you?”

“It depends.”

After another hour-and-a-half of them braiding her hair and debating—some would call it “bickering”—about why he wouldn’t dress Dodger up as Captain America for Halloween this year, they were finished.

She sighed, the tightness in her scalp irritating, but soothing in the same.

Her husband got up from behind her. Going into their bathroom, he went in the cabinet and took out a vile of oil, small and made of glass with a dropper for a lid. It was a combination of oils—some he’d heard of, some he hadn’t—that she liked to put on her hair to maintain its sheen.

He also took the time to grab her hair mousse and satin scarf, two other things that didn’t have much meaning to him until he married her.

He sat back on the bed. Wordlessly filling up the dropper, he dripped the oil onto her scalp, making her jump at first. He made sure to coat all her partings. Then he pressed his fingertips to her scalp, rubbing in gently the product.

“You okay?” he mumbled in her ear as he massaged her.

She nodded with a hum; her eyes closed in relaxation.

If there was one thing they enjoyed doing together, it was her hair.

He didn’t quite know why either. He liked helping her, yes; he liked talking with her as they did this, of course—but what was it about these kinds of moments that made his heart flutter?

There was something about massaging her scalp that made him feel closer to her. It was almost more intimate than sex, in his mind (which was saying a lot).

After a while, he stopped. She wanted to turn her head and whine to him to continue, but then she felt it.

She felt the cold foam on top of her head. Shuddering, she asked, “What’s that?”

“Mousse.” He said simply. “I’ll rub it in and then tie you up.”

She giggled childishly, “You’re gonna tie me up?”

“Yeah.” He kissed her forehead. “But not like that. Not yet, at least.” He pinched her side, which was something he always managed to do to be playful no matter how full his hands were.

He ran the product all through her scalp and down the shafts of her braids, the irritation immediately relieved. When he finished, he tied her scarf over her hair, making sure it was secure but not too tight.

“There.”

She turned to him, resting her head on his shoulder softly and kissing his scruffy neck. “Thank you, baby.”

“You don’t have to thank me, honey. This is what I’m here for.”

That made her heart flutter.

They sat like that for a while—her resting against him, and his arms around her protectively, careful not to pull her newly-installed extensions that they—ahem, he—worked hard on.

“You still have to do your ends, doll.”

Ugh. She hated that part; she always ended up burning herself somehow.

“Yeah, I know,” she sat up and stood, stretching her tired muscles. Her shirt rose just a bit, her brown tummy on display.

He almost licked his lips in lust.

Almost. He was trying to behave.

“I’m gonna go boil some water.” She yawned, trudging out of the room and to the linen closet to get two towels—one to wrap around her shoulders, and another to dry the ends of her hair once she soaked them.

In the time it took for her to get downstairs and into the kitchen to set a pot of water on the stove to boil, he’d changed into his loungewear and followed behind her. He found her seated at the kitchen table, half asleep. He tried to be quiet, but he startled her awake.

“Sorry.” He said, sitting in the open seat next to her.

She yawned again, “It’s fine.”

He found it adorable that she always got so sleepy after they finished her hair. He didn’t know if it was because of her having to sit still for so long, or if it was the scalp massage he’d given her. He didn’t really care why, because that meant he’d have another excuse to cuddle up to her.

The water soon gurgled from the stove, its heat steaming the screen of the above microwave oven. She stood, wrapping a towel around her shoulders and going to the stove. He emerged behind her, deciding that he would do it for her (since she always ended up injured).

Holding the pot by its handle, he gently dipped the ends of her braids into the hot water, taking the other towel to wring the hair dry. He did this twice, making sure that all her hair had gotten submerged and wrung.

She held her breath, clutching tightly the towel around her shoulders. She trusted him, obviously, but she still was terrified.

It took him all of five minutes to finish. By then, her arms grew tired, so she was grateful. He dumped the hot water down the sink’s drain, setting the pot back on the stove to cool down before he washed it.

Meanwhile, removing the towel from her body, she continued to wring out excess water from her ends so that they didn’t drip when she made her way upstairs to clean up. “I’m gonna put these in the wash, okay?” she kissed her husband’s cheek.

“Alright, baby.”

She smiled, thankful to have this man in her life.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He replied, kissing her hair.

—

tags (from sign-up sheet): @justtwhst @lokisbitch27

other tags: @cyberdoshee @honeychicanawrites @lovlisumi

[alirhi]

How I'd have done TFATWS pt 1

Okay, I am such a whore for positive attention that, yes, it literally only takes one person expressing interest to get me to do something lol. So, for the lovely @goblin-tea, here is how The Falcon and the Winter Soldier would have gone for Bucky if I'd been a writer on the show!

Also, shoutout to @gunshou, who popped up showing support when I was in the middle of writing this lol ��

Episode 1: New World Order

I actually love how most of this episode was handled; it's what drew me into the show in the first place, and gave me such hope for the rest of it. Most of the changes that I'd make here are pretty minor, tbh.

I'd specify the setting in some way for Bucky's nightmare. Obviously, since he was there and knows what happened, when, and where he was, it wouldn't be like the setting changes in movies where they slap a big, bold title card over the scene. Still, I'd probably open with a brief establishing shot showing the city skyline or something; some identifying feature so that viewers can work out where this happened without needing a direct statement from Marvel (note: if you need to directly address your audience to clarify something from within your story, you're a bad storyteller). What year did this take place? I show technology from the time; perhaps a dated cell phone in someone's hand. The point is to establish where and when The Winter Soldier killed RJ Nakajima, without detracting from the emotional impact of the scene. Why does it matter? Because we should know why. Why is Bucky dreaming about this particular incident? Was it his last mission before the events of CA:TWS (a theory I see frequently repeated but with no evidence to back it up)? Was it earlier on? Is RJ only on the forefront of Bucky's mind because of his (unhealthy, but we'll get to that) friendship with Yori? How long has Yori been suffering under the weight of his grief?

I would not have had him crash through the wall, btw. As cool as that shot looked, let's try to remember that The Winter Soldier was a ghost story for 70 years. Ghosts don't leave giant gaping holes in hotel walls. I'm not saying brazen wholesale destruction is out of character for him (obviously not. I've seen CA:TWS lmao. many times. this moment lives rent-free in my brain:

found on google without credit; pls lmk if it's yours so I can credit.

but you don't become a "ghost story" if you always leave that much evidence, ijs)

I'd leave the terrible therapy session alone. That scene was beautiful. Beautifully shot; I loved how claustrophobic it felt, and it really did a wonderful job of showing how Bucky felt on the spot, scrutinized, almost put on display for this bitch woman. This scene establishes Raynor as clearly wrong, and an unprofessional mess, and Bucky calls her out on it. I fucking love that!

lmao gods, I love his painfully awkward forced smile... Guys, this episode is fkn great. (betcha weren't expecting so much praise from me, were you? 😂)

"You're free." "To do what?"

👆👆👆 In my show? That would have more of an impact on Bucky's arc. That question would be one of the underlying issues moving his whole story along. Twice in this show, he's told that he's free, but no one addresses what he's free from, much less what he's free to do next.

It's a minor thing, but when Yori tells Bucky to ask Leah out? I'd have Bucky do more than just shake his head in silent horror. Not much more, just something that matters to me as someone who's worked in the service industry for many, many years and dealt with too many creepos: Bucky would flat-out say "she's at work! that's harassment, Yori!"

Yori can still stomp right past that boundary, and Leah can still smile and agree. I just really want someone to verbally acknowledge that you don't fucking ask someone out when they're at work. Ever. Bucky cringing and apologizing puts the power of the conversation back in Leah's hands; it gives her an out to politely decline if she's not interested, and just laugh off Yori's flirting on Bucky's behalf as a senile old man being silly, so I'm actually fine with how this scene turned out. I just would personally have gone that extra inch there for the idiots in the audience who don't get Bucky's subtle "wtf" reaction and why Yori's suggestion was so bad. If someone's livelihood depends on being nice to you, keep your goddamn distance. Flirting with them or asking them out when they're at that big of a disadvantage and have virtually no power to say "no" is harassment.

Here is where I'd make one more subtle change, too. When Yori sees the mochi and is reminded of his son, and tells Bucky about his death, I'd just slip in a time frame. "x years ago, my son was..." blah. (Guys, it really bothers me not knowing when that scene took place rofl can you tell?)

One complaint I've seen a lot online about this show is how it's a bit murky on just how well known Bucky is in-universe. He can walk around Brooklyn with more or less total anonymity, but he's also recognized as "an Avenger" (when he was never actually technically in the group)... but honestly? I think it's actually pretty realistic. Just because someone's famous doesn't mean every single person on the planet knows who they are and what they look like well enough to instantly recognize them on the street. People look different in photos than in person, and pre-Blip, Bucky had the complete Jesus look - long flowing hair and a full beard. In TFATWS he's a little scruffy, but not this:

Sebastian looks like about 10 different men from one moment to the next just irl with a change in haircut, lighting, expression, whether or not he got enough sleep the night before... 😂 I don't really find it hard to believe that people not expecting to bump into an Avenger would have trouble seeing Bucky post-haircut as anything other than just another attractive white guy.

Anyway! Sorry for the segue lol. On to the date!

Earlier in this very same goddamn episode, it is established that Bucky can remotely operate a car with a tablet. This is not a technologically-inept geezer. This is a 30-something nerd who loves new technology, who, yes, is facing a brave new world and a whole lot of new technology, but has never shown any issue picking it up. The crappy flip phone he handed Raynor earlier? a burner to keep her out of what little personal life he does have (we never see it again in the real show, anyway). The "tiger photos" line? Stays, not to show Bucky's floundering ineptitude with technology, but as a little nod to his bisexuality. (don't like it? don't wanna see Bucky as bi? go watch the show and read Skogland's borderline-offensive interviews. This isn't "how I would pander to a homophobic audience" it's "how I would have written it." the "Bucky is bi" interpretation is super fucking common and has been since TFA so bite me 😁)

Tiny nitpick, but I'd also have the Battleship boards actually set up properly lmao. What even was that? Anyway...

I don't think I'd have Leah get all ranty about Yori and RJ. That's not first date talk, for one thing. For another, let's ease up on the beating Bucky and the audience over the head with that one incident in a single episode, shall we? Instead, I'd have her stick with the date questions - she asked his age, asked about his family; I'd have her follow it with questions about what he does for a living (giving us a chance to not only actually have that question answered for us - how the hell does Bucky keep himself from being homeless? lol - but also set up...)

He shuts down a little when she starts asking about his past; she's innocently curious, just trying to get to know him, but he's flinchy and deflects with questions about her. The date is awkward, but doesn't abruptly end with him running away lol. He walks Leah home, like the old-fashioned gentleman he is, goes home, himself, and end on him grimacing in his sleep, in the clutches of another nightmare: not as much detail as the RJ murder scene, we see disjointed, disorienting images of fluorescent lights glinting off of machinery, the occasional shot of Bucky writhing in the chair, a shot of that damned notebook (to remind the dumber audience members why Raynor's passive-aggressive notebook thing was so triggering for him), and we hear echoes of a couple of the trigger words, and Bucky's screams.

[tiramisiyu]

【未定事件簿】 Tears of Themis: Main Story 7-30 Translation

Translation Masterlist | Video

Chapter 7 – Rains of Monte Cristo: 7-1 / 7-3 / 7-5 / 7-7 / 7-9 / 7-11 / 7-13 / 7-15 / 7-17 / 7-19  ♦️ ♦️  7-20 / 7-22 / 7-24 / 7-26 / 7-28 / 7-30 / 7-32 / 7-34 / 7-35

Content Warning: This section contains topics that may be uncomfortable to some readers (mentions of abuse). Please proceed with discretion.

✼ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ✼

NXX Base

After deciding on what to do, Marius and I rushed to the base.

Marius: Just import the surveillance footage and Hang Jiahe’s photos into the system.

MC: Okay.

I followed Marius’ instructions, entering the necessary information into the computer and started the program. On the common screen, large amounts of data started to move again. Fluorescent blue lights flashed past, casting a mottled light. Ten minutes later, the data search and comparison stopped, and the final comparative results displayed itself.

MC: Based on the results, the “Qi Yu” who started to appear at 9pm was indeed Hang Jiahe. Plus, she appeared in the surveillance 6 times in total.

Marius: Three of those times were to enter the apartment – 12pm, 8pm, and 9:45pm individually.

Marius: The other three times were to exit the apartment – 7pm, 9pm, and 10:15pm individually.

I carefully looked over the brown silhouette that appeared in the screenshots and confirmed her identity.

MC: That’s got to be Hang Jiahe.

MC: The figure that appeared at 8pm and 10:15pm is wearing the same brown trench coat as the one I saw at Hang Jiahe’s house.

MC: She even rolled up that stack of dry-cleaned clothes she’d brought back, like she didn’t want us to see.

Marius: So we can figure out what Hang Jiahe’s trail of actions were on January 28th.

Marius grabbed a random sheet of paper and started to write as he spoke.

Marius: First, Hang Jiahe returned to the apartment at 12pm. After confirming that Hang Fei and Qi Yu were home…

Marius: She entered Room 1001 using the safety route near its door and murdered the two victims.

MC: At 7pm, Hang Jiahe left the apartment and headed to the suburban villa. After, she disguised herself…

MC: And secretly re-entered Room 1001 at 8pm.

Marius: At 9pm, she disguised herself as Qi Yu, and asked the security guard downstairs to help her move the two suitcases with the bodies in them.

Marius: At 9:45pm, she carried the empty suitcases back to the apartment. The bodies probably were placed elsewhere by then.

Marius: So she had completed the illusion that “Qi Yu was still alive at 10pm”, and her alibi with it.

MC: As for her leaving at 10:15 in disguise, she probably went to dispose of the corpses and then returned to the suburban villa.

Marius: Probably.

Marius: After disposing of them, Hang Jiahe also buried the swapped hammer that she’d long prepared with them.

MC: Then Hang Fei and Qi Yu last appeared at…

I looked at the surveillance footage.

MC: 12:30pm on the 28th. Hang Jiahe had not left the apartment yet.

At this point, we had completely figured out the process of Hang Fei and Qi Yu’s murder case.

Marius: But is the evidence we have now insufficient?

MC: Yes, though the logic’s sound…

MC: We lack objective core evidence to accuse Hang Jiahe with, especially her motive and murder weapon.

MC: The opposition will easily refute a few photos and some inferences.

Marius: …It won’t be easy to solve the murder weapon issue. Hang Jiahe always wears gloves, so she wouldn’t have left fingerprints.

Marius: But for the motive… let’s wait for Captain Morgan’s analysis results on that hard drive.

Marius: If it’s as the bar boss said…

Marius had just spoken when his phone rang.

Marius: Speak of the devil – see, Captain Morgan’s calling.

Marius: Captain Morgan, is anything the matter?

Darius Morgan: We’re finished analyzing the photos and hard drive you gave us.

Marius: What are the results?

Darius Morgan: They match with what the bar boss said.

Darius Morgan: There are many videos of Hang Fei’s child abuse, as well as domestic violence against Qi Yu, in the hard drive.

Darius Morgan: But based on the people featured in the photos, we are missing the videos that feature the child that appeared the most.

MC: (Hang Jiahe must have bought the videos of her abuse…)

Marius: Have the identities of the other children in the photos been confirmed?

Darius Morgan: Aside from Hang Jiahe, the children in the photos are not from Stellis.

Darius Morgan: Hang Fei and Qi Yu traveled overseas, so these children just might be from those countries.

MC: (It’s a transnational case now?)

Darius Morgan: How are things on your end?

MC: We’ve figured out how Hang Jiahe got the fingerprints on the murder weapon and how she created her alibi, but…

Marius: We lack direct evidence.

Darius Morgan: What about the video she took away? That evidence should be convincing enough.

Marius: But the question is, where is that video right now?

MC: The boss said before that he advised Hang Jiahe to not destroy those videos for now…

MC: Undestroyed… but can’t be found by the police…

MC: Can’t be found… so they should be hidden… hidden…

I had a flash of inspiration.

MC: “Liqing Bank”!

I thought of that useless-looking membership card in Hang Jiahe’s house.

Both Darius and us headed out at the same time towards the Liqing Bank in the suburbs, but due to distance, we arrived before Yan Wei. Marius used his own connections to find the manager to ask about Hang Jiahe. The manager admitted that Hang Jiahe had opened an account here and kept things here, but he refused to tell us which was her vault.

Vault Room

Manager: My apologies, but our rules state that unless if our client asks or the police issue a search warrant…

Manager: We cannot allow any others to open the safes.

MC: This…

Marius: We were just in contact with the police in front of you, and he said that he would be bringing a search warrant over immediately.

Marius: Even with that, you can’t let us see Hang Jiahe’s vault?

Manager: My apologies, but we must see the documents first, per our rules.

Marius: …

The male manager looked calmly at Marius.

MC: Then we…

I was about to speak when Marius tugged at me.

Marius: If so, we won’t trouble you anymore. When the police arrive, we’ll come again.

Marius then tugged me to leave, walking out without looking back once. However, we’d just turned past aa row of shelves when he suddenly tightened his grasp on my wrist and took me into the shadows of another row of cabinets.

MC: Marius, what are you doing?!

Marius: Shh, quieter. Don’t let the manager know that we haven’t left.

I took a deep breath and lowered my voice.

MC: What are you trying to do?

Marius: Of course, I’m trying to find Hang Jiahe’s vault.

Marius: Since he won’t show us openly, we can only wait for it in secret.

MC: Are you aiming to open the vault secretly?

Marius: Of course not. Opening vaults in banks like this is usually a complicated procedure.

Marius: Some need two keys, some need biological info… all in all, without the owner, they’re very hard to open.

MC: Then you want to…

Marius: I want to follow the vault.

MC: ???

Marius: Based on how this bank’s operating guidelines, that manager is sure to contact Hang Jiahe that people came for her box.

Marius: And with how cautious Hang Jiahe is, she’s sure to come get what’s in the vault herself.

Marius: I’ve calculated the timing – Hang Jiahe’s place is closer to here than the police station is. Even if she receives the alert and heads out only now…

Marius: She might get here earlier than Captain Morgan.

Marius: To prevent the evidence from getting taken, I decided…

Marius took out his phone and opened up the screen for Darius’ shared location.

Marius: Before Captain Morgan comes, we’ll follow the manager secretly and prevent him from taking Hang Jiahe’s box away.

MC: Can we really?

Marius: Of course, why not? Nothing will happen.

Marius: Jiejie, just trust me this once. If anything happens, I’ll just apologize to them.

MC: Then… alright. If anything does happen, I’ll go with you.

MC: What do you plan to do?

Marius: Look around first.

I looked around, per his instructions. Liqing Bank’s vault room was very large, and there were many vaults in it. Above the room, at set intervals, there was a full-scene camera rotating nonstop to monitor the whole room. Aside from that, there were also bodyguards on patrol in the vault room to prevent suspicious persons from moving about.

MC: There are a lot of bodyguards and surveillance cameras. How are we supposed to follow him?

Marius: Don’t worry, just listen to me.

Marius: I just observed that the patrolling bodyguards will pass by the same place around every 5 minutes.

Marius: As for the full-scene cameras above, I can’t tell if there are any blind spots for now.

Marius: But we’re luckily wearing dark clothes today, and it’s dark here.

Marius: We’ll just stick to the walls where the light doesn’t reach – maybe we’ll get by.

MC: Why do I feel like we’re acting in a spy movie…

MC: Then how should we move? We’re pretty far from the manager right now…

Marius: See that old table in front?

Marius pointed at a table that was around several tens of metres away from us and stacked with random items.

Marius: That table’s in a pretty subtle spot. People outside can’t see in, but we should be able to see out from inside.

Marius: When the nearby guards move away, we’ll head under that table.

Marius: On my count – when I say 1, we’ll move.

MC: Okay.

I took a deep breath, focusing my attention on the table.

Marius: The guard’s almost about to leave.

Marius: 3 – 2 – 1, go!

I held my breath and rushed to the corner.

MC: Huff – huff –

I supported myself against the table, suppressing my sounds as I gasped.

Marius: A-are you alright?

Marius’ breath was also somewhat short, probably thanks to our nervous moods.

MC: I’m alright. You?

I turned around to look at Marius, but the scene before me stole my breath away in the next second.

Marius was awkwardly crouching under the table, and the height that he was usually so proud of had become a sort of sweet “burden”. Maybe because the air circulation was bad, or maybe because the crouching pose was tiring him, but his face was somewhat red. Under his opened collar, there were small drops of sweat rolling down his fair neck. He breathed lightly, and each of his movements and breathing sounds became unusually heavy in this tiny space.

MC: …

Marius: Hm? What are you looking at me for? Is there something on my face?

MC: T-there isn’t…

Marius: Then… did you get fazed from staring at me?

Marius: Though I do like it when you stare at me, since we’re this close…

Marius: Even I’d get embarrassed.

MC: This close…

MC: !!!

My rationality returned, and I belatedly realized just close we were.  

MC: S-sorry, it wasn’t on purpose, I was just…

I apologized as I attempted to pull away from him, but I hadn’t moved much when Marius suddenly pulled me back.

Marius: Don’t move. If you keep pushing, you’ll bump into the table.

Marius: This space is tiny – best not to move at random.

MC: …

I could only stiffen my body and not move in the slightest. The tiny space sunk into silence again, and I could clearly feel Marius’ gaze on me, never shifting away. And my heartbeat became more and more intense, along with this gaze.

MC: W-why do you keep staring at me…

Marius: I’m just thinking that right now…

Marius: Your heartbeat and your breaths only belong to me.

Marius: It’s great…

MC: …

Marius: But this is too little. It’s not enough compared to what I want…

MC: !!!

MC: M-Marius, you…

Marius: Oh well, now isn’t the time.

Marius sighed quietly and shifted his gaze away.

I tried my best to calm my heartbeat and refocus my attention. Simultaneously, the manager, who’d been lingering in some shelf row for a while, finally moved.

Manager: Hello, Liqing Bank. Is this Miss Hang?

Marius and I exchanged a glance.

Manager: Two people just came to see the contents of your vault.

Manager: Yes, a man and a woman, and the woman was a lawyer.

Manager: Don’t worry, I did not allow them to open your vault.

Manager: You want me to take a video for your confirmation?

The male manager spoke as he strode to a shelf in the corner, then used his phone to take a photo.

Manager: Look, it’s been well taken care of – no one has opened it.

Manager: Alright, I will send it to the back door for you.

The manager hung up and pressed a button on the side of the safe. After a small electronic startup sound, Hang Jiahe’s vault suddenly disappeared. The manager walked to an elevator on the side.

MC: Where’s the vault?

When the manager had completely left on the elevator, Marius and I carefully got near the vault shelf.

Marius: Don’t worry, it’s been sent elsewhere – should be the back door.

Marius: Let’s follow.

MC: Sure.

Following behind the manager, we boarded the other elevator beside the vault shelf.

✼ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ✼

MC: How did we end up in another warehouse?

Marius: …

Marius: Follow the manager first. If anything else unexpected happens, we withdraw immediately.

MC: Okay.

✼ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ✼

Marius: Where’s the manager?

MC: In front!

MC: We’ve already been following him for over half an hour…

Marius: Is the back door of Liqing Bank that far? We’ve got to get through a warehouse and then a basement…

MC: Marius, could he be leading us in circles?

Marius: …

Marius: … But Captain Morgan’s almost here, and Hang Jiahe’s been held back by him too.

Marius: We can’t just give up here.

MC: Then let’s keep following. If things don’t change, we’ll give up.  

Marius: Okay.

✼ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ✼

The manager finally stopped at the back door of the bank warehouse.

MC: Why isn’t he walking anymore?

Marius: …

Marius: This is bad, let’s go back…

Manager: The two of you, stop hiding. Come out.

MC: …

Marius: …

We could only walk up to the manager.

Manager: CEO von Hagen, what are you trying to do here?

Marius: Didn’t I tell you my request before?

Manager: Then I’ll have to reject you once more. No…

Marius: Wait.

Marius looked behind the manager and suddenly laughed.

Marius: This time, you can’t refuse.

Manager: Wh…

Darius Morgan: City Criminal Investigation Police Brigade, Captain Darius Morgan. Please cooperate with our investigation.

Darius Morgan: This is the search warrant.

[isitgintimeyet]

Just a Friend

Sorry you’ve had to wait a few more days. i had a much needed few days holiday in Devon. And I realised it was the first time since February that I’d travelled more than 20 miles from home!

Anyway, we’re on to chapter 7. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta.

Previous

AO3

Chapter 7: From Feedback to The Force

I can see it clearly in my mind’s eye. A converted barn, situated at the end of a leafy country lane, surrounded by fields full of cows and maybe a horse or two. Jamie’s office will be at one end— all exposed beams with classic mahogany and leather furniture. Perhaps chickens will be roaming around outside as tractors pull up to deliver vegetables straight from the neighbouring fields.

This image begins to fade as I follow my Sat nav instructions and take the next junction off the motorway. Country lanes look to be few and far between in this urban sprawl. Signposts along the tarmacked road point to a series of industrial estates. At the fourth such sign, I’m instructed to turn left and in three hundred yards will have reached my destination.

Having parked up, I make my way towards the large, uninspiring building which resembles some sort of aircraft hangar. Its grey concrete and corrugated iron walls match the overcast sky and the roughly surfaced car park. The only colour in this landscape is provided by the bright orange FraserFood logo emblazoned above the loading bays.

There’s a single door to the right with an intercom. I press it and wait a few seconds.

“Hello, there.” A cheery voice greets me. “Can I help ye?”

“Yes. Hello, I’ve an appointment with Ja— Mr. Fraser, Jamie. It’s Claire Beauchamp.”

“Aye, come on through. Jamie is expecting ye. Down the passage and third door on the left.”

I step into a long corridor, painted an unoriginal white. Fluorescent strip lights hanging from the ceiling cast a harsh brightness. The floor is covered with grey carpet tiles.—the same as in thousands of other working offices across the country.

What sets it apart and brings character to the otherwise anonymous environment is the artwork. Colourful photographs line the walls — a bowl of strawberries, their red glossiness accentuated by the white porcelain; a perfect corn on the cob, rivulets of melted butter flowing around the kernels; a plate of steaming tagliatelle, the parmesan shavings falling gently onto the pasta. Then, as I move further towards the office, the photographs change to a series of images that I instantly recognise, La Boqueria, one of the food markets in Barcelona.

I pause for a moment in front of a picture of one of the stalls selling spices. Strings of different chillies cascade down from the metal frame of the stall. The vibrancy of that market was intoxicating, the noise, the colours, the aromas. I remember wandering from stall to stall snacking on fat, juicy olives, slices of spiced ham and wedges of refreshing melon, just soaking up that atmosphere.

My stomach automatically rumbles at the memory just as Jamie steps into the corridor.

He laughs at this unconventional greeting. “And good day tae ye too. Ye found us alright then?”

“No problem. Sat nav brought me straight here. It’s—“ I stop myself before I say any more, but, as usual, my glass face gives me away.

“C’mon. What is it? It’s no’ what ye were expecting, is it?”

“No— yes—no. It’s fine. It’s just, well, I was expecting something more, er, rural… rustic, you know.”

He sighs, but I can tell that he’s not offended. “What, ye mean like on a farm? Wi’ chickens running around? And tractors bringing the vegetables straight from the fields?”

I nod, feeling not a little bit foolish.

“And down a wee winding country lane, that yer lumbering great vans and lorries have tae drive along? Wi’ no easy transport links fer all the deliveries? And having tae deal wi’ all the food hygiene standards in some great old barn?” He laughs. “Trust me, it may no’ be photogenic but it’s the best place fer the business.”

He takes my arm. “Let’s go intae ma office and I’ll make ye a cup of coffee.”

My stomach rumbles once more. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any of those lovely Spanish biscuits too, have you?”

*********

The display of colourful photographs continues in Jamie’s office. I don’t recognise the scenes, but, I’m guessing these are more local— fields of corn bordered by old drystone walls, hedgerows bursting with dark jewel-like brambles. I pause at a picture of an ancient stone mill, the calm water of the mill pond reflecting the rundown building perfectly.

“That’s a bonny picture, is it no’?” Jamie’s voice is low in my ear.

I turn around. He is standing behind me, gazing intently at the picture.

“It is. Where is it? I’m guessing it’s somewhere here in Scotland.”

“Aye, it’s the old mill at Lallybroch.”

“Where you grew up?”

He nods. “Generations of ma family used that mill tae grind flour fer them and their tenants. It’s empty inside now. The wheel has long since rotted away. Jenny and I would escape there whenever chores were tae be done. She took the photo, weel, most of the photos here actually.”

I study the photograph more closely. “She’s very talented as a photographer. Is that her job?”

“She’d love tae have done that, but once she married Ian and the bairns started appearing, she hasna got the time. Mebbe one day.”

He moves past me towards his desk and I catch a hint of his musky cologne. I find myself comparing it to the slightly synthetic cologne that Frank always favoured. I decide that Jamie’s is preferable. It’s more real, somehow, earthy and, well, more masculine.

“... does that sound ok?”  

I realise that whilst I was considering male scents, Jamie had been asking me a question. “Er, sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?”

“Am I really that boring tae ye?” He laughs. “I said I would make ye a coffee and invite Rupert tae come in and join us. He’s our Head of Product Development. Will ye no’ take a seat?”

I sit down on one of the chairs arranged around a circular meeting table and take a good look at the office while Jamie makes a phone call. The walls and ceiling are the same uninspiring white, livened up by all the photographs. There’s a couple of framed photographs near Jamie’s chair that seem to be more personal. I’m too far away to be able to see clearly, but they look like children... his nephew and niece perhaps?

Jamie’s ‘L’ shaped desk is made of grey wood, as is a tall bookcase and this meeting table. Simple, but clearly a considered purchase, no haphazard grouping of random furniture. The desk itself is remarkably free from clutter— just a laptop with two huge screens and a black leather document wallet. The contrast to the clutter on the desks in my office and home couldn’t be greater. Not that my clutter isn’t important to me—a collection of pots and dishes from my uncle’s archaeological digs plus a paperweight and letter opener that I remember, as a young child, at my parents’ house. Then I realise, looking at the family portraits surrounding Jamie’s desk, that he doesn’t need to gather mementoes from the past. He has a living, breathing close knit family creating memories all the time.

I’m well aware that most of my friends have more of a family than I have, or have ever had, and generally I’m fine with that. But every now and again it hits me right in the gut—this pang of...not loneliness, but more of being disconnected, rootless.

Before I can dwell on this,  there’s a faint tap at the door. It opens immediately and a woman stands in the doorway.  She’s easily past retirement age, quite short and… is sturdy a polite descriptor? Well, short and ‘motherly’ in appearance.

She’s very smiley too. Her eyes crinkle as she grins broadly before speaking. “Jamie, lad. I’ve come tae see if ye both want a coffee. I dinna mind making it. And mebbe a few biscuits?”

Jamie steps away from his desk. “Ah, Mrs. Fitz, how d’ye always ken what I want? Coffee would be grand. And fer ye Claire?”

“Coffee, please. Lovely. White, no sugar. Thanks.”

She looks at me for a moment before Jamie makes the introduction. “ Claire, this is Mrs Fitz. She’s worked wi’ me since I started and I dinna ken what I’d do wi’out her.”

He reaches across and pats her arm gently.

“Mrs. Fitz, this is Claire, a friend of mine. She’s been trying out our Spanish dinner party menu and has come tae meet wi’ Rupert tae give him her opinions.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fitz.” I hold out my hand.

She takes it in both of hers. “And it’s lovely tae meet ye too, Claire.”

She turns away and heads out the door.

“Right-oh. Two coffees it is then,” she says clearly, then carries on muttering under her breath as she leaves. “Friends, is it, then? A bonny lass, sure enough…”

Jamie smiles apologetically. “Mrs. Fitz can be a bit, weel...she’s been working with me a long time. She’s like a second mother tae me…”

He leaves the sentence unfinished, but I know what he’s thinking. Why can’t people understand that we’re friends, that’s all?

*******

Rupert is a complete delight, but somehow not what I was expecting. He rushes into the office just as Jamie and I are drinking our coffees. Nearly as tall as Jamie but quite a bit broader with a large beard, like an overgrown teddy bear, and clad in a sweatshirt and baggy ill-fitting jeans, he looks as if he would be more at home on a rugby pitch rather than in a development kitchen. With Jamie now standing next to him, the office suddenly feels rather small.

Jamie makes the introductions and we settle once more around the table. Rupert places his notebook and pen on the table.

“Ye dinna mind if I take a biscuit or two, do ye?” He asks, with a smile. He knows how tasty they are.

Jamie and I shake our heads and Rupert reaches out and takes two in his large, fleshy hand. He starts to eat, sprinkling crumbs all over his notebook.

“Ye canna take me anywhere,” he says as he tries to sweep the crumbs into his hand.

Jamie laughs and playfully punches Rupert’s shoulder. “Weel, ye can… but only the once, mind.”

There’s an easy camaraderie between the two of them. I’m guessing that Jamie has worked with the same people for quite a while. It’s good to see.

Rupert swallows, picks up a tissue and wipes the stray crumbs from his beard.  “Right-oh. So, Claire, thanks fer doing this—“

“No, I should be thanking you. It was a great meal.”

“Weel, glad tae hear that, but I would appreciate any improvements we could make. Is there anything we need tae change?”

I’ve been racking my brains all the way here, trying to think of something constructive to say rather than just reeling off a list of compliments, nice as that would be for Rupert and Jamie. And, honestly, I don’t know what more I can add. The food was excellent, the wine matched perfectly and the olives were a thoughtful addition.

I tell them all this and Rupert solemnly notes it all down. Sitting there, side by side, elbows almost touching, they look for all the world like two proud parents being complimented on their child’s talents. But they have every right to be proud.

“And nothing else?” Rupert persists. “Nothing we could do better?”

“Well, a couple of tiny suggestions. Maybe a few more pictures with the recipes would help. I’m not the most gifted cook.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jamie trying to suppress a smile. He’s never seen me in the kitchen, maybe he’s imagining me as some sort of culinary disaster area. I vow to prove him wrong at some point.

“And,” I continue as Rupert scribbles in his notebook. “Perhaps add a couple of suggestions to complete the Spanish night. I made sangria to start the evening. Could you add a recipe for that?”

Rupert closes his notebook with a flourish. “Right then. Thank ye sae much fer that. Glad yer friends all enjoyed the food.”

He stands up, shifting the table as he does so.

“Weel, bye then, Claire. Lovely tae meet ye. Hope tae see ye again.” He shoots a quick look across at Jamie before leaving.

“Rupert’s a lovely guy,” I comment as the door shuts behind him.

“Aye, he is that,” Jamie shifts in his seat. “Listen, I need tae ask ye a favour.”

“Another one,” I joke. “Wasn’t the dinner party enough?”

I add a sigh, purely for dramatic effect.

“Ye can say no if ye want tae,” he continues. “But I was wondering… weel... Ian, that’s Jenny’s husband, his rugby club is having a charity dinner dance a week on Saturday. Jenny’s bought two tickets fer me and a plus one. D’ye fancy it? It would help me out of a wee bit of bother with ma sister.”

Now I’m intrigued about his “wee bit of bother” with Jenny. I don’t want to end up in the middle of some sibling squabble.

“How so?” I’m not giving an answer straight away. At least not until I know what the bother is.

“Jenny bought the two tickets fer me a couple of months ago. I think she was assuming I would bring Laoghaire. But ye ken what happened there. Anyways, she asked me yesterday about it, and ever so casually suggested I might bring Kelly— that was ma date the other night.”

The pattern of Rupert’s crumbs on the table appears to suddenly be of great interest to him. He studies them intently as he talks, his ears turning slightly pink as he does so.

“And?” I prompt him.

“And, I told Jenny that after Laoghaire and I broke up, I didna want tae disappoint her about the dinner and so I’d already asked ye tae come along. As a friend,” he hastily adds the last part.

So, what do I decide? I do love the opportunity to have a bit of a dance and rugby club dos are usually a bit of a laugh, in my experience. And of course, I know Jamie is offering as a friend, so I’m not worried about that.

“Why don’t you want to ask Kelly then?” I want the full story before I give him my answer.

“She’s a nice enough lass but I didna think we had any spark. Plus she was trying too hard. Fer example she asked me what films I liked, then when I told her, she was all ‘no way, they’re ma favourites too’.”

He adds gestures at this point, to demonstrate Kelly’s actions, one hand flapping excitedly, the other resting on my sleeve, lightly stroking through the fabric of my shirt. It feels—

“Apparently we have exactly the same taste in films, music, food, drinks, television and holidays,” he continues as he sits back and folds his arms.

“Sounds like a match made in heaven to me.” I joke. I can still feel the sensation of his hand on my arm.

He looks up at me and frowns. “I’m no’ joking. Ye would be helping me if ye came as ma plus one.”

“Ok then. I do know that I’m not on call. I can come and be your wingman, if you like. Just one question. What are your favourite films?”

“Star Wars.”

This wasn’t the answer I was expecting. He doesn’t seem like a typical fan. Maybe he has a dark side that I haven’t yet seen, with a secret stash of Star Wars figures and multiple light sabres.

“I’ve never watched any of them.” It’s true. I seem to be in the minority but I just don’t get the appeal.

“And I can tell from yer face exactly what ye think of them. But they’re classics, weel most of them, anyway,” he starts to enthuse.

I shake my head. I can’t see that he will ever convince me.

“Well, Sassenach, have I got a treat in store for you!”

And, worryingly, it seems that he’s up for the challenge.

[riasei]

Forever

pairing: takami keigo x fem! reader

warnings: slight angst, cursing

word count: 6,015

note: It has been one (1) day, and I am already back. however, I apologize to my sinners, but there is nothing nsfw about this. I am the biggest simp for keigo and when this idea popped in my head I just had to write it out. Fun fact: my psych class got a peek of this because I accidentally closed tabs while sharing my screen during a zoom conference :) I’ve never wanted to die more.

summary: keigo begins acting weird after the two of you attend a friend’s wedding.

°✩❇✩°

The aroma of soft citrus fills the air as you carefully spray some of your perfume at the juncture of your neck. With a delicate whiff, you take in the scent, enjoying the smell of fresh lemon and the tiniest hint of vanilla. Strong arms come up behind you, wrapping around your waist, pressing your back flush against a lean chest. 

With a giggle, you paw at the arms. “Keigo, you’re going to wrinkle my dress!” You shout, attempting to pry his figure away from you.

Your stubborn lover nuzzles his face into your neck, his scruff slightly tickling you. “But you smell so fucking good,” He groans. You can feel his teasing grin against your soft skin, his hot breath fanning against you.

“If you keep this up, we’re going to be late.” You warn, a pout etching its way onto your face. 

The man breathes in your scent deeply before pulling away from you, his arms giving you one last squeeze to your waist. In the vanity mirror, you can see Keigo smiling at you with complete adoration, his brilliant eyes drinking you in. Your formal dress is your favorite color, and it complements your skin tone beautifully. The outfit doesn’t necessarily hug your figure, but it accentuates you in the best way possible. To Keigo, you look absolutely ethereal.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You hum, picking up a tube of lip gloss and looking into the mirror as you carefully apply the product. 

The blonde chuckles, his playful expression never faltering. “Trust me, I have enough pictures of you to last a lifetime. But, no picture could ever do you justice.” He murmurs.

Delicate pink blossoms on your cheeks, rivaling the blush you applied earlier. “You have the audacity to say that to me while you’re standing there looking like that?” 

Keigo tilts his head, bringing his hand up to adjust his suffocating tie, the fabric the same bright vermillion as his wings. His earrings glint in the fluorescents lights of your vanity. “I’m glad you like it, Doll, but this shit is so uncomfortable.” He groans, meeting your gaze in the mirror.

You smile sympathetically, pressing you’re your lips together to blend the gloss on your lips. “It’s only for a few hours, after that, I promise you won’t be in that suit for much longer.” You suggest, raising a brow.

The hero hums, placing a sweet kiss to your temple. “Remind me why we can’t just not show up and instead skip to the good part?”

“Because our friends are getting married and they want us to be there, that’s why.” You deadpan, flicking your boyfriend’s forehead.

He yelps dramatically, pulling away from you and covering his forehead. “Seriously,” You roll your eyes, clicking your tongue. “You call yourself a Pro-Hero?”

Keigo begins to pout, preparing to launch into one of his tangents. However, before he’s able to talk your ear off, his phone begins to ring. He fishes it out of his pocket, staring in surprise at the screen. “Oh! It’s the groom himself.”

The blonde answers the phone cheerily. “Kamui, having second thoughts? If you feel like bolting, I can totally drive the getaway car.” 

You nearly facepalm at Keigo’s idiotic greeting but resist the urge in fear of smudging the makeup that took you hours to perfect. Silently, you work on touching-up your hair while your boyfriend speaks on the phone, his tone swiftly changing. 

“Alright, calm down. Just talk to me, what’s going on?” He reassures, wings ruffling slightly as he begins to pace around the room.

The room is silent on Keigo’s end for a few moments before Keigo begins yelling into his phone. “Listen, I’m getting pissed off listening to your doubts. You’re really acting like this on the day of your fucking wedding? You should’ve thought of this shit before proposing, dumbass.” He snarls, eyes narrowing. 

You immediately turn around, shooting your boyfriend a menacing glare. Being nervous is perfectly normal, especially on such an important day like this. Only when Keigo catches your downcast eyes does he seem to shrink into himself, barely noticing just how harsh his words were. 

“Ah, Kamui, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, don’t listen to a word I just said.” The blonde frantically apologizes, eyes darting around the room.

More silence passes before Keigo speaks once more. “Listen, being anxious is normal, I’m sorry for dismissing you. But I don’t think you have to worry. You’ve told me countless times just how much you love this woman. She’s the one for you.” He soothes, voice starkly different from just moments before.

After several moments, Keigo bids a goodbye before hanging up his phone. He avoids your eyes as you make your way across the room, stalking over to his timid form. “What the hell was that about?” You wonder, poking a finger into his chest.

Keigo shifts uncomfortably under your piercing gaze. “I don’t really know,” He mutters, ashamed. “I guess his doubts just didn’t make much sense to me.”

Your mouth twists into an unfriendly scowl. “I would be just as nervous as him on my wedding day!” You declare confidently. The way Keigo stiffens at the mention of marriage doesn’t go unnoticed by your watchful eye. “He has every right to be anxious. He’s promising his life to someone else today. That’s a huge deal. Cut him some slack, okay?”

You reach a hand up, cupping your lover’s cheek in your hand. He instantly leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut at the contact. He nods his head meagerly at your request, eyes opening when you press a small kiss to his cheek. Keigo gazes down at you with conflicted eyes, a tsunami of emotions washing over him all at once.

“Is everything alright, Kei?” You question, snapping the man’s attention to you.

His first instinct is to muster up a toothy smile and say some corny joke before musing your hair, confirming that everything is fine. But he doesn’t. You know him too damn well to fall victim to such a lie. Instead, the blonde hangs his head, exhaling slowly. “I don’t know…” He trails off.

Eyes softening, you wrap your arms around his waist, enveloping the man in a comforting embrace. The thought of wrinkling your dress doesn’t even cross your mind. “Do you want to talk about it?” You ask, stroking calming circles at the base of his wings. 

“Not right now, Birdie.” He sighs, savoring your touch.

The way you’re so patient with him, never forcing him to talk. The way you are so quickly able to make him feel comforted and loved. The two of you have been together for years, and yet your affection and love never ceases to surprise him. How could someone as perfect as you love a bastard such as himself? 

Keigo is the first to pull away, helping you straighten your dress as he separates from you. “Well, if you ever feel like talking about it, I’ll be right here, okay?” 

The blonde presses an affectionate kiss at the top of your head. “Okay.” 

~~~

Loud cheers erupt through the reception as Keigo makes his way up to Endeavor, asking him for a dance. You desperately wish you had pulled out your phone in time to capture the No. 1 hero’s expression when your boyfriend so seriously extended his hand to him. The poor fiery man looked absolutely horrified and disgusted all at once. 

In the end, the two men ended up sharing a very awkward and hilarious dance due to the immense pressure the crowd was putting on Endeavor to accept. As soon as Endeavor took Keigo’s hand, Present Mic, the resident DJ, immediately switched the song to something intimate and slow, which only added to the mortification of the Todoroki.  

The two men sway together, awkwardly stepping on one another’s feet. Your boyfriend does his absolute best to annoy the living hell out of his fellow hero, and you have a feeling that the media is going to have a field day with this. Towards the end of the song, Keigo being Keigo, has to go out with a bang. He uses his feathers to lift up Endeavor into the sky before dropping the man, sending him plummeting down to the floor only to be caught in your boyfriend’s arms. 

Laughter explodes, no guest is able to contain themselves at the sight of the No. 1 hero being carried bridal style in the arms of the winged-hero Hawks. You have no doubt that someone managed to take a video of the moment, which will most definitely end up on tomorrow’s news. 

Endeavor is seething, escaping your boyfriend’s clutches as fast as possible. He gives a loud roar, screaming at Keigo, who dons a shit-eating grin. The red-haired man storms away, heading towards the bar for a much-needed drink. 

You can’t contain your giggles as Keigo walks back over to you, slinging an arm around your waist. “Do I have anything to worry about?” You laugh, eyeing the blonde through your peripheral.

His smile widens. “I don’t know… Enji does have quite the ass.”

Playfully, you slap the hero’s arm before leaning up to kiss him. The two of you break away laughing, eyes gleaming under the twinkle lights decorating the venue. 

Someone clears their throat, and you look towards the front of the area to see Present Mic speaking into the microphone. “After that beautiful display… it is now time for the bouquet toss! Unmarried ladies, gather round to see just who is going to be getting hitched next!” 

You turn, pressing a sweet kiss to Keigo’s jaw before slithering out of his grasp. “That’s my cue,” 

The blonde gulps, and his eyes drift to lock onto anything but you. He shifts in his spot a takes his bottom lip in between his teeth, nibbling slightly. You quirk your head and begin to walk back to him, preparing to ask what’s wrong. But, before you have the chance, you’re being whisked away by an eager Mt. Lady.

A small crowd of women gathers together in the middle of the dancefloor, all ready to participate in the bouquet toss. Kamui’s newlywed wife smiles at everyone before turning around, her dress swishing behind her gracefully. With a small count off, the woman throws the bundle of flowers behind her, several poorly wrapped daises flying onto the floor. 

Several women dive for the flowers, some going as far as to even push others around. You halfheartedly walk forward, hands outstretched. Just as you’re about to retract your hands, the soaring flowers begin their descent right into your grasp. The sharp thorn of a rose pricks your thumb, but the shock of catching the flowers outweighs the pulsating pain. 

A few people gasp, and others cheer when they see you’ve got the bouquet. Some of the women who ended up diving desperately for the flowers groan, offering meaningless congratulations. You giggle at the flowers, searching the crowd for Keigo’s expression. 

You find him in the same spot where you left him, expect, his expression isn’t much of what you thought it would be. His eyes are wide, and his crimson wings twitch slightly. From that place you stand, you can see the blonde gulp, his eyes trained on his polished dress shoes. All eyes are trained on the two of you, considering it is widely known that you two have been together for quite some time.  

Numerous men go up to your boyfriend and clap him on the shoulder, teasing him by saying he needs to start preparing to propose, alluding to the superstitions behind the bouquet toss. It is widely thought by many that the woman who catches the bride’s bouquet will be the next one to get married. While you don’t necessarily believe this, you can’t help but feel hurt by Keigo’s obvious discomfort. Is the thought of marrying you that repulsive?

Gingerly, you walk over to the blonde, hiding the bouquet at your side. He does his best to smile at you, the corner of his mouth twitching with visible effort. His mouth opens to make a smart comment, but all he can do is stare at you, eyes drifting to the flowers being held tightly in your grasp. 

Kamui, the groom from today, walks up to the two of you, not picking up on the palpable tension. He swings an arm around Keigo’s neck and brings the man into a headlock, rubbing a fist against his head. “Look at you! Am I going to need to yell at you like you did to me on your wedding day, Hawks?” He chuckles, eyes glinting with mischief.

Keigo pales. “Uh, I don’t think there will be a need for that.” The blonde manages to choke out. 

“Are you sure? Because believe me, I have a lot to say to you.” The groom teases, finally releasing your lover.

The winged man takes a moment to compose himself, readjusting his tie and straightening out his suit jacket. With one final punch to the shoulder, Kamui leaves to mingle with his new in-laws.

You toss the bouquet on the table you and Keigo had been assigned to sit. “Can you believe that?” You wryly laugh. “Some people actually believe we’re gonna get married soon just because I caught those flowers.”

Keigo quirks a brow at you, noticing how off your tone seems. He takes a breath, exhaling deeply before reaching for your hand. Your finger interlace with his, your smooth and delicate hands molding perfectly against his worn and rough ones. Keigo squeezes his hand around yours, instantly providing you with the comfort you didn’t know you needed.

He murmurs your name softly. “I love you so much.” 

“I love you too, Keigo.”

~~~

Drops of water trail down from your hair, wetting your shirt and causing the cotton fabric to stick to you uncomfortably. With a groan, you get up and head towards your shared bedroom with Keigo in search of something dry to change into. You’d neglected to dry your hair after showering, and you are now very much regretting that decision.

In the corner of the room lies a stack of laundry that neither of you has worked up the motivation to put away. Languidly, you throw off your shirt and look for another one. In the pile of clothes, there are none of your items, and with one quick glance in the hamper, you realize that you have exhausted your usual sleepwear. 

Shrugging, you reach for one of Keigo’s casual shirts and throw it over your form. It’s a plain black tee with a small white design near the breast. It hangs lowly on you, the sleeves slightly too big for your form. 

You walk over lazily to flop onto the bed, snuggling under the plush duvet. You whip out your phone and begin to scroll randomly through social media. Meanwhile, your boyfriend is still showering. Typically, the two of you would shower together, but for some odd reason, this time Keigo decided he would conveniently be busy while you were washing up.

An article pops up on your feed, its title relating to Kamui’s wedding. The media sure does work fast, considering the wedding only ended a few hours ago. 

Bored, you tap the article with your thumb. As the webpage buffers, the water shuts off in the bathroom, signaling that your boyfriend should be done. 

Skimming through the article, you find that it is quite detailed. There must have been someone from the news there, despite the fact that Kamui and his wife were adamant only close friends and family attend. 

The article talks about the beautiful ceremony, noting how the groom ended up sobbing while reading his vows. It, of course, also mentions Keigo’s dance with Endeavor, including a video of it taken from someone’s social media. You giggle at the sight, the memory fresh in your mind.

Behind you, Keigo drops into bed, snuggling up to your back. He rests his head in the crook of your shoulder and rests his hands on your waist, looking at your phone with you. Pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder where his big t-shirt had fallen from your form, the hero laughs. He sees the video of him and Endeavor playing and sighs contentedly. 

As you keep reading through the editorial, now with Keigo reading with you, your breath nearly hitches when you come up to the next section of the article. A huge picture of you holding a bundle of flowers fills the screen. Behind you, Keigo shifts lightly.

Thumb swiping along the screen, you read the text under the unnecessarily huge photo.

UPCOMING HERO WEDDING?

This evening, at the wedding of Pro-Hero Kamui Woods, talks of another upcoming hero wedding have begun. Number 2 Hero Hawks has been in a longtime relationship with his girlfriend for several years, and tonight she was pictured catching the bride’s bouquet, which according to popular superstitions, means the couple will soon be married. 

According to inside sources, the couple seemed ecstatic. While there are no videos available, some guests report that our beloved winged-hero expressed great joy at the sight of seeing his partner catching the flowers.

The couple has been together publicly for nearly 4 years now, but some suspect they were together for much longer before actually announcing their relationship. These two love birds have been dating even longer than Kamui and his own bride, which makes some think that a wedding is long overdue. An anonymous source we interviewed after the wedding said Hawks definitely agrees! According to them, Hawks has been on the hunt for a ring for a few months.

Stay tuned and consider subscribing to our newsletter for the best Pro-Hero news.

You snort unattractively after finishing the article. “What the fuck is this supposed to be?”

Keigo doesn’t respond, his grip on your waist faltering. You shut off your phone, placing it on the bed. Turning around, you face the blonde. “Is everything all right?” 

He grits his teeth before choking back a grimace. “Yeah, of course. I just hate seeing the media make up shit about us.” He explains, rubbing the back of his neck.

Despite not fully believing the response, you accept it. “Me too,” You roll your eyes. “I can’t imagine how it must be for you, always being in the media’s eyes. I swear, I’d go insane.”

The blonde huffs, his face relaxing, grateful that you aren’t pushing him. “Yeah, it fucking sucks, but I think I’ve gotten used to it over the years. But trust me, I did want to go insane at first.” 

You nod your head, stifling a yawn. Keigo smiles at you and reaches out a hand to stroke your hair. “You should go to sleep, Doll.” 

You sigh at the soothing feeling of Keigo’s fingers massaging into your scalp. “So should you,”

Pursing his lips, the hero turns his head away. “I would love to, but I have a report I need to finish.” He explains, sitting up in bed.

With a groan, you take the corner of his shirt in your weak fist. “Don’t you always have someone at your agency do that for you? Just come to bed with me.” You whine.

“What are you talking about,” He teases. “I’m an independent man. I always do my own work.”

You hum, eyelids drooping. “Yeah, sure you do.”

Keigo gets up from the bed and comes around to your side, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Goodnight, Birdie.”

Moments later, you slip into a dreamless sleep. Before Keigo can even exit the room, he turns around to look you over, seeing your lips parted with soft breaths and eyes closed shut. He smiles down at you softly before heading into the living room to work on his report.

When you awake the next morning, your boyfriend is already gone at work. There’s a dent in the bed next to you, so you have the comfort of knowing that he didn’t stay up all night, but it makes you uneasy that he left so early. Typically, Keigo will wait for you to wake up before heading into work, and if he’s forced to go in early, he will always send you an explanatory text message. 

Except, this morning, you wake up and he’s gone with no message. You don’t want to feel paranoid, especially since this is the first time Keigo has done this, but you can’t help the sinking feeling in your stomach. 

Around his break, you shoot your boyfriend a simple message, asking if he’s doing alright. For a few minutes, he simply just reads your text message. It takes a while before he responds with a confirmation that he’s doing just fine, along with a simple apology for not be able to greet you in the morning. 

Quickly, you send back a message telling him it’s no problem. Feelings of guilt start to creep up on you as you wonder why you’d been so worried. It’s not like you don’t trust Keigo, but he was acting quite strangely yesterday. Was he mad at you? Is that why he left early?

You shake your head, ridding yourself of your anxious thoughts. No, your boyfriend wouldn’t do that. At the beginning of your relationship, maybe he would’ve, but over the years, you two have learned to communicate seamlessly with each other. If he was upset, he would tell you, He always does, and this time is no different.

 Later in the day, you order some food and wait for Keigo to come home. He’s usually a latecomer, considering his job is more demanding than most. At first, you aren’t worried when your boyfriend isn’t home by 7:00. Although that is when he usually arrives, you remain unfazed. It’s quite likely that he just got stuck at the agency.  

However, when it reaches 11:00, you start to twitch. Every few minutes, you open your phone to check for new messages, and your leg begins to bounce with anxiety as time continues to pass. Out of genuine concern, you send Keigo another message asking if he’s okay.

Your phone shows that he never even reads it. You then leave a phone call, followed by a very worried voicemail. Did something happen to him? Did he have an encounter with a particularly nasty villain? Just as you’re about to call the front desk of Keigo’s agency, the lock on your front door clicks.

In the blonde walks, his hair in disarray, no doubt from flying. You breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of him. Upon seeing you up, Keigo’s eyes fly open. It is nearly midnight, and you’re usually asleep by now. He rushes towards you. 

“Doll, what are you still doing up?” He asks, pressing a hand to your cheek.

“I was worried, you never stay this late without texting me. I thought, I thought that something had happened.” You explain, words slurring together with the overwhelming need for sleep.

Keigo curses himself. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m fine, baby, I swear.”

You smile, eyes drooping. “Good, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened.” You managed to mumble, barely comprehensible. 

The hero picks you up in his arms and holds you close to his chest as he walks to the bedroom. Carefully he places you in bed, tucking you snuggly under the covers and kissing you goodnight.

When you wake up the next morning, Keigo is gone once more. Although, this time, he’s texted you like he usually does.

This time, when he isn’t home by 10:00, you opt to go to bed without him. Faintly, you remember waking up to him coming home in the early morning, only for him to lull you back to sleep with his soothing voice.

For weeks, it’s the same thing all over again.

Keigo leaves to work before you wake up, stays late at work, and comes home after you’ve gone to sleep. The cycle is brutal, and every time you try to confront your lover about it, he skillfully avoids the question. 

Unpleasant thoughts soon invade your mind, plaguing you every second of the day. Is he actually mad at you? Are you not enough anymore? Did Keigo find someone else? At night, you can’t help the tears that leak onto the mattress as you sob, wondering just what you did wrong. There must be a reason for his obscure behavior, and the only connection your brain can make is that you are somehow at fault.

You endure several weeks of avoidance before you work up the courage to confront Keigo.

Instead of going to sleep at your regular time, you stay up, waiting for him in the lounge. A blanket is wrapped tightly around you, comforting you as you wait for your boyfriend.

 However, you can’t help but fall asleep as it becomes late. You spent so much energy worrying and stressing over confronting Keigo that you wore yourself out mentally. 

Hours later, you awake in bed. It isn’t the time you usually wake up, far from it. The bright light of your phone nearly blinds you as you pick it up to check the time. 3:00am.

Looking next to you, Keigo isn’t in bed. There isn’t even a sign that he tried to rest, the sheets still undisturbed.

Tears threaten to fall from your watering eyes, but before you can begin to cry, you hear a noise coming from the kitchen. Gingerly, you walk out of the bedroom, rubbing sleep away from your bloodshot eyes. Sitting at the kitchen island is Keigo, in his hand an empty glass. Next to him sits a bottle of whiskey.

Immediately, Keigo looks up, having heard your light footsteps. His eyes widen at the sight of you awake at such an ungodly hour.

You sigh at him, taking the seat next to him. You snatch the glass from his hand and pour yourself a drink, downing it in one go. If you’re going to talk to him right now, you’re going to need the liquid courage.

“What’re you doing up?” He croaks out, watching as you gulp down the alcohol.

You laugh dryly. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Uncomfortable silence envelops the two of you.

It’s been weeks since the two of you have seen each other properly and had a decent conversation. Most of your interactions, as of late, have been dull and forced.

Next to you, the blonde shifts in his seat, his wings shuddering slightly. You purse your lips. Is he really that uncomfortable just being around you? The thought makes you want to scream. What the hell happened to the two of you? Where did everything go so unbelievably wrong?

Choking on a sob, you lay the glass down on the table and abruptly rise from your seat. You exit the kitchen and head to the lounge, plopping down onto the couch and burying your hands in your face. 

The legs of Keigo’s stool scrape the ground as he pushes back his seat, rising to chase after you. Instantly, he’s at your side, placing a hand on your shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circle into your exposed skin. You hate how much you nearly tremble at his touch after being denied of it for so long.

Tears stream down your face, rolling down to your chin and staining your nightshirt. 

The blonde whispers your name softly. “Hey, what’s wrong,”

You look at him miserably, and immediately Keigo feels bad for asking. He absolutely knows what’s wrong, and he clenches the fist that rests at his side. Of course, he fucking knows why you’re crying. He knows because he’s the reason why.

“Keigo, I-“ You sob, taking a moment to wipe away your tears. “Did I do something wrong?” 

Keigo’s heart drops, his own eyes beginning to water. Before he can even begin to express how wrong you are, you continue to talk.

“Do I not make you happy anymore?” You weep, voice breaking. “Is there someone else?”

The hero’s eyes immediately widen, and he grabs your hands, clasping them between his own. “No!” He nearly shouts.

The volume of Keigo’s voice stuns you. “I would never do something like that to you, please, believe me.” He begs, desperation lacing his voice.

You swallow heavily. “Then what is going on, Keigo? You can’t keep me in the dark anymore! I’m sorry, but I need to fucking know.”

Instantly, the blonde’s heart shatters to pieces. For a moment, he can’t even respond to you. The only thing he can manage to squeeze out is a broken, “I love you, so much.”

“You certainly have a way of showing it, then.” You snap back, eyes sharp. 

“You’re the love of my life. I love you so much that sometimes it fucking hurts,” He cries, hot tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

The pure desperation and despair lining his voice is heartbreaking. You meet your boyfriend’s eyes to see that he is now crying just as much as you.

Keigo takes a deep breath, trying his best to compose himself. “You are so amazing that sometimes I can’t even believe you exist. You deserve the world and so much more… and I’m afraid that I can’t give that to you. I’m afraid that I can’t give you what you want.”

You shake your head, peering up at the broken man in front of you. “Keigo, what are you talking about? You, you give me more than I could ever ask for, more than I deserve.” 

Biting his lip, Keigo turns his head away. “I want to be with you forever. I want to spend the rest of my damned life with you.” He responds firmly, turning back to look you straight in the eyes.

Color flushes to your face, and your heart skips a beat at his declaration.

“But… I can’t marry you.” 

His words hit you like a physical blow. They cut deep into you, tearing you up from the inside out.

“What?” Is all you can manage to ask, eyes searching his for any sort of answer.

Keigo takes a hand to run it through his hair. “It’s not just you, I can’t marry anyone. I just fucking can’t, okay? And I’m so fucking sorry that I made you so miserable by avoiding you, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving me when you found out that I can’t get married.” He admits.

Your breathing starts to slow, as do your tears. “Keigo, what do you mean you can’t get married?”

A loud sob echoes off the walls as your boyfriend folds in on himself. He trembles against you, and you rush to wrap an arm around him. “I just can’t… there’s too much that can go wrong, and the thought of it is more terrifying than any villain I’ve ever faced.”

Tenderly, you brush a strand of blonde hair behind his hair. Shakily, Keigo continues. “My parents were ruthless drunks. They had the most dysfunctional relationship in the goddamn world, and it messed me the fuck up. As a kid, it was so damn confusing to see two people who claimed they loved each other fight and hurt each other, then to have them team up to hurt me.” He trembles, clutching onto you like a lifeline.

“Then, when my amazing parents basically sold me off to the government, I was often cared for by this other family. They were just as bad as my actual parents, if not worse. They bonded over making me miserable, hurting me helped them grow closer. It was fucking disgusting.”

You’ve heard snippets of these stories before, but Keigo would always stop himself before talking about his parents. Now, you understand why. Tears begin to fall from your eyes once more at the thought of the man you love so much being hurt by the people who were supposed to protect him. 

“Not to mention, if we were to ever get married, I could never guarantee your safety. The Hero Commission hates our relationship, remember how they threatened you when we started dating? Imagine what they would do if we were to get married…” He trails off, choking back a lump in his throat.

As Keigo takes a few moments to compose himself, you bring your hand up to wipe away his tears, cupping his cheek and pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to his face. This action only seems to break him even more, as your boyfriend begins to whimper, pulling away from you.

He cries out your name in sorrow. “I’m so sorry I avoided you. I just, I didn’t know what I’d do if you left me when you found out.”

You still at his words. “Keigo, I would never leave you, not over something like this.” You explain, stunned as to why he thought you would do so.

“But, at Kamui’s wedding, you seemed so excited when you caught the bouquet, and you even talked about getting married one day.” He recalls, eyes puffy and cheeks streaked with lines of salt.

You take your lip into your mouth. “Yes, I did all of those things. But they don’t matter anymore. Not to me.” 

The blonde jerks away from you. “Don’t do that! Don’t you dare sacrifice your happiness and the things you want just for me.” He stresses.

“That’s not what I’m doing at all,” You try to clarify, reaching out to the man again. 

Keigo avoids your touch. “Yes, you are. You just said you’ve thought about marriage and now you’re saying it doesn’t matter? Please, save me the heartache and don’t lie.”

Frustration races through your veins at the thought that Keigo thinks you’re lying. “Okay, yes, I have thought about marriage. When I was younger, I used to imagine my wedding. In middle school, I had a Pinterest board for my dream wedding. I admit it!” You raise your voice slightly.

Keigo shrinks back at your tone and words. He almost begins to prepare for the impending, ‘this isn’t going to work out,’ but it never comes. 

Instead, you force the blonde to look at you as you continue to speak. “But, even though I did all of that, it doesn’t matter to me anymore. Do you want to know why?” You ask fervently. Keigo nods slowly in response.

“It doesn’t matter anymore because I am with you. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t imagined us getting married, but now that I know it’s not what you want, I don’t care.” 

Confusion flashes over your boyfriend’s face, and you recognize it immediately. “What do you mean?”

You smile softly. “I mean that as long as I’m with you, I don’t care what the hell we are. You are the love of my life, and I also want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don’t care if we spend our relationship together married or not, because as long as we are together, it doesn’t matter.” 

The hero stills at your words, slowly drinking them in. 

“It’s you that I want, not a wedding. I’m perfectly fine being your girlfriend for the rest of our lives as long as you and I are together.” You continue breathily, eyes searching for Keigo’s for any sort of reaction.

A few moments pass as Keigo fully digests what you’ve said. His silence nearly scares you, but all of your worries are washed away when he frantically grabs your face and pulls you into a passionate kiss full of love and fervor. 

When Keigo pulls away, he leans his forehead against your, a single tear rolling down his cheek. “Fuck, I don’t deserve you. I love you so fucking much.”

You breathe out a laugh, closing your eyes. “I want to be yours, Keigo. Forever.”

The blonde chuckles against your lips, going in for a chaste kiss. “Forever doesn’t sound too bad.” 

[santiagoswagger]

we were wild and fluorescent, come home to my heart

Flower shop AU | My contribution to @b99fandomevents 2019 Summer Fic Exchange, for the lovely @benwvatt! 

Amy has always been a planner. 

She received her first calendar when she was six years-old to keep track of her extracurricular activities, and her scheduling addiction arrived soon after. She needed organization to feel sane, normal, like her whole world wouldn’t crumble beneath her feet. Growing up in a house full of rowdy brothers, and now working in a job that is more unpredictable than not, the only thing she’s ever felt any semblance of control over is her calendar. 

But as she furiously clicks through page after page on Yelp in a haze of escalating panic, Amy curses her calendar for the very first time in her life. 

She forgot about Mother’s Day.

It’s not a total surprise, she supposes. She’d spent the last two weeks working to solve a high-profile kidnapping and there hadn’t been any room in her life for restful sleep or food that didn’t come from a vending machine, let alone time to buy her extraordinarily picky mother the perfect Mother’s Day present. 

It wasn’t until David (stupid David!) sent a reminder in the Santiago siblings’ text chain that Amy realized what a colossal mistake she had made in forgetting about the annual Santiago Mother’s Day brunch. Her heart began to palpitate faster than it did that time in college when she consumed an entire pot of coffee the night before her calculus final. That hadn’t ended well at all, but Amy refuses to let this day be a complete disaster. Not showing up to her parents’ house empty-handed is a good place to start.

Now, an hour after receiving David’s text, she’s frantically trying to find an acceptably rated flower shop somewhere in Brooklyn that is both open and taking new orders on such a busy day for the industry. Calls to three had so far dashed all of Amy’s hopes and dreams of one day seeing her photo proudly displayed on the family mantel, knocking David’s out of its place of honor.

She continues to scroll through Yelp until her cursor lands on one called Rachel’s Flowers with a promising four-star rating. Amy painstakingly scans through each review and the only negative one she can find is from a woman who two years previously said the cashier was “annoying beyond belief.” 

Glancing at the clock, Amy decides she would take a chatty cashier over a withering glare from Camila Santiago any day. Running out of time, she foregoes calling ahead and hopes that Rachel is the florist of her dreams. 

The shop is on a quaint, quiet block in Amy’s precinct. ‘Rachel’s Flowers’ is written in neat, green cursive above the brick facade. Its old-school charm is in sharp contrast to the hipster record store and vegan restaurant it’s sandwiched between, and Amy immediately loves it for its simplicity. Standing here is like stepping back in time. She wonders why she’s never come across it before, even in her days as a beat cop. 

She parks her car across the street and walks in, practically running into the line of last-minute shoppers, so long it’s practically out the door. Amy feels her blood pressure spike on the spot.

She walks quickly around the showroom to assess the ready-made bouquets so she can make a quick exit. They’re mostly made up of multi-colored carnations or pink roses, and they’re so beautifully arranged, but Amy can just picture her mother’s face if she were to gift her with any of these. Amy’s grandmother loved gardenias and white hydrangeas, a love Camila inherited; vases of them were always scattered around the Santiago home when Amy was growing up. Bringing her mother any other kind of flower won’t have the desired effect Amy’s going for. 

She waits in line for almost fifteen minutes, tapping her low heels on the ground with every passing second. Being late to brunch would almost be worse than showing up empty-handed, in Amy’s opinion. 

When Amy finally reaches the front of the line, she is greeted by a man she assumes is the chatty cashier from the Yelp review she read earlier. He’s handsome, with kind-looking eyes and a cute, lopsided grin, but his wrinkled flannel and sloppy curls don’t instill much confidence in her.  

“What can I do for you?” he smiles, big and warm. 

“I’m looking for a bouquet for my mom,” she says, trying valiantly to keep her growing anxiety at bay. “She’s really difficult to shop for. Do you have any white hydrangeas and gardenias?” 

“No, I’m sorry, we used most of our supply for custom orders. What you see out here is pretty much what we have left.” He just keeps smiling. Amy wants nothing more than to wipe the stupid smirk off his face. 

“You don’t have anything else in the back?” she asks desperately.

“Sorry, it’s a busy day.” To his credit, he looks apologetic. She can see the sympathy swimming in his eyes. Unfortunately for him, Santiagos never admit defeat. 

“Can I please speak with your manager or the florist?” she asks politely. 

He has the nerve to laugh. “Uh, I’m both.” 

Amy fights the urge to do a double-take. Her finely-honed observational skills spot a large, mysterious red stain on the sleeve of his flannel and she’s fairly certain he’s responsible for the Carly Rae Jepsen songs pumping through the shop’s speakers. How could this man be the one responsible for the delicate flower arrangements by the door?

Amy sighs deeply. “Look, I know this is probably one of the worst days of the year for you, but I forgot it was Mother’s Day and I don’t want my picture to move any further from the mantel than it already is. Can you please help me out and put something together that will at least moderately impress my picky and terrifying mother? I’m willing to pay whatever.” 

He looks thoughtful for a moment, crossing his arms and bringing his pointer finger up to stroke his chin. Amy figures he’s probably trying to figure out what she meant about the family mantel.

“Do 100 jumping jacks.” 

She’s completely caught off-guard. “Excuse me?” 

“You said you would pay whatever,” he smirks, looking entirely too proud of himself. 

She squints at his name tag, pinned to the collar of his haphazard shirt. “Look, Jake, I’m really not in the mood today.” She rummages through her bag to find her phone and look for another flower shop nearby. She’ll take a bouquet from a bodega at this point. 

In the chaos, her badge flies out and lands face-up on the cashier’s desk. Amy sees Jake’s eyes widen, and she can’t help but feel slightly vindicated. 

“You’re a cop?” he asks. 

“I am,” she says carefully. She can’t tell if he’s afraid or if another snarky comment is headed her way. 

“That’s so cool,” he says reverently, picking up her badge to inspect it with the utmost care. “I always wanted to be a cop.”

Amy eyebrow lifts involuntarily. It’s hard for her to imagine this goofy, messy-haired man as one of New York’s finest, but she can tell he’s being genuine by the pure excitement emanating from every part of him.

“It’s a pretty cool job,” she smiles as she takes it back from him. 

“What’s your favorite cop movie? It’s Die Hard, right? It has to be Die Hard!” His flailing hands punctuate every word. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen someone so worked up about Bruce Willis. 

“It’s Training Day, actually, but I suppose you’re entitled to your wrong opinion.” She’s not sure why she’s bantering with the florist, but there’s something so undeniably charming about him. 

“Denzel wishes,” he scoffs. Amy laughs, earning a surprised smile from Jake. 

He takes a second to look around the shop. There are a few stragglers milling around but it’s fairly empty.

“What’s your name?” he asks as he turns back to her.

“Amy,” she says, confused. 

He grins brightly. “Well, Amy, it looks like we’re in a bit of a lull. Let me take a look in the back and see what I can do for you.” 

Relief hits her like a swift punch to the stomach. “Thank you so much, Jake.” 

He nods, beaming, and heads to the back room. 

Amy takes the opportunity to look around now that the panic has died down somewhat. The black-and-white tile floor is covered in just enough scuffs to let Amy know it’s seen some things, as does the chipped green paint on the walls. The bouquets are so thoughtfully arranged and she can tell they were made with such care. Amy briefly wonders how a guy like Jake ended up here. 

“Aha!” she hears him exclaim from the back. 

Amy turns around as he walks back into the shop, sneakers squeaking against the tile as he brandishes a beautiful bouquet over his head.

She hurries over to take a closer look. Jake had grouped gardenias and hydrangeas together in a clear, modern vase, and he had tied the whole thing together with a single silver ribbon. It’s simple and elegant, and very Camila Santiago. 

“They’re beautiful,” she breathes. “I thought you didn’t have any gardenias and hydrangeas left?”

He moves to scratch the back of his neck. Amy swears she sees a hint of a blush spread across his cheeks but she quickly writes it off as a trick of the light. “I managed to find some leftover gardenias and then I remembered that this custom order of white hydrangeas was never picked up yesterday, so I just, you know, threw it together for you.” 

Amy has a sneaking feeling that he isn’t telling her the whole truth, but she appreciates it nonetheless. 

“Thank you, Jake,” she says genuinely. “You’re a lifesaver. My mom will love these.” 

“Eh, it’s no problem,” he says. “You just owe me a huge favor now.”

She barks out a laugh. “You’ve got it.” 

As he rings her up, Amy can’t help herself. “How did you become a florist? You wanted to be a cop, right?”

He chuckles. “I was in the academy when my nana got sick. This was her shop. I used to come here every day after school to help her with orders and I got pretty good at it. When she passed away, I couldn’t let them sell it, so I just kind of stayed and kept it running.” 

He shrugs it off. Amy is dumbfounded. 

“That’s really incredible, Jake.” 

“Surprisingly, being good with flowers does not help with the ladies,” he jokes, handing over her receipt. 

She takes it with a small smile. “Maybe it will one day.” 

He smiles softly back at her. “Yeah, maybe.” 

“Thanks again, Jake.” 

“No problem, Amy. I hope your thing with the mantel works out, whatever that is.” 

He waves as she walks out the door and she feels her stomach bottom out. Well, that’s new. 

Brunch goes better than Amy could have hoped. Camila doesn’t say much, but she purses her lips and places them on top of the grand piano in the living room - prime real estate in the Santiago household, even if no one in the family plays piano. Amy’s photo moves one spot closer to the center of the mantel. 

She knows she owes most of her success to Jake, so when she gets home she decides to thank him in the most sincere way she knows: a handwritten note. She pulls out the floral stationary she had custom-made with her new title when she made detective at the Nine-Nine and gets to writing. 

Jake, 

Thank you for all of your help today. My mom loved the flowers, and I owe it all to you. You really saved me. John McClane has nothing on you. 

Amy 

She reads it over and over until she decides to have mercy on herself and shoves it in the outgoing mail slot before she can drive herself any crazier. 

A few days go by and Amy’s nearly forgotten about the note when a man walks into the precinct holding a giant bouquet of red tulips. The splash of color isn’t something one tends to see in a Brooklyn police precinct, so he catches almost everyone’s eye right away - except Amy’s. 

She’s nearing the end of a large stack of paperwork, which she’s determined to get through before the morning briefing. She sees feet moving towards her out of the corner of her eye but she doesn’t think much of it until she hears someone clear their throat.

It’s Jake, the florist. 

“Hi,” he says, clearing his throat again. This time, she can detect his nerves. 

“Hi,” she says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

He smiles easily. “I got your note. Very nice touch, by the way. I’m here to, uh, ask you to dinner.”

She raises her eyebrows, caught off-guard. 

He quickly deflates. “You have a boyfriend, don’t you? I knew it. I’m so sorry, Amy. I won’t bother you again.” 

It’s this grace in the face of defeat that makes Amy’s heart swell with sudden affection. He’s a complete stranger, but she instinctively knows he’s someone she can trust. “Jake, I’d love to go to dinner with you.” 

He smiles slowly. “You would? You’re single? Really?” 

She nods, grinning. “Yes, really.” 

The tips of his ears turn bright pink. “Okay, great. When should I pick you up?” 

Amy grabs a neon post-it note and scribbles her phone number and address. “Seven?” she asks, handing it back to him. 

He takes it, looking somewhat dazed, like he can’t quite believe his good luck. He gently sets the tulips down on her desk, careful not to disrupt her files. “Seven, it is. I’ll see you later, Amy.” 

“Bye, Jake,” she says, waving shyly as he heads for the elevator.  

Once he’s gone and she’s able to pull herself back down to earth, she steals a glance at the bouquet he’d brought her. The tulips are vibrant and beautiful, and full of promise. 

Later, when she kisses him for the first time, she takes in the floral scent that seems to follow him around and it feels like home.

[jjungkooksthighs]

Euphoria

-pairing: female reader x Jeon Jungkook

-genre: romance, f2l, danceteacher!jungkook, boyfriend!jungkook, student!reader

-rating: SFW

-warnings: currently none

- word count: 2584

- A/N: Hi, so I’m BTS trash. I’ve been trash for a few years now, but only now started writing for them as I’m very insecure with my writing. And yes, my bias is Jungkook (no shame in me admitting that, honestly). In any case, I hope you enjoy, my fellow army! 

“Kookie, please,” your soft whine sounds under him as you throw both arms around him, nuzzling into the warmth of his neck as you place a light, gentle kiss to the skin there. You’re too happy to see him to be ashamed at your bold behavior.

Normally, you’re very timid around your boyfriend, but he’s just returned to you from touring with his group, BTS. It was a surprise visit, but a very welcome and happy one on your account.

Still, you are eager to hear that familiar deep, relenting groan that he always does when he accedes to you, ever the caring boyfriend that he was to ensure that you were always happy in the limited times that you were together.

The both of you used to spend every single day together, but ever since he’d debuted as a member of BTS, that time gradually lessened as the band’s popularity and affection from their beloved army grew.

There was a time when that hurt to think about, but you didn’t mind it so much anymore. You cared too much about his happiness and wanted him to have the success and recognition he deserved after so many years of hard training and practice. You knew, for you’d been there for him through it all.

When he’d accepted the offer made by BigHit after reviewing a plethora of other companies to sign with after many years of training to sing and dance, he was ecstatic. You’d never seen him so happy, save for the times that you two had shared together.

You helped him to choose the company he’d signed with, the memory as young and fresh as the flowers he’d brought for you after finding you determinedly dancing mid-choreography to his song, Euphoria. A song that he constantly told you was written and devoted to you.

Warmth never ceased to spread through your chest when he reminded you of that. When he reminded you of his love and devotion to you.

“Aish…Do you really want me to teach you how to do that move that badly?” He gently asks, slowly running the back of his hand down your cheek as he encircles each of his arms around your slim waist. 

He already knows how beautiful of a dancer you are. He’s seen as such many times from watching the videos you send him and from secretly watching you in person when you think he’s not looking.

His warmth radiates from the muscular body you lightly press against, your answer immediate as you nod, lifting your head from his chest to meet his kind, tender gaze.

”Yes. I have my reasons for wanting to know how my boyfriend moves so gracefully every time that he dances. I may not ever be able to dance beside you, Kookie,” you pause, leaning your head into his soft touch when one hand rises to cup your cheek,” but I still want to savor everything that you do. You mean a lot to me, but you already know that, right?”

He looks down at you with those beautiful brown eyes of his and you swear that you could get lost in them if not for the way that he holds you now, his free arm pulling around you tighter as he ardently answers,” How did I ever get so lucky?”

Heat makes its way to your cheeks, redness soon staining them as you instinctively curl your fingers in his dark locks, a habit that you typically perform on yourself when he flusters you as he so often does.

He notices that, but of course does. He always knows as far as you’re concerned.

“Y/N,” he lightly presses, another upturn slowly gracing lips that you don’t see. You don’t realize you’re staring at his chest until the hand that had been on your waist moves to rest under your jaw, gently pushing upward until you’re unable to look anywhere but at those deep, soulful eyes that are always swimming in passion. Such is something you have always loved about him, but you will never admit that.

“Y/N, you’re wrong about that. You will always have a place beside me, no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing and no matter what I might become.”

His deep voice echoes through the training room, and it is then that he turns you around, wrapping his arms around your front as he whispers, “Look at us. See that I am not going anywhere.”

When you look into the mirror, your eyes catch on the figure behind you. Your breath finds itself unable to escape your throat as you look at him in the soft fluorescent light that bathes him in an almost ethereal glow.

A thin sheen of sweet glistens against his perfect skin, his hair a rich hazel color (he must have dyed it back after that tour in America) like the beautiful eyes that remind you of topaz as they fix themselves on you, a straight and thin nose framing a thin upper lip that is flanked by a full, plump lower lip.

From experience, you know that last bit is very soft and very warm when pressed against you. Your mind doesn’t stay on that idea that wants to linger for too long if your cheeks staining themselves red have any indication of where that train of thought may have been heading.

You refocus your sight on his chest- he’s wearing a thin white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and loose-fitting navy pants that hug his calves while flaring out around the thighs that you know are built entirely of muscle.

You yourself sport an Adidas halter crop style shirt that is white amid the top and black along the bottom, your stomach on display in the space that your black sweatpants do not cover.

He frames you perfectly from behind, his height being tall enough that he could rest his head on top of yours if he so wished. You rather enjoyed that ability of his to make you feel smaller on the occasions that you both cuddled together.

You can’t deny how handsome he looks, one hand moving on its own to caress him while he looks down lovingly at you.

You don’t know when he’d managed to pull your phone from your pocket, but when he presses the play button, his song plays over the loudspeaker, the voice that fills the room a light and airy one that is so different from the deep one that you know so well.

His hands never leave you, instead trailing along your front to grip your hips as he moves the both of you from side to side in a slow, gentle pace to the rhythm and beat of the song.

You instantly know that this isn’t the choreography- you have danced it enough on your own to know every step, despite having trouble with one of the moves.

“Kook-“ You’re silenced when one hand leaves your hip, one finger pressed against those plump lips as the both of you listen to the song as you’ve done hundreds of times before. You are utterly captured by those eyes as you look up at him, his lips moving as he sings along to the song while he grins at you.

“Take my hands now. You are the cause of my euphoria.”

The last word is accented with a twist of his wrist as he twirls you around, your hands falling on that broad chest for purchase as he moves the two of you forward and then back with graceful strides.

Your doubt melts the longer that you look at him, his words, warmth and song settling over you like a blanket that you have been missing for a long while in the cold winter of his absence.

How you’ve missed him, you tell yourself. You would wonder how much he’s missed you, but you can already tell by the way those crinkles under his eyes are starting to form, how they soften for you under that tender gaze as he pulls you closer that he’s missed you terribly.

The fact causes a pang of affection and something else to strike you through.  You’re too wrapped up in him to try to decipher what that other feeling was, his head slowly falling to rest against you as he playfully rubs his nose over yours. His touch soon washes away most of the doubt had settled in the chilling loneliness during his time away from you while on tour for his new album, Love Yourself: Answer.

The irony is not lost on you that you aren’t entirely sure of yourself in your ability to stay beside Jungkook, but your boyfriend has known of that fear that has threatened to tear you apart since the beginning stages of your relationship as partners. Now, it only lingers in those dark shadows through his endless efforts to show you his feelings and devotion.

Truthfully, you don’t know how you could have gotten so lucky to deserve him.

Perhaps it is that sentiment is what causes you to whisper,” Please let me stay with you, Jeon. I don’t know what I would do without you, but…”

He stops singing, then. Rather than answering you, he takes your hand, entwining his fingers in yours. He knows that you have something to say and will patiently wait until you can find the words to say what you’re trying to.

His song plays between the two of you, his words caressing you the same way his fingers do as they run along your hand in slow circles. His eyes pierce yours now, entreating you as he tilts his head when the silence falls between both of you.

Some time passes before you can finally muster the courage to voice what has been nipping at your attention every waking moment in the time he has been away. The words are earnest when they leave your timid lips,” I have missed you so, so much, Kookie. When you’re gone, I always get like this, so I’m sorry for that. Still, I realized something when you were gone this time.”

An eyebrow flicks upward at that, a grin edging along the corners of his mouth once more as he squeezes your hand, “Oh? And what did you realize, Y/N? That you love me?”

It’s your sharp intake of breath that makes him chuckle, his bubbly laugh music to your ears as your smile pushes at the corners of your lips when you nervously cup a hand over your mouth, “What’s wrong Y/N? Cat got your tongue?”

Embarrassment and mortification are quick to fall upon you like a heavy brick, your stomach dropping at the notion that he knows now what you had been afraid to admit to yourself for weeks. 

“I…you…how did you?” You stutter, unable to form a coherent thought at your now exposed secret.

He titters for a little while longer, his other hand taking your free one to place it over his heart as he places a tender kiss to your forehead before moving back to look at you.

All the while, you can feel rapid thumping against the hand that now rests where his heart beats with life under your fingertips. You had no idea that a heart could move so fast, before, despite how your boyfriend makes your pulse race every time that you have the joy of being able to be with him and see him.

“Ah, Y/N,” he starts as his song plays once more,” I have known that for a long time, now. I could always tell from how you sound different when you talk to me, from how you always light up when I see you… whether it was through our many video chats or in person, you always get so happy when we’re together,” he happily admits.

Your eyes widen now, your own heart beating so loudly that you’re sure he can hear it in his closeness to you as it pounds through your eardrums while his song to you plays in the background while he continues,” Even Taehyung-ssi and Jimin-hyung say that they notice how you always become that way around me. That I am your euphoria, nae sarang.”

At his admission, your legs buckle, the strength that was there shifting to that of looseness and pliability. You feel strong arms move under your back and legs so that he’s holding you as if you’re like one of those girls from the k-drama’s you watch so often where the boy catches the girl and they have that moment of eye contact where there is an unspoken conversation.

You always wondered if that whole idea was a concept constructed purely for entertainment, but now, as you look up into his tender, kindred eyes, you know it’s real. You know that everything he’s told you is real. The sincerity almost looks as if it is pooling in those deep, earnest eyes.

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

“I love you, Jeon Jungkook.”

He leans down to touch his nose to yours, closing his eyes as he warmly replies,” I love you, Y/N. Have faith in me as I do in you that we will always have each other, alright?”

You nod under him, closing your eyes in turn as you settle into his comforting embrace, his words taking their place in your mind like the gentle heat of the sun on a spring day.

It is when his song ends that he pulls away, your eyes opening to seek the contact of him that leaves coldness in its wake. A cocky grin greets you as he looks down at you with newfound excitement in his eyes,” So, you wanted me to teach you the dance, right?”

Your head tilts to the side, wondering what he will do with the mischievousness that lies dormant in the corner of those eyes that look amusedly at you,” I can’t have my backup dancer not knowing the steps, right?”

At that, you gasp, the joy so profound in your tone as you animatedly question,” Really, Jungkook-ah? Truly?? I will be able to perform with you?”

The grin quickly shifts into something more playful as he lowers his lips to your ear,” Keep dancing like that and you’ll be with me a lot more, Y/N,” his chuckle echoes through the training room and you can’t help the butterflies that begin to flit through your chest at the sentiment.

When you find the strength to stand again and he places a chair in the front of the mirrors ahead of you only to straddle and sit atop of it, your cheeks burn as his song begins once more.

You let the music move you and before long, you’re dancing to the beat and rhythm of Jungkook, his eyes trained solely on you as you move yourself to his creation.

It was a good thing he’d already contacted his manager and sent in videos of multiple different choreographies of songs from the new BTS album that you’d sent him on the routine days that you had dutifully practiced to show your boyfriend how much the new songs meant to you since they were part of him.

He’d already aside a place for you to be beside him on his solo stage for the remainder of the tour. He couldn’t bear to be without you for a day longer.

His eyes narrow in an interested gaze as he watches you move as gracefully as Jimin but as precise as Hoseok, lips falling apart as he gets lost in the sight of you. 

Truthfully, he doesn’t know how he could have ever gotten so lucky.

[lilastronautt]

Tight Shorts and Spaces

Summary: You meet Jungkook in a bookstore, sort of. Apparently he’s seen you around quite a bit, and he’d like to see you more, if you would only spare him more than just a moment to say hi in passing. But when the two of you find yourselves trapped in the elevator, he finds himself growing bold.

Rating: M

Warnings: Thigh riding, stuck-in-the-elevator sex (sort of), neighbor!jk

Word Count: just over 3k

The first time you see him is in the cafe nestled in the corner of your favorite bookshop. He’s doing his best to keep quiet and actually study, but he can’t keep from giggling at the stupid shit his friends are doing.

It’s the sound of his stifled giggles that draw your attention. You’re walking up and down the aisles, perusing shelves for the book a friend of yours had recommended, when you hear it - soft and cute, the kind of laugh that makes you want to laugh along. Your eyes trail up to find the source of it and that’s when you see him, and that’s when a couple things click together in your head.

This man had a cute laugh.

This man was very cute.

The cute face made the cute laugh about ten times more effective, and vice versa.

You think about talking to him, going up and bluntly asking for his number, but you decide against it - and as soon as you do, he looks up and notices you looking at him, and he smiles softly, turning back to his books and his work. You turn on your heel, moderately embarrassed at being caught, but it works in your favor. There, at the opposite end of the aisle, is a shelf stocked with the book you’d been searching for.

The next time you see him is a little over a week later, while you’re picking up pizza from the place down the street from your apartment. He’s there with the same friends he’d been at the bookshop with, or at least you think they’re the same people - you hadn’t had much of a chance to look at them when you were too busy staring at the Boy.

But this time, he sees you first.

And apparently, he remembers you.

Because as you walk up to the counter he shouts, “Hey!” very loudly, causing both you and the poor teen at the counter to jump. You turn to look at him and see him practically leaping out of the booth he’s sitting in to jog up to you. You blink at him a few times, taken aback by his actions, and stare blankly when he offers his hand.

“I’m Jungkook.” He smiles at you and it really puts his cheekbones on display. And his mouth. And his eyes. When you don’t immediately respond, still staring, his eyes move from yours down to his outstretched hand and back again, as if indicating that he was still waiting for you to shake his hand. You break from your trance and take his hand, shaking it and introducing yourself. “So you like the pizza here too, huh? My friends and I always come here after practice.”

This piques your interest. “Practice? Band, or sports?”

Jungkook laughs, throwing his head back. The shitty fluorescent lighting somehow illuminates his features in an angelic way, his bangs shifting back. You decide then and there that his laugh is even cuter when he doesn’t have to stifle it. He sighs when he stops laughing, and you’re waiting for his answer - hoping it’ll give reason to why he was laughing so hard.

You look at him expectantly, eyebrows raised, and something clicks in his facial expression.

“Oh, do you not - I thought you recognized me the other day at the bookstore? Isn’t that why you were staring at me?” His face is earnest and you feel your cheeks heating up.

“I was not staring, I - I was looking for a book, and sometimes they have recommended titles on display in the cafe. That’s all it was.” You shift the pizza you were still holding in your arms, and his head tilts to the side.

“Oh, wow, well this is - um, my friends and I are in this neighborhood soccer club, and we practice in the park a few blocks from here, and I uh, I’ve seen you there a few times? Reading under that big tree near the west pavillion?” His voice shrinks, embarrassment clear on his cheeks, worried he’s being creepy.

Your head tilts now, considering. “Yeah, I guess I do go there pretty often. I’m sure I’ve seen you around too, I just kinda….drift into my own world when I’m reading. I haven’t like….totally blown you off, have I?”

Jungkook’s face flushes deeper and you can hear his friends snickering behind him. “I - I - no, I never really had the courage to go up to you until now…” He gives you a shy smile and you feel your heart pound in your chest.

“Oh!” Is all you can manage. “Um, well - that is, I mean -” Your eyes flash up to the clock on the wall, desperate for an escape from this too-pretty boy and his too-pretty smile. “Jeez, I’m sorry but I have to go, I’m having a friend over tonight, she’s probably waiting on me - I, I’ll see you around though, okay?” You wave goodbye and turn on your heel to rush out before he can say anything, shocked by your abrupt departure.

He turns to his friends who look just as perplexed, but it’s only for a few moments before the two of them start making kissy faces and pretend to kiss each other to mock him.

“You guys are the worst.” He sighs, sliding back into the booth, cheeks still hot, but he hides a small smile behind his hand.

-x-

You get back to your apartment quicker than normal, legs moving with a nervous speed. You don’t feel calm again until you’re through the doorway, taking a much-needed deep breath.

Your mind is reeling with the thought that this pretty boy - Jungkook, you remind yourself, his name is Jungkook - had seen you enough times to recognize you, and not only that but had been nervous to approach you. You sit on the couch with your pizza and turn on the TV, but you’re distracted constantly by wondering if you’d really never noticed him before. You even knew about the soccer practices in the park, so it was unlikely you hadn’t seen him. But no matter how hard you wracked your brain, his first appearance continued to be the bookstore.

You tried not to worry about it too much and end up getting too engrossed in the TV series you’re watching to dwell on him for long - why couldn’t the heroine just make good choices, dammit?

-x-

Once you’ve met Jungkook officially, you start to realize that you’re seeing him everywhere. At the park, where he’ll call your name and wave at you until someone launches a ball at him to regain his attention. At the pizza place, at the grocery store at the end of your block, at the library, and now. Here. In the elevator of your apartment building.

It’s been nearly two months since that day in the pizza shop, and you’ve managed to…not avoid, per se, because you had no reason for that, so much as scrape by with as little interaction as possible. Something about Jungkook made you so nervous, and if you were honest with yourself you knew exactly what is was - he was cute, hot, and he’d said that you made him nervous.

But here you were, standing in the elevator, minding your own business, scrolling through social media and mentally reviewing the things you needed to pick up from the store. One floor down from yours though, the doors opened, and you were pulled from your thoughts by a soft voice saying, “Hey! Funny seeing you here!”

You look up, eyes wide. “Oh, hi, Jungkook. Are you here visiting someone?”

He giggles. “No, I live here. Have for like, a few months now actually. It’s a lot closer to school.”

“Oh, you’re still in university?” You’re torn between seeming too interested or as if you couldn’t care less, but in reality you’ve yet to have a real conversation with him, and he seems the type to love talking - in a good way, of course.

“No, no, I teach PE at the elementary school down on Pine Street.” He laughs again and you flush despite yourself. It’s such a nice sound. “It’s nice to know I still look so young.” He teases, smirking at you.

You huff goodnaturedly - he can’t be more than 25, and here he is talking as though he’s an old man. “I’m sure chasing after children keeps you in great shape. Plus the soccer.”

Jungkook is about to say something when suddenly the elevator lurches to a stop and he’s thrown forward, catching himself just before he manages to crash into you - but only barely.

You can’t stop yourself from screaming, and your hands shoot out to stop his fall, clutching in the fabric of his shirt. You hear the sounds of his hands thudding against the wall on either side of your head - hear, because your eyes are squeezed shut.

But even when you open them, there’s only darkness.

“J-Jungkook?” You manage, skin feeling too tight and nerves buzzing.

“I’m here, I’m here, it’s okay.” His hands and body move away from the wall, patting his thighs until he finds his pocket, and pulls out his phone, switching on the flashlight. He turns it towards the ceiling to illuminate as much of the space as much as possible. “Are you alright?”

“I’m - I’m - okay. I think.” You close your eyes again and take a few deep breaths to steady yourself. “I’m just - I’m really glad you’re here.” Realizing your words could be taken in a manner other than what you’d meant, your eyes fly open. “I - I just mean that -”

He laughs and reaches for your shoulder, hand brushing up and down your arm in a soothing motion. “No, it’s okay, I get it. I wouldn’t want to be here by myself either.”

You let out a sigh. “Were they supposed to be running maintenance or anything? We’ve never had an issue like this, and I’ve been here for almost a year.”

Jungkook shakes his head in the dim light. “Not that I know of. I’m gonna try calling the super.” He turns his phone and the light in the small space shifts, but it does illuminate the shorts he’s wearing that had somehow escaped your notice. They’re….not particularly short, but they’re tight on his thighs, and you can’t help but stare, zoning out as his voice plays in the background of your thoughts.

“I hate to interrupt -”

You can feel your face flushing. Heat is blooming in your cheeks and you can only pray he doesn’t see it in the low light. Not that it matters, now that he’s caught you staring openly at his thighs. You reluctantly pull your eyes up to his face, biting your lip. You can see that he’s smirking, so you at least know he’s not mad. Unless he smirks when he’s mad. Fuck. “Uh, what - what did the super say?”

“He’s gotten a few calls about it, but apparently the whole city had a power surge, or something like that, but he knows that the mechanics for our building are on their way. The power should be back on -” The lights overhead flicker and click back on, and you heave a sigh of relief. “Soon.” Jungkook finishes, his shoulders sagging in his own relief.

But it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s inching closer to you, smirk back in place and a glint of something in his eyes.

“You know…” He says, eyes flashing down to your lips, then lower, before back up to your eyes. His tongue peeks out, running quickly over his own lips, and you find yourself holding your breath. “I was starting to wonder if I wasn’t your type. You always find some excuse not to talk to me.”

“It’s - you - I mean -”

“Oh, I get it.” He smiles. “I make you nervous!” He giggles. “That’s so cute.” His body is nearly flush against yours, the bar from the elevator wall digging into your back. “You make me nervous too, if it helps. You’re so pretty, and then I made an idiot of myself at the pizza place, I thought maybe -”

“It was cute.” You whisper, eyes flashing between his and the floor. “You didn’t make an idiot of yourself. It was charming.”

“Oh, that’s so good to hear.” His face is merely a breath away from yours, angled down so he would barely need to move if he wanted to kiss you.

Which you want him to. You want him to kiss you. Badly.

Your heart is racing, pounding an uneven beat into your chest, and you barely hear him when he whispers, “Can I kiss you?” But you do hear him, and you whisper back an almost-whining, “Please.”

He groans from the back of his throat as he leans the rest of the way forward, one hand wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you close as his lips find yours. It’s soft at first, hesitant, but when you follow his movements things get heated quickly - tongues and teeth making appearances, soft gasps and groans from both of you as his hands make their way down to your waist, fingers clutching at your shirt. You feel him shift again, and suddenly one of his thighs is being pushed between your legs.

“I don’t know how long it’s gonna be before someone comes, but if it’s okay with you, I really wanna make you cum….” He presses his thigh right against your clothed pussy, which has been slowly but surely getting wetter the longer his mouth was in contact with yours. “Please.”

You nod your head viciously, desperate for nothing else in that moment but for him to do just that, to make you cum there in that broken elevator with nothing but his thigh pressed against you and his mouth on yours.

With your permission secured, his hands move from your waist to your hips and he starts to move them back and forth on his thigh, groaning into your mouth as he does so. “Good?” He breathes, “Does it feel good, sweetheart?”

You whimper and nod, head thrown back as he pushes his thigh up against your pussy as he pulls your hips down and forward, giving you even more friction than before. You’re a panting mess within minutes, and Jungkook isn’t faring any better.

“Can - can we sit down?” You ask between breaths, “Wanna ride you.”

Jungkook groans like a man near death and nods, switching your positions so he’s nestled against the wall as he sits, pulling you down with him. “Go ahead, baby, wanna watch you cum.” His leg is laid out as much as he can while simultaneously having his foot flat on the floor.

Slowly you start to grind against him, and the friction is so good, you’re getting closer with every passing second, with every sweet word Jungkook whispers to you as his hands begin to roam, grabbing at your chest and squeezing with somehow the perfect amount of pressure. You put your hands on his shoulders to stabilize yourself as best as possible, and that’s when he does it.

Beneath you, Jungkook starts bouncing his leg, nothing harsh, but enough to kick the heat up a few notches, and you can’t hold back the moans bubbling from your chest. “So good, Jungkook, I’m so close, please, fuck, please -”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you there, sweetheart, I promise - fuck, you’re so hot.” One of his hands pulls you back down to kiss him, sucking and biting at your lips while he continues to bounce his leg.

You can feel that coil inside you growing tighter and tighter, hotter and hotter as you grind against him. You whimper against his mouth, whining and panting and grinding your hips faster as you chase your release. “M’gonna - m’gonna, Jungkook, please -”

Jungkook’s leg starts bouncing faster and it creates the perfect sensation to send you over the edge, fingers digging into his shoulders to keep yourself balanced as your legs begin to shake, squeezing tight around his thigh in an attempt to close them. He talks you through it, whispering sweet praises into your ear as his hands stroke your sides. He kisses you gently, smiling against your lips.

“Just as pretty as I thought.”

Dazed, you pull away from him, head tilted in confusion.

“You. You look just as pretty when you cum as I thought you would.” He smirks and pulls you in to kiss again.

“Um,” You pull back again, “thank you.” You say softly, lip bitten between your teeth. “Do - do you want me to -?”

He shakes his head. “I’m good, sweetheart. Good and in need of a new pair of shorts.” He smirks up at you as you blush, a little bit pleased with yourself, and then the elevator lurches to life. You topple back and off of him, grabbing the hand bar to pull yourself up on shaky legs as the elevator slowly makes its way to the ground floor, Jungkook doing the same.

You’re greeted by two mechanics and your super when the doors open. Your super lets out an over exaggerated sigh of relief at the sight of you two, slightly dishevelled but otherwise fine.

“I’m so glad you’re both alright.” He mocks wiping off his forehead and turns back to the mechanics, instructing them to find him in his office once they finished.

You and Jungkook make your way out onto the street, stopping outside the building to look at each other, suddenly shy.

“I - I’d really like to take you out sometime, if that’s okay. I mean, you don’t have to just ‘cause we, well, yknow, but I’d really like to take you out on a real date.”

You smile at him. “Are you trying to say our little rendezvous was a date?”

His eyes go wide and he shakes his head. “No! No, not at all, I was just -”

You laugh and take his hand, squeezing it. “I’d like that a lot, Jungkook.”

-x-

Author’s Note: wow,,,,hi yall, here’s my first BTS smut, dedicated to the loml @jungkooksxo, who I probably owe a total of ten fics at this point but she’s kind enough not to count.

[armory-rasa]

Long tutorial time: How to Take Product Photos That Don’t Suck

If you’re trying to sell your handcrafted work online, then your photos matter so much -- I daresay almost more than the work itself.

“Upcycled” items that are literal trash (but attractively photographed!) can sucker people into paying actual money for them. And on the flip side, the best-quality leatherwork in the world is going to look dubious af when the product shots were obviously taken in someone’s kitchen, lit by fluorescent lights and a camera flash.

You will get more sales and you will be able to charge more for your work if you have professional-looking product photos -- not fair, maybe, but true. So today I am going to show you how to create decent-looking stock photos, ie, a picture of just the thing itself on a backdrop.

(The cat is unrelated -- clickbait, really.)

I’ll admit upfront that I am very, very far from being a photography expert, and I'm sure an expert could do better than me, but I can't afford an expert and probably neither can you. And this isn’t about the mechanics anyway, it’s about the setup, and just making these small changes can seriously up your game.

Step one: camera

Unless you've already got a good camera, your best bet is going to be a smartphone -- and make no mistake, smartphones are a close second, not a distant one. Modern smartphones are phenomenal, they’re far better than even slightly-dated digital cameras. They can't get you the soft-focus background that an actual, professional camera can (the lens simply isn't long enough), but you can approximate that effect with photoshop if you want to, and the set-up I'm demonstrating here doesn't need a fuzzed background anyway.

The only critical feature is that your camera can take sharp, in-focus pictures.

If you don't have a good smartphone, find a friend who does and beg/wheedle/blackmail/bully them into letting you use it for a bit.

Honestly, I've got a good camera, and half the time I still wind up using my phone because I’m too lazy to bust it out.

Step two: backdrop

There are a lot of artistic things you can do if you're taking pictures of a product in situ -- action shots, still lifes, pictures of it worn by models -- and all that will help your customers visualize themselves using the item, but it's also vital to have pictures of JUST the thing, pictures that cleanly and clearly show exactly what the customer is going to be receiving in exchange for the money they throw at you -- aka stock photos.

And for stock photos, you don't want to get creative with your background. In fact, if you can use the same background for many/most of your images, it will contribute to an attractive, coherent look for your shop. That means finding a neutral-toned backdrop that will work with any color item you put on top of it -- white, black, grey, beige, basically.

White can mean a lightbox...

(And there are a million tutorials online for how to rig up your own DIY lightbox)

...or another popular alternative is a white table pushed up against a white wall; the seam between the two is visible, but discreet enough that the eye glides right over it.

Black, you can do with cleverdick manipulation of the settings on an expensive camera, or you can find a non-reflective black backdrop -- which is easier said than done. Fine, dense, matte black velvet (think theatre curtains) is the go-to black backdrop, just make sure you run a lint roller over it before taking pics.

Any other color is going to depend on the backdrop you choose -- I personally have had excellent luck with some warm-grey velvet (?) yardage that I picked up for pennies at a goodwill a million years ago. (I’m not sure what it is -- it has the pile of velvet, but shorter?) I didn’t buy it for that purpose, but it’s since proven to be an incredibly versatile backdrop, and I’ve taken to using it for everything:

etc.

And even if you’re not stumbling onto a super-good-deal at goodwill, a yard or two of your chosen fabric will generally do you fine.

What I don’t recommend is:

- shiny fabric (anything shiny is overall more difficult to photograph -- and shiny spots will draw attention to themselves, rather than your product)

- vivid colors (limits what color items you can display on it; will often clash if the item is close-but-not-quite-the-same color (and what looks fine to your eye may not look fine on film); can distract from the item you’re showcasing)

- patterns (again, distracts from the centerpiece; draws attention to the background; moreover, is hell to clone-brush)

Here is all three of them being the perfect storm of not-a-good-stock-photo:

Which is not to say you can’t do something artistic with it...

...but it’s not very versatile, and it’s not exactly “stock photo” anymore.

One of the reasons I really really like velvet for a backdrop is that there’s nothing in the world easier to clone brush. Which happens, for instance, if I get my roll of photos transferred to the computer and realize there’s some lint I neglected to brush off, or if I was too lazy to iron my backdrop so it’s got wrinkles/creases in it, or if the angle I had to take the photograph from clipped the edge of the backdrop--

--it is super fuckin’ easy to clone all that out. (It also takes the burn tool really well, to darken the edges and point the viewer’s attention toward the middle of the picture, see above.)

Other backdrops that can work are fur (or faux fur):

The great outdoors: mulch, leaves, dirt, sand, etc--

(That was taken at my shitty old apartment complex, so I had to carefully remove the cigarette butts from the shot first. -_-)

(I admit I’ve mostly stopped using these kind of outdoor backdrops -- they’re harder to pull off than wood/concrete/fabric -- but in the hands of someone with an eye for composition, they can definitely be used to good effect, so I’m including them here anyway. You just want to make sure that the background isn’t distracting from the item, which you can sometimes do in post by darkening/fuzzing the background relative to the focal object.)

Concrete:

And wood:

In short, there are many things that are (1) unobtrusive and (2) neutral-colored that will make excellent backdrops.

Professional photography backdrops (essentially, the velvet I have) are close to true neutral, not affecting the “feel” of the picture at all, and there are tons of tutorials online to make your own DIY photography backdrops.

Conversely, you can also use a specific backdrop to help create the mood you want to convey for the piece -- concrete for gritty and urban; fur to evoke a rich and sumptuous feeling (or a primitive one, depending on what you’re selling); wood or rough-spun cloth for something rustic; dirt and leaves to take it back to nature.

I’m not going to say the sky’s the limit, because we’re talking stock photos not ARRRRT!!, you gotta rein it in a bit, but you do have a lot of options -- anything that’s not going to clash with the mood or distract from your product.

Step three: lighting

USE THE FUCKING SUN.

Don’t ever, ever use a flash for product photography, seriously, are you some kind of SAVAGE?

Cardinal sin right there; go straight to hell, do not pass go, etc. Lighting like that, your product looks like it’s drunk at a frat party.

Moreover, unless you are a wildly over-funded professional, and possibly not even then, there is no light source superior to the sun. Sure, if you finish your project at midnight and can’t wait to share it, take some snapshots in your shitty studio light and send them to your friends--

--but do not make that your product listing photo. You can do so much better.

(And notice the color difference too -- natural light tends to be much better at capturing color that is true-to-life. The second picture is far more accurate to the actual item.)

*

That said, direct sunlight is a HELL NO go. The shadows it casts are way too stark, and details can get lost because the camera has trouble navigating the gap between the super-dark parts of the picture and the super-bright parts.

And it turned out that I’d never bothered to keep any of the photos I took in direct sunlight (because they sucked), so for the purposes of this tutorial, I had to take a couple of my WIPs outside and go make some.

Direct sunlight:

The glare and the obvious shadows make these photos look strikingly amateurish. It draws attention to the background, highlights the fact that the bracers are just sitting in some lame dead grass. These photos look like someone finished making the bracer, carried it ten feet out into their backyard, and snapped a picture.

Which, yeah, is what we’re doing, but it doesn’t have to look it.

By contrast, indirect sunlight, when I move it four feet over into the shade of the house:

Right away, the diffused light (sort of soft-focus?) is more in line with what you see in professional photos. They still need editing before they’d be ready to roll out -- fiddling with contrast/saturation/white balance; clone-brushing out some of the distracting elements in the background; darker shading around the frame to center attention on the product -- but they have the potential to be decent photos now, instead of being critically flawed from the get-go.

When you’re using sunlight as your source, you’re usually going to be setting up either outside in the shade, or inside next to a window.

The context for some of these shots can also be hilariously un-sexy when you zoom out:

*

Sunlight tends to be much better at retaining the textural details of your work too, because more light means your camera can take a much quicker shot (low light = camera compensates by leaving the lens open longer to collect more light = blur).

If you want to really capture the fine texture of an item, natural light coming from one side (like through a window) is perfect, because of the shadows it casts:

On that note: if you’re trying to use a window as your light source, you may have trouble with the far side of the object being completely lost in darkness:

Which can be artistic, but doesn’t make for a great stock photo.

The solution is not to use another light source, but to use a reflector -- my go-to is white foam-core posterboard:

Which can fill in the shadows that are obscuring parts of your work:

Mirrors or foil can work for this too, but they tend to cast stark/uneven light, whereas the white board diffuses it, and diffusion is pretty much always what you want.

*

On the subject of diffusion: overcast days are your BEST FRIEND. They basically turn the whole sky into a lightbox for you. You get soft, beautiful light from all directions, muted enough to reduce glare, but there’s still more than enough light to keep your camera happy and your details sharp. 

(Man I wish there were more clouds where I lived.)

Here’s an interesting little contrast -- this one was taken on a sunny day, but in the shadow of my house, using a white reflector to move light around:

And then the very next day we had rain, and I was like, hell yeah, and took it outside for more pics:

Obviously both have had the contrast increased to bring out the details, but the mood difference between the two is 100% the weather.

*

And that is FAR from everything there is to say on the subject of photography lighting, but for the purposes of amateur product photography, those are the important bits.

TL;DR:

- Natural light

- Diffused light

*

Step 4: post-production

This is also not something I’m an expert in, I’ve learned just enough to get by and called it good enough. (It’s why I lean on overcast days whenever I can, because it eliminates a lot of the lighting problems that I don’t know how to fix in post.)

But here are some of the things that you will find yourself needing to know, and should be looking up how-to’s on for your graphics editor of choice:

White balance/saturation

Light comes in different colors, but the human eye automatically compensates for it, so often times something looks good to your eyes, but then comes out way funky on film.

Indoor lighting tends to be yellow-hued, because that’s what feels warm and comfortable to humans, but it looks nasty in photographs:

Natural light tends to be white (which is why it gives you more accurate colors), getting more blueish as it heads toward evening:

You can compensate for both by adjusting the white balance, in which the program figures out what white is supposed to look like, and then calibrates all the other colors in the picture accordingly.

Brightness/contrast

Is it bright enough to see the details? Is the contrast high enough to make the details POP, instead of blending together into a muddle?

You can apply brightness/contrast adjustments to the full image, and then (if necessary) go in by hand with the burn/dodge tool (brightness up/brightness down) and add extra highlights.

(Don’t go overboard on this though -- this isn't art, this is a product photo, and if you take it too far from the real object, you are lying in your advertising.)

Blur/sharpen

Are the focal points sharp? Sharp areas of an image are what draws the eye, so if your photos are blurry, they’re no good and there’s no fixing them -- grab your camera and go take some more.

Is your background less sharp than the foreground? A too-sharp background will distract from the central point, so sometimes you can put a very subtle blur on it to trick the eye into ignoring it. (Dropping the brightness and the contrast are also both ways to make the background less eye-catching.)

Clone brush

Basically a mini copy-paste tool, you grab parts of the image and copy it onto other parts. This is good for tidying up your background -- coloring in corners that your backdrop didn’t cover, or removing distracting irregularities.

Again, this is one to be used sparingly, because this is product photography, it needs to be accurate, not idealized. You don’t get to scrub off the imperfections and make it look like you’re better at [whatever] than you are.

The only time I consider it acceptable to use the clone brush tool on the actual product is for editing out flaws in the leather itself. It’s a stock photo; customers are not going to be getting the exact item shown in the photo. I’ll be making a new one for them, one that’s not going to have those exact flaws. (It’ll have excitingly new and different flaws! Such is the nature of organic materials.)

Edge gradients

A subtle shadow around the edge of your picture brings the whole thing together, makes the background recede a bit, and directs the eye toward the centerpiece. Too heavy a hand with this will still look nice, but more staged; it alerts the viewer that you’ve been photoshopping and kills the “I woke up like this~” illusion.

Relatively natural:

Dramatic!

Watermarking

You want people to be able to find their way back to you when your work inevitably gets cross-posted without the source (fuck you in the face, pinterest), so it’s not enough to put your initials or abstract logo or illegible signature on it, you need your google-able name or company name.

At the same time, people have been known to crop out (or clone-brush out) watermarks that are big and tacky, so it’s in your best interests to make your watermark tasteful and inoffensive. (Also: ugly watermarks just bring down your whole image, seriously.)

Some of the pictures above are old enough that they’re sporting my older & less professional-looking watermarks, but what I use at the moment is this:

(But, y’know, smaller.)

Best way to do watermarks is usually to create another layer over your image and blend the two. For dark logo/light background, the settings for the new layer are 1) blend mode: multiply, 2) opacity: 85% (adjust as needed). For light logo/dark background, the blend mode is probably going to be “soft light.” And then just paste your logo in the corner of the new layer -- the blend mode means your logo doesn’t have to be transparent, the program just ignores the parts that are lighter/darker than the background.

*

And that, I believe, is the end. o_O I had no idea I had so many opinions on the subject of product photography.

Again -- I’m not a pro. I don’t know how to use 99% of my camera settings or 80% of my graphics program. (For fuck’s sake, my go-to graphics editor is the bootleg version of Paintshop Pro that I acquired in 1997.) This post represents the sum total of my knowledge on the subject.

But it just goes to show that you can do a lot with only a little, and that your composition and sense of aesthetics are far more important than what gear you’ve got.

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: Would love to see a modern Fergus introducing Marsali to his parents for the first time

Read other fics in this Fergus/Marsali Modern AU here.

Fersali: Milk and Coffee 

by @ianmuyrray

“Fuck!” Marsali cursed loudly. She slammed on her brakes, narrowly avoiding rear-ending the vehicle in front of her. Surprised as her car jerked to a stop, she squeezed the paper mug of her latte, popping off the lid and sending its hot contents flying. She swore again, hissing at the burning sensation spreading over her leg and sped away, glaring at how the hot drink had ruined her nice pair of jeans.

She had been casually cruising along, no cars around for miles. Until this asshole - she wanted to yell after whoever it was - decided to screech to a halt and make a last-minute turn.

She’d already been in a hurry - now she was definitely going to be late. Tonight she was meeting Fergus’ parents, and she was desperate to make a good impression, so she had worn her nicest pair of jeans. But today had been exceptionally bad - she had woken late for work, her hair wouldn’t stay flat, she had to miss her lunchtime workout because a meeting ran over - and now, now, she thought, grimacing, the only clean trousers she had were the gym clothes she had hastily tossed in her car this morning. Gym clothes to meet the parents. Great.

Cursing, she pulled into the gas station at the next corner.

The gas station was nestled in a rural bend in the highlands, and she wasn’t far from Fergus’ childhood home. The building was a little run down, covered with chipped white paint and displaying a sun-faded sign, but it was surprisingly busy despite its remote location. It must be the only place around for miles.

She began to pull into a spot just as a middle-aged man was getting out of a truck; she braked quickly to avoid hitting him and waved apologetically that he should go first. Maybe she had been pulling into the spot kind of quickly. Unshaken, he nodded at her and waved back, zipping up his green jacket as he walked inside.

Once parked, she pulled out her phone, shooting off a quick text to Fergus.

Spilled coffee all over myself and have to change 🙄Will be late to dinner. Sorry…

❤️ce n’est pas un problème ❤️we will wait for you

The bell jingled as the door closed behind her, and she was greeted by brown tile floors and cluttered retail shelves lit by fluorescent lighting. She stalked gingerly to the bathroom, her gym bag over her shoulder.

She had to make a good impression. Fergus loved his parents more than anything in the world, and Marsali wanted to be worthy of the Frasers’ approval.

Adopted at the age of five, Fergus had come into the Fraser family largely by accident. After a couple years in France and difficulty conceiving, his parents had gone to an adoption agency. They never said they had intended to adopt an infant - but one night, in the dark, their fingers intertwined, Fergus shared his anxieties about it with Marsali. He had felt the insecurity most as a young boy, but it continued to haunt him as an adult; it haunted him especially when he unfairly compared himself to his sister, Brianna, who was their biological child. He wondered, was he enough, adopted as a child instead of as a baby? Adopted, when they ended up pregnant a few years later anyway? Had they settled for him?

But from what he told her of his parents, she knew the regret Fergus feared they felt was born of his own anxiety. He shared little of his personal life with his family, and she had gleaned it was because he didn’t want them to think him a failure. Although Fergus might be a little bit of a mess, Marsali thought with a loving smile, he had grown up within a supportive, stable home, and nothing he could do would shake the Frasers’ support of their eldest son. The Frasers loved Fergus unconditionally, unquestionably, more fiercely than Marsali thought even her own mother loved her. She envied Fergus, and for her own selfish reasons, she longed to be liked by them.  

His Da - that was the person she longed to impress the most. Fergus spoke of Mr. Fraser with a tone nearing worship, sharing with Marsali that all he wanted in the world was to be even half the man Jamie Fraser was. He loved and respected his father more than anything in the world.

Hastily, she changed out of her jeans, cursing herself for having screwed up so badly. She dabbed at her damp thighs with paper towel, trying to wipe away the stickiness of sugar left by the latte.

Her sweater had miraculously avoided the coffee catastrophe. And it didn’t look so bad over the athletic wear, she thought, looking in the mirror. With the boots, the ensemble might seem planned. But still. Her ruined jeans! She wriggled awkwardly in the gym wear, plucking here, straightening there, twisting back and forth in the mirror, hoping that she’d feel less ridiculous with each touch or glance. Nope. She began to feel worse.

She sent a photo of herself in the mirror to Fergus, along with a quick text.

Does this make me look ridiculous? My jeans were ruined.

She counted under her breath as she waited for Fergus’ reply.

🔥🔥🔥 hurry up and get over here

She laughed, beginning to type something back when another message popped up:

Can you grab milk? Da isn’t back yet and left his phone behind.

“Oh.”

She sent back: I’m going to be sooooo late

Mam is keeping dinner warm and I wont let Bree eat til you arrive. miss you see you soon 😘

She snorted and tucked her phone into her waistband, straightening her sweater over it. Fergus had said dinner would be casual, that she shouldn’t worry too much about what she wore. Athletic wear was certainly casual, wasn’t it? She sighed at her bad luck and exited the bathroom.

Shit, Fergus hadn’t said what kind of milk they need, she realized as she paused at the refrigerator. Skim? Whole? 2%? A gallon? Half gallon? She frowned, quickly scanning the options through the glass doors, trying to decide. Nervous about selecting the wrong kind, nervous about her terrible outfit and late arrival, she grabbed her phone again to call Fergus when she heard a voice.

“Pardon.”

It was the man she had nearly run over in the parking lot, now with a small basket of groceries on his arm. She let out an involuntary squeak and let him by. He was broad shouldered, red-haired, blue-eyed, and very tall; standing next to him made Marsali feel miniature. He seemed so large, Marsali thought, no wonder her car hadn’t spooked him.  

He paused and eyed her a moment, taking in the gym bag slung across her shoulder. The latte-soaked jeans over her arm. The hurried look about her. The phone in her hand lit to Fergus’ contact page.

“Ye look like ye’ve had a hell of a day, lass.” He grinned.

“Aye,” Marsali said, confused by his attention, “it’s been a day.” She smiled awkwardly until he walked over to the cashier, then she muttered to the milk, “Not that it’s any of yer business.”

In line, she glanced at her watch and sighed. She was late, she was so, so, late. Looking over the man from before, she figured that since he had seemed nice earlier, maybe he would let her cut him in line. She only had one milk jug to purchase, after all, and he had a basketful.

“Um, sir? Sorry,” she spoke to his back.

He turned and raised his eyebrows at her, expectantly.

“Would ye mind if I went ahead of ye? I - I have an important dinner to get to, ye ken, and I’m already late, and, as ye so kindly pointed out, I’ve had a terrible day,” she rambled, “I have to make a good impression, it’s my boyfriend’s parents, ye see, and I need them to like me--”

With an amused look on his face, the man moved out of the way, offering her his place in line. “Aye, lass, say no more. Go on ahead.”

Back in her car, winding through the countryside, she blew out a breath. She had only seen her reflection once since she changed, her nice sweater paired with athletic wear, and she felt herself sink into her seat. It had been so important to her that she made a good first impression; she had spent a week trying to figure out what outfit would make her more impressive. But none of it mattered. She screwed up. Now she looked ridiculous.

When she thought of her own parents, her selfish mother and her absent father, she thought of a childhood lost. She thought of herself as incomplete, somehow tainted by a family that never was a family. And so, she had decided, when she walked up to that house, when she met Jamie and Claire for the first time, she wanted perfection. She wanted to be worthy. Not just for Fergus, but for herself. And when she looked over at her stained jeans, piled upon the passenger seat, she felt unworthy.

Her heart skipped a beat as she parked outside the expansive brick home. A three-story manor of harled white stone, its entry marked by double doors, its windows outlined with natural grey stone; it was topped with a high slate roof and multiple chimneys. Land sloped gracefully around it, a mesh of trees in the distance. To the side of the house was a large, abundant garden and hen coop. Just beyond she could see a round tower, crumbling in its age, its arrow slits apparent.

Marsali went to walk up to the front door but froze when she heard a man’s voice.

He had just parked, was out of his car. “I figured ye’d beat me here after taking off like that.”

Marsali turned and saw him. The man from the store. Her eyes went wide.

“Oh,” she stammered, trying not to give away her embarrassment, “H-Hi …Mr. Fraser?”

He shook his head with a laugh. “Call me Jamie. We’re excited to have ye here, Marsali,” he said warmly, “Fergus has told us a lot about ye.”

“All good things, I hope?” She clutched the bag with the milk as he came towards her.

Jamie laughed again and shifted the groceries out of his hand to extend it to her in welcome. “He willna shut up about ye since he told us about ye,” he teased.

Marsali smiled awkwardly. “Well, that’s good, I suppose. I’m very sorry about my appearance.” She grimaced.

“Dinna fash, all that matters is ye made it. Now let’s head in, get that dinner warmed up.” He nudged her with his elbow and walked towards the door.

Marsali grinned, feeling a little more relaxed, more at home. “That would be great.”

[mydearestreaderfanfics]

Viral (Pidge x Reader) 2/4 YouTube AU

Warnings: None, I think

Word Count: 2,251

Prompt/Request: None

Summary: Continuation of Livestream Mishaps. After a messy meeting, Pidge and the reader become friends. After a visit from Lance, the reader realizes that their feelings may be more than platonic. Misunderstandings and hilarity ensue.

Author: Mod Alex

Chpt. 1

As promised you led Pidge to a quaint little coffee shop you frequented. The cafe wasn’t particularly well-known and had bookshelves lining several walls on both of the floors. Since the last time you’d been there, they seem to have added a few more plush antique armchairs and couches, all adorned with eclectic throw pillows. You turned to an awestruck Pidge with a smug grin. “You like?” “How have I never been here?” You laughed softly. “Not many people know about this place since it doesn’t look like much from the street. That’s part of the reason I like it so much.” While you loved your fans, sometimes you just wanted to go somewhere where there wasn’t many people and the people who did go there had no idea who you were. “I get what you mean.” “Besides that, they’ve got great coffee. What were you wanting?” She glanced up at the board displaying the menu. “Vienna roast?” Surprise spread across your features, you hadn’t taken her for a dark roast drinker. That surprise was quickly replaced with a smile, somehow it was endearing. “Great!” “Thanks, I’ll go get us a table.” “Sounds good!” When you got to the register, you order both your drinks along with a slice of tiramisu to share with Pidge. You hoped she liked it. “Your total is $8.82. By the way, you and your girlfriend look absolutely adorable together.” You handed the barista your credit card, blushing brightly. “She isn’t- I mean we aren't-” “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I just figured.” “Don’t worry about it.” You smiled sheepishly, glancing back to see where Pidge had sat. Did you two really make a cute couple? Your fans and now the barista seemed to think so. No. You shouldn’t even be thinking that you had just met her after all. “Name?” For a second you were wondering why the barista wanted to know Pidge’s name, then you realized, with a fair deal of embarrassment, that she was asking for your name for the order. “(Y/N).” “Thanks! We’ll call your name so you can pick up your order.”

You walked back to the table, strategically balancing both coffees and the tiramisu on your arms. Taking her coffee, Pidge offered her thanks. “I wasn’t sure if you'd eaten or not. Either way, they have really good tiramisu; I thought you might want to split it?” She nods. “Sure that sounds good.” You make idle chat over coffee, swapping editing tips and talking about how you started making videos and what you did besides videos. Eventually, the conversation shifted to your personal lives. “Yeah, Lance and I are actually friends, we met back in high school. A lot of people think we’ve dated, but he just came from a really affectionate household, besides he’s like my brother.” You laugh, remembering the weekends spent with Lance’s large family. “That’s the same way it is with Hunk and me. It’s crazy to think our friends have been friends and never bothered to introduce us.” “I know right? Although I won’t lie, it does feel like I’ve known you forever.” “I was thinking the same thing actually.” A baby grandfather clock rang from within the cafe interrupting your conversation. “Is it already that late?! I am so sorry, I have to go.” “Oh, yeah. I’m sorry too, I must’ve lost track of time. Let me walk you to your car?” “Scooter actually, but sure.”

When you got home that night, you crawled into bed, the events of the day going through your mind like a slideshow. Had the most dramatic series of events really taken place within the past 48 hours? It felt hard to believe. You felt restless and giddy. Despite how terrible this morning had been, you were happy to have met Pidge. Curiosity and restlessness spurred you to grab your phone and see what exactly the content of PidgeonPlays was. The large 6:00 flashed in fluorescent blue as your alarm went off. You barely heard it over your uncontained laugh. Oh no. You really hadn’t meant to binge watch. You tried to rationalize it. Her videos were lengthy and you obviously had to finish the series once you started it. You couldn’t just watch as she began playing Papo & Yo and not watch to see the conclusion. She was witty, clever, and had a knack for incorporating dry humor into her videos. You couldn’t wait to see her newest upload. The very one that she had left your coffee date- er coffee hangout for. You sighed, you couldn’t go back to sleep now, you had promised you’d help Lance with a video today. Might as well get ready. You put on a pot of coffee before hopping in the shower with hopes of it waking you up a little. The no sleep was really starting to creep in. By the time you were out of the shower, dressed, and on your second cup of coffee, the doorbell rang. And rang. And rang. Only one ridiculous friend of yours was known to do this. Lance. “It’s open!” Lance strode into your kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I figured you were sleeping still.” “Hey! That happened one time and it was only because you had me go to a con with you and then an after-party afterward. It’s your fault if you think about it.” You stuck your tongue out childishly making Lance laugh. “Fine, I guess not all of us are blessed with the grace to be an early riser like me.” You nearly spit out your coffee from laughing. “Grace? You? Sure Lancy-pants. Whatever you gotta tell yourself.” He threw a piece of his toast (stolen from your pantry might you add) at you before pulling your laptop up. He clicked open the internet, your laptop directing him to YouTube: your homepage. “Oh-ho-ho. What do we have here?” “What are you going on about?” “Maybe the fans knew more than you wanted to let on.” “Lance, seriously, stop being cryptic, what are you talking about?” He turned the computer so the screen was facing you. Much to your embarrassment, PidgeonPlays filled up more than half of your recommended videos. “It’s not like that, it’s just um. Well, you see, she um, I mean we- She’s just a really good youtuber and since we met I just wanted to see what her channel was about. Hah, yeah.” Lance gave you an ‘I-don't-believe-you’ look. “You wouldn’t have this recommends if you were just checking her channel out.” He did finger quotations for emphasis. You went red with chagrin. “She’s funny, okay? We just met anyway.” He laughed again, though, he thankfully decided to drop the topic in favor of starting to record.

“Okay, so you have to play the catty instructor. She was super mean, so do your best Lotor impression.” “You got it, boss.” You flipped your hair and did your best sneer making Lance burst into a fit of giggles. “Perfect! Just like that.” Two hours later, you had finally filmed all the material needed for Lance’s ‘How I Became an Aerial Silk Performer’ skit video. There was plenty of editing to be done still, and you figured he would likely post the bloopers in a separate video in a few days. “Alright, so now you can get out of my house right?” You both knew you were joking. “I thought you enjoyed having me over, I’m hurt, (Y/N).” “Oh shush, I guess you can stay.” Your phone pinged. It was a text from an unknown number. Hesitantly you opened up the message.

Unknown Number Hey, this is Pidge. I got your number from Lance. I hear you watched my videos. [emoji of Pidge laughing smugly]

You What? Nope, never seen your videos before. Never. Not one

Pidge If you say so. [emoji of Pidge winking]

That’s it, Lance was a deadman. “Lance! You told Pidge I binged her videos?!” The guilty party lifted his hands in surrender. “She thought it was sweet. Here look.” He passed his phone to you. The messages in question were all there, as he had said.

Lance hey! #5

Pidge What do you want Lance?

Lance you know (y/n), right? she likes your videos she says it’s for research but i don’t buy it

Pidge Really?

Lance have i ever lied to you before?

Pidge Yes. I just messaged her. You were telling the truth?

Lance i told you [exaggerated frown emoji]

Pidge That’s kind of sweet. Did they like the videos?

Lance [smug emoji x3]

Pidge Nevermind!

You handed the phone back to Lance, a slight blush dusting over your features. “You suck.” “Aww, you’re blushing.” “Shush or I’ll tell Allura that you’re basically in love with her.” “You wouldn’t dare.” You gave him a pointed look and he frowned. “Fine. Blackmailing is not a good look on you just so you know.” You shrugged. “Just giving you a taste of your own medicine.” “If you two do get together, I will be expecting a thank you.” “I said shush!” Your blush had worsened considerably.

A week had gone by since then and while you still didn’t appreciate Lance interfering like that, you were thankful to have Pidge’s number. You two had been talking every day since then. Mostly about nothing too particularly important.

Pidge Hey!

You Oh hey

Pidge I have some bad news

You Oh no! What happened? Are you okay?

Pidge Just take a look for yourself [link to tumblr page]

Worried, you clicked on the link. At first, you felt relieved, it wasn’t a picture of Pidge’s leg in a cast or any other horrible scenario your brain had conjured up. Instead, it was a picture of you and Pidge at the coffee shop from the other day. You weren’t sure why the image had distressed Pidge until you saw the caption. ‘Looks like PidgeonPlays and OneUpGames are closer than they want us to think ;)’ Oh no, indeed. Why couldn’t you just live in peace? Clicking back to your messages, you typed a hasty response.

You Oh no

Pidge I know! They just don’t quit, do they?

You I’m sorry This is all my fault

Pidge No. You didn't’ set this up. I just don’t know what to do.

You I don’t know

Pidge’s text bubble popped up and went away a handful of times, effectively putting you on the brink of an anxiety attack. Finally, her message popped up.

Pidge What if we did a collab?

You You think that would help? Wouldn’t it just make them assume worse than they are now???

Pidge Well yes. But not if we do this right. It should be a four player game. And the commentary would explain everything better.

You Can’t get worse than it already is, I guess

You and Pidge got Lance and Hunk to join you. While their channel’s had nothing to do with gaming, they did enjoy playing games and were more than willing to help you both out. You sent out a tweet letting people know that you were doing a collab and would be going live on YouNow in a couple of minutes. The four of you were getting hooked up to the streaming platform while waiting for the time you posted to roll around. You really hoped this would work.

“What’s up multiplayers?! (Y/N) here with some special guests.” “Hey! Hey! LanceALot here!” “Hi, guys. I’m here too!” “It’s me again, rovers.” “Now that the guests have introduced themselves, let’s play.” Between scrambling through a digital kitchen, the four of you banted. “Pidge, you’re burning the burger!” “It’s not my fault, we were supposed to trade stations like two minutes ago, Lance.” “Uh, hey guys. The kitchen is on fire…” “Hold on, I have the fire extinguisher. Move, move, move!” You ended the round with two stars. “Before we keep going, let’s check out the audience’s messages.

FirstMultiplayer: asdfghjfddusb this is the collab of my dreams!!! roundtableknight: can you guys turn the music down we can’t hear you talking SinnamonRoll: I didn’t know you played games, Hunk :O Katie Kate: did you guys see the picture on tumblr? shhhh753: Yes. :( My poor OneUpLanceALot shipper heart is broken. PidgeonGamesfangirl: I SAW IT!! i’M THRIVING!!

You turned down the volume of the music as requested and read the messages out loud. “Wow, guys. We aren’t dating, (y/n) just bought me coffee to apologize for the misunderstanding.” “Haha yeah. Because some of you can’t seem to drop it. Pidge is a great person, but we are just friends. I promise. And to answer some of you, no Lance and I am not dating either. I am a single pringle for the time being, okay.” Hunk laughed at your expression. “We have time for one more round before we have to go. Let’s do a super difficult one,” Lance interjected before you could read any more comments. “SOunds good! Let’s do this!” You failed miserably and had a few good laughs before finally ending the stream.

That night after the stream, you looked through the comments. Several fans were disappointed while others held onto the hopes of you secretly dating Pidge. You sighed. Their persistence was not making your growing feelings for Pidge any easier to bury away. She wanted to be friends. That's it. You should want the same, right? But no, your stupid heart had to go and fall for the damn mystery girl.

[huphilpuffs]

flares

chapter: 20/? summary: Dan’s body has been broken for as long as he can remember, and he’s long since learned to deal with it. Sort of. But when his symptoms force him to leave uni and move into a new flat with a stranger named Phil, he finds that ignoring the pain isn’t the way to make himself happy. word count: 3771 rating: mature warnings: chronic illness, chronic pain, medicine a/n:  I apologize in advance for any a&e misinformation; I’ve only ever been to Canadian hospitals. a huge thanks goes to @obsessivelymoody for beta reading this for me!

Ao3 link || read from beginning

Phil’s arm is wrapped around Dan’s waist when they step into A&E. His fingers drift over the fabric of Dan’s hoodie, and press a little too hard to his skin when Phil draws him towards the registration desk. Dan squeezes his eyes shut against fluorescent hospital light until pain spasms in his forehead.

A&E isn’t too busy right now, but Dan’s chest still goes tight when he thinks about sitting and waiting in uncomfortable plastic chairs.

“Do you wanna sit?”

Phil presses the words to the top of Dan’s head.

“No,” he responds.

Phil’s fingers drift along his side, curling at his hip to draw Dan towards the queue. There’s a man at the desk, hunched over so his elbows rest against the desk and his mouth is probably too close to the glass separating him from the nurse. The woman in front them has her hair thrown up messily as she bounces a screaming child on her hip.

Dan wishes he could reach up, pull his hood over his head and pretend he doesn’t look so ill.

The man finishes registering and steps away from the desk, one hand wrapped in blood stained napkins, and Dan presses his face to Phil’s shoulder to ignore the sight. To ignore the mulling of strangers around him, hushed voices and screaming children and the way it all makes Dan’s insides twist.

He’s been to A&E a lot. He’s been to A&E far sicker than this, curled in on himself and sobbing into his knees as his mum registered for him because his legs couldn’t hold him up long enough to stand in a queue.

But Dan’s an adult now and he steps up to the window with forced politeness and his flatmate pressed against his side.

“Can I get your name, sir?” asks the woman behind the window. She’s wearing purple scrubs and her smile looks as fake as Dan’s feels.

“Daniel Howell.”

Phil’s fingers trail along his side as Dan answers her questions. He tells the nurse their address because Dan’s chest aches from talking and the threads of memory in his mind feel tangled from talking and he almost blurts the street his parents’ house is on.

Dan’s legs feel weak under him by the time the nurse finishes inputting his information. Phil draws him in, hugs him closer, and though it puts more pressure against Dan’s aching ribs, he sighs his relief against the round of Phil’s shoulder.

“You’ll be called to triage shortly,” she tells them.

Dan presses his face back against Phil’s shoulder and lets Phil say: “Okay, thank you.”

---

Triage is an awkward series of questions in an uncomfortable chair.

There’s a clip on his finger and a thermometer in his ear and Phil standing behind him, gripping the back of Dan’s chair and tapping his toes. The nurse checks his vitals and then checks them again because his pulse is reading a little erratically and Dan telling her it always does that isn’t a good enough reason.

She wraps a cuff around his arm and presses his button and Dan bites his lip against the pain he knows will come.

It does, enough to bring tears to his eyes and make his hand go numb and to have Phil releasing the chair to rub at his shoulders instead.

The nurse doesn’t mention it as she inputs the numbers into her computer.

“You’re blood pressure’s a little low,” she says.

“I know,” Dan says, a whisper. “It always is.”

She stares at him for a moment, then blinks her gaze back to her computer screen.

“So, what brings you into A&E today?”

Dan lets his smile collapse into a frown, sneaking a glance at the screen displaying his vitals. His pulse jumps from 92 to 108, but the nurse isn’t watching to see it.

“Chest pain, mainly,” he says. “I’m also pretty lightheaded and shaky. My whole body feels weak.”

She nods, typing. “How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?”

Five years.

“The chest pain has been getting worse all week,” answers Dan. “The rest of it started today. It got really bad a few hours ago.”

She types more before turning to him with a smile. “Why didn’t you come in sooner?”

Dan forces himself not to wince. Phil’s hand drifts across his shoulder, fingers brushing along his collarbones and Dan wants to reach up and take his hand. He would, if a stranger wasn’t staring at him with a fake smile and the knowledge that Dan just told her Phil’s just his flatmate.

“I’ve had similar issues in the past,” he says, jaw tight. “They usually pass after a while without needing medical intervention.”

Phil squeezes his shoulder. Dan wonders if he knows how many times Dan’s answered these exact question.

“Okay,” says the nurse. She turns to type that, too. “Do you have any pre-existing health conditions?”

Dan’s eyes slip closed. A muscle in his chest spasms and he doesn’t bother to keep himself from reaching up, trying to smooth away the ache as the nurse watches. And doesn’t bother to keep himself from reaching up to take Phil’s hand in his, squeeze his fingers gently in a silent plea.

He forces his eyes back open, hoping the nurse doesn’t notice the sheen of tears blurring his vision.

“Depression.”

She just nods, and starts asking about medication and allergies.

By his shoulder, Phil squeezes his hand.

---

The nurse told them it wouldn’t be long.

Dan didn’t believe her. He’s been to A&E enough time with idiopathic pain and tears in his eyes and weak limbs only to sit in the waiting room so long the pain dulled and the doctor he eventually saw stared at him like he was just some kid wasting his time with a dumb prank.

But it doesn’t take long today.

He’s been sitting for maybe fifteen minutes, pressed up against Phil’s side so his spine doesn’t need to feel the press of hard plastic against his back.

They’re still holding hands and Phil’s fingers have threaded through his hair when a voice overhead calls Dan’s name.

The man with the bleeding hand glares. The woman, now trying to calm her crying child by rocking them back and forth, just stares as Phil helps Dan sit, then stand, then wraps his arm around Dan’s waist to lead him to the A&E door.

Dan doesn’t dare look at the people who have been waiting since before he showed up.

---

A nurse leads him to a bed framed by curtains, sheets a little crooked and head propped up. He lets Dan drag himself onto it, leaving the cubicle with a murmur that he’ll be right back. Phil lingers awkwardly at the foot of the bed, hands wedged into his pockets.

When the nurse returns, he’s pushing a clucky machine on wheels with too many wires tangled around it.

“Can you unzip your jumper?” he asks.

Dan does, hands shaking, staring at Phil. He watches Phil’s gaze drop along with his zipper, trace over where Dan’s collar bones jut out beneath his skin, at where his ribs grow visible with every inhale.

“I’m going to stick the electrodes to your chest now, okay?” says the nurse.

Dan nods. “Okay.”

Phil watches the nurse press each electrode to Dan’s chest, six white stickers dotting his ribcage. One on either side of his sternum and four more that seem to follow the arc of a bone, Dan knows, from every time he’s had this very test before. Phil’s gaze lingers, just for a moment, on each one.

His face has gone pale. He reaches out with one hand and grips the metal pole at the foot of the bed.

The nurse presses a wire to each electrode, the snap getting lost in the low mumble of A&E. Outside the room, two women are talking about lab results. There’s the clatter of wheels over tiles and ringing of a phone and someone talking about a patient in bed six and Dan swears he can hear the beat of his heart over all of it.

Phil finally looks up from Dan’s chest, catches his gaze with tears in his eyes. They gleam white in hospital light, and disappear when he reaches up to wipe them away.

“You look sick,” says Phil.

Dan doesn’t say I am sick.

The nurse presses a button. The machine prints a graph.

“It looks fine to me,” says the nurse, “but I’ll have the doctor look at it and send someone in to do some bloodwork.”

And then he leaves, tugging the machine out of the room with him.

---

The next nurse gets Phil a stool so he doesn’t need to stand at the foot of Dan’s bed anymore. She situates it by Dan’s head with a friendly smile, awkwardly stepping around the small space and the cart full of supplies she brought with her.

“I just need to draw some blood, okay?” she says.

Dan nods, staring up at ceiling as she reaches for his arm. The elastic tourniquet snaps against his skin, sending tingles down his arm until his fingertips go numb and tears well in the corner of his eyes. He tries to blink them away, but they just roll down the sides of his face until they land on the pale blue hospital sheets.

Phil reaches over, smears the track one tear left with the tip of his thumb.

“It’ll just be a moment,” says the nurse.

There’s the chill of an alcohol swab against his skin and the tiny prick of a needle. Dan doesn’t watch, though he can see it all play out behind closed eyes. He can still remember the first time this happened, thirteen years old and holding his mum’s hand, crying because his head hurt so bad and the lights were too bright.

Phil’s hand drifts along the side of his face, fingers catching in Dan’s matted hair.

“You okay?” he asks.

Something tugs at Dan’s arm. He can imagine the nurse pulling one vial away only to slot another one into place.

“Hurts,” he whispers.

Phil just hums and runs his fingers through Dan’s hair again.

It doesn’t take long before the nurse is tugging the elastic from around Dan’s arm and pressing stickers to the vials she collected. Dan forces his eyes open to see the smile she directs at Phil, then at him.

“A doctor should be in to see you shortly,” she says.

And then she leaves.

---

Phil reaches for his hand, the one that’s still half-numb from the tourniquet, as soon as they’re alone.

His thumb drifts across the bones of Dan’s hand, the bulge of a vein. Dan watches, the back and forth sweep of a gentle touch that makes his nerves protest, but the heavy weight of anxiety on his mind dissipate into something manageable, ignorable.

Thank you, he almost says, but it doesn’t quite feel like enough.

Phil’s other hand comes up  to close around Dan’s elbow. His thumb presses against the cotton ball the nurse stuck to his skin, applies pressure as she instructed, as Dan can’t do himself.

“Does it hurt less now?” he asks.

Dan nods. His head sinks deeper into the pillow, and he brings his legs up because the press of the mattress against his legs makes his feet freeze. Phil smiles at him, the soft kind that’s unsure but caring and makes Dan wish everyone cared as much about doing the right thing as Phil does.

Pain burns in his chest. It takes Dan a moment to realize that, behind the hurt, lies something warm, something that would be happy if circumstances were different.

“Can you do me a favour?” he asks.

Phil nods.

“Tell me about yourself? Anything, I don’t care,” says Dan. “Just … distract me?”

“Okay,” says Phil.

He’s silent for a moment. His thumb has stilled against Dan’s hand. His breath seems to have stilled in his chest.

Outside the room, there’s still the constant whir of the hospital. For the first time since they got there, Dan spares a second to think about the person on the other side of the curtain by his bed, and if they’re sitting there alone. He wonders if the little kid who was screaming was sick, and if they’ve made it out of the waiting room yet.

“I’m not good at talking about myself,” says Phil, “but, uh, have I ever told you about the video game I made when I was fourteen?”

Dan wishes he could laugh without agony, but all he manages is half a smile. “No,” he says. “Tell me about it?”

“I made it on RPG Maker,” says Phil. When Dan turns to look at him, he’s smiling, too. “It was called The Mark of Oxin.”

“Wow, a good name.”

Phil chuckles. “I thought so,” he says. “I think I still have it somewhere, probably on an old computer at my parents’ house. I should check next time I’m there.”

“If you do, can I play it?”

Another laugh. Dan’s chest burns even more.

“Sure,” says Phil. “As long as you promise not to judge fourteen-year-old me for anything in that game.”

“I doubt there would be much to judge fourteen-year-old Phil for.”

“I don’t know. If I remember correctly I programmed a–”

Dan squeezes his hand, maybe a little too tight, and Phil goes silent, eyes going wide.

“Don’t spoil me,” says Dan. “If there’s a possibility of me playing this, I don’t want any spoilers.”

“Oh.” Phil laughs, but it sounds a little forced, a little worried. “Right, you hate spoilers.”

Dan nods. “No spoilers.”

They’re quiet for another moment. Phil lets go of Dan’s elbow and reaches up to rest a hand on his head, again. His thumbs is back to tracing patterns against the back of Dan’s hand.

“Did anyone play it?” asks Dan. “When you made it?”

Phil laughs, the distant, happy kind that makes Dan smile again. “Yeah,” he says. “I invited all my friends over at the end of the summer and made them play it.”

Dan’s eyes slip closed again, and he pictures it, the blue and green bedroom he saw with tiny Phil sitting at a computer. The boy with mousy brown hair and a few friends all huddled around him, watching them play the game he made with the kind of bubbling excitement Phil sometimes radiates.

He feels himself smile, and opens his eyes to find Phil staring at him.

“That’s so nerdy and adorable,” says Dan.

Phil’s cheeks go pink. “Uh, I guess?”

“It is.” Dan squeezes his hand, gentle this time. “Tell me more?”

And Phil does.

---

The doctor is a woman wearing blue scrubs and a scowl. She steps into the room and snags Dan’s chart from the foot of his bed, and stares for long, silent moments, at the sheets of paper there. Over the edge of the clipboard, Dan can see the spiky rise and fall of his ECG, looking perfectly normal.

It always looks perfectly normal.

Phil’s still holding his hand, chair pressed so close to the A&E bed that his knees press against the metal frame. If he leaned forward just a bit, they could share Dan’s pillow.

He doesn’t move away when the doctor looks up, and Dan spares only a second’s thought to wondering what they look like to someone who probably doesn’t care enough to question it.

“How’s your pain now?” asks the doctor.

Dan shrugs, feeling something tug between his ribs. “A six?”

She hums, and nods, and explains that she’s going to make sure the pain isn’t tender. Phil moves away when she reaches over and touch cold fingers to Dan’s chest. Her fingers press into the dips between his ribs, poking briefly at the spot beneath his sternum that takes his breath away.

It’s familiar, like he’s practiced laying still while a doctor judges his pain by the gasps he lets out and the winces that pass across his face.

It’s been so many years, he thinks, that maybe he has.

The doctor asks a few more questions. The usual “how would you describe your pain,” which Dan never knows how to answer, the “have you experienced any arm or jaw pain,” that he knows is meant to check for cardiac problems, and has him stumbling over his words.

Dan’s used to being asked how long he’s had this pain. And he’s used to the way a doctor’s certainty wavers when he explains it’s been years since there hasn’t been something uncomfortable in his chest.

“So this is a chronic problem?” she asks.

Phil’s hand drifts back onto the bed, fingers brushing over the back of Dan’s hand.

“Yeah,” says Dan. “But it’s been really bad this last week.”

She nods, like she cares.

“Well, for chronic problems you should see your general practitioner,” she says. “I think you’re dehydrated, as well, as we’ll give you some IV fluids and pain medication, okay?”

“Okay.”

The doctor leaves after informing him a nurse will be in shortly to administer the medication. The clipboard clinks as she sets it back in its spot at the foot of the bed. There’s no door to fall closed, but Dan could swear they’re both waiting for her to be far enough away before Phil’s hand finds his again.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Dan nods.

His body feels heavy now, weighed with disappointment so familiar it’s hardly worth wondering what could have gone differently. In a few minutes, a nurse will push a clattering cart into the room. She’ll wrap another tourniquet around his arm, shove a needle into a vein that bulges at the inside of his wrist, and leave like that will solve any of his problems.

“Hurts,” he says, and pretends he’s talking about the lingering ache where the doctor pressed too harshly against his skin.

---

“Pain meds are gonna make me loopy.”

The nurse has come and gone, and Phil’s now pressed so close to the bed he lets his temple rest against the edge of the mattress.

Phil laughs, the quiet, warm kind. “Your hand’s freezing.”

“It’s the IV,” says Dan.

He nods, head so close Dan can feel the brush of Phil’s fringe against his cheek.

“Does it hurt?” asks Phil.

Dan squeezes his hand. “No. ’M used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

Phil’s thumb drifts across the tape holding the IV against Dan’s wrist. He stares, like he’s never seen an IV before, and Dan wonders how often Phil’s been in hospitals, how much illness he’d seen before Dan showed up with every broken part of his body.

He almost asks, but then Phil’s reaches down, wraps his whole hand around Dan’s chilled fingers.

“So cold,” he says. “You’re whole arm is so cold.”

Dan chuckles. The pain meds must be starting to kick in, because his chest doesn’t hurt as much. “I know.”

“Do you want a blanket?” asks Phil.

He shakes his head, and Phil reaches up to close his other hand over Dan’s fingers, too, as though trying to warm him up.

It works.

---

It’s dark outside by the time they get home.

There’s an uncomfortable cotton ball stuck to Dan’s wrist where his IV was removed, and the doctor’s instructions to see his G.P. ringing in his mind, and Phil’s arm wrapped around his waist and holding him close. Pain meds still have his mind hazy, his body feeling distant.

“You should get some sleep,” says Phil.

They’re back in the apartment now, where a blanket still covers the windows and another is still draped over the back of the sofa. It’s not that late. On a normal day, Dan would usually stay awake for awhile longer, procrastinating dealing with his insomnia by staring at screens.

But he’s barely slept this week. At least not restfully, not with the pain. And he feels just seperated enough from his own body now to know that with a single dose of sleeping meds he’d easily fall into sleep that would actually do something.

“You should too,” he says.

Phil squeezes his waist and nods without a word. He leads Dan to his bedroom, still dark and empty in a way that makes it feel foreign to be back.

Hospitals have always made him feel that way, as though the rest of the world disappeared for a little while and being back in his space isn’t quite right. Like things should be more different than they actually are.

Dan draws his hands from his pockets, unwraps himself from the warm cocoon of hoodie and sweatpants he’s wrapped himself in. Phil tugs at the hood.

“You should take this off,” he says. “Don’t want it to hurt when you wake up.”

Dan nods, but it’s Phil that reaches around to undo the zipper. He’s careful as he wraps his hands around the fabric and draws it from over Dan’s shoulders, letting it fall to the ground without care.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks.

He should probably have something to drink, Dan thinks. Or maybe a quick bite to eat while the pain is dull enough that he could swallow without difficulty. But he reaches back to catch Phil’s hand instead.

“Stay with me?” he says, but it sounds needy, feels like he’s asking too much of a flatmate. “In case it gets bad again?”

“Oh,” says Phil. “Okay.”

He has to go get his pillow from his own bedroom because Dan only has one, but when he comes back he’s smiling. Dan takes his sleeping pill without a drink and crawls into bed first, curled up on his side. Phil slides in next to him.

They’ve cuddled on the sofa before, but it feels different when Phil reaches out and drapes his arm over Dan’s waist. There’s still a few inches of space between their bodies, but it’s so little Dan can feel the warmth of Phil’s breath against the back of his head, the tension in his frame that makes him wonder if this feels different to Phil, too.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” whispers Phil. “Even if it’s just for now.”

Dan smiles. “Thank you.”

They’re quiet for another moment before Phil leans forward, His arm goes tense where it rests against Dan’s side and his breath is still, until his lips are dusting a soft kiss to the back of Dan’s head.

“Goodnight,” says Phil.

Dan needs to swallow against the sudden pressure in his chest before he can respond: “Goodnight.”

[giraffeter]

Regular Costco, Where All Your Dreams Come True

(Day 2 of @taakitzweek: Modern AU)

At this point, everyone knows to expect them.

Every other Saturday, the beardy old hippie dude comes to wander amiably through the aisles, stocking up on toilet paper and tube socks and frozen burritos, and every time, the twins come with him.

Kravitz assumes the hippie guy’s not really their dad, although he’s old enough to be. It’s hard to imagine that someone that short and round, with a nose like a tulip bulb, could produce two people as tall and lithe and effortlessly gorgeous as the twins. Still, they clearly belong to each other, and the hippie has no qualms about unleashing them on an unsuspecting big box store every other weekend.

The twins, gorging on free samples, heckling product demonstrations, rearranging the alphabet mugs to read EAT A BIG UN. The twins, racing the toy cars, building forts with the pillow displays, napping on the demo couches. Somehow, they manage to run right up to the line of behavior that would get them kicked out of the store, without ever quite stepping over (although most of the staff is pretty sure they walk out with their pockets full of stolen nail polish and batteries and lighters). The twins, beautiful, terrifying, crusty little gutterpunks, the coolest people Kravitz has ever seen in real life.

Everyone on the staff hates them.

This Saturday, when they roll in, Raven catches Kravitz’ eye and gives him a meaningful nod. Kravitz sighs, finishes up the order he’s bagging up, and nods back. It’s become unwritten store policy to assign someone to tail them through the store. “Great customer service,” Raven always says, “is the best deterrent. If you’re paying proper attention to your customers, they don’t have an opportunity to cause trouble.”

Kravitz just wishes Raven would assign someone else; someone like Davenport, who exudes authority, or Killian, who is, if nothing else, very scary. At the very least, someone who’s, like, an adult, not someone the twins’ age who would probably be in their class, if they went to school. But you don’t question Raven’s assignments, unless you want to be out in the rain doing cart roundup every night for the next month.

Customer service, he thinks. I can do this.

“Can I help you find anything?”

The twins are trying out the tester lipsticks. The girl turns to him, the fluorescent lights gleaming on the half-dozen silver rings in her ear. “Does this lipstick go with my jacket?”

She’s wearing a motorcycle jacket, covered in zippers and chains. The leather is a bright cherry red; the lipstick is a deeper blood-red.

“Um.” Kravitz was not prepared to give fashion advice, but what the hell. “It does, but you might want to go for one that has more of a blue undertone.”

She gives him an appraising look. “I’ll do that, thanks.”

“What about this one?” the boy asks, and when Kravitz turns to look he loses his breath. The boy’s lipstick is a shade of green so dark it’s almost black, a stark contrast to his golden skin. It should look terrible, it should completely wash him out, but instead it just makes him look alluring and alien, his eyes glittering, his mouth curving into a smile that seems to know all of Kravitz’s most depraved thoughts. Fuck.

“It’s...very nice,” he says in a strangled voice, mesmerized by the upward curve of the boy’s eyebrows.

“Thanks, homie,” the boy purrs.

“Excuse me,” a woman taps Kravitz on the shoulder. “Can you tell me where the lightbulbs are?”

By the time he gets her safely on her way to the home improvement section, the twins are gone. Great, Kravitz thinks. Two needles in a 150,000-square-foot haystack.

He’s not sure this is a good thing, but it proves relatively easy to track them down: follow the trail of disarray. He moves past home electronics, where everything with an alarm is going off at once; through baby clothes, where the signs for ‘Boys’ and ‘Girls’ have been taken down and hidden beneath a diaper display; and finally tracks them down in the toy department. The girl is reclined on a beanbag chair, surrounded by a crowd of stuffed animals, while the boy puts on a puppet show for her and the rest of the “audience.”

“Excuse me,” Kravitz says, then stops. What do you even say to this? “Did you...have any questions about the stuffed animals?”

“Oh hey,” the girl drawls. “Pull up a seat, the show’s about to start.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to clean this up,” Kravitz says with all the sternness he can muster.

The boy brandishes an octopus puppet at him. “Hey stud, what’s your name? I’m about to tentacle your dick.”

The girl shrieks with laughter.

“Hey, hey, hey!” the boy continues, walking toward him, punctuating each “hey” with a shake of the puppet. “I’m gonna get you into some tent porn, lemme get that name real quick so I know how to credit you, in my tentacle porn I’m about to make with you.”

Tentacle porn? Kravitz is so far out of his element, his element is like a tiny dot on the horizon right now. “My name’s Kravitz,” he says, because what else is there to say?

“I’m Taako,” the boy says brightly. He gestures at the puppet theater. “You know, from TV?”

A laugh bubbles up in Kravitz’s chest. He can’t help it. “Nice to meet you.”

The twins don’t seem inclined to acquiesce to authority, and Kravitz is all too aware of how tenuous that authority is - he’s not even a manager, he can’t even give someone a refund without someone signing off on it. It’s time to change tactics.

“Look,” he says, “I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but you know I’m going to have to clean all this up if you don’t, right?”

The girl hauls herself to her feet. “Say no more, my dude.” The two of them gather up the animals and start returning them to the shelves. Kravitz hauls the puppet theater back to its correct aisle, and when he returns to thank them, they’re gone.

Kravitz checks home furnishings, where the twins have been known to put on fashion shows with curtains and rugs - no dice. He checks the garden center - no twins, but he does see the old hippie thoughtfully caressing a ficus tree. He’s on his way to check the food court when he sees a crowd gathering around a sample station, and his heart sinks like a stone.

Taako has commandeered the electric griddle. Instead of just heating up samples of the smoked sausage, he’s grabbed some other items from the grocery section, and has turned the sample station into an impromptu cooking demonstration.

Kravitz walks up and elbows Joaquin, who’s standing to one side with a bemused look on his face. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, hey,” whispers Joaquin. “I went on break, and when I came back this kid had taken over the station.”

“You could have kicked him out,” Kravitz whispers back.

“In front of all these customers? Look at them, they’re loving this!”

Kravitz looks at the crowd and realizes Joaquin is right; the little group is watching with avid interest as Taako cooks, and he has to admit: whatever Taako is cooking smells really good.

“You want to keep an eye on the tomato paste as it browns,” Taako is saying, “because if it burns, that’s going to add an acrid flavor. You just want it to get a little browned and nutty. Now we’re going to add in the canned tomatoes - “ he dumps in a can as he’s talking, “- and let that cook for a couple minutes. Give it a good stir to incorporate the tomato paste. That’s gonna get rid of that kinda tinny flavor.” An older man in the crowd nods vigorously; Taako points at him with his spatula. “This dude right here knows what I’m talkin’ about.” He winks at the crowd. “Now, if my lovely assistant Lup would hand me the plate of sausage…” the girl twin hands him a plate, turning a dazzling smile on the crowd, “we’re going to add that in. It’s time to…”

“SIZZLE IT UP!” the crowd yells, laughing and applauding.

I leave this guy alone for 20 minutes and he’s got his own cooking show, Kravitz thinks, mind reeling.

Taako wraps up his demonstration and hands out samples to his new fans. Kravitz notes how many of them grab packs of sausage from the display as they disperse; many of them head over to pick up some tomato paste as well.

“That was...quite something,” Kravitz says.

“Thanks, friendo, it’s all for the fans, you know?” Taako says with a lofty smile.

“I don’t suppose you’re planning to pay for those tomatoes you used?” Kravitz asks helplessly.

“Counterpoint,” replies Taako, “taste this.” He scoops up a spoonful of the sausage-tomato mixture and swoops it into Kravitz’s mouth. It’s warm and savory and surprisingly delicious, for Costco sample food. He makes eye contact with Taako as he draws the spoon out of his mouth, and is gratified to hear the other boy’s soft intake of breath.

They stare at each other for a long moment, not speaking. Finally, the girl - Lup - clears her throat exaggeratedly. Taako glares at her. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Lup says, her voice full of suppressed laughter. “Nothing at all.”

The old hippie wanders up, his cart overflowing with gardening supplies and granola bars. “You kids just about ready to go?” he asks amiably.

“Sure thing, Merle. See you later, Krav,” Lup says, surprising Kravitz by giving him a hug.

“Later, stud,” Taako grins, shooting him double finger-guns.

When Kravitz gets home that night, he realizes that $10 is missing from his wallet. In his place is a napkin with a phone number written on it, along with a note.

Call him. Don’t be a jackass.

XOXO Lup

Kravitz tucks the napkin in his dresser drawer and smiles to himself, thinking about puppets and tomato sauce and a green-lipped smile full of possibility.

[the-everlasting-dream]

The First Valentine’s Day - Drake x MC

Summary: MC Elizabeth Richmond couldn’t wait to spend the day with Drake before she got a disappointing message. 

A/N: Happy Valentine’s day everyone! Here it is finally!! After a bad case of writer’s block and serious considerations to abandon this story altogether on more than one occasion, I present you an extremely fluffy, cavity inducing fic about my favourite marshmallow. Can you tell how single I am yet? 

If you were interested, MC wears this dress in the story. Special thanks to @liam-chris-knights for helping me work out the issues. Any feedback is much appreciated xx

With the morning light playing softly across her bedroom, Elizabeth Richmond woke up feeling unexpectedly cheerful. As her mind took a moment to adjust to the notion of wakefulness, she smiled, remembering the reason for her joy. 

Today was Valentine's Day. 

More accurately it was the first Valentine's Day that she and Drake would be spending together. 

The thought of spending an entire day with the man she loved filled her with such a rush of elation and she couldn't hold back a squeal of excitement, feeling like a teenager again. She toyed with the idea of calling him but after glancing at the clock decided against it, knowing he would probably be asleep at this early hour. 

  As Elizabeth prepared herself for the day, her eyes wandered to the pile of Drake's clothes stacked on her dresser. He’d been spending most nights with her in her manor in Atlantea and lately she’d been toying with the idea of asking him to move in with her. However they hadn't been together very long so this would be a big step in their relationship. She just hoped that she wasn't moving too fast. Feeling her inhibitions creeping back in, Elizabeth eyed herself in the vanity, resolving ask Drake today over lunch. With a firm nod, she gave her dark locks a final brush before heading out to buy a gift for her Valentine. 

Her first stop had been at the bottle store, knowing without a doubt that a good bottle of whiskey would never be turned down by Drake Walker. She’d smiled to herself when she saw a bronze flask in the window of the neighbouring shop, knowing it would fit perfectly into the pocket of his jeans at the next court meeting. After getting it engraved, she couldn’t help but feel a bit cliche at her choice of gifts. 

  Surely I could do better than that.. 

After almost two hours of searching, Elizabeth concluded that her boyfriend was the hardest person in the world to shop for. Everything was either too extravagant, too ornate or too impractical. She was just about to leave when something in the window of the jewellers caught her eye. Though Drake abhorred dressing up for courtly affairs, Elizabeth couldn’t resist the pair of emerald cufflinks that sparkled in the fluorescent lighting, already imagining how well it would compliment his dark eyes.   

‘Good afternoon Fenya,’ Elizabeth cheerily greeted her housekeeper when she returned home. 

 ‘Good afternoon Your Grace,’ the shorter woman replied, returning her smile as she pushed forward a chocolate croissant, her favourite pastry. ‘I trust the shopping trip went well?' 

Elizabeth marvelled for a moment at the perceptive ability of her staff. They had barely been in her employ for two months but seemed to know all her preferences so well. 

’It was. Thank you Fenya. And please its just Elizabeth.’ 

The motherly housekeeper shifted, smiling politely. ‘Mr Walker came by this morning ma’am, he left a note for you.’ 

Elizabeth could feel herself brighten at his name and she immediately jumped up to take the cream envelope, unable to contain herself as she slipped out the pale pink card, eyes immediately recognising Drake’s scrawling script. 

Richmond,

I know how excited you are to spend the day together but by the time you get this I will be on a plane to Italy. There was some important business that needed taking care of. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.

Drake.

As she read the letter, her elated mood seemed to deflate like an overfilled balloon, a deep sense of disappointment took its place. She knew Drake wouldn’t have cancelled on her if it wasn’t extremely important but some part of her selfishly begrudged the issue. 

 I mean, its our first Valentines together. Couldn’t it wait? 

Her housekeeper’s voice cut through her brooding, bringing her back to reality. ‘Should I continue the preparations for lunch this afternoon, madam?�� 

She had planned to have a quiet picnic on the grounds of her estate and keeping the rest of the day free, knowing Drake’s penchant for spontaneity. In truth, she could be stuck with him in the middle of the ocean on an iceberg and she would still be happy. 

‘That-that won’t be necessary Fenya,’ Elizabeth replied in a low voice, her shoulders slumping. ‘He’s not coming.’ 

The statement seemed like a final seal on the matter, closing off any avenue for intervention. Elizabeth briefly considered calling her best friend Hana Lee but abandoned the idea, knowing that Hana and Maxwell would probably be in the middle of their own celebrations. 

  At a loss of what to do, she spent the day in her office, answering correspondence, signing agreements and attending to her duchess duties in an effort to get forestall the unavoidable feeling of loneliness. To make matters worse, there had been radio silence from Drake and while she pushed herself to accept that he was probably caught up with courtly affairs, she couldn’t help feeling a little bit neglected. When the thought occurred to her, she mentally shoved it aside, chiding herself for feeling so childish. The clock had just chimed five when her phone buzzed from under all the papers strewn across her desk and Elizabeth lunged for it, hoping it would be from Drake but was perplexed when the screen displayed Kiara’s name. 

 ‘Hello Kiara,’ she answered. ‘This is a surprise.’ 

‘Bonjour Elizabeth! Comment ça va?’ Kiara’s musical voice flowed from the speaker. ‘I was just calling to confirm that you will be attending the luncheon I am hosting next week?’ 

‘Yes I will be there. Thank you so much for inviting me,’ she replied, trying and failing to match her friend’s enthusiasm.

 ‘Excellent! I can hardly wait!’ Kiara’s enthusiasm contrasted greatly from Elizabeth's own mood and when she didn’t reply, she could hear the concern in the skilled linguist’s tone. 

‘Pardon but Elizabeth are you alright? You don’t sound like your usual self.’ 

Elizabeth released a weary sigh. ‘I’m fine.. Its just that Drake and I were supposed to be spending the day together but he got called away on business this morning and won’t be back in time. I know it sounds silly but I even had the perfect dress picked out.’ 

 ‘Mon dieu!’ Her friend exclaimed. ‘You must join Penelope and I for dinner then! We can’t have you sitting alone in that manor by yourself on Valentines Day. We will have a… how do you say it… Galentine’s day at my place tonight!’ 

Elizabeth hesitated. ‘Are you sure Kiara? I wouldn’t want to intrude on your evening…' 

‘Non non, absolutely not. I simply won’t allow you to say no.’ Kiara protested in a tone that brooked no argument. 

In spite of herself, Elizabeth chuckled slightly even though technically Galentine’s day had been the day before. 

‘I must admit that does sound better than eating alone tonight.’ 

‘Trés bien,’ Kiara declared. ‘I will have a car sent around in one hour to pick you up. I can’t wait to see that new dress, mon cher!' 

After hanging up, Elizabeth pondered Kiara’s invitation, wistfully eyeing the scarlet bandage dress in her closet. It was a very sexy dress, strappy and off the shoulder, the fabric had a slight shimmer to it with a low back and silhouette that hugged all her curves perfectly. Ideally she would have liked to wear the dress for Drake but since Kiara had insisted, she reached for it. With her hair styled in soft waves, she was just applying a final coat of lipstick when she heard the car arriving. Slipping her feet into black stilettos, she glanced at her reflection once more before heading out. 

She had never been to Kiara’s family estate before and was surprised to find that she was being driven in the direction of the Cordonia’s national park. Before her concerns could be voiced however, the vehicle drew to a stop and a knot of anxiety bloomed in Elizabeth’s chest. 

Surely Kiara wouldn’t…

Her suspicions died in her throat when the door slid open to reveal a pathway scattered with rose petals. By the looks of their surroundings, she was correct in assuming they were in national park. Glowing lanterns lined the trail, leading further into the trees, their glow supplementing the fading rays of sunlight. Excitement and anticipation mingled together in her chest as she followed the rose petals, emerging into a clearing at the top of a cliff. A candlelit table set for two stood under more lanterns hanging from the branches of a giant tree. A cool breeze ruffled her curls as she took a deep breath in, her eyes surveying the view of the setting sun on the forest below her, absorbing the tranquility of the scene.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day Richmond.’ 

 Drake Walker stood a few paces behind her, smiling widely, a pink rose in his hand. With his broad figure clad in a black suit and white collared shirt, the first two buttons undone, he’d never looked more handsome. Elizabeth had seen him dressed up on rare occasions in the past but there was something about this outfit that send a thrill of pleasure through her body. Unable to contain herself any longer, she closed the distance between them, her lips finding his in a searing kiss. She felt his arms encircle her waist as he pulled her closer, her hands wrapping around his neck. 

 ‘You did all this for me?’ She murmured when they finally pulled apart for air. 

He offered her a playful smirk. ‘I’m not all rough-around-the-edges you know.' 

‘You’re a total marshmallow, this confirms it,’ she teased, her face breaking out into an uncontrollable grin. ‘So Italy was just a diversion..?’ 

‘No, that was real,’ he assured her, entwining their fingers as he lead her to the table. ‘I was supposed to be there and back in time but there was a delay because of the holiday so I had to improvise a little.' 

'And I’m assuming thats where Kiara came in?' 

Drake’s broad shoulders shrugged lightly. 'Ehh she offered to help out when I told her I still needed a way to get you out of the house.' 

Though Elizabeth knew that Drake and Kiara’s friendship would only ever be platonic, she still pulled him to her in another deep kiss, well and truly claiming him as her own. 

 ‘Happy Valentine’s day, Drake,’ she whispered against his smiling lips. 

 He was about to reply when his stomach beat him to it, issuing a loud growl to herald meal time and she laughed in response. 

‘Guess all this planning was hungry work hmm?’ 

After chivalrously pulling out her chair for her, Drake produced two steaming plates of spaghetti but before she could dig in, something occurred to her. 

 ’This isn't…’ she began, regarding him suspiciously. 

 Drake’s eyes glinted mischievously. ‘From the same restaurant that we had our first unofficial date at?’ 

Elizabeth shook her head as she smiled, filled with amazement at the lengths he had gone to for her. 

How did she get so lucky? 

As they finished their dessert, the opening notes of a slow song began to flow from an unseen speaker.  Drake got to his feet and they shared a smile as she took his outstretched hand. His hands found their place on her waist, causing her skin to spark with pleasure as they began to dance the Cordonian waltz. Their bodies swayed elegantly to the music and Elizabeth found herself getting lost in his dark eyes. It was as if they were suspended in time and the rest of the world faded away, intimately encasing the two of them in this tender moment. He twirled her once, twice, three times, bringing her back to his chest and she shivered ever so slightly as his warm breath tickled her ear. 

 ‘You look stunning by the way,’ Drake murmured softly, not wanting to break the spell. 

 She grinned up at him. ‘I take it you like the dress?’ 

 He hummed lowly, twirling her again to face him and she caught a glint of something in his eyes. 

'Its nice but I can’t help thinking how much better it will look on the bedroom floor.' 

Elizabeth's breath hitched in her throat, feeling her cheeks warm slightly. Before she could formulate a response, a thought burst to the forefront of her mind and she remembered her earlier resolution. Bringing her gaze back up to his, she searched his eyes for an answer to the question she was about to ask him, her features unconsciously growing serious.   

Drake, of course, noticed this and drew her into another twirl before inquiring. 

'Something on your mind Richmond?' 

She gulped slightly, feeling her stomach spasm a little. Why was she so nervous? 

'Yes actually…,’ she answered carefully, watching concern spread across his handsome face. 'Speaking of bedrooms and the like… I was wondering… um would you like to move in with me?’ 

Drake’s expression morphed into one of surprise and as he made no immediate move to respond, Elizabeth cursed herself inwardly, suspecting that her proposition was too fast. 

 ‘I mean you don’t have to… If you don’t want to,' she quickly attempted to backpedal, dropping her arms to her sides. ‘I know we haven’t been together very long… And I know you said you wanted to take this slow…' 

‘Richmond…’ he started to say but Elizabeth barely heard him over her ramblings, eyes roving in all directions except towards him. 

‘I just thought since you already stay over so often… It might be more practical but now I see that maybe that was a little fast…’ 

‘Elizabeth.’ Drake's voice was a little more forceful and she started at his use of her first name. Feeling those earlier doubts come racing back in, she awkwardly dropped her gaze to the grass under them until he tipped her chin upwards, compelling her look at him. When she did, Elizabeth found an remarkable tenderness in his eyes as he gazed down at her. 

‘Elizabeth,’ he began again. ‘I would love to move in with you.’ 

 Her face broke out into a massive smile as a rush of relief filled her person. 

‘Really?’ 

Drake drew her closer. ‘Did you actually think I would say no?’ 

Elizabeth bit her lip as she glanced downwards uncertainly. ‘Well…’ 

Sensing that she was going to launch into another bout of babbling, he silenced her with a passionate kiss, pouring all the entirety of his emotions into the action, banishing any shred of doubt she still had. He could feel the tension in her figure release as she reciprocated, her arms encircling his neck as she pulled him in closer. In turn, his hands roved her body and she moaned at this, opening her mouth, granting his tongue entrance. 

Her voice was thick with desire as he trailed his way down her neck. 

 'I want you.' 

‘I know a better place to do this,’ he whispered, coming back to her lips. 

‘Is that so?’ She teased when Drake pulled back, eyes gazing deeply into hers as his thumbs gently stroked her cheeks. Elizabeth swore she could have exploded with happiness at his next words.   

‘Let’s go home.’