#but when it comes to emotions she doesn’t really reach that point

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Gray Woman 4

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Summary: You meet a man who tests your patience. (grumpy!short!reader)

Note: To those who didn’t help me resist this beast, I blame you.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You hand over the statement and send off the client with ‘have good day’. The recitation is lifeless, meaningless as it leaves your lips on habit alone. It’s all by rote. Greet them, figure out what they want, and get them out. 

Your next customer steps up as you take a chug of cold coffee. A glimmer of recognition flickers in your head and you squint at his reddened eyes. Oh, you know this man. Well, you’re aware of his existence. 

“Hello, sir, how can I help--” 

“Shut up,” he scowls. “You serious with the hello bullshit? Look at my eyes?” 

You blink and put your cup down, “did you try milk?” 

“Milk?! Milk? You fucking burnt my retinas out.” 

“Are you having issues with your sight--” 

“That’s not the fucking point. You—You remember me now, don’t you?” 

“You grabbed me. I reacted,” you shrug. “If you’re only here to yell at me, I’ll need to call security--” 

“Fuck security,” he steps up and his nose almost touches the glass. He snarls, “do you understand who I am? How many ways I can fuck you? Figuratively and literally?” 

You stare back at him dully. You deal with people yelling about their money every day. You’re desensitized to their threats. To their chagrin. Do they really think you care? That you have any sort of emotion tied to this job? It pays the bills. 

“Would you like to make a transaction today or--” You move your hand under the desk. 

“Don’t you fucking hit that button, sweet cheeks. I’m not going to do anything. Not here. You think I’m fucking stupid?” He growls as he jabs the glass between you. “No, I want you to see what the fuck you did and why I’m going to do worse to you.” He makes a fist and hits the barrier. “And you’re going to fucking remember me.” 

You keep your hand on the edge of the counter. You sit up and look around him, “I have other customers to help. Please step aside.” 

He scoffs and thumps on the glass again. “You’re a real fucking piece of work. You let this bullshit job go to your head? Why? Cause you can hit a few keys on a computer? Money’s still in my accounts, honey. You’re nothing. I could buy you a hundred times over and still have as much left.” 

You exhale and look at him as you wave up the next person in line, “unfortunately, it doesn’t appear that money can buy class.” 

He stomps as the waiting client hesitate, “you can come up. We’re done.” You beckon them again with your fingers then reach for your cup again. 

He looms as the woman comes up to your woman. He’s close enough that you feel your discomfort. You give him a look as take her card. 

“Sir, you need to go.” You warn him. 

He puffs and shakes his head. He tuts and paces back then toward you again. He stops as if he only then notices the woman watching him in horror. He throws up his hands then marches away. 

“Sorry, about that,” you say to the woman. You take her card and swipe it. 

“No, I’m sorry. Must be horrible to deal with that at work,” she replies as she touches her cheek and glances over her shoulder. 

“Money is very personal,” you utter. “How can I help you today?” 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be quick,” she assures. “I’m just adding a new payee to my account. I switched phone providers but their online portal isn’t working for me...” 

You nod and help her through the process. As promised, she’s quick. The rest of your day is not. You can’t help but check the clock repeatedly. It’s almost the weekend. So close yet so far away. 

As you get down from your chair at the end of your shift and grab your bag, Veronique approaches. You face her as you hitch up your purse. It’s unusual for her to come to you. Ever. She hides at her desk, more interested in her phone than her management role. 

“Before you go, I’d like a word.” 

You frown. This can’t be good. You rely on predictability. You could drown in it but it’s easier than change. Easier than the unexpected. 

“Sure,” you agree and follow her as she spins on her heel. 

You trail her strut into a back office. One of the executives is there. Gerald, you think? He doesn’t bother with you either. 

“Please, shut the door,” he greets you. You do as he says and Veronique perches herself behind his shoulder like a parrot. “Have a seat.” 

Wary, you cross the office and sit in the stiff seat. It squeaks as you stay on the edge. You cradle your bag in your lap. Veronique grins then wipes it away as she clears her throat. 

“You’ve worked here for more than ten years.” Gerald states. You confirm. “A long time. Must get dull.” 

“It’s work, sir,” you say. 

“You haven’t moved up much. Typically yearly raise but nothing extravagant,” he looks at his lit monitor. “You work for base pay. Not very much, yet you handle a lot of money, don’t you?” 

Your heart picks up. You can’t remember the last time you felt anything like this. That you were uncertain. Everything was always the same. Go to work, go home, sleep, wash, rinse, repeat. 

“Sir, I do my job and I do it by the book.” 

“Do you?” He tuts as he leans back and clicks around. “Because we’ve had some discrepancies brought to our attention. On a particular account. A client you’ve dealt with several times, and according to Veronique, you’ve had as many issues with.” 

You shake your head in confusion. 

“No, I don’t... no.” 

“He was here today. Mr. Hansen? We were just reviewing some footage from his last visits and his statements. There’s some really strange back and forths here.” 

You sit up even higher, “sir, no. It can’t-- I did exactly as he requested. All I did was ask for his ID.” 

“Veronique,” he looks up as his tone turns to disinterest. 

“We have the evidence. We’re submitting a report for investigation. You will be suspended. Beginning immediately.” 

Her lips curve again. Your chest turns to a pit and you puff out in disbelief. This can’t be. How could they have proof when you did nothing? 

“Security is waiting outside to escort you from the premises,” she continues with a catlike smirk. 

You look between her and Gerald. He’s already distracted by his phone. “How about the steak house, V?” He swivels to her. You’re dismissed by the back of his balding head. 

You get up and clutch your bag to your stomach. You turn and march to the door. As you exit, two uniformed men await you. They walk on either side of you, past other tellers and several managers. You’re mortified. 

How could this happen to you? You have a feeling Veronique is behind it but why? She ignores you, like everyone else. What could she possibly get out of this? 

[spacecowboyy0]

bucky and nats clingy baby who just cuddles with them and watches bluey even when they really need to get to that meeting atp gotta bring the baby into the meeting and let them watch bluey on their phone

this is a wonderful prompt thank you so much i needed this!

notes: clint says fucker, bucky and nat aren’t dating! reader lives with them though, bucky uses sign language which is in italics (i hope that's clear)

~900 words

You had been attached to Bucky and Nat all morning, you always had one point of contact with one of them. You deserved this day off so you allowed yourself to be small and indulged in your clingy needs. So you held Mama’s hand as she made coffee, sat in Papa’s lap while breakfast was cooking, held onto Mama’s arm as Papa fed you, and then relaxed in between the two while you watched Bluey on the couch. 

They had hoped to get you tired enough so that you could sleep through the meeting they had at 12. So they shut off Bluey, and put on some soft music while Nat sat with you in the rocking chair. You relaxed against her, closing your eyes as you were lulled into a smaller headspace, but you still weren’t tired enough to fall asleep. Nat tried to put you down on the bed, but you whined and reached out for her again. 

It was time for plan b, so Nat let Bucky take over. He got you bundled up, put you in the baby wrap and went on a walk outside. You tended to need movement to fall asleep for naps, so he hoped that as he walked, you’d finally tire out. Even while you were cozy, soothed by his movements, and snuggled against your caregiver, you were still awake. There wasn’t a chance you’d let anyone babysit you, so they decided to bring you to the meeting. The deal was that you could come along with them so long as you listened and didn’t cause any trouble. 

~

So that’s where you are now, walking into the meeting room (holding Mama’s hand of course). When the three of you enter, you see Wanda, Bruce, and Steve already there. You wave to them shyly, smiling at Wanda. Bucky takes a seat, and pulls you onto his lap. Nat takes the seat beside him and hands you her phone and your noise cancelling headphones. 

“Here baby, you can watch your show.” Your eyes light up and take the items. The rest of the team filters in, taking seats around the table. You see Peter walk in from the corner of your eye, and you wave excitedly at him. 

“Hii!!”

“Hey cutie! We got our emotional support bug for this meeting?”

“Yup!” Steve begins talking and you begin the episode of Bluey.

~

Time goes by, and you start to get bored and restless. You pause the show, slip the headphones off your ears and put them on the table. You look up at Bucky.

“Papa, can I play Minecraft?” He shushes you but nods, so he doesn’t interrupt Steve. He signs to you. Do you know how to get to the game? You also know how to sign, but when you’re little it’s harder to sign fluidly so you respond out loud. 

“Papa it’s you who doesn’t know how to work a phone! Not me!” He laughs quietly and pokes your side which makes you giggle. Ok hush, play it then.

You load your recent world, the one where you are trying to find villages so you can get a white cat, just like Alpine. The meeting continues, and for the most part you tune out what is being said, looking up occasionally. 

“The fucker really screwed up our plans.” Nat covers your ears with her palms and Clint winces. “Oops sorry kid.” You give him a toothy smile and Bucky just rolls his eyes. You look back down to your game and start walking in the direction of a plains biome. 

You gasp when you see a village in the distance and sprint there. You look around the village, searching for a glimpse of white. Just behind one of the houses you see a white tail, and you walk slowly over to it, trying to not scare it away. You manage to have just enough fish to tame it. 

“Petey!” You lean over the table as far as you can, and turn the phone so he can see your screen. “Look, I finally found a kitty jus’ like Alpine!”

The two of you have a weekend routine of playing Minecraft so he knows your search for a white cat. Peter laughs and gives you a thumbs up. You can see Bruce and Wanda, who sit on either side of him, smile at you. Bucky pulls you back down and puts his arms around you so you stay put. Nat leans close to you and whispers.

“Bug I know you’re excited but you gotta stay quiet ok? That was our agreement hun.” 

“Sorry Mama.” She gives you a kiss on your cheek and then leans back into her chair. You’re quiet the rest of the meeting, focusing on taking your new cat back to your base, and then doing some mining. You look up when you hear chairs scraping across the floor, and shuffling. People get up and leave, but you see Peter look your way. 

“Bug, did you make any progress?”

“Yeah! Got the kitty home ‘n then found some diamonds!” 

“Sick! You’re leveling up!” You giggle, and turn Nat’s phone off and hand it to her. You turn around in Bucky’s lap so you face him. 

“We done Papa?”

“Yeah, come on sweetheart, I heard that Bruce is making a late lunch for the team.”

i love peter he's so brother

[tempestmothstorm]

I’ve noticed it for a while now that despite the side stories being all about the characters opening up and getting a spotlight on their feelings, Monika never gets her moment where she lets everything out.

Like Sayori has the whole scene in trust, Yuri in understanding, Natsuki in self-love, and a bunch of other moments where they have their moments of vulnerability, but Monika never gets that breakdown moment for herself.

She never gets to cry or unload all her insecurities and fears like the rest, which is pretty odd considering how the very first side story focuses on Monika trying to find ways to express herself and write about her feelings without her perfectionist mindset. She has to be the strong, reliable, responsible leader to the club without letting her feelings get in the way of her friend’s struggles. Her three main side stories focus on her becoming a better leader and helping the others with their feelings, but she never has her own feelings on the forefront. As the “responsible one” she needs to either overcome or hide her weaknesses, and when she does admit her own faults or feelings, it’s for the sake of others (like in respect, where she does admit to her thoughts and feelings about how she treated natsuki, a lot of stuff that would require vulnerability, but was focused on helping natsuki instead of monika)(also realized sayori does a similar thing to natsuki in reflection when she admits to having depression to help comfort her)

I’m thinking about that scene in trust again because there’s this line that stood out to me for awhile because I think it sums up her whole deal:

“As soon as Sayori loses her composure, Monika becomes determined to keep her own. She only wants to be what Sayori needs right now. So, she won’t let any sadness show.”

This line kinda read as her trying not to cry herself, but acting as a literal shoulder to cry on, she holds it back to focus on Sayori. It’s the right move, but she never has another chance to revisit those feelings, being too focused on the new club members to focus on herself, still holding herself back for the sake of her friends. It kinda parallels Sayori in a way, but unlike her she never has her moment where she herself gets to be comforted back.

This all leads to equals, where the story bookends with Monika trying to write a poem for the first time since trust. I always thought that moment was weird, as it shows her in the exact same spot as the first time she tried to write a poem. She gets it eventually, but it’s clear that while everyone else has their poems figured out, Monika still hasn’t fully gotten over her own issues. Of course she was never going to get over it overnight, none of them do, but throughout the whole story, she never gets her moment to fully address it. While helping everyone else in their stories did help her grow into a better caring person, I don’t know if she’s entirely addressed her own issues with talking about her feelings.

She does write something down, but she still has that old hesitation she had in the beginning, in contrast to the others who start writing almost immediately. They aren’t notorious for being great at vulnerability either, but they learn to open up throughout the side stories, something Monika doesn’t get that much of.

I will acknowledge that scene is probably just there for bookends and to highlight Monika’s development going from being unable to write anything to starting to write her own poem (something that would be less obvious if she started writing immediately with no fanfare). But still, I think the fact that she still struggles kinda highlights how she still never got that moment to cry. She might work through it someday, but at the moment she’s not ready, and I think thats fascinating

I might be mistaken here, but I think Monika might actually be the only Doki not to cry at all between the Side Stories and the Main Game.

She doesn't have a crying sprite (which is why it's a relatively common fan sprite to make), and she doesn't cry in any of the CGs afaik.

That says something about her character, I think.

This is relevant because I'm considering something for an ask that's been sitting around a while, and so I've been looking over all of the Side Stories for material, and it just stuck out to me.

[augustinewrites]

cw: it’s just angst

“i’m not mad.”

satoru closes and locks the front door, trailing after you into the kitchen, apprehension rising in the space kept between you. “really? because you seem kind of mad…”

“it’s fine, gojo.” you snap. “i’m fine.”

he watches you, quiet as the two of you go about your evening routine. leftovers from meals brought to the infirmary stowed away. week-old laundry tossed into the basket. you don’t say a word to him, emotions you don’t know how to make sense of still simmering.

“i’m sorry,” he says plainly as you’re both putting away the dishes. 

you wipe your hands on the tea towel, glancing over at him. “do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”

he shifts, unsure. “no…”

“of course you don’t,” you sigh. 

“then tell me,” he insists, exasperated. “i don’t want to fight.” 

“i don’t want to either,” you snap. “but you’re doing it again.” 

“doing what?”

“you just spent a week in the infirmary. you were hurt.”

“c’mon,” he laughs weakly. “there was no real chance of me dying.” 

“that’s not the—” you voice rises, then immediately quiets when you realize the kids are asleep. “that’s not the point. you’re losing yourself in it again. soon you’re going to drift away from us— from me,” you tell him, bleeding into the pain you’ve felt the last few days. “like you did when we were in school.”

because for as long as you’d known gojo, his drive was to constantly do more. be more. the period of time after the failure that was the star plasma vessel mission was the first time you’d witnessed it. gojo satoru doesn’t do anything halfway. he won’t permit himself to.

that’s what really scares you. he doesn’t know when to stop.

“i’m sorry that i worried you,” he apologizes, sincerity etched into his expression. you know him, know that he’s scared to say the wrong thing, that he’ll mess this up or somehow make it worse. “i had to. the higher ups—”

“satoru,” you interrupt, walls crumbling right in front of him. “i’ve always liked that you care about the jujutsu world. i just don’t want you to only care about it. not with where we are in our lives right now.”

“i don’t—”

“you do! you always have, and i get it. i know the world needs you…but things are getting worse, and we need to start thinking about the future—”

“everything i’m doing is for the future. for the future generation of sorcerers all over the world—”

“i don’t care about the world! i just care about you, and that’s the problem. one person always cares more in a relationship and that’s always been me.” 

“that’s not true,” he insists, a desperate edge in his voice. “all i’ve ever wanted is you. all i’ve never needed is you—”

“i need you too! maybe that sounds selfish or needy, but i don’t want there to be a day where i have to tell the kids that you’re not coming home. if you can’t understand that—”

he doesn’t think you realize you’re crying, frustrated tears gathering in your eyes and threatening to spill over. satoru reaches for you out of instinct, your argument the furthest thing from both your minds at this moment. you let him pull you into his arms, let him hold you. 

but you’re exhausted. 

this is fight you’ve been having since the moment you’d met him, and you don’t think he’ll understand the impact of it until you walk away.

“if you don’t understand that,” you continue softly, “then maybe we need to take a break.”

_____

outside the apartment door, nanami and shoko sit side by side, sharing a bottle of "welcome home" wine.

"guess they forgot we were coming over," the doctor mutters, pressing her ear against the door to see if jujutsu tech's favourite couple was still fighting. “it’s way too quiet in there. you think she killed him?”

nanami sighs, loosening his tie. “it’s quite possible.” 

“i’ll be the alibi and you’ll get rid of the body?”

“of course.”

[deadsetobsessions]

“I can’t believe you’re squatting in an occupied house, Danny. That’s… actually isn’t that also breaking and entering? That’s a crime, isn’t it?”

“One, at least I don’t have to pay rent and/or utilities. Two, Tim let me stay. And three, I’m a vigilante. Breaking and entering is like the basics of being one. Also, they’re paying me now. This is a legit job now!”

Jazz sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Whatever, dumbass. Where is Tim, anyways?”

“He’s in bed.”

“Really?” Jazz raised an eyebrow and rested a hand on her hip. “Then what’s that?”

Danny whirled around, making eye contact with a frozen Tim.

“Ahah-”

Danny groaned, cutting Tim’s awkward laughter and no-doubt bullshit excuse.

“Kid, Tim, we talked about this.”

“It’s for the aesthetics!” Tim protested, the argument well worn, but obligingly stepping away from the window sill.

Danny shot Jazz a disgruntled look when she muttered, “Well, doesn’t that sound familiar.”

“It’s a school night, Tim.” Danny crossed the room, ushering Tim away from the door. The halfa could probably put down professional babysitter on his resume. If he could handle Tim “climb out of windows” Drake and Tim “sleeps in hard to reach places” Drake in the same day, he could handle anything.

Tim puffed up, like a disgruntled kitten. “Robin gets to go out on a school night! And he’s my age! Kinda! And at least I’m not fighting criminals!”

Again, this is an argument they’ve had multiple times.

“Not for a lack of trying,” Danny muttered, rolling his eyes when Jazz snickered. He made the mistake of looking down at Tim’s convincing little sad kitten act and sighed. “Alright, alright. We get two hours of batwatching, then you go to sleep.”

“Deal!” Tim cheered. Jazz grinned, mouthing ‘weak’ at Danny, who promptly made like his high school self and ignored her.

“Go get your jacket. And some thicker socks, you’re gonna freezing out there.”

“Okay!!”

When Tim was out of earshot, excitedly thundering down the lavish hallway, Jazz tilted her head back and laughed.

“Oh, shut up.”

“How the tables have tabled, huh, Danny?” Jazz snickered.

“You think you got jokes,” Danny pointed at her with a new mug of coffee. “Laugh it up, but don’t forget that you’re his older sister now too.”

Jazz paled. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Now you gotta deal with two of us!”

“Two of who?” Tim returned, bundled up in a fancy puffy jacket. Jazz cooed at him, kneeling down to zip his jacket up. Danny, echoing her, magically grabbed a scarf and wrapped around Tim.

“Us, her little brothers. Unfortunately, you’re now our little brother and that means Jazz is gonna mother you like you’re a baby duck.”

Danny ducked the half hearted smack Jazz sent his way, grinning at Tim. The kid had a self conscious smile on his face, bashful at the unprecedented (for him) attention and affection. Danny’s smile tightened when Tim looked at Jazz for confirmation (which she gave). If it weren’t for the fact that Tim loved his parents, Danny would have spirited (hah!) the kid away. He’s like a textbook case of neglect. It’s why he keeps trying to sneak out in ways that’ll easily get him caught. He’s trying to test if Danny would get mad and leave-

“Oh my god. I’m turning into you, Jazz.” Danny said, horrified.

“What?” Jazz narrowed her eyes once the statement sunk in. “What’s wrong with being more like me? I can actually process my emotions in a timely manner, thanks.”

Danny, stuck in the horror of understanding someone’s motivations and processing some of his own trauma, shuddered.

Danny picked up Tim and swung him onto his shoulders. “C’mon, Timmy. Let’s get out of here before Jazz gives us germs.”

“Oh, that’s real rich coming from the greasiest vigilante this side of the river.”

“Not true! Green Arrow’s greasier!”

“Eh, he doesn’t count. He’s in Oregon or something, right?”

“Who cares? I wanna see Robin!” Tim wriggled, placing his heavy ass camera on Danny’s head. “He’s a new Robin! The first one moved to Blüdhaven!”

“To be a cop, right?” Danny asked.

“Yeah. It’s… not great. And kinda ironic.”

“ACAB.”

——

Batman snuck closer to the glowing green figure that was glancing around the rooftops. He’s glad he sent Robin home hours ago, because variables in Gotham tended to be dangerous.

He dropped to a crouch behind the figure, who turned around as soon as he did, looking unsurprised. The being had enhanced hearing then, if not enhanced everything else.

“There you are!” The being scowled at him, but Bruce couldn’t detect any actual hostility. Only weariness. “I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

Nevertheless, he hadn’t survived this long by being careless.

“What is your business in Gotham?” He deepened his voice, adding enough gravel to sound mildly threatening.

The being shook their head, white hair unnaturally waving in the air. Like it was under water.

“I live here. I have a bone to pick with you.” Batman loosened his stance, readying to move.

“Can you keep Robin in on school nights?! If you can’t, can’t you make him go home sooner? My kid brother keeps trying to sneak out of the house to imitate Robin and it’s killing me! Do you know how many times I’ve had to stop him from climbing out of the window? We live on the third floor, man!”

A frazzled older brother. Batman-Bruce grimaced. He couldn’t stop Jason anymore than this being could. Also, “You live here?”

The being scowled, looking defensive. “Why, I can’t? Are you being discriminatory? Because I refuse to take shit from a grown man in a bat-sona.”

“…A bat-what?”

The being sighed. “Nevermind. Yes. I live here. My name is Phantom.”

“Don’t cause any trouble.” Batman warned before hesitating. The being was young, that was clear. He kind of reminded Bruce of Dick, and it made Batman’s tone soften. “And I will try. Robin is resolute.”

Phantom dropped his glowing face into his hands, a move Bruce often wanted to mirror.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

——

Sorry guys I really like tired babysitter brother Danny and unnecessarily jumping out of windows Tim. This is before Tim decided to be a vigilante. This is after Dick moves out.

[livwritesstuff]

Eddie and Steve and their three daughters are sitting around the kitchen table one evening when four-year-old Hazel asks –

“Now that I’m here, are you gonna get married soon?

Steve blinks.

The question isn’t entirely out of left field – not for Hazel, anyway, whose preschool teacher got married a few weeks ago and came back with all kinds of pictures and stories. Apparently, Hazel’s been eating it all up, and she’s their most romantical kid, so to speak, so that’s not really a shock.

Thing is, Eddie and Steve are already married – have been for six years this past May, so…

“Uh, we are married, Hazy-Jay,” Eddie answers before Steve has a chance to say anything.

Hazel’s face falls, her mouth parting.

“Huh?”

Steve inwardly cringes.

“You got married before?” Hazel asks, her chin quivering like she’s only a few moments away from tears (and she’s their most emotional kid too, so she probably is).

“People get married before they have kids, Hazel,” seven-year-old Robbie points out all matter-of-fact.

“Well,” Steve pauses, because, yeah, Robbie is mostly not wrong, but those pesky gay marriage laws had kept him and Eddie from getting married until Massachusetts finally legalized it in ‘04 (when Moe was three and Robbie six-ish months old and Hazel still two years away). He’s pretty sure that level of nuance might be lost on their four-year-old though.

“Not Dad and Papa,” Moe cuts in, “Me and you were there, Robbie.”

“Moe,” Eddie mutters, “Not helping.”

“What?” Moe shrugs, “It’s true!”

Hazel looks positively devastated by this information.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“Well, hon, we didn’t know you were coming,” Steve tries, “We didn’t know any of you were coming!”

“That’s not true,” Moe points out, “You knew about Robbie.”

“Moe,” Eddie hisses.

Steve reaches behind him to snag a framed photo of him and Eddie and Steve and Moe and Robbie all smiling at the camera on the steps of Boston City Hall off the shelf it perches on.

“You know this picture?” he asks as Hazel climbs into his lap. She nods, “This is from the day Dad and I got married.”

“It doesn’t look like a wedding,” Hazel says skeptically, her nose all scrunched up. 

“‘Cause it wasn’t really a wedding,” Steve tells her, “We got married at a courthouse in Boston – same courthouse where we adopted you and where we adopted Moe and where we adopted Robbie.”

“Why did you adopted us?”

“Well, you know how sometimes we take emergency foster placements every once in a while and we’ll have a new friend for a few days?”

Hazel nods.

“Dad and I used to do that all the time,” he continues, “and that’s how we met Moe, and so for two years it was just me and Daddy and Moe, and then we found out that you guy’s mom was gonna have another baby, and then we met Robbie.”

“And then me?”

“And then you,” Steve nods, “It was me and Dad and Moe and Robbie for three years, and then one day we found out that your mom had another baby, and that was you.”

Hazel wordlessly mulls this over for a bit, and then she lets out a pensive little sigh.

“If you would’a known about me before, would you wait?”

“To get married? Of course we would’ve waited.”

“And then maybe you would’a had a real wedding?”

“Maybe,” Steve affirms, even though…probably not, because that shit is expensive and, seriously, nothing out there could have prepared Steve for the reality of their college savings goal doubling overnight.

“Where is our mom now?” Hazel then asks.

Moe, helpful as always, cuts in with, “She’s dead now.”

“Moe,” Eddie exclaims for the third time, “Jee-eez, read the room please!”

[arijackz]

PICK A CARD: Your FS' Secret Kinks

❦ “She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theatre curtain. I was to get to know that trick. That was supposed to make me roll over on my back with all four paws in the air." - Raymon Chandler, The Big Sleep

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. This is a gender-neutral reading, change any pronouns to apply to you.

p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4

✦ Pile One ✦

Poor lil pooh pooh. This person struggles to “fill their cups up” so they get off on denying themselves pleasure. They secretly like the feeling of hitting whatever rock bottom looks like to them. Honestly, they want to be saved. They are wallowing at the bottom of a well, waiting for their savior to swoop in and throw them a rope. 

In a more literal sense, they want a person to be their reason to live. Their reason to feel daylight on their skin again. Everyone and everything around them is unsatisfying and “fake”. They want something real to coax them out of their hell and entice them with all the thrilling things life has to offer. 

However, they also like this dark and brooding side of themselves. They have a bit of a corruption kink.

They fantasize about a virginal angel coming down to save them, but they end up convincing the angel to sink down to their level. 

They like exciting, spontaneous people who are willing to jump up and run out the door to do something fun at any moment, but think innocent fun. Like going to the movies to theater hop, and getting away without paying. Or, running around the Target parking lot in shopping carts and trying not to bang into cars. Maybe even steal a few street signs. 

Innocent childhood fun that you’d see in early 90s movies. But add a sadistic twist to it that only they are aware of. 

You would be the innocent virgin (doesn’t have to be true, it's their fantasy) who is unknowingly leading this beast (also not true, they are just extremely self-deprecating) to your pretty little happy places which they plan to desecrate.

They want to fuck you in your family home and make a mess of your childhood bed, making you scream so loud that you’re family starts to look at you differently. They want to take you to your favorite movie spots where you usually chill and hangout with your friends and turn it into a place where all you can think about is them covering your mouth in the back of the theater while you’re squirming in their lap, trying to escape out of their grip as they edge you to the new Marvel release. 

They have a kink for turning all of your innocent, fun moments into their very own filthy fantasies.

Ps. Fisting came out of the blue so lube up!

Come To Me, My Senseless Angel

✦ Pile Two ✦

I don’t believe this is a future spouse, to be honest. This might be a situationship you need to move past. They seem emotionally immature, or at least this is a side of them that exclusively comes out when they’re aroused. 

They can be quite abrasive and feel like they are constantly under attack so they’re incredibly defensive. They have a history of lashing out at their loved ones when they feel overwhelmed and get so blinded by their emotions that they disregard their affection for their partners and say really unforgettable, harmful words which permanently alters the connection for the worse. 

They carry guilt from these actions and are in a constant state of regret. In this state, their sense of pleasure is a little twisted. They get turned on by causing a genuine issue in the relationship. They like the idea of pushing you to your limit where you’re this 🤏  close to your breaking point and at your absolute lowest. It’s when you reach your rock bottom and realize the need to move away from this person and you scream out, “I DESERVE BETTER THAN THIS.”

They like to grovel. You know that cycle where somebody fucks up and then they’re in the dog house buying flowers and being extra fluffy just to get in the victim’s good graces so they can do the same thing over again. So far, pile one and two’s respective partners like to feel like shit. They secretly like the moment where they completely fuck up a relationship and have to beg on their hands and knees to get their person back orrrrrr they get off on emotionally tearing someone down to the point where they get on their knees to bed for this person’s attention. 

Either way, there's a lot of fucked psychological issues underneath this fantasy that I’m not unpacking here because it differs from person to person. 

In its best light, this person glorifies struggle love. At its worst, this person is purposefully emotionally abusive with the intent to tear their partner down for their own sexual gratification. 

They’re conscious enough to know their actions are toxic but don’t have the emotional maturity to work past their actions. They’re at the phase where they’re just aware and are like “I know I’m shitty but that’s just who I am. If they stick with me and the sex is good, it’s meant to be.”

I’m honestly getting twitter relationship hypotheticals with this one. Iykyk.

They’re also an edgelord. Less in an internet cockroach way and more in a witty- can be funny if done well- way, but they get pleasure from shocking people nonetheless. This energy can be directed toward you to piss you off and annoy you with the intent of getting in your pants later. 

I’ve been guided to switch the conversation briefly: If this resonates and is someone you are dealing with. It is time to move on. This person gets gratification from hurting you and will not get past that high of tearing down a relationship and then having a messy recovery. They have their own issues to work through and cannot see how they are hurting you. There is no future with this person, they came into your life to teach you a lesson about your self-value. That cycle has run its course and it's time to move on.  

To be honest, I’m not a fan of this person and don’t even want to list the explicit kinks that came out but I will just in case this message is for you but you’re not sure.

Random messages: Hot tub/pool sex, hair pulling, break down crying, interracial, milk, broken condom, “i fucking hate you”, “whore”, mirror, drunk sex, complaining, smack a bitch, twitter

P.S. You’re too sexy for the bullshit! There is bigger and greater out there, you just need to believe that for yourself!

This person will not get a mood board out of me.

✦ Pile Three ✦

Okay, so this person has some deep religious guilt. This is a male presenting person. I am being clear with their sex because it plays a role in this reading. They have some majorly repressed feminine energy. They may even be attracted to the same sex. 

This is a fs reading, so they are likely bi, pansexual, or trans. Either way, their family is close-minded and is not supportive of them. They were forced to leave home so they could finally live their truth. They have lived their entire life fitting somebody else’s narrative. They were the hypermasculine bro type to “cover up” their femininity. 

So, they have a kink for hyperfeminity. It’s almost to the point where they obsess over the caricature of girlhood. I see lots of pink, high heels, full-glam, all-day mall shopping, pinup curls, flashy jewelry, sleepovers, day spas, that scene in Scott Pilgrim where that girl is like “SHE’S PROBABLY LIKE 25!”, and everything else that gets associated with “girlhood” nowadays. 

They fantasize about you in your receptive energy, being waited on and cared for hand and foot. They like to observe the way you move. Everything about you and your feminine aura is incredibly alluring to them. The way with each breath your breasts fall, your hips swaying with each step, the cute way you match your accessories with your outfits. They notice everything about you. 

You know those paintings of wealthy women lying on their sides and being fed grapes? That. They’re not in the serving role, they're the painter. Their kink is capturing you in those everyday moments where the world seems to be waiting on you like you’re the collective’s queen.

They see femininity in a higher light than the general population. They see women as automatically deserving of this type of care, they also want this care. 

They have a secret hard-on for pregnant women and women with swollen breasts. They have a lactation kink. They fantasize about cumming in you over and over again. They see you as a Goddess, so they want to see you masturbate at church on an altar, like you're waiting to be worshipped. 

A lot of their fantasies, they’re not even included in. It’s just you looking God-like and being worshipped by the world around you. This person may hate when you wear clothes. They act like the fabric is committing a sin by covering your body. They just want to capture your essence. Like an admirer and a student.

P.S. Dick game goes CRAZY. They watch a lot of women-focused porn to study what gets a woman off. Like Maddie in Euphoria, he is there to study.

Pretty In Pink

✦ Pile Four ✦

WE GOT A PLEASURE DOM IN THE BUILDING Y’ALL STAY CALM. As my mama would say, they love your dirty drawls!

You could do no wrong in this person’s eyes. They’re the golden retriever type. Head empty, leading with heart and IN LOVE>>>>>

You are the pot of gold and the end of the rainbow they’re chasing. They appreciate a good fling but they’ve never felt this before. The emotions you stir in them are unprecedented, this is puppy, sandbox love that most people lose touch with after life jades them.

This is raw love at its most unprocessed. I taste honey. 

They have a kink for the power you have over them. It’s like you have a carrot on a stick and they’re the pig being led to a love den they can’t escape. And they’ll happily be the squealing pig in every lifetime they get with you. This is a soul yearning. 

You will know this person because they will proactively pursue you and they will have no doubts in their mind about it. They are really attracted to your physical form, your curves. Even if you’re on the slimmer side, they like your structure and the dips in your spine. They’ll stare at you when you’re talking and zone out, thinking about how attractive they find you. 

They’re not used to having to try to get someone to sleep with them. They have to put effort towards you and they like that. This person is downright thirsty and craves intimacy with you.

Their fantasies aren’t even dirty, they’re passionate. They want to put you in a mating press, with your knees pressed all the way up beside your ears. They want to penetrate (could be with a toy) deeply and touch that gooey part of you that makes you see stars. 

They want to see an imprint of them in your lower belly. Any position where you’re in their arms is a go for them because they like having you. They want every moment to be just you and them away from the world. So very sweet and intimate. They also love marking you, expect lots of hickeys.

Ignore them from time to time too (healthily, these conditions should be discussed beforehand)! They see you as the ultimate prize, so if you delay their satisfaction, they’ll feel like they’re chasing again, which gets them off. They like to feel like they’re convincing you to sleep with them. You both are consenting, but they like the idea of you having better things to do and they’re trying to convince you to stay and party with them. 

They are very action-oriented and love movement. Anything that involves an adventure together, they are down for. 

PS. Surprise them with a bubble bath together, they’ll love that. And tease them while pulling their hair a bit!

Ode To My Darling Sun

[kevjeanyves]

i just got here (and by that i mean i binged the whole show while studying for finals between november and december), but buddie can’t NOT go canon. not at this point. not with everything they’ve set up

bucks canonically bisexual. that’s a massive key component. the queerBAIT is now lying entirely on eddie’s shoulders. and in terms of bucks storyline, the horrible guy he dated was given a barebones personality…that resembles eddie (military, likes sports, had a serious relationship with a woman). almost every trait they gave That Guy resembles eddie (except eddie isn’t racist). they did that on purpose. buck, bothered, bewildered, bisexual or whatever it’s called was so centred on bucks relationship with eddie

plus the whole confessions “i’m not your last” moment, only for the LAST shot of that episode to be buck and eddie sitting side by side. confessions as a whole is such insane proof of impending buddie canon too…the whole focus on eddie finding joy, on eddie’s catholic guilt and guilt in general, on eddie not wanting to See himself both figuratively and literally because he’s scared of what he’ll find…josh’s speech applying to eddie but making no sense regarding that Other Guy (the glee thing made no sense regardless)

and THAT focus is so obviously pointing towards eddie being gay. eddie’s entire everything has always pointed towards him being gay, i can’t lie, but it’s getting so much more obvious. they’ve reached a point where nothing about eddie’s personal arc or journey makes any fucking sense UNLESS he’s gay, and every storyline is making it more obvious that they’ve realized it

his catholic guilt being brought up. not wanting to be intimate with a woman who represents god in his mind. sex, god, and shame all coming together in that episode, AND bobby bringing up that eddie does this thing in relationships where he makes excuses instead of examining how he really feels towards them…now im sure bobby doesn’t know eddie’s gay, but it invites the audience and eddie to examine his past behaviour towards female romantic partners. and every single thing about that priest/juice scene in confessions. catholicism guilt tied into sexuality again (“uh…n-no offence…i-im straight” to a priest like cmon)

and speaking of past relationships, eddie’s grief is at the forefront of his storyline too now. his main most pressing storyline being chris’s running away. eddie’s grief and complicated emotions towards shannon have always been something he struggles with, and in s7 we learn that chris has complicated feelings around his mom too. and at the end of s7…well. what a stupid fucking storyline, but grief is the driving force of the chasm between eddie and chris. this addresses the most important romantic relationship eddie had with a woman (obviously shannon), and hopefully the relationship he has with his son, and both of those people are excuses eddie might be making in his own head to justify not even questioning his sexuality. eddie and shannon had chris when they were teenagers, eddie’s been a dad literally his entire adult life. does he know he can be gay if he’s been married? if he has a kid? does he know he’s allowed to even question his own sexuality? it’s probably what michael felt, but more complicated

AND michael stayed with athena thinking she could “fix” him. eddie said in s7 that he thinks he’s broken and can’t be fixed, to a woman he’d been unadvisedly pursuing, a woman who looked just like his own wife…

then, the “you think being a cheerleader makes your son weak?” storyline. cheerleading is seen as feminine and there are a lot of stereotypes about male cheerleaders and feminine men. both cheerleading and being gay are seen as feminine. the cheerleader called eddie “dad” and hen pointed out to chim that it his emergency is difficult for eddie because he misses his own kid AND the conversation with the cheerleaders dad where he relates it to his own current situation, which connects the storyline to eddie and chris. but the “you think [stereotypically feminine thing] makes your son weak?” brings eddie and ramon to mind. because eddie was raised to be hypermasculine and Not Weak, never weak. what would ramon think if eddie comes out as gay?

and, finally, the focus on eddie finding joy. on eddie doing any introspection at all. on eddie Seeing himself and understanding himself and being kinder to himself. on eddie realizing he deserves to be happy. on eddie realizing he doesn’t have to hide behind his (ridiculously adorable) moustache, that he doesn’t have to hide who he is

s7 was for bi buck. s8 is for gay eddie AND likely for buddie. eddie’s currently trying to see Himself and make amends with his past (and because that went badly, making amends with chris…the child he sorta partially legally gave to buck, in a way…). buck’s trying to not lose hope over the future, wondering who’ll be the last to love him (or wondering if he’s loveable at all). eddie’s true self AND bucks endgame are called into question at the same time…now maybe i just got here But

[seungkw1]

sketchbook — xmh

♡ pairing: xu minghao x gn!reader ♡ theme: best friends to lovers, college au, fluff ♡ wc: 3.1k ♡ warnings: none

“why did i sign up for this stupid class?”

you mumbled it under your breath, but your best friend still heard it from across the room. he looks up from the book he’s reading, a concerned frown on his face.

“what’s wrong with the class?” he closes his book, his eyes resting on yours.

“the class is fine it’s just… i’m just bad at it.”

“i highly doubt that.” he gets up, joining you at your kitchen table currently cluttered with textbooks, homework, and various drawing materials. he reaches for your sketchpad. “let me see.”

“nuh-uh,” you say, closing the book. he grabs it from you anyway.

“minghao! come on,” you shout at him. he ignores you, flipping through the pages.

“most of those are shitty reject drawings that i started and gave up on, nobody needs to see those.”

he continues perusing through the book quickly, but pauses at a particular page. you take the chance and reach for the sketchpad again, grabbing hold of it.

“wait! i like this one.”

you glance at the drawing he’s looking at. it’s the side profile of a classmate, drawn as a warm-up exercise.

“what? that was just a warm-up sketch, and it’s not even good. it looks nothing like the girl i was drawing.”

minghao looks up at you. “that doesn’t mean it’s bad. art isn’t necessarily about drawing things exactly the way they look, it’s about your interpretation of the subject. that’s like the whole point.”

“i wasn’t interpreting anything here, i was literally just trying to draw her face.”

“but look,” he says, turning the book so you can see it. “look at the way she’s looking into the distance. she looks sad, but in a nostalgic way.”

you stare at the sketch. “i don’t see it.”

“but that’s part of it too - art isn’t always about knowing the exact meaning of the piece, it’s also open to interpretation on the viewer’s perspective. and i like the way you portrayed her emotion.” 

you narrow your eyes at him. “you’re just making that up to make me feel better.”

“i’m not! i promise. i really like your art style, y/n.”

you want to roll your eyes at him, but he looks too sincere. “okay but how can i have an art style if i literally started drawing two weeks ago at the start of the semester? i don’t even know what i’m doing.”

“look at all your drawings though,” he flips the pages one at a time. “you press really hard when you draw, so it gives everything a very bold, sharp look. and combined with the way you shade, it gives it a dramatic edge.”

you look at your sketches again. they’re still unsightly in your eyes, but you do kind of see what he means.

“well, that’s good to know i guess. but it’s still hard,” you mope. “i thought this would be an easy elective to get an A in but now i’m worried.”

“it’s an intro class - i’m sure the professor isn’t expecting you to be picasso on day one. just keep practicing and you’ll be perfectly fine.”

one of the many things you love about minghao: he always knows how to make you feel reassured. 

“you’re probably right,” you reply. “i don’t know what i should draw for practice, though.”

“well, what do you want to improve the most?”

you think for a second. “our next project is a life drawing, but drawing people is so hard. so maybe that but what am i supposed to do, just draw random people?”

“sure, why not?”

“because that’s weird!”

“okay, well it doesn’t have to be a random person. here, try drawing me.”

“you?? right now?”

“yeah.”

you open your mouth to protest, but you pause, realizing it might not be a bad idea. 

you shrug as you reach for your pencils. “okay, i guess. you can't get mad when it turns out terrible though.”

minghao smiles softly. he situates himself in the chair, focusing his gaze off in the distance. you pick up your sketchbook, holding it at a comfortable angle as you hold your pencil above the page. you think for a minute - you never know where to start when you have to draw a face. you glance back up at minghao, skimming across his features - naturally, you land on his eyes. you always forget how pretty they are: dark brown, soft, calm - giving him a permanent aura of being deep in thought. 

you look back down at the blank page, it's emptiness seemingly taunting you. with a sigh you touch the dulled lead tip to the paper, making your first stroke -  the curvature of minghao’s eyelid appearing on the page. you peep back up at your subject. to your surprise, your shape isn't too far off from reality. you continue, sketching his lower eyelid, his iris, his long dark eyelashes. you erase your marks a few times when they don't look quite right, but before long the image of an eye that looks mostly like minghao’s has formed. 

you move to his nose, drawing the line of its sharp bridge, sketching a circle to render its round, button-shaped end - bringing the shape of his face to life. you peer up at his face, your pencil continuing its strokes, but you pause as you arrive at his lips. they are soft, plump, perfectly formed, highly kissable. you sketch the delicate curves, emphasizing their pillowy nature. you find yourself absentmindedly in a trance when you realize you’ve been staring at him for too long - you’ve already finished drawing his mouth. you feel your cheeks turn warm, praying he can’t see you getting flustered out of the corner of his eye. 

you move on, sketching his soft but strong jawline, his ears - adorned with his usual jewelry, adding quick wispy lines to form the shape of his long hair. before long the essence of minghao has materialized in your notebook.

as you finish, you hold your sketchpad up to compare your drawing to your subject. you don’t love it, and it’s nowhere near perfect. but it is decidedly good enough.

“okay, i’m done, i guess.” you set the notebook down, hesitantly sliding it across the table toward minghao. he picks it up, turning it to face him as he looks at it for the first time. the edges of his mouth twitch upward into a subtle smile, but he doesn’t say anything.

“you hate it.”

minghao looks up at you. “what? no, i love it.” he looks back at the paper with a pleased grin. “i’m telling you, you’re really good at portraying emotion.”

“and what emotion exactly did i portray?”

he shows you your drawing. “i look wistful - like i’m caught in a daydream of unrequieted love.”

you feel your stomach do a flip, but you play it cool, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes at him. “well, i didn’t do that on purpose. but i’m glad you like it.” you extend your hand to take back the notebook, but he turns it toward him again, taking another look. 

“can i keep it?” he looks up at you, his striking brown eyes making contact with yours. you stifle a gulp as you reply.

“um… sure, i guess so. if you really want it.”

he gives you a soft smile, pleased at your response. “i really do.” he carefully tears the page along the perforation, separating it from its spiral binding. he closes the sketchbook and hands it back to you. you return it to its place in your backpack.

“well, thanks for letting me practice on you, i appreciate it.”

“of course. if you need any more practice let me know - since i see you most days anyway.”

“you’re the best.”

“i know,” he replies smugly. you pick up your eraser and lob it at him. he manages to catch it with one hand, giving you a sly look as you jump out of your chair, running from him before he can throw it back. he follows you, chasing you around your apartment - you shout at him, feigning anger, but your laughter gives you away. 

another thing you love about minghao: being with him is always so easy.

—

you didn’t mean to make drawing minghao a regular occurrence. but on one particularly crisp fall day, you find yourself absentmindedly sketching his features as you eat lunch together in the park. he’s reading for his literature class, and you’re supposed to be studying for your sociology course, but you keep zoning out. it’s not your fault that the text is dull, and that the cherub-like rosiness coloring his cheeks makes him look more ethereal than usual. renaissance paintings of angels have nothing on how beautiful he looks right now, you think to yourself. 

you also definitely didn’t mean to start falling for your best friend, but here you are.

delicate pencil strokes paint the wisps of his bangs falling over his eyes as he is studiously engrossed in his book, his long eyelashes peeking through the curtain of hair. you focus on perfecting the shape of his face - glancing up to compare your rendering to your subject - when you notice him looking back at you.

“what are you doing?” he asks, genuinely curious.

you’re about to shut your notebook in a panic, when you realize that would only look more suspicious. 

“nothing, just…”

he reaches for your notebook, his fingers brushing over the top of the page as he tilts it down so he can see. he lets out a soft chuckle.

“practicing again, i see,” he says, casually, but clearly teasing you a little. “i thought you were supposed to be studying for your sociology exam.”

“i am,” you insist. he raises his eyebrow at you. “i was just taking a break,” you add. the look on his face tells you he’s not convinced, but he doesn’t press you further.

“it looks good, i can tell you’re getting better at drawing from a reference.”

“i guess it is getting a little easier,” you admit. 

minghao smiles. “good,” he affirms, before going back to his text without another word. 

you find yourself gazing dreamily at the man before you, lost in aimless thoughts, imagining the feel of his hair tangled around your fingers, his skin softly pressed against your cheeks, his lips brushing against yours. eventually he notices, peeking up at you through his bangs. you swiftly return to your drawing, only to realize you've already finished. his portrait looks slightly cartoonish, and nowhere nearly as beautiful as the real thing, but you decide it's not half bad. 

you half-heartedly resume your studies, sneaking glances at minghao here and there. every glimpse makes your heart flutter - you feel like an idiot, you're in college for christ's sake, and here you are having an entire crush on your closest friend. 

just tell him how you feel, part of your mind tries to convince you. 

but what if it ruins our friendship? another part of you worries. 

you realize you're staring at him again when he looks up from his book, his gaze meeting yours. 

“hmm? what is it?” he asks you calmly. 

“i…” 

you hesitate. his eyes rest on your face attentively.

you let out a small sigh. “i’m getting cold. can we go inside?”

he smiles softly, marking his page as he closes his book. “of course.”

minghao walks you to your next class, which is conveniently located in the building next to his next class. 

“well, see ya later,” you tell him as you turn to enter the building. 

“y/n…”

you freeze as he grabs your arm. you turn back around, looking at him expectantly. he lifts his hand up to your head, tenderly reaching for your hair. you realize you're holding your breath. you exhale as his fingers graze your scalp softly, plucking something off of your head. 

he holds a small yellow piece up to you. “you had a leaf in your hair.” 

your panicking ceases, leaving you a bit disappointed, but you can't help but smile at him.

“thanks, minghao. what would i do without you?”

“walk around with leaves in your hair all day, probably.”

you playfully give him a light shove. he reaches for the door, opening it for you as you head off to class. 

“i'm coming over tonight, if that's alright,” he says as you step through the doorway. 

“of course,” you say, turning over your shoulder to face him. “though, i should probably start charging you rent as much as you're at my place.”

he smiles back at you. “see you later, y/n.”

he disappears as the door shuts quickly. you spend the rest of the afternoon in a daydream, impatiently counting the hours until you see him again. 

—

“how’s the studying going?” minghao asks from the other end of the couch. he sets his book down, pausing so he can take his hoodie off. his plain black t-shirt rises up as he does, revealing his entire midriff. you try not to gawk too hard. he stares at you as he tosses the hoodie aside - you realize he is awaiting your response. 

you look down at your notebook, where you’ve once again been sketching his face. “um… pretty good,” you lie. “are you hungry?” you ask, changing the subject.

“starving, actually,” he admits.

“well, i can offer you ramen, or… actually, that’s about it.”

he grins at you. “ramen sounds great. want me to make some-”

“nope,” you respond as you flip your notebook over, setting it face down on the seat next to you. “i got it.” you rise and head to the kitchen. 

you cook the noodles, serving them into two bowls and carrying them back to the living room. you set the bowls on the coffee table, reaching over to set one in front of minghao - but you feel your leg bump against something. you look down to see your notebook fall to the floor - landing right side up. before you can grab it, minghao has already picked it up for you. he goes to hand it back to you, but pauses as he sees your sketches. you go to swipe it out of his hands, but miss as he pulls back, looking at his own face doodled on your pages.

“you were drawing me again.” it wasn’t a question.

you try to quickly think of some excuse, anything, to get you out of this one, but your mind comes up blank. you decide to try and play it off.

“yes,” you reply with feigned confidence as you sit down next to him. he looks up at you, then back down to the paper. you stare at him, waiting for him to say something else, but he says nothing.

“i like to practice whenever i can,” you add with a shrug.

he flips through your notebook. “whenever you can, or whenever you’re with me?”

“um… i-”

“because these all sure look like me, y/n.”

“so?” you ask him. you meant for your tone to be casual, but it came out a bit more defensive than intended.

his eyes meet yours again. he looks at you warmly, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking. your heart beats rapidly in your chest. 

“so,” he answers as he sets the notebook aside. “i'm wondering, if…” he scoots closer to you, lifting his hand to your face, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb. your skin feels like it's on fire. his fingers tucked under your chin delicately, he draws your face in toward his. you gasp softly. 

“if you feel the same way about me, as i feel about you.”

your heart is racing. you feel dizzy. he's so close to you, a few more inches and your noses would touch. his plump lips wait enticingly. 

“and how do you feel about me?” you manage to ask, your voice barely more than a whisper. his deep brown eyes stare longingly into yours. you’re pretty sure you know the answer, you hope you know the answer, but you need him to confirm it. 

suddenly, he kisses you. 

he kisses you, setting alight fireworks inside you. his soft lips touch against yours ever so gently, his nose pressing against your cheek, his hand holding your face tenderly in his palm, then sliding to the back of your neck, drawing you closer still into him. your chest presses against his, his other arm wrapping around your waist, his large hand settling upon the small of your back. you kiss him back, your lips locked onto his like your life depends on it. you've thought of this, dreamt of this, so many times before, all the years you've known minghao - yet you never could have imagined how thrilling, exhilarating, freeing it would be to finally be here, in his arms, world stopped, nothing matters except you and him, so lovingly embraced - together. 

electricity pulsates through your skin, every nerve in your body dancing. slowly, minghao’s lips part from yours. you lock eyes with him - in all the time you've known him, he's always been a sentimental person, but you've never seen such love and adoration beaming from him like you see now. 

and it's all for you. 

a giggle escapes you. minghao looks at you, a wide grin spreading across his face. you run your hands through his hair, a sensation you've waited so long to experience - it's every bit as delightful as you imagined. 

“hao…” you start.

he plants another kiss on your lips. “hmm?” he asks, still glowing at you. 

“how long have you felt this way?” you ask softly. 

“i've had feelings for you since the day we met, and i've loved you more every day since.” 

you boop your nose against his, giving him a fake stern look. 

“and why didn't you tell me?”

he feigns a pouty face back at you. “why didn't you tell me?”

you blow a tiny raspberry at him. he smiles, pulling you into him, wrapping his arms around you tightly as he kisses your cheek repeatedly. you laugh, held in his warm embrace, overflowing with emotions. 

finally, you can admit it: you're in love with your best friend - and he just so happens to love you back. 

[melliemell]

Pairing: Dazai x f!reader

Contents: mostly SFW, first date with Dazai, making out at uncomfortable places yet again, CW for Dazai-typical discussions of suicide, nothing too graphic; fluff and cheekiness in full. Approx 2k.

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

There it was again. The stare.

You moved about the food on your plate, feigning ignorance to Dazai’s gaze from the other side of the table. He’s been doing this more often in the past hour than your entire date. It got you wondering what on earth you did to get that switch up. He struck you as the airheaded type, at least at first. 

First dates as a general rule were rather awkward, as common sense points out. Even more so when said guy was a complete stranger you happened to bump into on the street. Dazai did have that effortless charm about him though, and you found yourself saying yes before you registered you’d just agreed to taking him out on a date. 

You. You taking him. 

He had a way with words, that you couldn’t deny.

And now, a second iced tea in and genuinely enjoying yourself, it was easy to see how that happened. From the constant flow of conversation to the rather peculiar sense of humour– yeah, he might be a little weird.

 A bit. 

Okay, a lot. 

But learning the effects of mushroom poisoning wasn’t all that boring. The contrary, actually. But it definitely had to do with Dazai’s ability to disarm any situation of its soberness. You found yourself relaxing into the evening with no worries over figuring out how to come up with escape plans. 

You were sticking this one out. Even if you’d probably be the one paying for dinner.

A faint tapping caught your attention.

“Aw, you’re not paying attention to me,” Dazai said, pouting. He clung his fork against his plate again, looking rather dejected enough to make you feel sad for him. “My lady doesn’t see me worthy of her precious time. Gah, what pains!”

You raised a brow. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?” You wondered how quickly he could switch between emotions. The look from earlier was completely gone.

“So are lots of people around us.” He loomed in closer, eyes glinting with only trouble. “But I keep my attention on the really cute ones.”

Ah, a charmer indeed. Hmm. Let’s see then…

“Do you, now? In fact–” You looked around innocently, weighing your options before settling on a table to Dazai’s back. A smile crept on your lips and you pointed discreetly. “–I’ve always been more of an admirer of elegant appeal than ‘cuteness’, to be honest.” 

“Oh?” 

You sipped your tea patiently as Dazai threw a carefree glance over his shoulder to the woman sitting not far from him. Nothing stood out at first glance, but the way she carried the simple, yet classy dress was enough to give you a double take. It was a stark contrast to the rest of you here.

The restaurant you were in did not have any dress code; it was far from those high-end establishments that required such frivolity.

The low woah that left Dazai’s lips was pretty much on point. It was almost like seeing a poorly disguised celebrity on a random Wednesday. 

Dazai hummed. “I see, I see.” He rested a cheek on his knuckles. “Sad to hear, though. You have a lot more fun with cuties! I have a coworker who’s very tidied up. He’s pretty fun to vex, but it’s almost impossible to free him from that stick up his ass. What a shame.”

“So I should go for the fun ones?” 

“I hear it’s good to mingle with like-minded people,” Dazai said, and winked. 

“Eh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m rather ‘tidied’ too, And if it comes with being seen as classy– I don’t mind.” You didn’t feel embarrassed by this. Too much adventure tends to stress you out more often than not. It was a miracle you even went on this date to begin with. But the look on Dazai’s face made you pause.

“Whaat? Pshh,” he waved a hand dismissively. A small glint of mischief flashed in his eyes, making you narrow yours in distrust. “Your modesty is making my heart flutter, here–”

He reached forward, clasping your hand into his before resting it against his chest. His vest felt warm, the wool grazing at your fingertips gently.

You blinked, face blank. “You know I can’t feel anything through–”

“Oh my,” Dazai said, that cheeky smile reappearing. He leaned closer, tone low, “I will admit, this is a bit straightforward; I’m quite shy. But… when a beautiful woman hints at wishing to undress me, and publicly I might add, then–”

Your face heated up. “What? No– nono, you just–,” you hissed, your other hand flying to cover the already spreading flush on your cheeks, and Dazai laughed heartedly.

“See? Told you you were a cutie,” he said, cocking his head. He squeezed your hand, showing no signs of letting go anytime soon. 

“And you’re too much,” you said, eyes peeking from spread fingers. 

“Maybe I need the guiding hand of a good honest samaritan.”

“So long as you don’t lead them to a heart attack first,” you said, cheeks still red.

“Aw, man.” Dazai wrinkled his nose. “That doesn’t sound fun at all. Too uncomfortable for my tastes. Did you know some heart attacks could last for hours? Bleh.”

“Add a comfy bed there in the mix and I’d agree. Heart attacks suck,” you said, and immediately drew slightly back as Dazai all but bore his gaze into you, eyes wide. You weren’t expecting that level of attention… and that stare from earlier. The fleeting one; it was back. 

This man was curious indeed.

There was a moment where no one spoke, Dazai not breaking eye contact with you as you blinked back at him. Then– the sound of wood scraping on floor reached your ears as Dazai scooped his chair closer, crouching close enough to you to feel his body heat. His thigh was flush against yours.

“Please,” Dazai began, “share with me what you meant by needing a bed. How would you like to leave this so dreadful world? Do you have opinions on carbon monoxide?”

You looked down at your seating. “Uhh.” 

Your brain blanked. It was a sudden change, and you were sure you had struck an interesting chord. Dazai nodded his head, beckoning you to share, but your focus was slowly seeping away, replaced by the newfound knowledge that Dazai’s hair was actually probably dark auburn, not chestnut,  and not as straight as you assumed. Or maybe it was the light. Might be. 

It looked floppy too. The type that glides smoothly through your fingers. 

You snapped back, sudden and quick. “Carbon what? Yes, no– I mean, I– like sleeping? Doesn’t sound bad to just drift off in the middle of it.”

Dazai nodded again. He was way too invested in this. “I see. a bit old-fashioned, but I respect that. Very Victorian of you.” 

“Yeah, and you strike me as the obnoxious type. Quiet and peaceful doesn’t ring quite as accurately,” you said casually. You’ve had weirder discussions with your close friends. This wasn’t all too outside your calibre. 

Dazai cradled his chin in his hand, striking a rather silly pose as he pondered this over. “I have said before I’d rather go out with a bang, hah. I am a man of my word, but if a beauty like you were to offer…”

You patted Dazai on the cheek. “Buckle up, clown man. We’re too young for that. Ask me again in, hmm, 60 years? No, make it 70, I’m an overachiever.”

A low whistle left Dazai’s lips, and he flopped back dramatically on the back of his chair. “Time is excruciating! Oh, to wait so long, my frail heart.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re such a baby.”

Dazai stuck out his tongue. 

Insufferable. Yet endearing. Keeping back your smiles was becoming harder and harder. Dazai didn’t need a confidence boost like that. Not when he leaned closer every time he made a remark, or when he listened to you intently as you rattled on about your shitty day job last summer or how you missed living at home with your mom’s cooking and her daily gossips. He wasn’t as obnoxious as you thought. 

Okay, maybe a little. 

At some point his hand came to rest over your knee, index finger looping lazy circles on your thigh. You didn’t remember giving him permission to do that, but… somehow, losing that contact wasn’t something you wanted. You leaned into it, catching the quick grin that formed on Dazai’s lips.

It wasn’t long before he had you completely wrapped around his finger, the pair of you stumbling out into the late evening filled with too much giddiness and anticipation. There wasn’t a drop of alcohol in your system yet your mind felt light, barely registering the walk back to your car. 

Dazai sprinted a bit ahead, bowing at the waist as he held the door open for you. “My lady, allow me.”

You snorted as you climbed into the driver’s seat. “Very smooth, but if this is your way of pleading for a ride… hmm, wasn’t the subway that way?”

“Aww, you’ll leave me stranded here, and all alone.” 

 Big brown eyes and a pout to kill for, Dazai was pulling the sympathy card like a champ. You weren’t gonna let him so easy, though. “Aren’t you a big boy? I’m sure you can manage.”

He bent down, resting on the lowered window. “I take it I didn’t win you over? Bummer. And I thought we were having a great time.”

“We were. But I learned something new about myself today.”

Dazai perked. “My my, and what is that?”

“You’re too fun to torment. I like that in a man.”

“Cruel,” Dazai said. “I’m way more fun to cuddle.”

You came closer, watching to see Dazai’s body language. He did not budge from his position, his attention fully drawn to you. He was needy for attention; it wasn’t hard to draw that conclusion, but giving in so fast wasn’t your style. Just a small pinch then, maybe…

“Hmm,” you said, twirling a loose strand of Dazai’s hair around your finger. He leaned in closer. “We’ll see.”

You had but a second to glance at his lips before Dazai captured yours. Your hands raised instinctively, cupping his face and you pulled him closer, earning a yelp as Dazai nearly lost his footing before he grabbed at the window frame. You paid that no mind, too busy. 

You didn’t expect Dazai to be a shy kisser; after the sudden moment of quick passion– you found him slowly working your lips together. Chaste and sweet, before he coaxed your mouth open with his. You swallowed his quiet sigh of contentment as his tongue explored yours, felt him running a hand through your hair to settle back at your neck, beckoning you closer.

Not that you could. It was getting hard to breathe, or you just forgot how to. You weren’t sure. 

“Stop, stop,” you whispered in between kisses. “We should really stop, Dazai.”

“2 more hours, please.”

You both laughed, and it was followed by a gentle nib at your lower lip before you lost yourself in him again. 

The world blurred, forgotten, as heat settled between your legs. It always marveled you– how nothing seemed to be enough in those moments. the only thought was more, more, more.

You wanted more. 

“Enough,” you said suddenly, hands pushing at Dazai’s shoulders. He had almost crawled inside your car, through the fucking window.

Dazai blinked at you, still a bit dazed. His pupils were blown wide, teeth grazing his lower lip as he tried to lean subconsciously in again. “You have really round cheeks, did you know that? Cute. Why is everything about you cute?” 

“Yeah?” You set your key in place, starting the engine. “You can make me a list later. Come on.” You patted the seat beside you.

“Wait–” Dazai beamed at you “–does this mean I get to be your passenger princess?”

“Not if you don’t hurry.” The car moved slightly forward in warning, Dazai’s grin widening as he scurried to the other side.

This wasn’t how you planned your night to go but… as Dazai sat down beside you, belt secured and giving you a thumbs up with both hands, well, you could only shake your head with amusement. 

He sure was something. 

Might as well see where this goes…

[copper-16]

I'm Sorry

Elena wakes up with a fever, and her need to wake her mothers up in the middle of the night brings up some worrying emotions.

(a/n: I was just speaking with a friend today about how her nieces loved to be cuddled when they were sick...and well one thing led to another and here we are! Hope you guys enjoy this :) I didn’t proofread it in the slightest…oh well!)

Elena was, historically, very very good about sleeping through the night. 

She had been ever since she was a baby, both of the women honestly a little shocked by how lucky they had gotten. 

“Are you sure she isn’t yours biologically?” Ingrid had joked when they were standing over her crib one morning, looking over at her wife with a teasing glint in her eyes. Mapi had rolled her eyes easily at that, scoffing slightly. 

“I don’t know what you ever could mean,” Mapi fired back quickly, though she shrank just slightly when the Norwegian fixed her with a pointed glare. 

“During our last away game, you slept through a fire alarm. An ENTIRE fire alarm,” Ingrid pointed out, and the Spaniard rolled her eyes, letting out a weak chuckle. 

“Man, you sleep through a fire alarm ONE time!” Mapi muttered, but she knows damn well she’s lost the argument. 

And it was true, because if there was one thing Mapi loved more than her family, it was her beauty sleep. A trait that she seemingly had passed to their daughter, who after a brief regression when she was one year old, generally slept well through the night. They kept a good bedtime routine that Elena was used to and was working well. 

She had never really gotten nightmares, or come into bed with the Barcelona defenders. Ingrid had always been pretty strict on no co-sleeping, apart from the occasional allowance, Elena knew that it wasn’t something to ask for. 

And normally, that wasn’t really a problem. Her mothers would put her to sleep, and then by the time she woke up when the sun was shining through her curtains, someone in the house would already be up. There was no deficit, no problem that needed solving for the little girl. 

That was, until she woke up one morning long before the sun had begun to stream in through her curtains. In fact, her entire room was dark, save for the little night light that was kept on the far side of her room. 

Elena shifted under the covers slightly, realizing just how poorly she felt. Her entire body felt icky, her skin clammy and pale as her baby hairs stuck to her face. 

The little girl pulled the covers up over her body, despite the fact that she herself was radiating heat, trying to will her body back to sleep. She wasn’t really sure if she should get out of bed. She knew she wasn’t really supposed to get out of bed, but she also knew that her Mami told her if she needed anything, she could always come to her. 

Elena knew it would make Mama upset though, so she tried to settle back in bed, burrowing under the covers and closing her eyes. 

But it seemed to be to no avail. Sweat beads drip down her forehead onto the pillow under her, and she shimmies as she tries to get more comfortable. Her entire body is radiating with a dull ache, and she feels tears beginning to well up in her eyes. 

Her resolution to be a good girl is overturned in favor of slipping out of bed, pushing her almost closed door open and making her way slowly toward her parents room. She leans against the wall slightly, suddenly feeling woozy for a moment before she regains her balance, continuing on her journey. 

Luckily, Mapi and Ingrid’s door is slightly ajar, and so Elena can push it open easily, surveying the scene in front of her. Her Mama is closest to her, but she also knows that Mama is going to be upset that she is awake right now, so the toddler quickly chooses to make her way around the bed to her Mami’s side. 

Mapi is turned toward the middle of the bed, her back to Elena, who reaches forward to very lightly tap on her Mami’s back. When Mapi doesn’t respond, Elena tries a little harder, but she’s rapidly feeling worse and worse, and her inability to wake her Mami up only adds to her stress. 

Tears are dripping down her cheeks now, and she’s caught both with the intensity of how poorly she feels and the fear of realizing that she needs to wake her Mama up. She once heard her Mama speak about how hard it was to wake Mami up when she was sleeping, and now seemed to be no different. 

It’s with a nervous air to her movements that the little girl walks back around to the other side of the bed, coming to stand by Ingrid’s side. Unlike her wife, the dark haired woman is lying facing the edge of the bed, so Elena can see her face. 

The little girl reaches up hesitantly, tapping Ingrid’s hand, which is placed out in front of her. Tears are still trickling down her cheeks, and her head pounds painfully. 

“Mama?” Elena tries instead, tapping slightly more furiously. “Mama!” The little girl says more sharply, and it’s this which wakes Ingrid, who is up in two seconds flat at the sound of her daughter finally penetrating her through her sleep. 

“Elena?” Ingrid asks, still confused and sleep ridden, noting quickly that it’s nearly four in the morning. When she looks back at her daughter as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she finally notices the tears and distress of her daughter, and she’s hardly even thinking before she’s scooping the little girl up. 

“Mama I’m so sorry,” Elena wails quietly, and Ingrid’s heart plummets when she feels how warm her daughter is. “I-I didn’t mean to wake you up, I’m sorry!” The curly haired girl insists, and Ingrid is quick to shush her gently, pulling Elena into her easily. 

“No, no, my little love there is nothing to be sorry about, you can always come get me if you need me,” Ingrid promised, her heart cracking at the fact that her daughter was apologizing for needing her. She kicks herself for not making it clearer to the little girl, but resolves to focus on the situation at hand for right now, and do better in the future. 

“I don’t feel good,” Elena admits quietly, pressing further into Ingrid and relishing in the way her Mama’s arms tightened around her. She still didn’t feel good, but she felt better here, with her mother. 

“I–I tried to wake Mami up, but she didn’t move,” the little girl continued, and Ingrid barely managed to repress the annoyed noise that bubbled up in her throat. 

“María!” Ingrid hissed, lashing out with her foot and kicking her wife in a vague attempt to wake her up without letting go of their daughter. 

Luckily, the center back jerked awake at the feeling, looking around wildly. 

“What! What is it?” Mapi sputtered, her hair tousled by sleep. She clocks the fact that Elena is in Ingrid’s arms with the swiftness only a mother could have, and her eyebrows are furrowing instantly. 

“She’s sick, I think she has a fever. Can you get the thermometer and some medicine?” Ingrid asked gently, keeping her voice low for Elena. The Norwegian feels a little more grounded knowing that her wife is awake, the Spaniard quickly slipping out of bed as Ingrid rocked Elena back and forth. 

She begins to hum softly, rubbing over Elena’s back soothingly as their daughters eyes flutter closed, and she let out a small huff of air. There’s a crease in her forehead, and she’s clearly still in pain, but she’s no longer squirming in Ingrid’s arms which is good. 

“‘M sorry Mama,” Elena tries again quietly, and Ingrid pauses her movements to lean her daughter back, running her hands over Elena’s forehead gently. 

“Jenta mi, you can always come get me if you need me, you do not have to say sorry, ever. Mama always wants you to come get her if something is wrong, okay?” Ingrid implored, her voice just a hair desperate. She had never felt worse about her parenting in her entire life, she was pretty sure. 

But Elena’s face seemed to soften at her words, and she nodded very gently. 

“Love you Mama,” she rasped, coughing gently. Ingrid pulled the little girl back into her, cradling her in her arms before she leaned down to press gentle kisses to her daughter's forehead. 

“I love you so much Elena,” Ingrid insisted as she pressed another kiss to her daughter's forehead. She couldn’t help but cringe at how warm she was, and it was clear even without the thermometer that the toddler had a fever. 

But luckily, it was as she was finishing her sentence that Mapi came back into the room, a whole host of things balanced in her arms. She leaves Ingrid with the medicine, taking the washcloth she got into the bathroom to run it under some cool water. 

The Norwegian turned on the bedside table lamp so that she can get the correct dosage of medication, before sitting Elena up to take it. The little girl throws a face at the taste, and Mapi swoops in with a little bit of juice she had brought with her from the kitchen, having expected that reaction. The brunette pressed the cool wash cloth against Elena’s forehead, letting out a small breath of relief at the way her daughter seemed to lean into the feeling, her body releasing some of the tension that it was holding. 

“Please don’t–don’t wanna go back to–please,” Elena whined with no real annunciation, and Mapi’s brows furrowed with confusion while Ingrid was quick to quiet her daughter, rushing to assuage her fears. 

“Don’t worry, you aren’t going back to your bed. You will stay here with me and Mami in our bed, okay?” Ingrid promised fervently, and Mapi watched as Elena’s entire body relaxed, melting into Ingrids as she nodded, whining softly. 

Mapi removed the washcloth that had grown warm, settling back in bed as she offered to Ingrid that she could take their daughter, if the Norwegian needed her to. But Ingrid shook her head very tightly, clutching Elena as though Mapi was going to take her away from her. 

The Spaniard backed off immediately, instead helping Ingrid lay back down with the little girl curled into her, the defender turning on her side, using her arm to keep Elena pulled into her body. The toddler cuddled into her mother easily, shifting uncomfortably every few minutes. 

It took several minutes of Ingrid rubbing her hand up and down Elena’s back soothingly for the little girl to drift back off to sleep, her breath coming in hot puffs against Ingrid’s collarbone. 

Mapi’s brow was knitted in concern, her voice low as she spoke. 

“What happened?” She inquired, hoping to be filled in on what was going on. Ingrid shook her head very gently, making sure not to jostle their daughter. 

“She came in a few minutes ago. She tried to wake you up but you didn’t wake up, so she woke me up instead,” Ingrid explained, and Mapi blanched, a guilty look blooming on her face. 

“Shit, I really need to work on that,” Mapi scolded herself, but Ingrid once again shook her head. 

“María, you can’t control how heavy of a sleeper you are,” the dark haired woman reasoned, and the center back relents slightly despite the fact that she still hated this part of herself. 

“What happened then?” She asked instead, knowing that there was more to the story. Ingrid’s face fell just slightly, confirming the brunette’s suspicions. 

The dark haired woman holds their daughter tighter to herself, leaning down to kiss the top of her head lightly. When she speaks, there is clear emotion in her words. 

“She felt bad about waking me up. She thought I was going to be mad at her, and kept apologizing. I didn’t realize I made her feel like she couldn’t come to me,” the defender admitted with a small voice, and Mapi softens in sympathy as she reaches forward to place her hand on Ingrid’s chin, tilting her head up so that the Norwegian is looking at her. 

“Hey, she still came to you when she needed you, because she knows that at the end of the day you love her more than you could ever be mad at her,” Mapi murmured soothingly, and Ingrid nodded as she tried to take in her wifes words. “It was never your intention to make her feel this way, and now that you know you can work to change it moving forward. We’re all just doing the best we can with this parenting thing, and clearly she still adores you regardless,” the center back emphasized, gesturing to the way their daughter was currently clinging to her wife. Ingrid’s face relaxes at that sentiment as she cuddles into Elena. She’s struggling to keep her eyes open any longer, sleep beginning to pull at her once more, even as she fights it. 

“Sleep, mi amor,” Mapi urged, and Ingrid nodded gently as allows her body to relax, pulled back into sleep as her daughter rested against her. 

—

When Ingrid woke up the next morning, the bed was entirely empty, devoid of both her wife and daughter. 

The Norwegian had never been out of bed so quickly, half walking and half running toward the kitchen. She entirely speeds past where Elena and Mapi are on the couch, until she hears a little, slightly subdued giggle from behind her. 

She turns back to see Elena laying on top of Mapi, the two of them laid out on the couch together. 

“Mama, why are you running?” Mapi teased in an overly conspiratory voice, and their daughter’s laughter at her words turned into coughing before she managed to recover, despite the anxious look of her two parents. 

“Yeah Mama!” She tries to say, but it’s slightly breathless and wheezy. Ingrid walks over to the two of them, crouching down and feeling Elena’s forehead. Warmer than it should be but not as bad as it had been last night. 

“She just had more medicine about thirty minutes ago when she woke up,” Mapi explained, and Elena perks up slightly. 

“Mami woke up when I did!” Elena says softly, and Ingrid looks up to find that her wife is looking overly proud of herself, if the large smile spread across her face is any indication. 

Ingrid fights the urge to laugh at the sight, choosing instead to lean forward and kiss Elena’s cheek softly. 

“Maybe a warm bath would help?” The defender postulates, and Mapi nods before passing their daughter over to her wife. Elena is like a ragdoll in Ingrid’s arms, laying against her mothers shoulder as she’s led back into the bathroom. 

The bath is short, but the warm water does seem to bring some relief to the little girl, who remains quiet and reserved even as she’s pulled out of the tub, Ingrid beginning to dry her off. 

“Mama?” Elena asks softly, her voice small. 

“Yes my love?” Ingrid responds instantly, helping her daughter into some lightweight pajamas. When she’s finished dressing her, she notices the downcast expression her daughter is wearing, and her brows are instantly furrowing in ferocious concern. 

“Is everything okay? What is it honey - you can tell Mama, I promise I won’t be mad,” Ingrid assures, her words gentle and soft. Elena looked up at her through her eyelashes, a slightly crinkle in her forehead. 

“Can we cuddle more in your bed? I’m tired,” Elena admitted softly, and Ingrid is quick to swoop her daughter into her arms, carrying her right toward the bed. 

“We absolutely can. We can do whatever you want to do today - anything!” Ingrid promised, her voice low but filled with truth. The little girl thinks for a moment before shaking her head, looking toward the bed. 

“Just want to cuddle with you. Can Mami come too?” Elena asked hopefully, and the defender nodded quickly, reaching for her phone as she sat down in bed, shooting Mapi a quick text. 

It still amazed her sometimes, what it felt like to love this little human being so much. To know that she could have anything, but all she wanted was Ingrid and Mapi when she didn’t feel well. It was a different kind of love, genuinely. 

“Absolutely love. Mami is on her way, come on let's get you all snuggly,” Ingrid promised, laying down and bringing Elena to lay on top of her. The little girl laid her head sideways on Ingrid’s sternum, held in place securely by the Norwegian’s hands on her back holding her firmly in place. 

Her whole world in that moment was her Mama, and she felt endlessly safe and protected. She still didn’t feel well, but nothing seemed quite as bad when Mama held her like this, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. 

“I heard we were having a cuddle puddle!” Mapi whispered rather loudly as she entered the room, Bagheera in her arms as she came around to the other side of the bed. 

“Mami!” Elena breathed out, her voice tired but excited still, and she was reaching for Mapi instantly. The Spaniard set their cat at the end of the bed to curl up as she slid next to her wife and daughter, reaching out to engulf Elena’s little hand in her own. 

Elena relaxed fully only once both of her mothers were pressed against one another, and she could open her eyes and see them both. 

“We love you Elena,” Ingrid murmured softly, and the little girl smiled softly as she cuddled into her Mama, letting out a soft, content sigh. 

“Sleep, mi sol,” Mapi urged, smiling gently up at her wife as their daughter finally relaxed fully into her, safe and asleep in her mothers arms. 

[aspirationalpeony]

Dark Horse

Summary: As a cameraperson on the Abbott documentary crew, you've always had a good working relationship with Melissa Schemmenti. One flirtatious night at her home sends you spinning as you try to figure out if this is really real—not to mention how everyone at Abbott seemed to know about Melissa's crush on you, long before you ever did. (See author's note at the end for prompt credit.) Content Warnings: Lots of smut, a bit of emotional confusion, and me having absolutely no idea how filming anything works. I just faked my way through it, very horribly. Oops! :) AO3 Link

It all starts with a late shoot.

It's just you and the mic guy and one other crew, and your camera trained on Melissa Schemmenti. She talks, in a way she's done rarely so far. A season and a half and she's always conscious of the stare of the lenses, quick to dart around a corner or cut herself off if she knows the opps are listening.

She takes big sips, almost gulps, from her wine glass. She leads you back and forth across her house, reaching over tables or pointing along walls to find a photo here, another there, and talks. "Me'n Kristen-Marie... This one—" pause for more wine—"from my college graduation." It's the two of them, almost mirror images of each other at that age, with a tall man whose lean face makes you think he has to be their father; on the other side of the girls is their Nana.

There's no trick in this photo: no wedding dress, no blood, no hint of drama between the sisters at all. They just look hopeful and desperately young. This feels private, that Melissa could have been so young—something that shouldn't be content for the show—and you feel an impulse to duck the camera away, hide her secret. When you look at Melissa again, she’s watching you; there’s a glitter in her green eyes you can’t interpret: not hostile, and not the look she gets when she’s hustling someone, either. The gaze she’s giving you is strangely soft.

“Whaddaya think?” she says, to you, not to the camera.

You swallow. Nothing you say will make it to the final cut, but the editors will hear your answer, so you can’t tell her she’s beautiful in that picture. “I think I’m lucky you’re showing me this,” you say at last.

Her eyes move over your face. You feel it almost like a touch, intimate and slow, and you aren’t making it up: her gaze stops at your mouth and hovers there. She bites her lower lip before she lifts her wine glass again for another pull. “Maybe I like ya,” she says. “Maybe you’ll get luckier.”

You’re still blushing when you wrap for the night. You sit on your couch at home—you’re always insomniac after shooting at night, your brain and body still buzzing with the work—and put on Netflix on low volume and you don’t watch, just feel your cheeks still burning, thinking about her lipstick on her wine glass.

Of course, the whole crew knows the story by the next morning. When you turn up, Pedro, your best friend on the crew, says, “Look at you! Dark horse!” and it makes your face sear with heat all over again. He lowers his voice, leans in and nudges you. “C’mon, nothing in the contract about that. You deserve a little fun. Let your Italian mama take care of you.”

You cringe. “Please,” you say, “never say ‘Italian mama’ to me again. Okay?”

“Just sayin’,” he says, and leaves it alone.

Of course, it doesn’t leave you alone. You’ve learned the best way to sneak up on a conversation with Melissa and Barbara is to come at it around a corner, so you’re hovering down the kindergarten hall, camera on the two women, when you hear your name, making you stiffen.

“You said that?” Barbara’s voice is incredulous, sharp. “What did she say?”

“Nothin’, really,” Melissa says, “she was on the clock, y’know.” The smile starts in her voice before it grows on her face. It’s a Cheshire smirk bigger and deeper than you’ve ever seen. “She got all flustered. It was cute. You think she knows I was shootin’ my shot?”

“I think you could have ‘shot your shot’ with a little more dignity,” Barbara says crisply. “Like an adult does. Politely. Pleasantly.”

“Soberly,” Melissa says. “Listen, if it works, it works. I just gotta find out if it did, y’know. Work. She’s kinda shy.”

“I didn’t know you cared for that.”

"What, the quiet ones?"

You have to pull away. You're going to miss the rest of the conversation, but your face is burning again, your heart is pounding, and you're grappling with the reality that Melissa and Barbara are talking about you, that you're subject enough between them to be chatted about so casually, that all this footage is... God, are you ever going to live this down?

You'll go shoot some Janine and Gregory. That's always a crowd-pleaser; the audience loves the sweet tension between them, the way the space between their bodies turns tangible the longer their eye contact holds. You try not to think about Melissa's gaze on yours last night. You try to do your job.

That goes as well as you might expect. Fifteen minutes into some uninspiring quiz-grading ("oh, I never fail anyone," Janine says, "I just give 'em a different colored star—they like the gold ones best, so—") Pedro comes to find you.

"Hey, listen," he says, "I need you to come take care of your Calabrian chili pepper."

"What?"

"You know, your spicy linguini. Your Italian ma—"

"Stop." Your head whips toward Janine at her desk and then back to Pedro. The only thing you can think of to say, your heart thumping all over again, is "She's Sicilian, not Calabrian."

"She's giving us nothing. You got to come do her talking head. She keeps trying to square up to Kai and he doesn't wanna fight her."

"What makes you think she won't fight me?"

He gives you a look over his glasses.

The change in Melissa is instant when she sees you approach. Those folded arms, her squared shoulders, her broad, foot-planted stance—it all melts. She leans into the wall, her head tipping, one booted foot lifting for her toe to play in idle lines along the floor, and, yeah. Whether you picked her or not, this is your Sicilian chili pepper, and you swallow hard as you approach.

"Heya, hon," she says, "who's this clown they got me workin' with? Don't they know I only do this with the professionals?"

You mumble a little as Kai looks between the two of you, rolls his eyes, and backs off.

"We were talking about her Friday night plans," Pedro says. "It's school game night and she's not going."

"Yeah, the kids are too easy to hustle," she says, "it ain't even fun. What, do I look like I wanna spend all Friday winnin' their, I dunno, their Yu-Gi-Oh cards?"

Now's when Pedro should prompt her, ask a question. You glance at him; he nods his permission. "Not sure those are a thing anymore," you say.

"Their Pokemon cards," she says. "Whatever. Point is, it'd be like taking candy from a... Jacob."

You don't look at her; you focus on the camera. It's easier than holding her green gaze. "Is that where you draw the line?"

"Gotta draw it somewhere," she says.

You can't help it. Cautiously you look up, try to make your voice neutral: "So how are you going to spend Friday night?"

She lolls her head to one side and looks at you. She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Prob'ly practicing tricks," she says.

"Tricks?"

"Yeah," she says. "With my magic wand."

You don't really remember the rest of the interview. You sure you babble some other questions, and she gives you some smirking answers, but your head is full of white noise and a singular image: Melissa Schemmenti with a vibrator between her legs.

You're sure other things happen that day. Pedro definitely ribs you some more, you and Kai go get lunch and he complains for a while, Gregory and Janine have one of their not-flirting conversations where he draws up a tightly-plotted itinerary for game night, trying to prove it's possible to run a children's event without delays (it all goes back to his father, of course), at some point you go home and numbly resume your post on the couch in front of your TV screen, trying to make sense of it all.

That picture won't leave your head. You think of the look she gave you that night at her house—intimate, caressing—and how she'd look deep in her pleasure, drunk eyes half-open, her face pink, her hair wild. Does she get naked when she touches herself? She seems too impatient—more like a jeans around her thighs kind of woman—but for a night she's planning ahead—a night she's set aside, just for her pleasure...

Your head drops back and you shut your eyes to see her more clearly. You can imagine the scattering of freckles over her shoulders and chest, the shift of her heavy breasts and the hard peaks of her pink nipples—how does she like to be touched there? Maybe she grabs one breast while she uses the vibrator, plays with a nipple, imagining the rough, confident hand of a lover. You can see the soft field of her belly, the abundance of her hips, her thighs, picturing her cunt, the head of the vibrator against her clit—she doesn't tease, can't tease herself, you imagine, not Melissa.

You can almost smell her sex, you think, until you realize it's yourself you're smelling. Your cunt throbs. You could shove a hand into your underwear now and just take care of it, but...

Your small toy collection lives in a box under your bed. It's nothing fancy, but you do have a small wand vibrator. You peel off your trousers and underwear and drop onto your bed, back against the pillows, holding the purple toy in one hand. Does Melissa have one this size? Or a big, classic one, the kind that could buzz your clit right off? You click the toy on and draw it up your thigh. As it nears the sensitive crease between your leg and your sex, your thigh twitches without meaning to, your clit aching, and you think, okay, no foreplay.

You can't help but wonder as you delve the thrumming head between your folds: does she know you're doing this? Was that the idea—plant herself in your head, grow over everything, including your common sense and your inhibitions, until your whole world flowers Melissa? Could she be doing the same—getting a head start on Friday's plans—thinking of you, right now? You're normally quiet when you do this, but that makes you groan aloud. Your clit pulses.

How does she do this, on a school night, like tonight? Back to the image of her with her trousers halfway down her legs, her hand and her toy crammed into the space between the fabric and her body. You can't help but see her in the outfit from today, that green, clinging top, the black blazer discarded somewhere, slacks caught just above her knees, her hair mussed and tangling against the pillows as she works the vibrator over her clit. No playing games for her, either; just getting the job done, hard and fast.

You come, watching her in your head, her name on your lips; you hope she comes tonight, too, thinking of you, of what she’s doing to you.

The next day, Janine, Gregory, and Jacob are in hushed conversation by the supply closet. You pick an angle from just inside the nearest classroom and train your camera on the slight crack of the open door and you can hear them, even though they think they’re being quiet—classic them.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” Janine is saying. “I think it’s kind of nice.”

“I think,” Gregory says, “it’s like…” He pauses, picking his words. “Like watching a dog shake a chew toy.”

“I think it’s very brave of Melissa,” says Jacob, and your heart drops into your stomach. “Considering the historical era in which she grew up and started her teaching career, being openly bisexual in the workplace must be a very—”

“Please don’t let her hear you call her ‘historical’,” Gregory interjects.

“It’s cute she has a crush on the camera lady,” Janine says. (“Cameraperson,” Jacob corrects.) “I just want it to turn out nice. You know, the vending machine guy didn’t work out, so. And now he doesn’t stock Gushers anymore.”

“Maybe she’ll be a little more relaxed,” Jacob says. “A little more… Open, fun—”

“She’s not going to start liking you because she’s dating somebody.” Gregory, with characteristic bluntness.

“One can hope,” Jacob says.

“The camera lady—person—is so quiet, though,” Janine muses. “Melissa is so intense.”

“Bet that’s what she likes,” Mr. Johnson says, making them all jump. He steps out from the supply closet; he’s holding a Teachers Without Borders coffee mug you know has to be Jacob’s. He takes a long, slurping sip, making sure everybody sees the logo on the cup. “Melissa gets a sweet little thang to take care of. Camera lady gets an Italian mama.” He says it eye-talian. (Where is everybody getting this phrase from?)

“Please don’t say ‘Italian mama’ again,” Gregory says, giving you a little flush of vindication.

“Why not?” Mr. Johnson says. “When I was on tour in Rome—”

That’s enough for you. You decide the rest of the conversation can go unrecorded. You check the time and it’s nearly lunch—thank God, because you don’t want to make eye contact with any of them for a while; you don’t know how to feel about them all talking about you. You know it’s not you, really, they care about. It’s Melissa, her caginess at odds with how boldly, openly she’s been flirting with you, an attraction so obvious even the younger teachers that she’d never confide in can see it.

Something light and effervescent swirls in your stomach, but there’s a leaden weight there, too. Nerves. And desire. You let Pedro know you’re taking lunch and leave your camera behind, finding Kai a block down, away from the school, hitting his vape. He passes it to you and you take a pull, letting candy-scented vapor out of your nose. You don’t really smoke anymore, but anybody would need a little comfort under these circumstances, you think.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks.

“What?” You didn’t know Kai cared about that. “I mean, I guess I’ll talk to her, maybe give her my number, then see—”

“For lunch.”

“Oh.”

You get hoagies together, eating them over a public trash can, standing up. Back at the school you scrub your hands clean in the bathroom and duck Pedro and your camera and you find your way down the second-grade hall to the classroom that's usually the noisiest. It's quiet now: the kids are at the library doing a reading circle with the librarian. Maybe it says something that you know their schedule.

She's in there, glasses low on her nose, working. You pause just on the threshold of the open door. You try to piece together everything you know about her, to make it all fit into the person you see, just a small woman with a love of pleather and a never-ending supply of high-heeled boots, a baseball bat taped under her desk (you've seen it), a guitar propped in one corner of the classroom (does she ever play?), how now she's focused and reading with scrupulous intensity, doubling back on a sentence from time to time, her manicured hand coming up to twitch away a lock of red hair.

You knock on the open door. You see her hand pass under the desk toward the bat before she realizes who's standing there. She cracks a grin, lifting her glasses up to the top of her head. Her eyes travel up and down your body in another look that feels like a touch.

"I was wonderin' when you'd stop by," she says.

You give a little hum. You cross the room to lean against a student's desk, just opposite hers.

"No camera?"

"No," you say, "I wanted it to be just us."

"Huh." She taps her pen on her paper a few times. "You here to let me down easy?" She lifts her chin. The look she gives you isn't intimate now: it's far-removed and challenging, like the gaze of a duelist across a plain. You've seen this before, the way she starts closing herself off, armoring up.

You shake your head. There's a shift in her expression, but the walls don't quite come down. "I guess I wanted to ask what you want."

"That ain't obvious?"

"I mean..." Your arms come up, folding over your chest. "You know, I was here last season, when you were dating that guy... Hulk Hogan."

It surprises a laugh out of her. "Yeah, Gary."

"You asked him out and it was... Different. I mean..." You can't think of how to say it. At last, you say, "Do you take me seriously?" No, that's not it. "I mean, are you just trying to hook up with me? Because, I..." You're starting to burn up again. You rub the back of your neck. "That's not the kind of... Listen, you're beautiful, and sexy, but that's not what it would—I mean, to me, it—"

"You're so cute when you're all shy," Melissa says, sounding equally mystified and amused. She stands. "Look... Maybe I did this all wrong." She circles the desk. "Kinda treated you like a piece of meat."

"Just a little bit," you say.

"I take you serious, hon." She doesn't cross the gap between you two, but mirrors your pose, leaning on the edge of her desk, arms crossed over her chest. "Look, Gare was a nice guy. But he didn't have, you know... He didn't make me wanna..."

You think of Gregory's metaphor. "Shake him like a chew toy?"

Another laugh. "Yeah, that. And I guess I felt... You know, I'd kinda uncorked the bottle, datin' him, when I thought all that part of my life was done, and when you were at my place the other night, you just looked so good, and I just wanted..."

You smile, eyes down. The cold uncertainty is trickling away and there's warmth pouring into the spaces it's left behind. "Okay," you say.

"Okay?"

When you look up, she's moved a little closer. You can smell her perfume again, warmed on her skin over the course of a long day. You've had the privilege of seeing her in detail, so many times: the fine, thin skin around her eyes, the creases at the corners of her mouth that forecast her smile, the tiny hint of gray growing in at her temples, the mellow warmth of her green gaze, the slope of her nose crooking slightly to her left. It's different with no lens between the two of you, when you're close enough to touch.

"Yeah, okay," she says to whatever she sees in your eyes. She lifts her chin and drops her gaze to your mouth. It's a clear request.

You answer it. You dip your head; there's a moment where your noses nearly bump, but you change your angle, catch her lips with yours. There's a tackiness from her lip gloss and an incredible softness underneath. The warmth of her almost shocks you, vivid past your imagining. Her hand pets at your jaw; you feel the other curl into the collar of your shirt. She pulls you closer by the fabric and you gasp.

You renew the kiss, lips sliding over hers. Your hand rubs down her lower back. You can feel the divot in her spine where it meets her pelvis, just above the generous curve of her ass. Before you can overthink it, your palm is gliding over that curve, your fingers digging into its lushness, Melissa gasping against your mouth as you squeeze.

"Oh," she says faintly when the kiss is over and you're catching your breath. "Huh." Her look is glazed and a little bewildered.

"I, um, I don't want to send mixed messages," you say, "but about Friday..."

"Friday?" she echoes.

"Yeah." You bite down on your smile, watching her try to remember what the hell you're talking about. "I was thinking... I know a few magic tricks of my own."

"Oh," she says again. You watch her eyes spark with understanding, her smile appear slowly, then all at once. "I guess you could come over and show me your stuff." Her hands tighten in your shirt and pull you back in for another kiss.

"Hey, gimme your phone," she says, much, much later, when you're wearing more of her lip gloss than she is. "I want to give ya my number." You don't think before you're unlocking it and passing it into her hands. She lowers her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose and thumbs her way around your phone, creating a contact for herself.

You have a flash of nerves—what if she opens your Instagram and sees all the stupid accounts you follow? A vision comes of her seeing all the dog-using-buttons-to-talk videos you've liked, her libido instantly withering... Then she's giving you back your phone and smirking at you, wiping at your lip with her thumb. "Might wanna stop in the bathroom before you get back to work, hon," she says.

When you leave her classroom, it's like floating; you've never felt so light. You stop in the bathroom and you wipe all the lip gloss off your smiling mouth. You catch yourself humming as you and Kai catch some footage of Ava pretending to organize game night, Gregory trying to involve himself, Janine admitting to a little competitive streak.

Your phone buzzes, chimes. "Sorry," you say to Janine and Pedro, who's leading the interview. You wait until you can lower the camera lens to check the notification. You always keep it silenced during the day—did Melissa turn the ringer on?

Italian Mama iMessage

Your face burns. You take a corner away from Pedro and unlock the phone.

Italian Mama You made me real happy

Your blush intensifies; something flutters in your chest. The phone vibrates in your hand as another message comes.

Italian Mama Don't know how I'm going to wait until Friday

The echo of your own thought in her words makes your heart flutter again. You bite your lower lip and type back, Me neither. An electric spark of daring moves you, makes you send her, Maybe I'll practice some magic just to make sure I'm on top of my game.

Is that too much? You hope not. You've basically made a sex appointment with her for Friday—sex appointment, you think, and wince at yourself, your own awkwardness; it's a date—and you don't—your breath hitches as three dots appear on your screen, showing that she's typing.

Italian Mama Oh yeah?

Italian Mama Better practice hard

You feel a pulse low in your belly. You're ready to type a little more flirtation when another message arrives and makes you gasp aloud, quickly clamping your hand over your mouth before Pedro or somebody else can hear you.

She's sent you a photo. It's herself pulling down the scoop neck of the hot pink blouse she's wearing today. You can see just the tip of her nose, her chin, the proud line of her soft neck, her freckled sternum, and, holy shit. She's showing you her breasts cradled in a bra made of black lace. And you stare. And you stare.

Italian Mama Little incentive for you

Your mouth is watering. You can see the rosy shadows of her nipples against the lace. You barely register yourself typing back, You're perfect.

Italian Mama Thought you'd like em

You're typing before you can stop yourself. All I'll be able to think about now is what I'm going to do to you.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Appear, then disappear. Your confidence wavers.

Italian Mama I want you to tell me

You've never imagined you'd be turned on in the halls of Abbott Elementary, but suddenly you're so aware of your cunt, you can't stand it. You're throbbing. You peer around the corner; Pedro isn't even looking your way, he's talking something over about the schedule with another producer. You have time. You glance up and down the hall; nobody except an aide going into a room at the far end.

Your fingers fly over the keys. If you stop to think, you'll psych yourself out, so you blurt out every thought, the iMessage equivalent of babbling—what you'd be doing in Melissa's ear if you could have her right now, in your arms, again...

You're so fucking sexy

I've thought about you so much

I touched myself thinking about you the other night

I'm going to kiss you until you go crazy and you're so turned on you can't take it

I'm going to undress you and I'm going to kiss every fucking inch of you

I'm going to play with you until you're begging

Do you like it rough or gentle?

Three dots.

Italian Mama Little of both

You're typing again in a flurry. You can feel your heart pounding, your breath coming in harder. You probably only have a couple minutes left to really make her feel it.

I'm going to be so gentle with you until you beg me to be rough

I want to bite you

Do you like being bitten?

Italian Mama Yeah

I know you do

On your neck, on your breasts

I'm going to bite your thighs before I eat you out

"Homie, you coming?" Pedro says, with the best and worst timing—and phrasing—he could possibly have.

"Yeah, one sec," you say, and you're proud of how your voice doesn't wobble at all. "Let me just send this. Sorry."

I have to get back to work

Italian Mama Fuck you

Italian Mama How am I supposed to teach like this

Italian Mama Come here and finish what you fuckin started

You laugh, breathless and surprised. You text her, YOU started it! If she hadn't sent you that picture... You scroll back up and look again. In the bit of her face you can see, she's smirking, because of course she is. The luscious curve of her breasts—you can almost feel them, what it would be like to drag your nose down between them, mouth at the soft skin...

Pedro's waiting. You send her a bunch of blowing-kiss emojis and put your phone away again. You're still buzzing with arousal, but you feel a strange satisfaction, knowing that Melissa is a few halls away, squirming behind her desk, thinking about all the promises you've made.

The day passes, somehow. It's a strange mixture of slow, syrupy boredom and electric, frenetic activity as more preparations are made for game night, and your phone periodically buzzes with another message from Melissa. Thankfully (for your pussy—you think it might fall off if it keeps aching like that), the two of you leave the subject of sex, and just talk.

She asks you your birthday, your favorite food. Where did you grow up? What's your favorite color? Each one makes you smile. You feel like you're on the receiving end of a Schemmenti interrogation, a mob boss with her goons behind her. You get her answers back in turn: July 19. (You respond in shock, You're a water sign??? and you can almost hear her voice when she dryly responds, I got no clue what that means, hon.) Pasta con sarde. Grew up here in South. Pink.

Your heart flutters with every new thing you learn. Even though you go home (and rub one out) alone, she's a presence with you, not just in your fantasies; you find you're texting her until you fall asleep, phone sliding out of your hand onto the bedspread. And when you wake up the next day, preceding your alarm by a bit, you find a text from her waiting for you, just a few minutes ago: Good morning, baby.

You levitate all the way through Thursday. You spot Melissa a few times that day, but it's a packed day for her two classes, so mostly it's in the hall as she marches lines of students to and fro. She gets you back for yesterday, though: pauses in the doorway of her classroom as she's filing the kids in after lunch, and gives you an up-and-down look of such searing intensity that your body heats, scalp to toes. She smirks before she vanishes into her room.

She makes you crazy. God, she's incredible. You're texting her every chance you both can get, though she's sparser while she's with the kids; it's all light stuff. Get lunch here today, she tells you, Shanae made beef patties, and when Shanae slips you a couple of golden-crusted pastries, you bite into them, smelling warm, floral curry, savory beef on your tongue, and think of how Melissa it is, feeding you from a distance.

That afternoon, just after dismissal, she calls, "Hey," to you from her classroom door. You try not to jump to attention. "I gotta do a lot of work," she says, playing with the strap of her Apple Watch, "or I'd ask you over, but..." Strangely, her eyes drop. It's a hint of shyness and it makes your heart patter, tenderness and affection for her pouring into your chest. "I was thinkin', why don't we go out and get, like, food or a drink or somethin' tomorrow? You know, before you come over."

"Okay," you say. Her eyes flick up and as soon as she sees your goofy grin, her shyness melts away, turns back into the smirking self-assuredness you're more familiar with.

"You pick the place," she says, knocking the wind out of you at once.

Oh, crap. You remember what it was like with her and Gary: he tried to take her to a shitty spot for their first date, and she flicked him away from her like a bug. She's challenging you, you think, asking to be impressed.

You can do that. Dark horse, right? "Okay," you repeat. "I'll pick."

She leans back against the doorframe. All at once she's in that lolling, casual, flirtatious posture that she assumes for you and only you, her face tilted up, gaze intimate and a little sly. "You headin' out? I get a goodbye kiss, or what?"

"Okay," you say a third time, and you can barely kiss her, you're smiling so widely. You take your fill of her, in every sense, one more time before you leave for the day, nerves and excitement and that thread of arousal all tangling together, like a knot of live wires.

You're texting her later, because of course you're texting her later. Do you want it to be a surprise?

Italian Mama I dunno

Italian Mama Surprises never seem to work out for me

That gives you a little twinge. You find yourself running the tip of your finger up and down the side of your phone, the way you'd touch her hand or her cheek, if you could. How about just this one? you ask. And if you hate it, I'll never surprise you again?

You wish you could see her face. It would help you know if she's resigned or wary or scared. You don't want her to be antsy or nervous going into tomorrow; you want her to feel like she makes you feel: like you've got balloons and not bones, like a wind could catch you and carry you off, you're so light and so happy.

Italian Mama Ok

Italian Mama I'm gonna trust ya

It makes your heart do its now-familiar flutter in your chest. It's like there's a bird in there, some delicate fledgling thing eager to start flying. It wants to soar, holding its precious cargo: Melissa Schemmenti's trust.

The next day. Friday. Friday. Somehow, the school day rockets past you. Game night preparations have gone disastrously, and it's time for a patented Ava save, with the help of Janine and Gregory.

"Wow, who could've guessed," Kai mutters to you, and fidgets in the pocket you know holds his vape.

Your hand fidgets in your own pocket, around your phone. You and Mel exchanged good morning texts, a few kiss emojis, promises to meet up before dismissal to solidify your plans, but you haven't had a chance to see her at all.

"I don't know," you say, "I think they'll get it figured out."

"I think she's probably going to use it to mine Bitcoin somehow," Kai says.

Honestly, that sounds plausible. You shake your head anyway and make an excuse and scoot past Pedro. He's not encouraging Ava to stream game night live on Instagram, per se, but everybody knows that will guarantee some Coleman-style silliness, so he needs to get her there somehow. (Can you mine Bitcoin through Instagram?)

You don't need to send any directions to your feet; they're already walking you toward the second grade classrooms. Mel doesn't have lunchroom duty today, so you know she'll probably be catching up on two classes' worth of quizzes, or restocking art supplies, or prepping the next lesson's props and tools. Her door is shut and you peek in through the window.

She's writing on the whiteboard, looking back and forth from a worksheet in her hand, glasses on her nose. You knock. When she sees you, the narrow-eyed look of interrupted concentration melts away; she gives you a smile that shows her teeth, the kind that changes her whole face, turning her girlish, almost a little goofy. It makes your heart melt.

You open the door. "Hey," you say as she puts her glasses on top of her head and caps the marker. Being in the room with her, after not seeing her all morning, feels like coming out of the cold to a blazing fire. "Uh, hi. You look beautiful today." Then, for the third time, stupidly, adoringly, "Hi."

"You missed me, huh?" she says, putting down the marker and paper. "C'mere."

As soon as you're in grabbing distance, she takes two handfuls of your ass and pulls you in for a kiss. You're lost in it for long, long seconds.

She pulls back after giving your lower lip a bite that makes you squeak. She tucks her hands squarely in the back pockets of your jeans, holding you against her. "You look beautiful today too."

"Thanks," you say, barely registering the compliment, the way you're chasing more contact, kissing the corner of her mouth, nosing at her cheek. She's so warm in your arms. She's wearing one of her tough-girl outfits, a blazer and matching top in military green, and you sneak your hand under the jacket, finding a little stripe of bare skin between her shirt and her slacks. You touch her there with a teasing trace of your fingernail.

She shivers. Is she sensitive on her lower back? You file it away to investigate later tonight. The thought of being able to have her all to yourself tonight—hours and hours—sends sparks skipping through you. You have to kiss her again.

"You think it's unprofessional, doin' this at work?" Mel asks you breathlessly when you part again.

"I don't know," you say, "but whatever Gregory and Janine have been doing is worse, kind of."

"Yeah, that's for sure," Melissa says, and gives you a third kiss; this time, the delicate muscle of her tongue laps at you, little frissons of heat that go right between your legs.

"I came to talk about dinner," you say at last, when you think you can survive without kissing her.

"Oh, yeah," Mel says, "right. What am I wearin'?"

"Uh..." You hadn't considered it. You're just going in your usual date outfit—a button-up, a nice pair of trousers. "Business casual?"

"Okay, easy. Do I get a hint where we're goin'?" One eyebrow goes up. Her gaze acquires a competitive glint, one you've seen a hundred times through your camera. "I bet I can guess it."

"Here's your hint," you say, "it's not Italian."

"Smart cookie," Melissa says, which leads you both into another kiss, and then another. "It ain't a sandwich shop, is it?"

"No," you say, "I can't beat cousin Rocco."

"Soul food," she says.

"No. I'll come pick you up, is that okay?"

"Yeah, come, like, at five. I gotta change and do my face and stuff." She leans back, giving you a squint-eyed look of scrutiny. "Tell me it ain't French."

"It ain't," you promise, and seal it with a kiss. "I have to go. I'm pretending to be in the bathroom."

"Oh, shit," she says, eyes going wide, "we gotta catch up on this freakin' math unit and I forgot, I haven't peed in, like—"

"Go, go," you say with a laugh, letting her extract her hands from your pockets.

When you return, Kai narrows his eyes at you. You shrug at him and you're ready to get back to work, when he reaches across and plucks something off your shoulder: a single red hair. Crap.

"Damn," he says. "Dark horse."

"What's up?" Pedro glances over at you two. Fuck, you don't know if you can take his teasing today—you know he'll want all the details, and you love him, but you want to just get through work and get to Melissa...

"Nothing," Kai says, and drops the hair. He gives you a nod.

You nod back, warmth and gratitude making you smile. He doesn't smile back—you don't think you've ever seen him smile, actually—but you think you see the corner of his mouth curve up, just a little, as he peers into his camera.

Dismissal, a quick goodbye kiss with Melissa, home to get ready. You're normally an all-black kind of girl—it's just easy—but you pause in your closet and find a pink button-up. It's a mellow, soft shade, the same color as a silky blouse you've seen Melissa wear.

You put on your cologne, you style your hair. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s funny: this is the same face you’ve always had, but three days of Melissa have done something to you. Your eyes look larger, softer; there’s a smile on your lips, small but persistent, that’s been there all day.

You haven’t always been lucky with women. You have love in your heart—God, a lot of it. Sometimes it feels like the water of an ancient lake, going down almost infinitely deep, and yet somehow about to overflow. You spent years going around offering it to anyone who would take it, and once they’d drunk their fill, they just moved on, satisfied, never giving a thought to you, never thinking you might want something back, even just gratitude.

So you pulled away. You just hurt too easily: keep them at arm’s length, never close enough to bruise. The quiet one, the shy one; that’s who you became over time, knowing that if you gave out of your abundance, you’d only be depleted. No one’s ever filled your cup.

You find yourself chewing your lip, staring at yourself. You want this to be different. You want this to be something else. Can it be?

You park your car in front of Melissa’s and find yourself wondering: text, or knock? You’re starting to get out of the car when the front door opens, and a rush of surprise and pleasure comes at the thought of Melissa waiting, watching for you. Then your breath catches hard in your throat.

She’s wearing a little red dress that… “Wow,” you say, before she’s even close enough to hear. The square neck of the dress is cut lower than her usual wear, and shows an abundance of skin that makes your mouth water. There’s a princessy quality to the cap sleeves, a delicate detail that’s perfect for Melissa: blazing, challenging red, with a hint of sweetness. The hem stops just above her knees. The fabric shows her body in intimate detail, the delicate rounding of her stomach and the flare of her hips, straining across the perfect shape of her thighs.

Her hair is down. Even late in the day it has a bit of curl. Her green eyes are like gemstones in the early evening light. Her heels have got to be four inches, but she walks with the steadiness of a queen. She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

You circle the car to get the passenger side door. “Hey,” she says, surprised, coming closer, “it’s pink,” and touches your sleeve. It’s not even contact with your skin, barely contact, period, but it sends tingles up and down your arm. “That’s my favorite color.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, grinning like a fool.

Her eyes drop—that hint of shyness again, that tenderness that makes your heart strain against your chest, trying to reach her—before they flick back up. “How do I look?”

“I could look at you for hours,” you tell her honestly.

"I'd kiss ya, but you'd mess up my face," she says. "Here, you get one." She turns and offers her cheek.

You're smiling as you lean down to kiss the offered skin. She's soft and warm, and you get the powdery scent of her makeup, the richness of her perfume.

"Now, c'mon, feed me," she says, and you laugh and open her door.

You drive. She's exactly the kind of passenger you expected: "Hey, check it," every time she sees a car nosing out past a stop sign, or "On your left," when you're trying to merge. "Hey," she barks when somebody cuts you off, a gesticulating, accusatory hand in the air, "cazzo, you wanna watch where you're fuckin' going?"

Melissa. Abrasive, loud, bossy, and you don't feel bulldozed at all. You feel charmed. The smile won't leave your face. You don't know if she could be more herself than right now, in your ancient Volvo, wearing the sexiest outfit you've ever seen on her, looking simultaneously bold and delicate and delicious, and hollering out the window like an angry truck driver.

She's checking her phone as you pull up outside the restaurant, and doesn't look up again until you're opening her door. "Oh," she says, surprised, looking at the place: it's a red brick building, no sign; just a single hanging red lantern beside a white door. You can see her trying to puzzle it out, glancing at you and back to the door.

"It's a bar," you explain. You open the door to your favorite izakaya. Low, golden light and warmth spill out with the Jrock playing over the speaker system.

Melissa cocks her head and looks at you curiously. You only notice that her hand's in her clutch purse when she draws it out again; you hear the rattle of her keys dropping back to the bottom. "Thought you might'a been about to take my other kidney," she says. "I was gonna fight ya."

You blink. It's one of those Melissa-isms, delivered in her dry voice, that you think might be a joke, but it might not be, either. "I wouldn't win if you did."

"You sure as hell wouldn't, baby," she says, and lets you hold the door for her as she steps inside.

You love this place. It feels a bit like your first apartment after you left home, a lot of exposed brick, shoddy white paneling creating an accent wall, and decor that's a little vintage, a little silly: a big, ornate mirror that might have once decorated a cheap theater, brass sconces for lights, Gojira posters in the style of classic ukiyo-e. There's booths on one side of the room and a mirrored bar on the other, with a wall of sake and Japanese whisky.

The hostess recognizes you, waves hi, gestures toward the room for you to seat yourself. It won't start filling up until a little later, so you have your pick of the booths; you take the side that puts your back to the door, letting Melissa have the sightline to the exit.

The low light flatters her. Any light flatters her, but there's something about the dim, intimate, golden warmth of it that makes you stare as she studies the menus, first the drinks, then the food; her eyelashes cast delicate shadows on her cheek, the curve of her lips carving lines there.

She looks up and catches you. The thoughtful twist of her mouth turns into a smirk. The question, though, isn't what you were expecting. "What made you pick here?"

Huh. "I..." You rub the back of your neck, dropping your gaze. "I really like it." That's a start, but not all of it. "I thought you might not have this kind of food all the time. I never see you eating it and I wanted you to have a nice change. And..."

"I come here alone a lot." You shrug. "I have... Good memories here." They are good memories: people-watching, trying new drinks and food, chats with the bartenders, a karaoke night where you fell in with a group of laughing, drunk women who all worked at the same office, who tried to persuade you to bar-hop with them until last call.

But it's always been you, alone; sometimes folded in with somebody else out of goodwill, sometimes noticed for your familiar face and your generous tips, spared a few more minutes of a busy mixologist's time, but always a separation, a glass wall between you and the rest of the room. No one's been on this side of it with you before.

"I wanted you to have a good memory," you say, finally. "I wanted to share it with you."

You glance at Melissa. She's watching you with a look you recognize. It's the one she gave you that night at her house—just earlier this week, but it feels like a lifetime ago. It's tender and intent. It's encouraging. Like she's watching a flower bloom.

"It's already a good memory for me, hon," Melissa says. Something nudges your ankle. It's her foot in its killer heel, gently insinuating between both of yours. You feel her knee against yours, your calves aligned together. She smiles at you. "We're here together."

Your heart does one of its aerial flips.

"You sure get shy for somebody who was talkin' about suckin' my tits before, though," she says.

You choke on nothing. Your face and ears burn. She laughs, her head dropping back, the light glinting on her saints' medals.

"Biting," you squeak, when you can get air. "We were talking about biting."

"Biting," she says, "right. How come you can say all that to me but you're nervous tellin' me you like a bar?"

It's not a bad question. You trace the grain of the wooden tabletop for a second or two, eyes down. "I'm used to giving other people what they like," you say. "I don't mean—it's not that I was lying or faking. No way. I meant it, I mean it, everything I say to you. So much, Melissa." You dart a look up to make sure she understands. "I mean, it's easy for me... For other people, I can express..."

Her hand finds yours on the table and stills it. Her manicured finger gently swipes along the curve below your thumb, down to the sensitive inner skin of your wrist, and traces slowly there, back and forth. She's giving you that look again, gentle and focused and intimate. "I get it," she says simply.

A rush of relief fills you, settling the rattle of your anxious nerves. You turn your hand over and hers settles into yours.

The server appears for your drink orders. You order the house sake, and Melissa says, "Yeah, me too." With your small glasses of sake, the two of you pore over the menu, picking a few things Melissa knows, a few things she's never had before.

The first few plates come out: shumai, hamachi, a bowl of spicy pickle. She gets pieces of toro, unagi, and salmon, and you get a roll and a plate of chashu buns. She gives those a look of pure lust.

"Take one," you say, and push the plate toward her.

She doesn't hesitate. At her first bite, she lets out a guttural moan that goes right between your thighs. You're suddenly much more aware of her ankle still caught between both of your own.

"You think I could get this recipe?" she says of the chashu after the bun has vanished.

"I think you can get whatever you want." Especially from you, especially if she keeps making those noises.

"I sure can," she says with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes.

You've seen Melissa eat before, scraping the last bite of salad out of a tupperware or sipping from a Stanley Tucci mug, but it's different like this, sharing a meal. You love watching her small, plump hands with her chopsticks, her drinks; you love her expressive eyes, the way they widen or flutter shut at a perfect bite. Everything she tries she makes you try—insistent, "Here, you taste," like you're not the one who's had the whole menu before, and you oblige, trying to taste it for the first time, like her, letting each one blossom over your tongue, letting yourself fall under her spell.

The bar is packed by the time you're through and she's nibbled her way through a couple of frozen mochi. "We gotta come back here," she declares as the two of you leave, hand in hand. "I wanna try more. You got good taste."

"Yeah, I do," you say, looking at her. It's full dark now, but the streetlights and the moon illuminate her, outlining her red hair in silver, the shape of her hips.

"You gonna take me home now?" she says. She moves closer. "You made a lotta promises, you know."

"I know." Your hands settle on her hips. She tilts her head up; you catch her lips, tasting the plum wine you two shared. It's your first real kiss of the night, and she's mellow, soft, delicious. Still, you tell her, "We don't have to, tonight. I want to, but I don't want you to think..."

"I know," she says, and gives you another kiss. "If I thought you were buyin' dinner to make me put out, I would'a had way more food." Another kiss. "Come on, let's go. Or maybe you don't wanna get lucky?"

You drive back to Melissa's place, her hand on your thigh the whole way. Back over the welcome mat that reads GO AWAY, into the picture-lined place where it all started over a glass of wine.

Melissa takes your coat and her own and gives you her back, hanging them up in a closet by the front door. "I can get you another drink," she's saying, but all you can see is the back of her dress: the silver line of the zipper running from collar to hem, almost invisible.

You move closer and she stiffens when she feels you there, your chest to her back. You gather her hair, move it aside. Above the collar of the dress you can see the line of her nape and the muscle where her neck and her shoulder join. You lean down and kiss it.

Breathing in, you can smell her perfume again, her makeup again. Now, her skin. It's a scent you couldn't begin to describe, something living and animal and sensuous. And her hair: warm, intimate, a little bit of hairspray. You kiss the side of her neck.

"You have no idea," you say quietly. You nose against the shell of her ear. Its soft cartilage is cold from the night air outside, but warming quickly, flushing pink as you kiss it. "You have no idea how gorgeous you are. You don't know what you've been doing to me."

You lift your hands and find the tongue of the zipper. Her breath hitches. You slowly draw it down. The rasp of it is loud between your bodies.

The band of her bra. Red lace. Down her back to the luscious curvature of her hips. You're holding your breath. Her panties are red lace, too, a high-waisted thong that hugs her belly and hips but, oh, fuck: leaves her ass almost totally fucking bare. Of course, in that clinging dress. Couldn't risk panty lines.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you say, and slide the dress fully off her body. It's a puddle of red fabric on the floor. You push her chest-first against the closet door and drop to your knees.

"Oh my God," she says weakly as you hold her hips and kiss your way up the back of one thigh, then the other. The flesh here is dimpled with cellulite, a mark of her perfect abundance. You nose over the curve of her ass and bite one cheek and she squeaks and gives a weak, "Huh," afterward, like she'd surprised herself, and you bite the other cheek and her hips rock back into you.

She's still in her heels. You're starting to smell her sex. You think about having her bend over and put her hands against the door and let you eat her from behind until her knees shake and give out. Fuck, you want to, but you've been making promises; you have plans.

You straighten back up, brushing kisses up the line of her spine. "I want to see your bedroom."

"Fuck," she says dizzily. "Okay. Uh..." She starts to step away from the closet door and for the first time all night, she wobbles in her heels. She gives a little growl of frustration that's so Melissa you can't help but laugh, making her glower your way as she toes out of the shoes.

She leads you up to her bedroom. The big bed is made, but there are plenty of signs of life: the vanity against one wall, scattered with makeup; the bedside table with a dog-eared book and a pair of her glasses; there's a bra tossed over the cracked closet door.

She turns to face you, unself-conscious, and grabs you for another kiss, deep, dirty, her tongue licking into your mouth. "Can't believe you wore my favorite color," she says breathlessly, and starts fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. "God, you look so hot."

Your shirt's halfway open when you get your mouth on her neck. She groans, hands loosening on the fabric. Soft, right along the line of her jaw, under her chin, down her throat where you feel a moan vibrate through the skin. "Harder," she says.

You stay soft. The hollow of her throat, her clavicle. You nose one strap of her bra. She whines, "Harder," and grips your hair.

"I told you," you say. "I'm going to make you beg." She gasps. Your cunt pulses. You wonder if the same thing happened in her classroom that day, if she sat at her desk squirming, little hitches of her breath betraying her.

You squeeze her ass and she sways into you. Your hands shape her hips, up her sides, over her back, feeling the landscape of it, the valley of her spine. You trace the band of her bra. It's so pretty, you almost don't want to take it off.

"Where's your vibrator?" you ask.

"Huh?"

"Your vibrator," you patiently repeat, and lean back. You see in her eyes when it clicks. She leans away from you toward the nightstand, pulling open the top drawer. Inside, there's a pack of melatonin gummies, a lavender and chamomile room spray, a mini bottle of Jack Daniels, and a hot pink wand vibrator. Her sleep aid drawer, you realize.

You pick up the toy. It has a good weight, and the silicone is almost as soft as her skin. You find the power button, click it on, and cycle with a few presses through the three strength settings. You settle back on the first one and test it against the inside of your wrist, feeling the rumble against the sensitive skin there.

You look up again and Melissa's sitting on the edge of the bed. She's breathing hard, staring at you, and she's blushing.

"Lay back against the pillows for me, baby."

She scoots back, gives you a challenging look, and spreads her legs. You can really smell her, a thick, rich, saline scent that makes your mouth water. The drawer's still open and you spot a small bottle of lube; you take it out just in case, then slide the drawer shut.

"You gonna get naked?" she says as you join her on the bed.

"Not yet," you say and kiss her again. And again. The vibrator sits on the mattress, turned off, and you want to make her forget it's there. You take your time, licking at the serrated edge of her teeth, sucking on her lower lip until she's whimpering.

You couldn't have imagined that sound coming from Melissa Schemmenti. You chase it, have to have it again. Her lipstick is smeared, almost gone. She keeps tugging on your hair as you kiss her, starting to squirm beneath you, saying things like "More," and "Harder," but not please—not yet.

She slides down against the pillows, laying herself more fully under your body, and the motion makes the vibrator roll down the mattress to bump her side. Her breath speeds up all over again, and her eyes flick from it to you.

You pick up the toy and click it on. "Keep your legs spread."

"Oh, fuck yes," Melissa says, then whines aloud when you touch the vibrator not to her clothed pussy, but to the inner crease of her thigh. "Fuck, c'mon."

"C'mon, what?" You trail the vibrator up the inside of her thigh, toward her knee, and back down again.

"You know—" her breath stutters when you switch legs. "You know what I want."

"And you know what I want."

That makes her moan. Her head drops back, her chest heaving. You lean down to kiss her sternum, to finally nose against one perfect breast, the way you've hungered for it since that photo. The lace of her bra scratches your cheek. You can feel her nipple through the cup, taut against the fabric. You bring the vibrator up and tease its rumbling head over that peak, making her shudder, then replace it with your mouth, letting her feel the heat and wet, just barely, still separated from you by her bra.

"God, fuck," she says, "fuck you," and you switch breasts, teasing her other nipple to aching stiffness. You nuzzle the skin that her bra offers up, the plump perfect roundness of her breast, part your lips, drag your teeth over it. She's so soft here, so much, and it's perfect. Your hand drops with the vibrator and you trace it over her hip toward her sex, making her squirm, as you busy yourself with soft bites and sucks.

You change your angle a little, propping a hand against the pillows so you can lean over her. Your body casts a shadow and her green eyes look up at you from beneath it, somehow both pleading and mutinous. You idle the vibrator back up along the waistband of her underwear and then slowly down toward her cunt, playing it over the plumpness of her mons.

"Fuck," she says, "fucking fuck you, okay, please," and you smile. "Please, I said please, will you fucking please—"

You bring the wand down over her pussy. Her head rolls back and she groans, starting to squirm. "Pull down your bra for me," you say.

"What?" Her voice, face, are foggy and vague, but after a few seconds she understands, lifting her hands to tug down the bra's cups, showing you her perfect breasts. They're begging for your mouth, and you promised her you'd give her what she wanted when she begged, didn't you?

You drop your head. Kiss over one breast, then the other. Mouth at the flesh—so fucking soft, so good against your lips, sucked into the wetness of your mouth. The tops of her breasts have a small scattering of freckles that you have to dust in turn with adoring kisses. Her hard nipple brushes your cheek and you draw it past your lips as you trace the wand vibrator up and down, from her clit to the entrance of her cunt, back again, never letting it linger.

You switch to her other nipple, leaving her breast damp and reddened from your mouth. Her head tosses back and forth against the pillows as she whines, squirms, moans, says, "Fuck," and, voice breaking a little, "You're still fuckin' teasin' me—please, please, I said it, please—"

The words, her need, are electricity surging straight to your aching clit. Your voice is a rasp to match her own when you lift your head and breathe in her ear, "You sound so good like this, Melissa." She gives a broken whimper. "You're so perfect. I'll give you more. I promise. I'll take care of you. Take your panties off for me, sweetheart."

With a grateful sob she lifts her hips and shoves her underwear down her thighs, no further. You flash on that fantasy you had of her, getting off after a school day, slacks and panties around her knees as she fucked herself. Looks like you were right.

"You might need," she starts to say, but you're already reaching across to pick up the bottle of lube. You click off the vibrator and let her watch you drip the lube over your fingers, slicking them up. She's panting harder and harder just watching you.

With your other hand freed from the vibrator, you can pull the thong all the way off her legs, leaning back on your knees to do it. You push one thigh then the other wide apart. Her pussy is plump and gorgeous, red and swollen, her own wetness gleaming from between her spread labia. You add to it: the softest touch of your fingertips against her sex, trailing up and around the peak of her clit, not touching it directly.

She makes a noise you can barely describe, a groan of misery and arousal and desperation. Sliding your fingers back down toward the heat of her cunt, slipping one slowly inside, watching her as you do it. Her eyelashes flutter, her lips parting. Once you're sure she's wet enough, you add a second finger. The lube and her own gathering wetness makes a slick, dirty sound as you begin to stroke inside her, all delicacy, all torment.

"Oh, fuck," she says, "don't stop, Jesus Christ, please, don't stop, I need it, I, I..." Now she's babbling, the way she's made you do, one hand fisted in the bed covers, the other grabbing your wrist. "I need it so bad, I need you to fuck me, I've been waitin', please..."

"You've been waiting?" It occurs to you that this version of Melissa, already begging, might be willing to tell you some embarrassing truths. "How long?"

"Since we met," she gasps. "Since—oh, fuck..."

Since you met? That was the very first day of shooting—getting all the establishing shots, the very first moments and interviews. She intimidated you—her and Barbara both did—but Barbara, at least, gave a little, showed a bit of herself to the camera. You remember how Melissa was, arms folded over her chest, cool and hostile with Pedro as he tried to coax her out, get her to introduce herself.

Her eyes had moved from him to you, looking past the camera. "You Sicilian?" she'd asked you. She smiled at you that day and it transformed her sullen, cagey face, turned her, however momentarily, sweet. "Italian?" she'd continued, then her eyes darted from you to Pedro, over to the boom mic guy, trying to get a read on all of you. "You from South?" Her smile vanished. Her voice tightened up again: "Okay, you guys workin' with the cops? 'Cause you gotta tell me."

You reward her for the honesty with a press of your palm against her clit. Her hips jerk up. "I remember that day."

Her head drops back again, her eyes squeezing shut. The words leave her in a breathless rush: "You were so cute'n I hated the cameras but whenever you were there I would just—and you were always so, you were gentle, and—I always knew when you were lookin' at me—"

"I was looking at you every chance I got." You watch her face as you begin to ease a third finger inside her. This one has to burn a little; you can feel her body, resistant at first, starting to stretch to take it, and you don't push; you wait to see her eyes open again, their needy, yielding look. She lets go of the covers to grab one leg under her knee and pull it wider apart to help you. You add a little more lube, just in case, not wanting to hurt her.

"I was always looking at you, Melissa." She stares up at you. There's a crease between her brows, her swollen lips parted; she looks stunned, overwhelmed, face pink, as you slide that third finger inside her.

"I was always looking at you," you repeat, and begin to gently fuck her. Her cunt opens for you and desperately clenches against your fingers, grasping and irregular, trying to keep you. "You're so beautiful. I always wanted you. I thought you were the sexiest, meanest—" that surprises a panting laugh from her—"woman I'd ever seen. You were so smart, so funny—you protected everyone, and you took care of everybody—" her eyes squeeze shut. "Let me take care of you now."

You reach over and pick up the vibrator. You click it on. Her eyes open again at the sound of its buzz. You press the button again, then a third time, bringing it to its strongest setting. Melissa's eyes are huge. She's panting, staring, knowing what you're about to do, and the look of vulnerability and desire on her face, her smeared lipstick, her messy hair, she's perfect, so perfect, and you need to make her come now.

"I need it," you tell her, holding her gaze. "I need it. Let me feel it, Melissa." You bring the vibrator to her swollen, begging clit.

A moment of nothing but her breath caught in her chest and her wide-eyed gaze on yours. Her pussy clamps down around your fingers and you feel the ripples of her orgasm start before she drops her head back and gives a wounded, animal cry.

You chase the waves of her climax, fucking her through them, coaxing them toward you; you rub the head of the vibrator along her slippery clit. Her head tosses back and forth on the pillow like it's too much, but her hand still grasps your wrist, keeping you right where you are, and her hips are working, riding your fingers.

"I can't," she starts saying when she can heave a breath back into her lungs, "I can't, I can't, oh, please—" you click the vibrator off and throw it aside; it nearly rolls off the mattress. You spread the lips of her pussy wide and you lean down and bite one shaking thigh, then the other, then seal your lips over her swollen, tender clit.

Fuck the vibrator: this is your new favorite toy. You play with it and play with it and Melissa comes again, or keeps coming, you're not sure which. One leg goes over your shoulder and her hips twitch and writhe until you have to hold her down.

"Oh my G—oh my God, oh, baby," then, just chanting over and over again, like you could ever tell her no again, like you can deny her anything in the world: "Please, please, please..."

Anything she wants. The whole fucking world, if it were yours to give. You suck and lick at her cunt as her hands find your hair and yank.

How long can she go for? How many times can you make her come? You want to know. You want to fuck her until she faints. But that's not for tonight—not without planning, not without her consent—so when she starts making airy noises that are weak and almost pained, you ease off, slowing your mouth and fingers, letting her come down.

You rub her hips and thighs and her soft belly, and give light kisses to the mound of her pubis. She stops pulling on your hair, grip going slack at first; then, as she comes back into herself by slow degrees, she scratches her nails gently against your scalp.

Kisses for her stomach, her ribs. "Here, baby," you whisper, and reach under her body; she lifts up so you can unhook her bra, sticky fingers brushing her skin. You ease it off and drop it to wherever her panties went. She's nude under you now, flushed all over, body loose and relaxed against the mattress; you pet every inch of her you can reach.

You cup her cheek. Her head turns into the contact. There's sweat gleaming along her hairline and her upper lip. Her eyes, mascara and liner blurred, open to meet yours; her gaze is bleary at first, then sharpens.

You expect another fuck-you, or a joke, or even a "thanks, I needed that," but what she says is, "Now you sit on my face."

Your mind whites out. It's possible you forget the English language for a second or two. When you're back from wherever your soul departed to, she's pulling on the buttons of your shirt, brow knit and wearing an impatient little scowl, yanking the last ones open. "What?" you say weakly.

"I said," Melissa says, fully herself again, no longer the begging, needy, squirming creature of minutes ago, "now you sit on my face. C'mon. Get this off." She grabs the buckle of your belt and works the tongue out of it with a metallic clink.

"I," you say, "I," and she drags your trousers down your legs. You have to lean back off her to get them and your underwear all the way off. Your shirt still hangs open, showing your bra, your bare stomach. She leans up to kiss your sternum with an open mouth, tongue flickering hot against your skin.

"I told you," she growls against your neck, "to sit on my fuckin' face," and there's no more of anything in your world but her, you scrambling up onto your knees, spread wide, her sliding down the bed to get under your cunt.

You falter for a moment; she grabs your hips and yanks you down. There's no playing, no teasing. She drags the flat of her tongue up the folds of your pussy and takes your clit into her mouth and sucks. Her green eyes are open and staring up at you and you see your own dazed pleasure reflected in them.

It takes about five embarrassing seconds before you come in her mouth. She moans loudly against you and tries to hold you where you are, but your legs are shaking badly; imagine if you broke her nose the first night, God—you lift one knee so you can get off of her and drop onto your back.

She follows you. Clambers on top of you intently but unsteadily, still wobbling from her own orgasms, and kisses sloppily down your stomach to get back to your pussy.

"Melissa—" you're gasping, and she's putting her tongue inside you, angling her head to get it in as far as she can. She licks, sucks, wraps her arms around your hips and holds you against her as you try to buck away. The wet noises of her mouth against your cunt are obscene.

You come again, and maybe one more time, you're not sure; your mind blanks again. When you can think, feel, process again, she's giving little kitten licks to your sensitive sex that send shudders up your whole body.

"Okay," you say. Your throat hurts a little—how much noise were you making? You clear it. "Okay. You win." You tap out on the mattress like a boxer. She's wearing a look of supreme satisfaction as she lets you go, her face covered in slick wetness, her makeup a disaster, her hair a messy tangle. She's so beautiful. Your heart does a now-familiar backflip.

She crawls up your body and flops onto her side next to you, curling onto your chest. There's long minutes of just you two breathing, the sound filling the room, a tingling starting in your pussy that you know is the herald of after-sex soreness, her damp fingertips tracing idly on your skin.

You start to smooth out her hair. It'll take a shower and a comb to really fix—maybe you'll suggest it. You trail your fingers down and follow the freckled curve of her shoulder, the roll of flesh on her side along her ribs, the dip of her waist before it opens onto the perfect field of her hips and ass.

Her eyes flick up to yours. They're softer and happier than you've ever seen them; the look on her face is gentle and content. You bring your questing hand up to cup her cheek. She kisses your thumb.

"I'm hungry again," she declares.

A laugh bursts out of you, full of affection. "What?" she says, clearly about to be offended, but before she can go any further, you pull her fully into your arms, wrap around her and squeeze.

You press your face into her neck and inhale, smelling her sweat and skin and sex. "You're perfect for me," you say into that warm curve, muffled against her skin. "You're just perfect." You peck a kiss onto her jaw and lean back to touch her cheek again. "Should we make something? Do you want pasta?"

She grins at you. It's that big, Cheshire smile you saw on her face a few days ago, telling Barbara about how she shot her shot, full of preening satisfaction. She leans in and brushes your nose with hers.

"I knew I picked right," she says, simply, happily. She laces her fingers with yours. "Come on, I got a robe you could wear. You like carbonara?"

She leads you off the rumpled bed. You can see you've left a blurry pink bite mark on one cheek of her perfect ass. She brings you a fuzzy shortie robe ("I like your legs, baby, lemme see 'em") and puts on a silk one herself, and takes your hand again as she opens the bedroom door.

You feel good. You're happy. You realize as she brings you to the kitchen, to the very heart of her home, that you're not alone anymore.

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

Author's Note:

I received the following prompt from an anonymous reader on Tumblr:

"can you write some fluffy smut for Mel x reader where everyone thinks Mel would be in charge in the bedroom because she’s so tough and reader is so shy. but actually reader takes care of Mel."

Back when Season 2 was airing, I saw a few fan posts saying that Lisa Ann had suggested there was a cameraperson on the crew that Melissa thought was cute, which led to the rare scenes where Melissa opens up to the camera. I'm not sure if this is accurate to what she said, but that idea has stuck with me. When I received the above prompt, it went into a blender with that thought, and this is the smoothie that resulted.

I hope I've done justice to this lovely prompt!

[httpvomitello]

HI YOUR WRITING MAKES MY HEART SOAR! Just recently got back on my tmnt love and I was thinking. How would the guys react when they find out the woman they love also loves them back? Like they’ve been pining for months/YEARS even!! Maybe they still do or at some point they decide to abandon all feelings but then she tells them herself or maybe she or April accidentally let’s it slip to the turts. Would they immediately make a move? Would they get embarrassed and withdraw? I need to knowwwww 💙❤️💜🧡

Awwwn, thank you soooo much! Seriously, reading this makes me so happy. Hope you like it! ♡♡♡♡

Do You Like Me Too? *⁠.⁠✧

Leo had trained himself to set his feelings aside. So he kept everything bottled up—only allowing himself brief moments to imagine what it would be like if you felt the same way.

But that all changes one night while you and Leo are practicing together. You’ve been working on some new moves, and Leo’s been your patient mentor, guiding you, helping you adjust your stance.

After a particularly successful move, he gives you an approving smile. "Nice job, (Y/N). You’re really getting the hang of it."

You grin, catching your breath as you hold his gaze. But then, suddenly, your face softens, and the words slip out almost like a sigh: "Maybe I’m just trying to impress you."

Leo freezes, his heart hammering. He’s sure he must have misheard. "What?"

"I like you, Leo. Like… really like you." You smile shyly, as if the weight of your confession is finally off your shoulders. "I don’t think I could have hidden it much longer."

For a split second, Leo’s mind races. Every reason he’s ever come up with to keep his distance vanishes. His face softens, and he takes a deep breath, daring to move closer.

"I—" His voice catches, and he looks down, gathering his thoughts. "I thought I could just… bury these feelings and keep them hidden. For the sake of you, really. I didn’t want you to feel any kind of pressure…or guilt."

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his eyes, and you reach up to gently cup his face, bringing his gaze back to yours. "Leo, you don’t have to hold back. I don’t want you to."

"I’ve loved you for so long, (Y/N)," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion. "But I thought it was selfish of me to want you in my life that way."

Your gaze softens as you lean in closer. "Then let yourself be selfish for once, Leo."

He closes the remaining distance between you, pressing his lips softly against yours in a kiss that speaks of all the months he’s held back

“I think I could get used to this,” he murmurs, his voice filled with happiness.

Raph tried to deny his feelings for you for as long as he could. Sure, he’d admired you, flirted a little, maybe even let his jealousy slip out when someone else had your attention. But he never dared to take it any further. You deserved better, he’d tell himself, so he kept his distance and convinced himself it was better this way.

April, though, had always seen right through him. She knew he was hiding a soft spot under that gruff exterior, and she'd caught on to his little glances and subtle protectiveness.

One day, she comes over to your place with a casual, “So…when are you finally gonna tell Raph that you like him too?”

You blink, stunned. “Excuse me?”

April goes still, the color draining from her face as she realizes her mistake. “Oh no, I didn’t mean to—oh man, please don’t tell Raph I said anything.”

But you’re still processing, and your cheeks flush. “Wait, he…he likes me?”

April’s eyes widen as she realizes the floodgate she’s just opened. “Um…well, yeah, he kinda has for a long time.” She winces, giving you a guilty smile. “But he’d kill me if he knew I told you.”

You can’t help but smile, your heart racing at the thought. “I think it’s time I go have a talk with him.”

Raph’s sitting in the gym later that evening, he doesn’t notice you at first, so you clear your throat, causing him to look up, startled.

“Oh, hey,” he says, masking his surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You sit beside him, watching as he fidgets with a wrench, not quite meeting your eyes. After a moment, you take a deep breath. “Raph… April told me something today. And I need to know if it’s true.”

He freezes, his grip on the wrench tightening. “Oh yeah? What’d she say?”

“She…mentioned that you might have feelings for me.”

The wrench clatters to the floor as Raph turns to you, his face a mixture of panic and frustration. “Damn it, April—she wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his arm to calm him. “Raph, it’s okay. Actually… it’s more than okay.”

He looks up at you, searching your face, his eyes filled with hope and uncertainty. “What’re you saying?”

You smile, your own cheeks flushing. “I feel the same way, Raph. I’ve been wanting to tell you for ages, but I was worried about how you’d react.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, as if waiting for the punchline. Then, unable to hold back, he pulls you into a tight hug, pressing his forehead against yours.

"Damn, I thought you’d never notice," he whispers, his voice rough but full of relief.

Donnie had always been the hopeless romantic, pining for you in ways that even he knew were a little over the top. He could spend hours in his lab thinking about you, wondering if maybe, just maybe, you could ever feel the same. But he never dared to say anything, especially when every little interaction with you made his heart race to the point he thought he’d lose all composure.

But April knew. Of course she did; she could read Donnie like a book. And on one of your usual visits to the lair, she accidentally lets something slip.

"Donnie, you’re so silly!" you laugh, watching him fumble through some tech explanation he’s giving you. The way you smile at him has him grinning like a fool, and April can't resist rolling her eyes. She's seen this situation too many times, and as she leans back, she accidentally mutters, “If only she knew how much you’re into her…”

You freeze. “Wait, what?” You turn to April, wide-eyed, and Donnie goes pale, his mouth opening in horror as he stares at April.

April realizes her slip-up too late, and her cheeks go red. “I mean—I…uh, have to go grab something from the kitchen!” she stammers, bolting before either of you can ask her another question.

There’s a long, awkward silence as you turn to Donnie, waiting for an answer. “Is that true?” you ask softly.

Donnie’s eyes dart around, searching for some form of escape, but when none appears, he swallows hard and nods. “Yeah… it’s true. I’ve liked you for…a long time, actually.” His face flushes as he finally admits it, looking anywhere but at you.

A small smile tugs at your lips, and you reach out to gently touch his arm. “Donnie… I like you too.”

The words hit him like a shockwave, and his wide eyes finally meet yours. “Wait—what? You…you like me?”

You nod, your smile growing, and that’s all he needs. Slowly, a shy but delighted smile spreads across his face, and he lets out a little laugh, his fingers brushing against yours. "I never thought this day would actually come," he whispers.

With a grin, you step closer, and he reaches out, letting his hand brush your cheek before finally leaning in, pulling you into a gentle kiss, his heart racing with pure joy.

Mikey had always been open about his affection for you. Playful, flirty, and constantly teasing, he never held back with compliments and affectionate gestures. But you’d always just laughed and brushed him off, thinking it was just part of his personality.

What you didn’t know was that underneath his bright smiles and lighthearted antics, he’d been pining for you, hiding just how much he cared. For months, he’d wondered if you could ever take him seriously, if you’d ever see him as more than a friend.

One day, you decided to finally tell him how you felt. You’d noticed he’d been holding back a bit lately, that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to joke around as much. So you decided to risk it, showing up at the lair to talk to him.

He greets you with his usual grin, "Hey, (Y/N)! What’s up?"

"Mikey… can we talk for a sec?"

His smile falters, and he swallows, his hands fidgeting as he looks at you. "Yeah, of course. What’s on your mind?"

You take a deep breath, your heart pounding. "I just wanted to tell you that… well, I like you. More than a friend, I mean."

For a second, Mikey’s face is blank, and then it lights up in pure, unfiltered joy. "Wait—are you serious?" He lets out a little laugh, almost like he can’t believe it. "You really like me?"

"Yeah," you say, your own smile growing as you see how genuinely happy he looks. "I mean, I thought you’d already know by now."

Mikey practically bounces on his feet, letting out a loud whoop. Without missing a beat, he pulls you into a hug, lifting you slightly as he spins you around, laughing with pure excitement.

"I knew it! I knew there was something between us!" he says, eyes shining. Then he looks at you with a playful grin, leaning close as he whispers, "Guess that makes me your favorite turtle, huh?"

With a laugh, you press a kiss to his cheek, and he turns bright red but doesn’t stop smiling.

[jeanmoreautemple]

Thea Muldani: a rant

I feel weird about Thea but I can’t really put into words exactly why? So I’m writing down some things I’ve thought.

I honestly didn’t think much about her before TSC, like she was okay (I wish she’d been introduced earlier tho or that she hadn’t graduated already so she was a recurrent Raven player or something).

After reading the extra content I wasn’t bothered about the age gap between her and Kevin but yes a little bit about the fact that Kevin was fourteen when they first met + the -you fuck like a virgin, maybe some practice will make you better at it- comment that Nora included. It was uuhh weird but the rest of the Kevthea story was okay, and Thea is 100% not a groomer. Plus, Nora technically deleted the extra content so in theory nothing there is canon yet.

Now in TSC we get her sole appearance in TKM from Jean’s POV, who has known her since he was fourteen (like Kevin- this is important to keep in mind). The scene starts out cute! We find out she took him under her wing and even had nicknames for him like Paris and her little duckling🥰. So the fourteen year boy that just arrived from france with broken English looked up to her, Thea was ~21 at this point.

We know Jean is going through HELL during this time:

And we also know the Moriyamas were always particularly cruel with Jean, getting more physical him than with Kevin. Even though It’s said that Riko would torture Jean and Kevin (broken hand incident) in private, hence the other Ravens not knowing the whole picture, how can a fourteen year old kid hide such pain? But apparently , as we later find out, Thea was too deep into the Evermore raven cult mindset that she didn’t find anything strange about the coach and Rikk’s behavior towards Jean.

At 15 Jean is given a number and place in the perfect court, but only at 16 joins the lineup. He gets a lot of hate, especially from the other defensemen, whom Thea works with:

Although the Ravens are know for being extremely violent training, at least in the court Thea must have noticed that the defense line were especially brutal to Jean. Or SOMETHING.

But here comes the worst part: during this same year Riko forces Jean to sleep with 5 defensemen. By the time Jean is a junior most of these have graduated which means they were 20 or older. So Thea had been playing with each of these guys for at least 2 years (except for Grayson), she knew them.

They went on to joke and talk about the whole ordeal as Jean paying for his perfect court number. Thea also being in the defense line could have heard all of this first hand, we don’t know. But It’s so widely talked about that it reaches Tetsuji and we do know Thea witnessed Jean’s punishment:

Coincidentally Thea starts a sexual and emotional relationship with Kevin this year (it’s her last too).

So here’s the part that made me dislike Thea very much. In TKM she goes to Kevin demanding answers, Kevin then brings her to Jean, who is looking like this:

It’s been three years since she graduated but she’s still wearing her Raven number in a necklace, and when she sees Jean’s state in TSC she comments how if Kevin hadn’t said anything she’d think it normal:

By now it’s clear she at 26 is still 100% brainwashed, but this next line of hers cemented it:

YOUR OLD TRICKS ?!

So let’s break that down:

1. The immigrant kid (16!) she watched over for two years from age 14 to 16 suddenly starts having sex with members of HER (23!) defense line who are all around her age and openly hate him for 5 consecutive nights and she doesn’t suspect anything?

2. Said defensemen then brag and shame Jean afterwards calling him a whore, which leads to Jean getting beaten half to dead by their coach and still nothing?

3. Years later she recalls the incident as Jean being up to his little tricks and being rightfully beaten to a pulp?!!!!

I can’t. I know she’s also a cult victim but no. It was super common for Ravens to have hate sex with each other but her being close to Kevin (and somewhat Jean) during the time Jean’s (a 16 year old!) assaults were happening and still remaining this clueless… I’m sure she must be lovable for both Kevin and Jean to respect and care for her so much but her one scene convinced me she’s way too deep into the Raven spirit and her presence around Kevin and Jean would be just so harmful.

But I have to give credit when it’s due, apparently after some hours with Kevin and 7 years later she believes her King broke Kevin’s hand:

In conclusion:

Thea is absolutely no groomer but if one takes a look at her attitude towards Jean’s sexual history when he was 16 and how her relationship with Kevin was happening simultaneously, her you fuck like a virgin, maybe some practice will make you better at it and tell me you weren’t up to your old tricks comment combo, it all makes me dislike her. Cause you’d think someone who at 22-23 was dating a boy who had just turned legal would be careful or mature enough to choose her wording better when talking about the sexual activity between a boy close in age to her own boyfriend with people around HER age, but nope. The fact that Kevin married her, has a child and lives happily ever after with her seems unbelievable to me.

PS: Her and Kevin’s (we don’t know if he believes Riko) apparent ignorance or lack of suspicion of Jean’s freshman year assault was the most hurtful part of TSC tbh (not counting Elodie). Imagine having the closest people to you misunderstand/ believe lies about such a traumatic event. I guess this is why Nora didn’t include a Andrew POV, I would have died or wanted to kill Nicky and Aaron for not looking deeper into Andrew’s attitude.

[aajjks]

mess (m)

synopsis. There’s only one way to make sure you stay. And he’s willing to do anything.

pairing: yandere oc x fem!reader.

wärnïngs. yändêrê, mäsöchïstïc tëndëncïês, öral (fém récîevïng), délüsïònál béhâvïöûr, präïsè kink, ëxplïcït smüt, ëxtrëmë yändere, MDNÏ

part one — part two.

note. please share feedback and send in asks for ezekiel, ENJOY!

You look like you want to kill him.

Ezekiel removes his hand from your wrist, and immediately falls on his knees. You are visibly fuming, the way you’re chewing on your lower lip has him quivering in fear.

Although you look so sexy at the same time to him, glaring down at him with those E/C eyes of yours, your teeth nibble on your lip,

okay not the right time, stupid!

He stops his train of thoughts and barely manages to look into your eyes, “y-yn…” you cross your arms to your chest and clench your jaw.

Oh you really want to kill him..

“P-Please don’t misunderstand!” He begs you, his voice is loud and panicky. “I don’t know why she was here!” He confesses to you.

You look around the hall, it’s empty! Why can’t you focus on him instead, all of the people are busy attending their classes.

He has to go too but no he won’t, not when you’re so quite, when you’re fuming. And he could always catch up later.

Right now his priority was only you.

He needed to fix this mess that his ex girlfriend had created.

“Who the fuck was she huh?” You spit at him, oh your eyes are turning dark, he’s in so much trouble, it excites him.

“M-My ex…” he grabs your legs before breathing in. “I-I broke up with her almost a year ago, I-I don’t know why she decided to study here!” He feels so frantic.

You have to believe him! He’s telling you the truth!

“Hmm..” you mumble something he can’t comprehend… he can’t tell what you’re thinking, you’re so good at hiding your emotions. Your eyebrows furrow all of a sudden,

He feels like he can finally breathe again.

“An ex huh..?” You seem to be in a deep thought, Ezekiel nods his head and looks at you with his grey eyes, filled with desperation.

“Let go of me.” You command him, your gaze is empty. He panics. No he can’t let you go, he has to please you, he has to make sure you don’t abandon him!

He can’t afford that, oh no he’d rather die by your hands than let you go.

“N-No please d-don’t leave me! L-Let me make it up to you yn!!! Pl-Please!” He only holds onto you tighter, “l-let me please you!”

There’s only one way to make you stay. And he would do anything to make you stay. He grabs your legs tighter, and pushes his face into them, inhaling your scent like a dog.

“You sick fuck.” You curse at him, “such a slut aren’t you?”

“Only for you..” you smirk at him, he feels his heart thump in anticipation, you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

He wants you so bad.

He follows behind you like a puppy, you keep searching for the janitors closet and he’s starting to get impatient, “look there!” He points it out for you,

Oh please let’s just get in, already!

“I can see it.” You roll your eyes at him and open the door to see if anyone is in there, once you are sure, you signal the impatient guy to come in.

And he immediately complies, he doesn’t wait for your command to lock the door, and you don’t stop him either.

He turns around to look at you, staring at him with a bored look in your eyes, “come on.” You sigh, “take off my jeans.” You point your fingers to your jeans and his eyes light up.

He walks over to you, his mind feels so hazy, he can’t see but you.

“Y-Yes t-thank you yn..” he gets down on his knees, his fingers reach your zipper and he tugs at it, taking off your jeans eagerly, his eyes bulging out of the sockets as he stares at your underwear.

His fingers trace the lace, his mouth is watering as he slides it down to your legs.

He shudders as he stares at your bare cunt.

And he feels so much hunger.

“So beautiful…” As you spread your legs for him, he lets out a shaky breath. Ezekiel’s shaking, he pushes his face between your legs and takes in a deep breath, inhaling your scent once again.

You smell so good.

Your thighs trap him and you feel his light stubble on your skin, he drags the tip of his tongue along your slit, his spit getting all over as he gives it a few kitten licks,

It feels so good.

It’s hard for him to take it slow, he wants to eat you out feverishly, but he wants to savour the feeling of you on his tongue.

“F-Faster, don’t fuckin tease me. I need you.” You grab his hair and pull on it harshly, his teeth graze your bud and you gasp when he bites on it gently. He quickly pushes one of his digits inside you, pumping in and out, making you squeal.

You’re dripping.

He feels so feral and attaches his mouth on your cunt once again, lapping at like a starved man, the lewd sounds of your cunt are making him feel so hot, he’s di hard, it’s painful but the way you’re tugging at his curls is so hot.

You use your other hand to push his face deeper into your pussy and he almost cried from happiness, you’re enjoying yourself.

He doesn’t waste his time to spit on it and then continue to eat you out like a feral animal, he knows that you like it rough, messy and nasty,

And who is he to deny you?

He feels so lewd, with your nectar and his drool running down his jaw, he can’t stop, your moan’s burn in his memory,

He loves those little weak whimpers coming from you.

“S-So tasty, fuckin suffocate me, y-yes please clench around my tongue, o-oh yes!” You only moan louder at his dirty words

“G-Gonna cum, puppy ‘m gonna cum…”

Oh he’s about lose the last the bit of his sanity.

He drags his tongue all over your cunt, sucking all over your thighs so his marks stay, he loves you so much, you drive him absolutely mad.

“D-Don’t stop… don’t f-fuckin stop.” You command him, you use your hand to push his face deeper into your pussy, again.

He’s in heaven.

You want his tongue to feel so deep inside you, so how can he deny you?

He tilts his head to the side and your back arches, “love you s’much, only you.” He is slurring out his sentences at this point.

“Cum… please f’me.” He begs and you let go, your hips buckle up and he squeezes it, you gush around him and he takes it all, “O-Oh puppy..”

“Y-Yes that’s it… give me all of it!”

He slurps it all up like a good boy, you have his mind shutting down, he cums on the spots too, his boxers feel so fucking heavy but it’s okay.

It’s all because of you.

You make him a mess, and he loves it.

[crguang]

somethin’ bout those tears of yours… how does it feel to be adored?

Shrieks or symphony? They’re all the same to her. However, your cries will always sound better than any orchestra.

warnings: smut, finger fucking, kafka eating pussy like i know she can, afab!reader, dom!kafka (duh), dacryphilia (thats the whole point of this if im honest)

wc: 3,2K

A/N: wow guys um. this didn’t go as planned but im not really complaining, i never write smut so i dont know whats going on but enjoy nonetheless

As eloquent as Kafka is, she can’t seem to be able to put into words why the sight of your shiny eyes and pouty lips moves her so.

It’s not so much a feeling of pity they rouse as a sort of pleasure that courses through her like rain seeping into clothes. It’s a soft delight, the kind she recognizes as when she closes her eyes and lets the high notes of a violin fill her senses. Emotion twisting your features is like a carefully building crescendo— first come the furrowed brows, then the scrunch of your pretty nose and the tremble in your lips, and finally, big, fat glassy tears running along your full cheeks. The melody reaches its climax as your eyes meet hers, the dulcet tones of your poorly contained cries bringing forth something Kafka’s never found in another person. It’s a sadistic sort of pleasure to experience, perhaps, not that she’d ever care about the gaps in her morality.

She particularly enjoys the gloss in your gaze when she’s between your slick thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, tongue swirling around your pulsing clit. Kafka sometimes rolls her eyes at how easily you are taken by emotion—she’s almost certain it’s a facade, it has to be— and thinks you’re working in the wrong business, but she can’t complain when you’re such a pretty crier. Like a loyal dog, she makes your wants happen regardless of whether you find the courage to utter them. Your jaw clenches in anger after a rude interaction with a stranger, and Kafka threatens him in an alley. Her finger’s always been loose on the trigger. Your hand trails down her bicep in that purposeful way that lets her know you want her, and Kafka buries her nose in your cunt until tears cloud your vision and you’re firmly pulling her mouth away with a hand in her hair. She takes in a breath, lips parted and coated in arousal, as she revels in the way your chest stutters and your wet eyelashes flutter. You’re at your prettiest like this; bare, sweaty, pliable under her steady hands. What a sight it makes.

Kafka sighs lustfully, a palm against her cheek as she lets the thoughts dissipate. You haven’t noticed her stare yet, too preoccupied by your argument with Silver Wolf to spare her a glance. She doesn’t care to listen in and instead waits until the heated debate inevitably has you stomping towards her with an irritated pout. Your arms cross over your chest and the crease between your brows deepens when you plant yourself in front of her.

“This girl will argue over anything.”

Kafka’s usual smile doesn’t faze you, nor does the way her fingertips linger on your skin when she pushes strands of hair out of your face. She only hums in acknowledgment. Your nose bridge is crinkled in frustration, as is the corner of your eyes, and it’s almost enough to hear the familiar symphony that sounds between her ears. If Kafka were to psychoanalyze her every thought, she’d have wondered if witnessing strong emotional responses fascinates her because she doesn’t have any. People attract what they lack, do they not? It would explain the shiver that caresses her spine when she’s face to face with a pleading victim. Her pupils grow twice in size to take in as much of the scene as possible, and she lets violins and cellos reach their crescendo in her mind until death descends and everything stops. The following silence brings satisfaction, a fitting end to a beautiful symphony.

Silver Wolf passes by the two of you with her eyes glued to her phone screen and mutters a mocking comment she intends for you to hear. You grit your teeth. The whole thing’s pretty childish and certainly unserious, but you both have strong opinions on what constitutes a good video game, apparently.

“She likes to rile you up,” Kafka grips your chin with three fingers and turns you back toward her. “Don’t mind her.”

“I’m not letting myself be bullied by a girl who can’t reach the highest cupboard without a chair,” you say the last part loud enough for Silver Wolf to give you the middle finger as she walks away.

With the source of your frustration gone, your muscles relax bit by bit until you’re sighing and running a hand down your face.

“I need some air.”

Kafka fetches your coat.

You’ve forgotten the entire ordeal when you and Kafka step outside of a clothing store, a spring in your step that appeared after the two of you spent half an hour looking at leather jackets. You ended up buying one for yourself after Kafka’s extensive comments and suggestions. The paper bag sways as you walk through the busy streets of an unfamiliar city. You’ve never been to this planet before, everything was a sight you wished you could stop and admire for more than a few minutes but being a Stellaron Hunter didn’t come with vacations. You were here on a job and would be leaving in two days, according to Elio’s script. The first part is done, the second takes place tomorrow, which allows you a moment of reprieve to simply wander around this strange city. Your sense of orientation and perception is excellent but you let Kafka lead you through bustling markets and tight alleys to get back to the base. She doesn’t say it but you know this wide detour is a way for you to take in as much of the city as you can, so you pretend not to see the man hurriedly making his way towards you and let him push you closer to her in order to grab her hand, effectively steadying you. Neither of you lets go the whole walk home.

The place is quiet when you make it back two hours later. Silver Wolf is probably curled up in a corner with a game and the others are nowhere to be seen. You waste no time in pulling out the jacket and discarding the bag once in the living area, taking off your current coat to shrug the new one on. Kafka takes a seat on a couch, one leg over the other, her chin in the palm of her hand as she watches you.

You carefully adjust the collar and tug on the jacket so it fits perfectly, then turn towards her.

“So? Does it look as good on me as you said it would?”

The corner of Kafka’s mouth lifts as she replies, “Hm… Swirl a little for me.”

You turn a few times, allowing her to see every angle. You zip it all the way up but decide you like the look better when the jacket is open. You even take some steps to and fro, delighting in the way Kafka’s usually blank gaze diligently follows your movements.

“Yes,” she finally says after a moment, “you definitely make it work.”

“Yeah? You’d pick me up from a bar?”

There’s a playful tilt to your voice when the question leaves your lips. Kafka’s smile widens. Her eyes lazily trail down your figure, then back up to your face. She leans back into the couch and tilts her head slightly to the side, fixing you with a level stare.

“I would.”

You hum in thought as you step close enough to settle on her lap, knees on each side of her hips. Kafka doesn’t move when your hands clasp around her neck. You see the amused twitch of her lips, though.

“Do you think I’d look super mysterious so you’d approach me to see what my deal is?”

“No. You’re too expressive to be mysterious.”

That answer makes your brows furrow and your nostrils flare.

“Just like that,” Kafka teases.

You roll your eyes. “So you’d only approach me for my looks? How romantic of you.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic. But,” a gloved hand sneaks under your shirt, fingers splayed out over the expanse of your back as they trace the bones of your spinal cord, “I could show you a very good time.”

“Oh, really?” You watch her peach lips when she speaks, absentmindedly leaning closer.

She hums in agreement. Her free hand comes to rest on your waist while the other leisurely wanders up and down your back. Her gloves are thin and the fabric feels expensive against your bare skin. You don’t notice how close you’ve gotten until you look up to see Kafka’s lidded eyes fixed on yours. A shiver runs through you when the pad of her fingers reaches your nape.

“You’d leave with me, wouldn’t you?” She asks with a low drawl to her words.

Kafka’s pleasure in asking questions she already knows the answers to is lost on you. She revels in making you admit things you’d otherwise keep to yourself in an attempt to fluster you, and loves watching you fight with yourself while thinking of a response. Surprising her is no easy feat but is always a treat.

“Maybe.” You say simply.

“Maybe? I’m offended.”

“You’ll live.”

“Hm. Perhaps I should be more convincing, then.”

Her chin tilts upwards and your eyes close to await a kiss that never comes. You feel Kafka’s steady breath on your lips for a moment before she leans back and raises an amused eyebrow at you. There’s a crease between your brows when you meet her teasing gaze.

“What? Were you expecting something?”

You decide to play her game and jut out your bottom lip in a petulant pout. Her lenses don’t hide the way her eyes catch the movement.

“Are you saying you’re not going to kiss me?” You whine a little, pulling her closer by the back of her neck.

The hand that was on your waist lifts to take hold of your chin. Kafka swipes her thumb over your bottom lip.

“Is that what you want?”

The cocky smile painting her face annoys you, but you know that she’ll give you what you want. She always gives you what you want. You nod, and as your lashes flutter you can tell the exact moment she realizes your submission is an act. A low chuckle leaves her, the hand on your back trails up to close around your nape in a forceful grip, and she harshly pulls you to her until your mouth crashes on hers. It’s a rough and hurried kiss; you feel her tongue push past your lips as you try to match her pace. Kafka keeps you where you are with only a hand and forces you to follow her lead, a clear reminder of who’s in charge between the two of you. Your guts tighten as she kisses you long enough that you have to exhale sharply through your nose to avoid getting dizzy. Her tongue explores your mouth like it already knows where everything is and swirls around yours in a way that has you arching against her.

You recognize the look in Kafka’s eyes when she suddenly pulls away, bottom lip shining with saliva. You’re sure she can feel your heartbeat sending ripples through your chest with how close it is to hers. An unapologetic smile makes its way onto your face. You take great pleasure in knowing she’ll make you regret your blatant manipulation.

Frustration builds inside you at the same unhurried pace as Kafka’s single digit plunging into your cunt. Her lips ignore your clit as they plant wet kisses to your slick folds, her tongue occasionally dipping between them with strokes far too light for your liking. It’s been half an hour and Kafka’s still between your thighs, savoring the taste of your arousal with no care for your release. Her gloved finger feels good against your walls and the wet sounds it makes as she thrusts it inside you only turns you on more, but it’s not nearly enough to make you come. Your wrists tug on their restraints— the glowing pink silk keeps them above your head on the mattress, unable to move. You tilt your head to the ceiling and groan for the hundredth time.

“Kafka, come on…” Your whine is real this time as you look down at her figure between your legs.

Kafka only hums over your twitching clit, then deserts it completely and raises her head to meet your eyes. Arousal stains her mouth, giving it a pretty sheen like the one on her favorite coat. Her finger opts for a massage and rubs your clenching walls as your lips part to let out another pained whine. Kafka watches the way your hips greedily chase your release, bucking towards her appreciative mouth.

A breathy moan breaks your pout when her tongue licks a long stripe up your slit. It’s warm and wet against you, and it sends pleasant shivers down your spine every time it makes contact with your needy cunt. Kafka takes her time tasting you and it’s in moments like these where you curse her patience. She has no issue working you up for hours because she knows the end results will be satisfactory, so she turns a deaf ear to your complaints and pleas. There’s a coil in your belly begging to burst and you can’t do anything but try to get Kafka to care.

“Please? Give me more…”

Kafka’s lips abandon your folds with a wet sound. She sighs exaggeratingly and adjusts herself between your thighs so she’s kneeling, then holds you down with a hand on your hip.

“So noisy,” she says, a glint in the depths of her eyes that you’re not sure you like. “Don’t make me shut you up.”

“Don’t be mean.” You groan in frustration when her finger completely stops moving inside you. “Come on.”

“Mean?” Kafka repeats, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “Fine.”

She plunges three fingers inside your waiting cunt at once, hard and fast, and the sudden intrusion has you choking out a surprised moan.

“W—Wait—“

You don’t have time to adjust to the stretch, she doesn’t let you. The next breath gets caught in your throat as her fingers drive inside you with a speed you’re not accustomed to, effectively shutting you up. She brings her other hand to press rough circles on your clit, forcing the sensations to overwhelm you completely. Your hips stutter. It feels good beyond the initial shock, great, and you’re still huffing out short gasps while you eagerly take in her digits. Your vision blurs at the edges. You can still make out Kafka’s intense gaze on your face, drinking in your expression like the sight alone could make her come.

Once you get used to the rhythm, moving against her hand and sighing in relief, Kafka stops entirely. You struggle to let out a pained noise as her fingers leave your cunt at once before you even have time to beg.

“No,” you whine, “please…”

You’re getting irritated and desperate, the feeling curls around your throat and threatens to spill in an embarrassing sob. You swallow it as Kafka slips two fingers past her lips. She suckles on them while you try to control your breathing, taking longer breaths and willing your heart to slow down lest it bursts. The digits come out wet with a mix of saliva and arousal. She spreads them apart to see the sticky string that connects them, before bringing them down to smear it over your sex in a teasing manner.

You exhale sharply when her thumb swipes over your clit a few times, not enough to build your orgasm back up despite the pleasure it brings. You tug on your restraints a second time and feel humiliated when Kafka only watches you with lidded eyes and a happy smile. You know what she’s after, what she wants from you. It’s the only way you can get her to fuck you like she means it, so you take another deep, shaky breath and keep quiet.

“Oh…?” Kafka’s middle finger circles your entrance when she witnesses your resolve. She doesn’t say another word, simply pushes it inside in slow thrusts.

You bite into the flesh of your cheek as her thumb massages the base of your clit then teases the tip. Your chest heaves but you’re determined not to make a sound. She masturbates you the way she wants to; circles your pulsing clit, slides a forefinger between your slick folds, watches the way her middle one disappears inside your cunt as if swallowed. You take it like she wants you to, also, because she’s the only one who can push you over the edge. When you least expect it, Kafka thrusts three fingers inside you at the same pace as earlier, knocking the wind out of you until you’re a moaning mess. With every sharp thrust and the pressure on your clit, you get closer to your release. Then she stops, drastically slows down to a mere massage that has your nose scrunching up and your lips trembling. A lump forms in your throat after she denies you for the third time.

She plays you like a string instrument, denies you relief she knows you crave, until your brows twist in that pretty, familiar way and she hears the bright, crisp tones of a melody meant for her ears only. Her lips part and the pupils beneath her lenses swallow the pink of her irises. She stills, muscles taut, senses attuned to every crease of your skin and quiver of your features. You take in a shuddering breath through your mouth, your eyes screwed shut in frustration and need and finally, you cry. Fat tears spill from the corner of your eyes and slide down your skin into your ears. Kafka’s reaction is instant. Her fingers drill into you, fast, rough, unrelenting. She moves to hover over you as your orgasm builds in your belly and reverently kisses your tears as they escape your eyes. Her mouth is gentle while her fingers are not; there’s a distinct ringing inside her head when the sound of your whimpers hits her ears and the salt of your tears coats her lips. It’s as she feels your cunt squeeze tight around her fingers while she softly shushes you that Kafka realizes something else.

You come with a broken cry, pleasure coursing through your body like a sudden shock as the coil in your stomach finally bursts. Kafka tears herself away from your glistening face to watch how you gush over her fingers and ruin the sheets under you. The sticky mess makes her own cunt clench, she particularly enjoys how messy things can get during sex. Her silk glove is positively dirty, the material gleams in the light and is thick with your arousal when she takes her fingers out of you.

You’re coming down from your high with your nose buried in Kafka’s neck, and occasional sniffles can be heard as her cleanest hand strokes your hair. This feeling she’s become familiar with suddenly has a name, it swirls around her ribs and snakes under the sturdy walls of her heart. Kafka doesn’t need to be eloquent to know that she adores you. She adores you especially when she makes you cry because she can soothe it all away afterwards.