#he LIVES in sweaters every season

[heich0e]

"so... how's work?"

you accidentally click the edge of your wine glass against your teeth as you tip it back, jarred by the strange question from the man standing at your side. you swallow the tiny mouthful of wine you manage to sip, turning to look at suna in bewilderment.

"work?" you ask him incredulously. "why are you asking me about work?"

suna rintarou doesn't care about what you do for work. truthfully speaking, you're not sure he even knows what you do for work—you certainly don't remember ever telling him, and the memory would stand out quite starkly considering all you ever seem to do when you run into him is bicker with him uselessly.

suna is a friend of a friend. or a friend of some friend's ex. or something. all you know is that every so often the two of you end up at the same social event, and there's something about the guy's face that just... makes you want to pick a fight.

and he has yet to turn down your instigation.

your friends all think it's funny—like you're some kind of comedy duo, and this is your special bit—but you don't see the charm in the slightest. you suspect they've started inviting you both to events just to have some entertainment.

"what?" rintarou asks, fiddling with his cellphone in his hand—pinching it between his thumb and his ring finger while he twirls it with his index. "i'm not allowed to ask about work? isn't that normal small talk for a christmas party?"

you're a little taken aback by his words. first of all, because he's right (which you hate). second of all, because he seems strangely defensive about it.

"normal for other people, maybe," you mutter, more to yourself than anything, before taking another tiny sip of wine. you swallow it, but somehow it doesn't help the dry feeling in your mouth. you're not sure you like this particular wine, you think, as bitterness clings to your tongue. "work is... fine."

suna perks up beside you at that, and you feel his eyes on your profile like he's waiting for you to go on.

"things get, uh... things get slow this time of year, so I'm mostly just answering stupid emails and ordering gifts online while i sit at my desk." you swirl the glass of wine in your hand, watching the way that the light catches in the deep red surface. "my section chief has kids and loves the holidays, so she's been pretty checked-out lately, herself. makes it easy to get away with slacking off."

you risk a glance over at him, and are somewhat dismayed to find him listening intently.

"must be nice to get a little break," he offers.

"yeah, i guess," you reply. your words are in agreement with him, but still your brow furrows.

what the fuck is going on?

you look around the room, as though checking for a hidden camera, or some other sign that might give away what the hell this guy's motives are. but around you is simply a room of friends enjoying each other's company—sipping drinks; eating finger foods the hosts had been carefully set out to graze on; chatting amongst each other about their lives, their holiday sweaters, their work.

everything seems totally normal, other than what's transpiring in the quiet corner where you and suna rintarou find yourselves standing side by side.

"how is... your... work?" you manage to ask, though it sounds as though the question is pulled from you with considerable effort. stiff and strained in every way a question so innocuous doesn't have any right to be.

suna laughs a little under his breath, masks it with a clearly fake cough, and then rests his hand over his mouth. he's smirking. you know he is. he's revelling in every second of your discomfort like the twisted little freak he is.

you're about to tell him as much, but he cuts you off.

"it's good," he replies to your pained question with an unexpected sincerity. "we're coming up to the half-way point in the season, so training is still pretty intense. we do get a day off for the holiday though."

right, he's a volleyball player. you'd learned that upon your first meeting, before your opinion of him was quite so hostile. you remember thinking at the time that he looked like a volleyball player—tall, lean, with big hands that made the beer can he'd been holding look almost laughably small in comparison.

you glance down at those hands again, still idly fidgeting with his cellphone. he's not drinking a beer tonight, and you wonder if maybe it's because he's in the middle of his season.

you think about asking him.

but you don't.

suna seems to be waiting for you to say more, but when you don't, he continues on the conversation himself. "i thought about taking the train to hyogo for the day, but it wouldn't really make sense just to go visit for a few hours."

you take another sip of your wine. you decide that you do not in fact enjoy it.

you hum a bit, ditching your mostly full glass on the edge of a table that rests within reach. "tough to just make a day trip, especially since the weather's so..." you trail off, gesturing vaguely with your now empty hand in a way that's supposed to indicate the unreliability of the winter climate.

suna laughs.

you look at him in confusion.

"the weather?" he asks you, rubbing at his mouth again like he trying to hide the expression underneath his fingertips. it might work if his eyes didn't crinkle at the corner when he smiles. "we're talking about the weather now?"

your lips part indignantly at his jibe. he's the one who'd initiated this hellscape of small talk, and now he had the nerve to chide you for it?

"oh, i'm sorry," you guffaw, feigning remorse, "is there some pressing matter you'd rather discuss?"

rintarou dips closer to you from his greater height, and the fact that he's so much taller than you are only irritates you more.

"there is actually," he says with a nod.

"oh, yeah?" you roll your eyes, gearing up for a fight. you turn to face him properly, tilting your chin up to meet him eye to eye without wavering. "and what's that?"

"are you aware that we've been standing under mistletoe for the entirety of this conversation?"

you slowly look overhead.

like something out of a horror film, you find that for once in his life (or at least the few months you've known him) suna's chosen to say something factual. overhead, a little bundle of mistletoe has been affixed to the ceiling with a piece of tape that seems to barely be hanging on—the decoration at risk of falling at any moment.

you feel sick.

"so what?" you ask him, swallowing down that feeling of dread and maintaining (what you hope is) an air of indifference.

"so that means we're supposed to kiss," he tells you matter-of-factly, almost a bit pointedly, like he can't believe you didn't know.

"i'm aware of that," you hiss. "i don't, however, bend to the whims of plants, as a general rule."

"weird rule," he remarks, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

you feel a throb of irritation behind your eyes.

"you're the one who came over here to bother me," you point out. "if you knew there was mistletoe hanging up there, that means this is your fault."

suna shrugs a bit.

you keep going, your pulse thrumming beneath your tongue and fanning the flames of irritation churning in the pit of your stomach.

"if anything, that makes you the weird one for coming up with some scheme to trick me. we're not children. if you wanted to kiss me so bad you could have just aske—"

"can i kiss you?"

what?

"i asked if i can kiss you," rintarou says, and you're not sure if that means you voiced your thought aloud or it was just plainly written across your face. he inches closer to you, and though you would usually shift away to accommodate for the intrusion, the table where you'd discarded your glass of wine keeps you mostly trapped in place. pinned. cornered. "you said that if i wanted to kiss you, i should ask. so, i'm asking if i can kiss you."

why?

suna sighs after a moment of contemplating the look of abject shock on your features, slumping forward and resting his forehead on the wall beside your head, caging you against the wall with his lanky frame. you can't breathe with him this close—too startled by the proximity and the warmth radiating from him to even think about drawing air into your lungs. too confused by this entire situation to meet your basic human needs.

"you really don't get it, do you?" he asks quietly. he's so near that you feel his words more than you hear them—especially since they were spoken so quietly just next to your ear.

"get what?" your own voice sounds distant—sounds strange—to you when you finally manage to speak.

suna pulls back just far enough to meet your gaze, and you're shocked to see just how pink his face is. he looks mortified—and desperate—as his eyes find yours. he tilts his face towards you, and when he speaks again you feel the warmth of his breath break against your lips.

"you're the only person in this room who i'd enjoy listening to talk about the weather."

and it's not until much later, when the lingering bitterness from the wine has been replaced by something much sweeter (though entirely unexpected) on your tongue, that you realize rintarou was the only person in the room tall enough to reach the ceiling.

a/n: for nana, who forced me to write this entirely against my will but whom i love dearly in spite of it

[moonlightwritingf1]

Number One | LN4

⋆꙳·̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙₊⋆ ͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ summary ━━━━━━━ At a Christmas party, Y/N nervously gives Lando a Secret Santa gift with a very special meaning. 

⋆꙳·̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙₊⋆ ͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

⋆꙳·̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙₊⋆ ͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ word count ━━━━━━━ 4.1k

⋆꙳·̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙₊⋆ ͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ author's note ━━━━━━━ I know I said I wouldn't be accepting requests until next month, but this request was so good that I had to write it.

The flat was warm with the familiar hum of Christmas music softly playing in the background. It was the kind of night where everything felt just right—the snow falling gently outside, the lights twinkling like stars, and the chatter of friends mingling with bursts of laughter. Pietra and Max, the evening's hosts, had turned their cozy London flat into a festive haven. Friends filled the space, each holding glasses of mulled wine or eggnog as they celebrated the holiday season together.

Y/N stood near the kitchen, quietly adjusting the string of lights on the small tree in the corner of the living room. The colorful lights reflected off her wool sweater, casting a soft glow. Her breath came out in puffs as she concentrated on the decorations, though her mind was elsewhere. Among the gathered friends was Lando Norris—the one person who had made her heart race from the moment they met.

Lando, with his easy grin and mischievous charm, stood out effortlessly. His glistening eyes had a way of locking onto hers, making her feel like the only person in the room. She had noticed his attention before, but tonight felt different. There was an energy between them that she couldn’t ignore, and it left her both nervous and exhilarated.

The evening had started hours earlier when Y/N braved the cold London air, walking briskly toward Pietra and Max’s flat. The holiday season had transformed the city; streets sparkled with twinkling lights, and festive window displays adorned every corner. Despite the magic of the season, Y/N carried mixed feelings about Christmas. It always reminded her of the fractured ties in her family—estranged relatives back in her home country, and the quiet distance that had grown between her and her parents after years of unresolved drama. The holidays, for her, were bittersweet.

Still, she pushed those thoughts aside. Tonight was meant to be about friendship, warmth, and celebration. Pietra and Max had created a safe space for their circle of friends, and Y/N cherished these moments of connection. She had met Lando through this same group a little over a year ago. From the start, it was clear that Lando had taken an interest in her.

His gestures were subtle yet unmistakable: lingering glances, playful teasing, and the way his demeanor softened when he spoke to her. Yet despite his obvious affection, Y/N had kept her emotions carefully guarded. Her shyness and cautious nature acted as walls she wasn’t ready to let down. Falling for someone like Lando—whose glamorous, fast-paced life was worlds apart from her own—felt too risky.

Y/N stepped into the flat, the familiar warmth wrapping around her like a comforting hug. The scent of cinnamon and pine filled the air, mingling with the soft hum of carols. She could hear bursts of laughter from the living room, where Pietra and Max had outdone themselves with their decorations. Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed the ceiling, and a massive Christmas tree stood proudly by the fireplace, its baubles catching the flickering light.

Tugging nervously at the hem of her sweater, Y/N’s fingers brushed over the gift she had brought with her. She had drawn Lando’s name for Secret Santa, and the thought of giving him something personal made her stomach flip. It was one thing to be around him in their usual group settings, where his flirtatious remarks were playful and easy to laugh off, but this felt different. Intimate.

She hadn’t seen him yet, though she knew he would be there. Her heart raced at the thought. Lando always had a way of making her feel seen, and for someone like her, who preferred blending into the background, that was as thrilling as it was terrifying. She’d spent so much time building walls to protect herself, but tonight felt like the night to take a chance—to allow herself to believe in the magic of the season, and maybe even in the possibility of something more.

''Y/N!" Pietra called out, her voice bright with excitement. “You made it!”

Y/N smiled and made her way over to her friend, who was standing next to Max. They greeted each other with a hug, and Y/N’s eyes briefly flicked around the room. There, near the corner by the Christmas tree, stood Lando. He was talking to some of the guys, but when he caught her gaze, he smiled that signature grin—the one that made her heart flutter in spite of herself. He was leaning casually against the wall, looking effortlessly handsome in a dark jacket and a white shirt that highlighted his toned frame. But it wasn’t just his appearance that captivated her. It was how he made her feel when he looked at her.

As their eyes met, the intensity of his gaze was enough to send a shiver down her spine. But she quickly looked away, trying to ignore the knot forming in her stomach. She had a gift to give, after all. Lando’s Secret Santa gift.

“Everything okay?” Pietra asked, noticing Y/N’s distracted expression.

Y/N blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. “Yeah, just... thinking.”

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Pietra teased, a knowing smile on her lips. “I think you’re overthinking something.”

Y/N laughed nervously. “Maybe.”

“Just do it already,” Pietra said with a wink, nudging her toward Lando. “You’re both miserable, and I’m tired of watching you dance around each other.”

For the past few weeks, she’d been agonizing over what to get him. A Formula 1 driver. What did you get someone who had everything? After much thought, she’d come across the idea of something symbolic. Lando had achieved so much in his career, and though he hadn’t won the World Drivers' Championship yet, to her, he was already a champion. The T-shirt she’d ordered, with his name on the back, but instead of his usual number 4, it had the number 1. It was bold. It was daring. And it was her way of saying, in the quietest way she could, that she believed in him—no, more than that. She admired him. And more than anything, she wanted to show him that in the most personal of ways.

But the T-shirt wasn’t just a gift. It was a confession.

For months, Lando had been nothing but open with his affections toward her. He would tease her, give her that irresistible, sideways grin, and often say things that made her heart skip. Every time they were in the same room, it was impossible to ignore the way his gaze would linger just a second longer than necessary, the way he would find reasons to stand closer to her, brush his hand against hers. It had been maddening, especially since Y/N had tried so hard to keep her feelings hidden.

Tonight, however, something felt different. The atmosphere, the way Lando looked at her, the way she felt about him—it was all coming to a head. She could feel the pull of his gaze across the room, like a magnetic force. Every time she looked up, he was watching her.

After about an hour of mingling, Y/N found herself surrounded by a small group of friends, their laughter and easy conversation helping her momentarily forget the nerves fluttering in her chest. She sipped on her wine, smiling as one of Pietra’s friends recounted a particularly funny story about a disastrous skiing trip.

Despite her best efforts to stay engaged, her thoughts kept drifting to Lando. She could feel his presence in the room, even when she wasn’t looking. Every so often, her gaze would flicker to where he stood, effortlessly charming everyone around him. The way he laughed, the way his face lit up when he was telling a story—it was impossible not to notice.

“Y/N.” Pietra’s voice cut through her thoughts as she appeared by her side, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Can I borrow you for a minute?”

Y/N turned to her friend, her brows knitting slightly in curiosity. “Sure. Everything okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” Pietra replied with a grin, looping her arm through Y/N’s. “I just think you could use a change of scenery.”

Before Y/N could protest, Pietra gently steered her away from the group, weaving through the crowd in the cozy, softly lit flat. The scent of mulled wine and pine lingered in the air, mingling with the low hum of festive music and the sound of cheerful chatter.

They stopped near a quieter corner of the living room, where the soft glow of fairy lights wrapped around the Christmas tree cast a warm, golden hue. The noise from the party was more distant here, the space offering a reprieve from the bustling energy of the main room.

Pietra turned to face Y/N, her expression shifting to one of gentle seriousness. “Alright, spill. What’s going on with you tonight?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been half here all night,” Pietra said, crossing her arms and giving her a pointed look. “And I know it’s not the party or the people. It’s him.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped, and she let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Pietra rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, please. You’ve been sneaking glances at Lando every five minutes. And, spoiler alert, he’s been doing the same thing with you.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest but found she couldn’t. Instead, she looked down, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. “It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not,” Pietra said firmly, her tone softening as she placed a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “You like him. He definitely likes you. So what’s stopping you?”

Y/N sighed, her fingers brushing the edge of the gift bag she still held. “I don’t know, Pietra. What if he doesn’t see me the way I see him? What if—”

“What if you’re overthinking this, like you always do?” Pietra cut in, her voice teasing but kind. “Y/N, trust me, anyone with eyes can see how much he adores you. You just have to let yourself believe it.”

Y/N hesitated, her heart pounding. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes naturally seeking him out. Lando was standing by the fireplace now, deep in conversation with Max. But even as he spoke, his attention seemed to drift, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on her. When their gazes met, his face lit up, and he gave her that boyish, lopsided grin that never failed to make her breath catch.

“See?” Pietra whispered, her voice breaking Y/N’s trance. “He’s not even trying to hide it.”

Y/N turned back to her friend, her cheeks burning. “What do I do?”

“You give him the gift,” Pietra said simply, her smile encouraging. “And maybe—just maybe—you tell him how you feel.”

Y/N’s gaze lingered on the small bag tucked under the Christmas tree, its festive wrapping suddenly feeling like a spotlight on her nerves. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sweater, the anxiety bubbling inside her making it impossible to stay still.

“Y/N, what’s going on with you?” Pietra’s voice broke through her thoughts.

Y/N shot her friend a nervous smile, trying to brush off the question. “Nothing... just second-guessing, I guess.”

Pietra narrowed her eyes knowingly, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Second-guessing what? The gift? Don’t be ridiculous. He’s going to love it. You always put so much thought into these things.” She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “And let’s be real—it’s Lando. You could hand him a lump of coal, and he’d act like it was the most thoughtful, perfect gift in the world just because it came from you.”

“Pietra,” Y/N warned, her cheeks flushing a deep pink as she swatted at her friend.

“I’m just saying!” Pietra laughed, raising her free hand in mock surrender. “You have no idea how obvious it is to everyone. He’s absolutely crazy about you.”

Y/N glanced at the bag again, her heart pounding harder. “I don’t know... It’s just a T-shirt. What if it’s not enough? What if he doesn’t—”

“Stop.” Pietra cut her off firmly, placing a reassuring hand on Y/N’s arm. “It’s not about the gift itself. It’s about what it means. You’re showing him that you believe in him, that you see something special in him that maybe even he doesn’t fully see. That matters way more than whatever’s inside that bag.”

Y/N’s lips parted as if to protest, but she found herself falling silent. The sincerity in Pietra’s voice made her heart ache with a mix of hope and fear. “What if he doesn’t get it? What if—”

"Y/N, I swear, if overthinking were a sport, you’d have a gold medal by now," Pietra interrupted with a soft laugh, her expression warm. “Y/N, it’s not just about what he thinks. It’s about you letting him see how you feel. You’ve been holding back for months, but it’s so obvious that you care about him. And trust me, he knows. He’s just waiting for you to say it.”

Y/N let out a nervous laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

Pietra’s smile softened, her hand giving Y/N’s arm a gentle squeeze. “You’re better at it than you think. And besides, Lando doesn’t need perfection. He just needs you. He’ll understand, Y/N. He always does.”

Y/N glanced back at the bag under the tree, her heart fluttering with both anticipation and dread. It wasn’t just a gift—it was her way of saying something she’d been too afraid to put into words. And tonight felt like the moment she could finally let herself try.

“You can’t keep hiding forever,” Pietra added gently, her eyes sparkling with encouragement. “You’ve got this.”

Y/N took a deep breath, summoning the courage that felt just out of reach. “Okay,” she said softly, nodding as determination began to edge out her nerves.

After her conversation with Pietra, Y/N made her way to the kitchen, seeking a moment of solitude and hoping another drink would give her the courage to finally give Lando his gift. As she stood by the counter, pouring herself a glass, the sound of laughter drifted from the living room, breaking the quiet. Instinctively, she glanced over. There, in the doorway, Lando stood with a playful grin on his face, his eyes locked with hers. The moment their gazes met, it felt as though the world around them paused, his smile widening as he excused himself from the conversation and started toward her.

"Hey, there she is," Lando's voice was warm, low, and filled with playful intent. He leaned casually against the counter beside her, his presence filling the small space. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me tonight."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat, and she quickly looked down at her drink, her pulse quickening. "Just... getting another drink," she mumbled, trying to steady herself.

Lando raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to the small Christmas tree in the corner. "It’s a bit much, don’t you think? We’re not all here for the holiday cheer, you know."

She chuckled softly, her cheeks flushing. "It’s festive."

"Festive, huh?" Lando’s eyes flicked over her, and for a moment, it felt like there was something deeper in his gaze than just the usual teasing. "You’re looking good tonight. Not that you ever don’t, but... tonight, there’s something about you." His voice dropped slightly, and he leaned in just a little closer. "I’ve been looking forward to seeing you."

Y/N swallowed, her breath catching in her throat. "Thanks," she whispered, feeling a rush of warmth spread through her at his words.

Lando straightened up, still casual but with an intensity in his eyes. "So, where’s my present, huh?"

Y/N’s stomach flipped, and her breath caught. She hadn’t expected him to ask so directly. "I, uh... I got you something," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Let me grab it."

Hastily, she moved toward the big Christmas tree, grabbed the small gift she had carefully wrapped, and returned to the kitchen. Her heart was racing now, nerves bubbling under the surface. Lando’s eyes followed her every movement, and as she handed him the gift, she couldn’t help but feel a rush of self-consciousness under his gaze.

"Oh? I’m honored," he said, his voice teasing. "But you didn’t have to get me anything. You know that, right?"

Y/N shrugged, her voice quiet but firm. "I wanted to. It’s... it’s something special."

Lando’s fingers tore into the wrapping with childlike excitement, revealing the black and orange McLaren T-shirt neatly folded inside. At first, he looked at it with that familiar grin, his fingers tracing over the name on the back. But when he noticed the number, his expression faltered, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. The playful banter he always carried slipped for a moment.

"Wait..." Lando muttered, his fingers brushing over the number. "This isn’t... this isn’t my usual number."

Y/N’s stomach tightened as she met his gaze, her nerves suddenly spiking. "No," she said softly, trying to keep her voice steady. "Number one."

Lando’s expression softened as he studied the number, his lips parting. "This isn’t..." he trailed off, his voice barely audible as he looked back at her. "You... had this made?"

Y/N nodded, a sense of vulnerability creeping in. "I just thought... It’s not... I thought it suited you better. You’re already number one to us. I mean, your friends. Not us... not like that. But—"

But then, something shifted in Lando’s gaze. His eyes softened, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. "You’re incredible, you know that?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

The room around them seemed to quiet as Lando carefully set the T-shirt down on the counter, his hand reaching for hers. Y/N felt her cheeks burn as he gently took her wrist and pulled her closer. "You’re amazing," he repeated, his voice low, sending a shiver through her.

He stepped closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming, making her heart race even faster. "You have no idea what this means to me," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "No idea."

Y/N shook her head, trying to brush it off. "It’s just a T-shirt," she muttered, wishing she could disappear into the floor.

"No, Y/N. It’s not." Lando reached up, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. The tenderness of the gesture made her chest tighten. "It’s... God, I don’t even know how to say this without sounding like a complete idiot."

Her heart was pounding now. "Say what?"

Lando took a deep breath, looking into her eyes with a vulnerability that took her breath away. "That you mean more to me than anyone else ever has," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I don’t care if it’s too much or too soon or whatever, but I can’t keep pretending that I’m just happy being your friend."

The world around them faded as the gravity of his words settled between them. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she processed what he had said. She looked into his eyes, feeling the weight of her own confession stir inside her.

"Lando..." she began, her voice trembling. "I... I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while now, but I didn’t know how." She hesitated for a moment, her heart hammering in her chest. "I like you. I really like you. And I’ve been too scared to say anything, but... but when I saw you tonight, when I gave you the gift, I couldn’t keep it in anymore."

Lando’s eyes searched hers, the quiet understanding in his gaze making her feel as though her words had finally found a place to land. "I’ve been waiting for you to say that," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her wrist. He whispered her name, his voice so tender it made her pulse quicken. "Why didn’t you tell me sooner?"

Y/N’s breath hitched, but she met his gaze, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. The weight of her confession was heavy, but the way he looked at her now—so soft, so full of emotion—made everything feel worth it. "I was scared..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Scared that it wouldn’t be enough. Scared of how I felt."

Lando stepped even closer, closing the distance between them. "You don’t have to be scared. You never have to be scared around me."

His words, his closeness, left no room for doubt. She smiled softly, feeling the tension in her chest slowly start to ease. 

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she looked up at Lando. The world around them seemed to slow down, the sounds of the party fading into a distant hum. It was as though there was only him and her in that quiet space, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. His eyes held hers with an intensity that made her knees weak, and his hand reached up, gently cupping her face. His thumb brushed softly across her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine.

"I..." Lando began, his voice low and earnest. "I think I’ve been falling for you for a while now." His words were soft but filled with a certainty that made her heart race even faster. "And I don’t know how to make you see that, but this... this is more than just a gift. You’ve got me, Y/N."

His confession hung in the air between them, and for a long moment, Y/N couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. His words seemed to fill every inch of her, making it hard to focus on anything but the warmth of his touch and the intensity of his gaze. But then, as if everything had fallen into place, she found herself reaching up, her hand trembling slightly as it touched his.

"I’ve been falling for you, too," she whispered, her voice barely audible but filled with the weight of everything she had been holding back. Her heart felt like it might burst from her chest as Lando’s expression softened, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"You’re everything I’ve ever wanted," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin as he leaned in closer, his lips just inches from hers. "And I’ve been too afraid to admit it."

Before she could even process his words, he closed the gap between them, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that started slow and tender, as if he was savoring the moment. It was everything she had imagined, yet so much more. His lips were soft, warm, and every touch sent a rush of electricity through her. But as the kiss deepened, it became more urgent, more desperate—as if all the feelings, all the tension between them, had finally reached the breaking point and erupted in a single, beautiful moment.

Y/N’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as she kissed him back, her heart racing in her chest. This was what she had always wanted, the connection she had dreamed about. Everything else in the room faded away, leaving only the feeling of him—his hands on her waist, pulling her closer, his body pressed against hers. Every second felt timeless, each touch a promise.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless, Lando looked at her with a smile that made her feel like she was the only person in the world. His eyes were full of something deep and tender, and Y/N couldn’t help but smile back.

"I’ve wanted to do that for so long," Lando admitted, his voice husky, a mix of emotion and disbelief at the moment they had just shared.

Y/N searched his eyes, her heart full to the brim. "Me too," she whispered, the words almost too simple to capture what she felt.

Lando cupped her face gently with both hands, his expression serious now, his eyes never leaving hers. "I meant it, you know," he said, his voice steady, but thick with emotion. "You’re everything to me. And I promise, no matter what happens, you’ll always be my number 1."

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as a smile spread across her face, her heart swelling with the weight of his words. She had confessed her feelings, and now Lando had done the same. She didn’t need anything else. In this moment, surrounded by the warmth of his affection, everything felt perfect. For the first time in a long time, Y/N allowed herself to believe it. She had found something real, something she never thought she’d have—and it was right here in front of her, in Lando’s eyes.

[natlovesls2]

Gobble Gobble

Oscar Piastri x American Fem!Reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚warnings: minimal swearing, mentions of alcohol no use of y/n, pretend this makes sense

*ੈ✩‧₊˚word count: 1.7k

*ੈ✩‧₊˚summary: Oscar experiences that absolute shit show that can be Thanksgiving or Oscar's first Thanksgiving with your family

︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵

Your family had begged you to invite Oscar to the annual Thanksgiving dinner and, with hesitance, you did. It wasn’t that you didn’t want him to join in the celebration, rather you knew that your family could be much, especially during the holidays. But wasn’t that the case for every family? It was like the holiday season brought a weird tension. 

Oscar looked at the front of the home you had grown up in, letting out a nervous breath as you reached to open the small gate that separated you from the yard. “Are you ready?”

He gave you a nervous laugh, “As ready as I can be.” You had warned him, multiple times, about your family's antics. From the nosy aunts, who would undoubtedly interrogate him all night, to the loose-lipped brother. He wasn’t sure if they like him or even tolerate him, but he knew what to expect– or at least he thought so. 

“They’ll love you, trust me” you said, opening the gate and taking a small step into the front yard. Oscar smiled at you, liking the confidence you had in his ability to make a good first impression. 

“I trust you,” he gave you a small nod, his eyes flickering down to your lips, moving to stand closer to you. 

The moment was interrupted by the noise of the front door being swung open, your mom standing below it with a wide smile. She called out to you, walking down the steps of the porch to envelope you in a tight hug. Your mom held you for a moment before turning her attention to Oscar, smiling at him and giving him an equally tight hug. “You must be Oscar, it's so good to finally meet you,” she said, pulling away from him, “We’re still cooking up a storm, so I’d recommend staying out of the kitchen, but make yourself at home– because, well, you are home,” she said, urging you inside before retreating into the kitchen to resume cooking. 

You led Oscar into the house, taking off your coats and placing them on the coat rack. The house smelled like all sorts of food and baked goods, it was evident that you all would be eating a great deal. He stopped at the hallway, his eyes scanning the walls and the pictures that decorated them. “She likes you,” you told him, taking a hold of his hand. 

 Oscar took in every family photo, smiling, his gaze lingering at the ones from your childhood, “you think so?” he asked, turning to face you, his hand squeezing your own. 

“Mmhm, absolutely.”

He smiled at you, taking a step closer, his eyes flickering down to your lips. Oscar glanced around, as if he were a child about to steal a cookie from a cookie jar, deciding the coast was clear he wrapped his hands around your hips. His lips found yours, his hands slipping under your sweater and gently squeezing at your skin. Your lips tasted like the lipgloss you had applied earlier, a taste that Oscar had grown to love in the months you had been dating. He deepened the kiss, a hand coming up to tangle in your hair. 

“I am definitely going to gouge my eyes out,” said a voice you found all too familiar, causing you to jump away from Oscar.

Oscar turned to look at the direction in which the voice came, noticing a man leaning against the doorframe that led to the living room. Your brother stood there, a smirk on his face, he looked similar to you besides a few small differences in features. “What the hell is your problem?” you whispered harshly, glaring at your brother as you straightened yourself up. 

Your brother smiled at Oscar, extending his hand out as a greeting, “You two need to be aware of your surroundings” he said as Oscar shook his hand. 

“You need to stop being such a creep,” you quipped. 

“A creep, me?” your brother asked, holding back a smile, “says the girl who just a second ago had her boyfriends tongue shoved down her throat like a fucking vacuum.”

Oscar bit back a laugh, clearly amused by the situation, almost enjoying the way in which your face filled with embarrassment. You hadn’t lied when you said your brother said anything and everything that came to his mind. “How much is she paying you?” your brother asked Oscar, continuing to tease you. 

He turned to look at you, expecting you to lash out at your brother but found you only shaking your head at him. “No payment,” Oscar said, “It's all voluntary.”

is“Oh just piss off,” you said, playfully shoving your brother aside. He smiled at that, finding it amusing that you were more vocal against him while Oscar was around. Your brother prepared himself to speak again before being cut off, “Mooom! He’s bothering us!” you called for your mom, who yelled at your brother from the kitchen. 

He glared at you, flicking you off, “You’re such a baby, can’t handle shit,” he grumbled, leaving you and Oscar alone again.

“He's so annoying.”

Oscar smiled at you as you returned to his side, clearly still annoyed by your brother's behaviour, “He loves you, that's why he annoys you so much. It's a brother thing.” His eyes lingered on your lips, clearly wanting to continue your earlier actions but scared that another family member would magically materialize. 

“Sure he does, come on, I want you to meet my dad,” you said, reaching for Oscar's hand again, giving it a small squeeze of reassurance. 

“Lead the way.”

You led him down the hall to the living room, where your father would undoubtedly be watching a game of football. As you approached, your father glanced over his shoulder from the couch to get a look at you, noticing your intertwined hands. 

“Hey,” you greeted, pulling Oscar along to sit on the couch opposite of your dad, who greeted you with a soft ‘Hey’ and nod before turning his attention back to the game. “Who's winning?” you asked. Your dad grumbled, it was obvious that the team your family rooted for was losing, although your dad held out the hope that they’d make a comeback. He looked at Oscar for some time, trying to make an opinion of him. “This is Oscar,” you said, introducing him to your dad. 

He smiled at Oscar, extending his hand out for him to shake, “Yeah, I know who he is,” he says, his eyes returning to intently watch the television, “you always look like you’re desperately trying to cover up your stressed attitude on the TV.”

You let out a small laugh at that, causing Oscar to smile, “I suppose I do look rather tense from time to time,” he responded. 

Your dad takes another look at Oscar, “Make her cry and I’ll break your kneecaps,” he says with a smile, making it obvious that his threat was empty. Oscar let out a laugh, nodding at your dads words. It was clear that Oscar wasn’t the first to be given such warnings. 

“He's just messing with you– he wouldn't hurt a fly,” you assure Oscar, playfully glaring at your dad, a smile painting itself on your own face. Your dad chuckled, it was obvious that your dad was only joking around with him. 

“He likes you,” I whisper to Oscar.

You sit with your dad for a while, only half paying attention to the game before the doorbell rang. The sound of new voices filling the house as your relatives arrived for dinner. Your dad shook his head, letting out a sigh, “Let the chaos begin.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ���

You sat at a long table filled to the brim with different Thanksgiving foods. A turkey sat in the middle, surrounded by the usual sides like mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. It was like those stereotypical Thanksgiving dinners you see in movies. Oscar was starting to feel overwhelmed by all the simultaneous talking and smells. 

“So, when's the wedding?” one of your aunts, Victoria was her name– she was the most nosy of them, asked expectantly. 

Poor Oscar nearly choked on the mouthful of turkey he had been eating, the sudden question taking him by complete surprise. He looked down at you with wide eyes, pleading you to answer before he said the wrong thing. 

“We haven’t really discussed that– I mean, we’ve only been dating for so long,” you responded. She raised an eyebrow at you and Oscar, amused by the way in which you had avoided truthfully answering her question. It was almost as if she wasn’t too convinced by your answer. 

“Leave them alone,” your mom said, attempting to jump to your defense. 

“Please,” you whispered, eyes glued to your plate as you moved the contents around with your fork, your hunger seeming to have abandoned you as the questioning began.

“I’m only teasing,” your aunt gave a small wave, clearly unphased by your moms words, “Do you want children?”

Oscar took a sip of his wine, attempting to keep cool after that very personal question. He could feel your eyes on him, and he reached down to hold onto your hand. “Children?” he said with a nervous laugh, “We haven’t really talked about that either,” he said, looking down at his plate to avoid eye contact. 

“But surely you must have an opinion of your own,” your aunt added. 

He took another sip of his wine, silently hoping they’d find someone else to interrogate, “I mean, yeah,” he started, playing with your fingers as if to distract himself, “Yes, I’d want kids… just not anytime soon– we’re still so young,” he looked at you warmly, a small smile appearing on his lips as he answered. 

“Oh he's perfect,” your grandma said from beside your mom, smiling widely at Oscar. Her comment made both of your parents smile, seemingly agreeing with what she had said, it was clear that Oscar had made a good first impression. He smiled at you, his smile growing as you kissed his cheek as your family finally moved on to their next victim. 

Dinner continued with more questioning, your family left you and Oscar alone for the most part, and more eating. Afterwards you all gathered in the living room to watch whatever Christmas movie had been picked that year. And as you rested your head on Oscar's shoulder, he felt as if he could get used to Thanksgiving with your family– no matter how intrusive their questions may be.

︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵

*ੈ✩‧₊˚Note: This is in no way me condoning the myth of the first thanksgiving. And it is important to acknowledge the atrocities committed against the indigenous people since the arrival of the English. please ignore the spelling or grammar mistakes, I've got to go make mac and cheese– peace out and happy turkey day to anyone who feasts on this day.

[lyinginmeadow]

Breakaway pt I. | hockey!Azriel × reader

Summary: You're not a fan of a kiss cam. And neither is your boyfriend.

Word count: 1,8k

Warnings: swearing, miserable knowledge of hockey (sorry yall), Rhys being a protective asshole over his sister

A/n: Anyone a hockey fan? No, just me? Okay. Another thing is, that I described university as I know it in my country haha. I hope no one will be confused

Also yes, I did take inspiration from tiktok. I just loved that scene <3

>> Pt 2

Leaves started to fall which meant your favorite season was starting. You loved anything and everything that came with autumn. The pumpkin spice, moody weather, sweaters, and books. With autumn knocking on your door, the new semester has begun. You didn't mind studying, you actually enjoyed it to a certain degree, but the stress is what always got to you during exams. You were just starting your second year of university, so you knew what to expect. To many that was all. Just endless studying and partying to get their minds off things. You? Not really. Ever since you could remember, fall meant the hockey season started. Were you a hockey player? No, not at all. Ice skating was your passion, just not hockey. That didn't matter, because your brother was the golden child. Rhysand played because your father used to. You would never say it out loud, mainly because it would inflate his ego even more, but Rhysand was a star player. He was so much better than your father and you knew that if he wanted to, he would make it far. 

 Rhys never acted towards you with any malice other than just a bit of sibling rivalry. He was actually quite protective of you, given the fact you were his little sister. But whatever you did was never good enough for your father. You might study medicine, but Rhys was finishing law. You might figure skate but you were no hockey player. And most of all, you were a woman. And your father despised you for it. You were expected to make it to every game, but no one ever wanted to attend your competitions.  You enjoyed watching the games, especially when Rhys met his best friends and teammates at university. The games became so much more interesting when Azriel entered the ice. Rhys might be the captain and the center, but Azriel was a force to be reckoned with, the fastest player in the rink. You became friends with both Cassian and Azriel quickly since you often visited their house to get away from your parents. Rhysand of course was glad but you knew you were off-limits to his friends. Not only was it obvious in how he glared at both of them whenever they made a comment he didn’t appreciate. But the first time you met, Cass basically undressed you with his eyes. From what you heard he reminded them often to not mess with his sister.

It did not stop you from developing feelings for him the moment you laid eyes on him. For a while, it did seem he viewed you only as his best friend's little sister. Which you had a hard time accepting. Your relationship changed when you sneaked into a party they had thrown in celebration of a victory last year. You were a first-year, and your first semester at university had been hectic, but living close to your brother and away from your parents was a long-awaited blessing. Having a taste of freedom made you bold. Azriel couldn't take his eyes off of you, you had been like a magnet. He hadn't been the only one as you attracted the attention of another freshman. Azriel might not have acted on his attraction towards you before but seeing you with another man changed that. One thing led to another and you were sneaking out together whenever you found time.

It had been a year and your brother still had no clue. And you intended to keep it that way. You loved your boyfriend, you didn't want to worry about his teeth off the ice as well. Cassian on the other hand suspected, thankfully as you introduced him to your friend, Nesta, he became preoccupied and dropped the matter. 

''So who do you think will win? And be honest, they're not here, you can't hurt their fragile egos.'' Nesta disturbed your train of thought. You laughed shaking your head. You loved hanging out with her because of how direct she was, always saying exactly what was on her mind. You met Nesta when your university did a charity ballet on the ice of Nutcracker. You got the role of Clara and she was your ballet counterpart. You did not expect to establish a friendship with her, but she was exactly who you needed in your life. You knew she would call you out on your bullshit anytime and you liked her for it. She also happened to be the first person you told about Azriel. She was not surprised, saying that you weren't being as secretive as you thought you had been.

''You know I am still biased since I really want our team to win. The Cavaliers are good and they play dirty. But Cass will probably try to kill Eris on the ice. Given the history and all.'' You gave her a pointed look. Shifting your gaze to the rink, you tried to find number 38.

''They’ve got no chance against VU.'' Said a guy next to you. You hated when someone butted their way into a conversation. But given the fact, that you would be spending about two hours in close proximity, you had decided for a polite smile. ''I guess so.''

''So how come you've got such good seats? Know someone on the team?'' He chimed in again.

''You could say that. My brother is the captain.'' You answered keeping your eyes on Azriel as he warmed up.

''Rhysand is your brother?''

''Unfortunately.'' You nodded, and his eyes grew in size. ''That's so lucky! I wish I was a hockey player or just knew them. You see, I got these seats because I'll be writing an article about the game.'' You smiled politely again shifting your gaze to the rink when the puck was just about to hit the ice.

As the game progressed, the crowd became electric. All the fans were shouting and your ears began ringing. Velaris Bats were in the lead, but only by one goal and everyone was nervous. To make the game even more enjoyable, there were games for the fans as well. Students competed against one another to win points for their university and win the competition of the tribunes.

The competitions were fun and good entertainment during breaks. But while the game continued the camera was turned on. You laughed at a random do a meme moment, but quickly turned your head back to the ice. You didn't want to miss a second of Azriel's game. Fully focused, you didn't realize that the camera switched to a kiss cam. A guy sitting next to you turned his head to face you and pointed to the TV earning your attention. ''I mean when in Rome, right?'' He laughed as he tried to close the distance. ''Yeah, no, thank you.'' You laughed nervously shifting in your seat.

''Oh come on, it's just a kiss.'' He pressured, and you gave a panicked look towards the ice. You heard Nesta taking a sharp inhale to give the guy a piece of her mind. You were interrupted by shouts of the fans and loud banging on the glass. 

''Back the fuck off.'' You couldn't hear Az properly, but the message was quite clear, making the guy shift his gaze between the two of you uncomfortably. Az got two minutes for stalling the game which made the crowd boo and your brother yell obscenities as he often did when one of his teammates was sent to a bench. Thankfully during the power play the Cavaliers didn't get a goal in, but it was close. It only enraged Rhysand more which was abundantly clear when he almost broke his stick as the second period came to an end.

Azriel was sending daggers to the guy sitting next to you who looked like he wanted nothing more than to leave. He relaxed when the players left for their locker rooms. You just hoped Rhys didn't look much into Azriel's possessive behavior.

''What the fuck was that?'' Roared Rhys as he entered the locker room.

''I don't know what you're talking about.'' Azriel continued to take off his gear.

''Do not play with me! You could have cost us the game.''

''I was thinking I did you a favor. He had no right to touch her like that.'' He finally faced Rhysand.

''It was a fucking kiss cam.''

''She didn't want to be kissed. And he didn't back off.''

''So what? You made it your mission to help her while you were supposed to pay attention to the puck?'' Spit Rhys. Everyone in the locker room was silent watching the two stubborn players go head to head.

''Yes! And I would do it again.'' Azriel retorted.

''I could have you off the team for this.'' He hissed.

''Rhys-.'' Cassian signed. ''Be my guest.'' Azriel interrupted starring Rhysand down. He wouldn't back down. He couldn't. He knew you could have handled yourself back there. Hell, Nesta was there, too and she wouldn't let some guy do anything disrespectful. He just acted on an impulse. When he looked up and saw your panicked gaze, something shifted inside him. Rhys kept watching Azriel, staring right into his soul when suddenly his eyes grew larger as if recognizing what he should have seen from the very beginning.

''You've got to be kidding me.'' When Azriel didn't answer, Rhys continued, ''Tell me you don’t have a thing for my little sister.’’

''Azriel, I swear to everything that is holly, I will fucking punch you if you don't give me an answer.''

''We are together. Have been for almost a year.'' Azriel never saw anyone have an aneurysm. But if he could guess, Rhysand was a textbook example of how it looked like.

''I take it back, I will punch you anyway.'' And he might have if Cassian wasn't there to catch Rhys. ''Easy there killer. The game is still on. And you might not like it but Az is an asset.''

''I don't want to see you anywhere near her, understand? I know how you are with girls!'' Rhysand snarled.

''You know I can't do that.''

''Then you're off the team.''

''Fine.''

As they returned to the ice, the tension between Velaris Bats was palpable. Cassian was looking between his teammates probably trying to find a quick solution to the problem at hand. Azriel wasn't paying you any attention keeping his gaze on the ice only. You frowned slightly. When you looked at Rhys you found him staring back at you anger oozing out of his every move. 

He knew.

[rinnstars]

fireplace!

maybe winters aren’t so bad after all

itoshi rin x reader: fluff, comfort, short(?) drabble, physical affection <33, maybe inaccurate? ive never experienced winter in my life LOL, not proofread + likes n reblogs are appreciated<3

winter has always been rin’s least favourite season. when he was a little kid, he despised the way his nose would turn red and burn without any medicine to aid in the pain he hated the way he was only merely able to stay in the bubble of his room with thick layer of clothes and yet still shiver, he hated the way his everyday routine of playing football and getting ice cream was halted with the outdoor field being closed and almost buried with thick layers of white snow. and when sae left, he hated winter - he hated even more the coldness in his room without his brother that he swears he can see the phantom of sometimes, he hated how he now longed for the routine of sitting by the fireplace with hot drinks in their hands warming up together every night as he sneezes into his tissues as his brother laughed, he loathed the way the wind howls echoed in the practically empty house in contrast to the noisy house with his and saes bickering. and when rin was fourteen, he thinks winters are the absolute worst - sitting in the same field that they used to play soccer in together, practically abandoned and thrown away as a good for nothing, his corpse with his guts ripped away from him by his own blood brother leaving a mark there forever he thinks, only the snow that falls on his face and body warm him, and its then when he wished he had been buried that night.

he thinks any season is better - he can see the flowers on the walkway on his way to school that blooms and grow brightly in the spring in contrast to the boring walls of thorns by the road, he can eat countless of ice cream sitting at the back of the fridge without guilt or questions during the summer in contrast to it being too cold to indulge in his favourite sweet treat, he can appreciate the wind and chill on his back that practically dries the sweat off him every football practice during the winter in contrast to the ache in his muscle and nose still present every winter despite him being all grown up.

but perhaps rin sees the positives in winter too now.

he’s all warmed up in your presence: his face smushed against yours in the tight embrace he has you in right on his bed, bundled with layers of warm blankets he keeps just for this moment absorbing your body heat, his arms no longer feeling numb as he wraps it around you as though you’ll leave anytime soon, his legs rubbing against your long pajama pants, tangled against it. he thinks it might not be winter whenever he’s with you - his face is all red and warm with the lack of distance between the two of you, he thinks his ears are turning red but not because of the abnormally cold temperature but because of you, and his heart swells with warmth and love in contrast to the cold and dead weather outside his window behind the curtains he always has on. he wants this to last forever, just you and him in his bed, cuddling like this as if there’s no tomorrow - you have no reason to leave for schoolwork or for other hangouts during any other seasons, you have all the more reasons really to stay with the way hes warming you up as though its his only reason to live right now.

he thinks winters might be his favourite season even. when you spend the night with him, bundled up with thick wool blankets that feels much warmer now that hes sharing it with you, the wool of your sweater mushed against his, the fireplace setting a warm orange hue in the room that makes this all the more intimate as you drink from his cup, practically kissing him over and over again. he’ll never get tired of this - the way you warm away the snow and ice in both his heart and in the room, the way you beam at him and talk even more animately to him in contrast to the cold weather outside, the way you belong here right in his embrace, fitting with him like two perfect puzzle pieces fitting into each other.

and christmas must have came earlier: youre the gift some heavenly and divine deity must have given to him, a guardian angel in his eyes - soothing the red frostbites in his heart that has marinated over all the years that seem to disappear as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

rin might just have to rethink his rankings.. maybe summer was a little worse than winter since you wont let him cuddle him because of how hot and sweaty it feels..?

[navybrat817]

Season of Giving

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Single Mom!Reader

Summary: A small glimpse at your first holiday with Bucky.

Word Count: Over 500

Warnings: Fluff, small insecurities, slight feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: A quick thing inspired by an anon ask. Continuing with Moving in Slow Motion, Heart and Home, and (Im)Patiently Waiting! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You spend the morning with Sweet Pea in matching pajamas as she opens gifts. The matching pajama tradition began when she was a baby and you’re happy she still wants to do it.

You make breakfast as she plays with some of her new toys, and you hang up the new calendar she made on the fridge. You also put the snowglobe she made on your desk, complete with her picture inside.

Sweet Pea shares some of her stocking candy with you and when you ask her why she says it’s because it's the season of giving and sharing. You’re raising her right.

And being the season of giving, you hope you’ve given her enough. She doesn't get gifts from her dad or that side of the family, so you always do your best to give her a nice holiday.

It’s more than enough, even if you doubt yourself now and again.

Bucky invites you over for the afternoon. He doesn't want to interrupt your morning time with your daughter.

You two decide to make holiday treats for Bucky because you don't want to show up empty handed. Sweet Pea also makes a homemade card and paints a coffee mug for him, which becomes his new favorite.

You can't help but smile when you see Bucky in a nice sweater that matches his blue eyes because he looks so handsome. For a moment you worry that you're a bit undressed until he tells you how beautiful you look.

Your smile only widens and your heart melts when he crouches down to pick up Sweet Pea and carry her around. She tells him all about the morning with great enthusiasm, and he listens to every word.

How is he so perfect?

He has gifts for both of you under the large tree in his living room because he wants to spoil you, but he won't “upstage” you by getting more gifts for your daughter than you did. You appreciate that more than you can say.

There are games set up so you can all play together, snacks and blankets for movies, and he has a few books out, too, in case Sweet Pea wants him to read. She does.

Dinner is simple and low-key because you want it to be something your daughter will enjoy, and it’s full of smiles and laughter.

You tear up after dinner when Sweet Pea starts to get sleepy and Bucky wraps her up in a warm blanket so she can lay on the loveseat. You try to wipe the tears away before he catches you.

He sees them anyway and doesn't show how emotional he feels, but it hits him square in the chest.

Because while he saw his friends in the morning and they are his family, he doesn't have this.

And when you're curled up beside Bucky later on the couch, you thank him for giving you and your daughter a wonderful holiday. It was one you wouldn't forget.

He thanks you for doing the same for him, and hopes it’s the first of many.

Oh, they deserve the world. Love and thanks for reading! And all the good vibes during the holidays. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[mysteria157]

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

CW: Light Profanity, Light Alcohol Consumption, Explicit Sexual Content, Missionary, Fingering, Mentions of Cunnilingus, Public Sex (Sort of), Office Sex

WC: ~9.8k

Summary: 

Nanami may be disconnected from social media trends, but he’s not oblivious. He’s overheard the crass innuendos and seen the tasteless memes on Yuji's phone. He knows the vulgar things some men say—about how excited they get when the summer begins. 

It always seemed so stupid and dramatic to Nanami, who has never had a straying eye to actually see if the rumors were true. But now that you’ve come into his life…he gets it.

Oh, he gets it. 

Sundress season.

Notes: Hello! Had a random thought this morning and decided to roll with it and practice writing Nanami some more. Anywho, I hope you all enjoy this one-shot.

This is a prime example of me writing smut when I feel like it. Please do not ask me for more related to this story and please do not ask me to write smut, the answer is no lol. This is just a one-shot of a random idea, please enjoy it for what it is lol. Thank you all for understanding!

Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated! Happy reading!

Dividers: @cafekitsune @arminsumi | Header: made by myself

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter |

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

The city summers are a different kind of hell. The humid heat clings to Nanami, making his skin feel instantly tacky as if he hasn’t showered in days. It wreaks havoc on his usual crisp suit and tie, causing the fabric to stubbornly adhere in unflattering ways. He thinks back wistfully to his bachelor days when he could simply escape such misery by holing up inside with the AC blasting, and then wait until the evening for a walk or to run errands. But that was before you came into his life like a vivacious sunbeam, all warmth and carefree laughter.

Now, he wouldn’t dream of depriving you of simple joys like strolling hand-in-hand through the park, watching you bask in nature’s dazzling seasonal shifts. The fragrant flowers blooming, the fireflies flickering to life as dusk settles, the earthy pre-rain smell you adore—he lives for the ease of these tranquil moments.

Throughout your relationship, Nanami has cataloged your ever-changing looks to match the passing seasons. The oversized chunky sweaters and leggings you’d cuddle up in during fall’s crisp breezes. The sleek peacoats and woolen scarves wound around your neck when winter blanketed the city in soft stillness.

But summertime is when your vibrant spirit and personal style shines. And it’s Nanami’s first summer with you when everything changes.

Nanami may be disconnected from social media trends, but he’s not oblivious. He’s overheard the crass innuendos and seen the tasteless memes on Yuji's phone. He knows the vulgar things some men say—about how excited they get when the summer begins. 

It always seemed so stupid and dramatic to Nanami, who has never had a straying eye to actually see if the rumors were true. But now that you’ve come into his life…he gets it.

Oh, he gets it. 

Sundress season.

And it’s a season that has awoken something primal within him. Something in his gut stirs, something in his mind shifts and the more he notices, the more he feels like a lecherous old man instead of the well-mannered one in his late twenties. While his clothes stick uncomfortably to his sweat-slicked skin you get to slip into breezy summer dresses that let every inch of your beautiful body breathe. 

As an event planner constantly on the move, you seem to live in the wispy, colorful outfits at all hours of the day. Like the buttercup yellow and candy pink number currently floating around you as you stroll together to the bakery during your shared lunch hour. It’s modest—cotton fabric that doesn’t stick to you, with ruffle short sleeves and a V-neckline that highlights your collarbones and the delicate diamond necklace resting between.

Nanami risks a sidelong glance, instantly regretting it when his gaze gets trapped by the way the bright floral pattern sways and twists with each step you take. The hem brushes the brown skin of your knees and while he can’t see much, Nanami knows the soft curves hidden underneath the airy fabric intimately.

While the caveman part of him can understand the underlying meaning of sundress season, it’s everything else that flares his want for you. It’s the wild curls that brush your cheeks and neck, the diamond earrings that reflect in the sun, the curl of your long lashes that kiss your lower lids when you blink. And yes—the gorgeous dress that you have on enhances everything about you—but in the most basic sense, you are beautiful.

“You’re staring.” It’s a playful accusation that you direct at him even though your eyes are admiring the tulips that you both walk past.

He quickly averts his eyes, sharp cheeks blazing a fiery red. “My apologies I…” Nanami clears his throat, struggling to regain his usual unruffled demeanor. “That dress looks lovely on you.”

You hum in acknowledgment, pausing so he can open the bakery door for you. “You think so? I just picked it up last week. Perfect for this heat, isn’t it?”

Nanami swallows hard at the teasing tilt to your tone, the innocent question feeling anything but. From the very first day he met you—that very first day you knocked back a glass of expensive whiskey and smiled at him as if it was nothing—he’s come to accept that you have no reservations of flustering him. You thrive on it, and for as stiff as Nanami is, you are a breath of fresh air that he never imagined would slide into his lungs. 

Umber eyes watch you walk ahead of him and into the welcoming AC of the bakery, tantalizing calves flexing with each step.

“Very much…” is all he can manage, hastily ripping his eyes away again as his equilibrium dangerously shifts.

You laugh lightly at his sudden silence, the warm, rich sound simultaneously soothing his thundering heart and making it trip up all over again. “You act like you’ve never seen me in a dress before.”

“You know that’s not true,” he mutters, switching his gaze to the menu to avoid your entirely too-innocent smile. “I simply…appreciate fine things.”

The rich ring of your answering chuckle sends molten desire licking traitorously down his spine. “Is that so? Then I’ll have to acquire more of these stunning ‘fine things’ for you to appreciate this summer…”

He should have known better than to egg you on. Had he kept his eyes to himself and brushed off your knowing glances, he could have enjoyed you without your playful watch. But for as smart as Nanami is, for as observant and vigilant in his work as he is in his life outside of it, he can never wrap his head around how devious you truly are.

One day, the weather calms down enough for lunch at the park. It’s the perfect day to eat outside. The sun is high in the sky but the canopy of trees gives you both the protection you need from harsh rays.

“Need any help setting up?” You call out, shrugging off the ice denim jacket from your shoulders to reveal this summer’s newest addition—an angelic white sundress adorned with delicate lace trim.

Nanami’s throat tightens and he shakes his head, unfurling a blue blanket onto the thick grass below you both. “I can do it, love. Please just relax.” 

He carefully arranges the picnic blanket, spreading the wrinkles free before you plop down on one side. As you dig into the large lunchbox, he admires the crisp white cotton that seems to skim over your frame, covering you but still unable to touch. Thin straps leave your shoulders bare, your skin glowing in the sun from your shimmery sunscreen. No necklace this time, so the square neckline dips just enough to offer a subtle hint of cleavage. The stretchy ribbed material hugs and accentuates every lush curve before gently flaring into an effortless, free-flowing skirt.

You purse your lips and furrow your brow in concentration, leaning more over the lunchbox, your back straightening to steady yourself before he watches free of shame as you arch just so.

When you turn to flash him that achingly fond smile, your curls falling over one shoulder, all traces of decency flee from Nanami’s mind. In that moment, he’s transported back to those dizzying early days of your relationship—entirely captivated, yet utterly terrified of somehow shattering this dazzling, undeserved connection between you.

“Thirsty?” You hold out one of the banana milk boxes that he’s grown to love since your presence, an impish quirk of your brow, clearly aware of his slow descent into hell.

Nanami nods jerkily and takes the milk box, unable to find his voice for a beat. As you settle down gracefully beside him, the skirt drifts up in a gentle billow, shaping to and showcasing skin. He has to tear his eyes away from the wicked flashes of toned thigh with extreme willpower.

Like the devil you are, you toss him a coy smirk, shiny lip gloss clear even though he knows it tastes like strawberry. “We gonna eat or are you just gonna gawk at me like a weirdo?”

He can’t help the scoff that leaves him as he pulls out sandwiches for you both. “I thought you liked when I gawk at you.”

“Not when I’m hungry.” 

He shakes his head, smirking softly as he removes the cling wrap before handing you your half, your fingers brushing against his. Warm pleasure blooms in his chest at the radiant sight you make contrasted against the swaying greenery. It’s as if you don’t belong but he couldn’t imagine you anywhere else. You take a generous bite of your sandwich, a smear of mustard in the crease of your lips as you offer him a gentle smile.

As the scorching summer rages, Nanami can’t help but chastise himself. A mundane and childish social meme has become the representation of the hardest test he’s ever taken. Maybe he should have asked for tips from Yuji on how to better prepare himself. 

He’s always prided himself on admiring from afar, on controlling his emotions in public and savoring them later in private. He knows your beauty and the unintentional way you drain the air around him. But he’s always been able to offer that soft smile, place a hand on your shoulder or your waist and offer a compliment to whatever you’ve chosen to wear for the day. But recently, in the face of your summertime wardrobe choices, Nanami finds that steely discipline faltering at an alarming rate.

Sinking deeper into the plush living room sofa, Nanami exhales a deep sigh and allows the tension thrumming through his shoulders to bleed away. Here, surrounded by the apartment’s climate-controlled sanctuary, he can savor these increasingly rare moments of solitary peace sprawled out with a good book. It’s a well-deserved shared day off for you both—free of schedules, obligations, or anything more strenuous than lounging around with each other. And more importantly, at home, you’re nothing but comfortable clothes and soft pajamas. 

He’s safe.

A wry smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he imagines the look of feigned innocence you always sport whenever he gets too overt about appreciating your seasonal attire. As if you don’t know the absolutely devastating effect even the simplest hair toss or twirl has on what’s left of his challenging self-restraint these days.

It’s going to be a great day. He’s almost done with this book, just three more chapters and then he can start another in his pile that he wants to tackle this summer. That’s right, Nanami Kento is going to—

The soft pad of your bare feet against the hardwood floors has Nanami glancing up instinctively from behind the novel’s pages. And just like that, the world around him completely whites out as if he’s been hit over the head with a brick.

You’ve emerged from the hallway in a yellow sundress so vibrantly captivating, so deliciously clingy and effortlessly suggestive that he nearly swallows his tongue in surprise. The rich gold hue kisses the deep tone of your skin, as if you’re a sunflower blooming under the artificial lighting of the apartment. The dress accentuates your shape in the most brazenly tantalizing way—the thin ruffle straps on your shoulders, the sweetheart neckline hinting at full cleavage, the dress’ light hem hitting indecently high on your thighs in playful flirty wisps.

But it’s the stretchy knit fabric’s complete inability to disguise any curve or meaty swell that really has Nanami sitting up straighter on the cushions. It’s not layered well enough—almost transparent—and the snug material leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, from the outline of bright panties that cover the soft spread of your hips to the pert dusky points outlined beneath the bodice. 

Absolutely devastating and on full, confident display and this isn’t fair because he has three chapters left.

He barely registers the “What are you reading?” you offer him over one shoulder as you stroll towards the kitchen area in that swaying, uninhibited saunter that never fails to ignite his senses. Nanami simply sits there transfixed—one hand gripping the spine of his book while the other claws restlessly against his own inner thigh. Each roll of your hips has that thin dress swishing and lifting in tiny torturous glimpses that have his imagination veering wildly into unrestrained territory. But he’s at home, that’s okay right?

That’s when you shift your weight onto the tips of your toes, your back turned to him, stretching up towards the top cabinets with one hand braced against the counter…and the entire world seems to judder to a halt all over again. Because from this new vantage point, Nanami can’t tear his eyes away from the call of your legs, the dimples on the backs of your thighs, up, up to the hem and—

A guttural sound wrenches free from low in his diaphragm, a mix of a groan and a growled curse. He looks back down to his book, searching aimlessly for where he left off, flickering back over to you just as quick.

He should look away, tear his eyes off of the gloriously indecent picture you’ve unwittingly created simply by existing. And yet…Nanami finds his stare burning an increasingly blazing trail down the bewitching ‘V’ between your shoulder blades, past the delicious dip of your arched lower back to the toned flare of your thighs and calves below.

At one point, you bend even deeper at the waist, hips tilting up as you struggle to reach a particularly elusive item on the high shelf. The filmy yellow skirt jumps and flirts up with the motion, granting Nanami a shameless eyeful of toned thighs and the flash of his favorite pair of panties—lilac with lace along the edges that squeeze the skin of your ass in the most inviting way. He very nearly drops the book from his suddenly slack fingers at the sight, hissing out a low curse between his teeth.

You huff out an adorable sound of frustration as you fail to reach whatever item you’re going for, and he knows he should step in to assist like the gentleman he is. But his stare remains rooted to spot, ogling and committing it all to memory so he can think about it later—alone.

“Let me get that,” he finally manages to scrape out, voice gone low and gritty with naked yearning despite his best efforts at nonchalance. 

You shoot him one of those bright, beaming smiles over your shoulder in response—blissfully unaware of the effect your glowing, ethereal beauty has on him even without your intentional teasing. “Just grabbing the flour for dinner,” you explain sheepishly, leaning into his broad form as he comes up behind you and grabs the ingredient on the top shelf. “I always have trouble reaching.”

And isn’t that just symbolic as all hell? His curvy, tempting beloved constantly hovering just beyond his reach these past few weeks—unattainable without discarding every last vestige of control he has. It isn’t like you both don’t have sex. You do…often. There’s just always been a build up, never anything explosive.

Even in the privacy of your home, he’s never thrown caution to the wind. Nanami has always been one to savor every calculated build of pleasure in its precious sequence. You’ve expressed your satisfaction readily enough, reciprocating his passion with that same rapturous abandon you bring to all aspects of life. But in all the years of his tiring, overworked life, you are the first to show him what it feels like to never walk a predetermined line.

“This is…I’ve never seen you wear it inside,” Nanami manages, his throat feeling increasingly dry as his eyes trace the line of fabric on your shoulders.

You take the flour from him, shooting him a sly, knowing look from beneath your lashes as you turn to face him fully. “It’s a little stuffy in here, don’t you think?”

He can’t stop the reflexive glance that rakes over every inch of you. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”

You lean in a fractional amount—just enough for the swell of your breasts to brush against his shirt as you crane up towards his face. “Well, I run hot,” you murmur, voice dropping into the pits of hell, a throaty register that bypasses Nanami’s higher cognitive functions entirely. 

He’s beyond undone. Frozen in place with desperate, rapturous hunger raging through his very marrow. This close, he can make out the small raised moles on your exposed shoulders, the genetic blemishes that are common for your skin tone. He gets a better view of the rigid peaks of your nipples straining against the thin fabric, practically begging for the heated and dripping touch of his mouth that he’s always more than happy to bestow upon you. 

His fingertips clench and relax at his sides, held back only by tremendous reserves of willpower from reaching out to map and relearn every soft, silken plane of feminine heat and temptation currently being dangled in front of him like a prize he still can’t win.

You take in the undisguised wanting and torment written large across his features with a look of utter satisfaction. Then, before he can formulate some slurred plea for relief, you spin on one heel and saunter out of his reach—hips undulating hypnotically beneath that flimsy gauze of material in an alluring farewell.

Only once you finally disappear around the corner does Nanami manage to sag forwards—palms braced on the counter as he attempts to draw steady lungfuls of air back into his oxygen-starved body.

By the time he plops back on the sofa, and opens the spine of his book, the desire to read is gone.

You take pity on him for a few weeks after that searing afternoon in the kitchen. Your outside adventures are marked by breathable athletic leggings paired with loose tank tops that drape and show you off…but in a far tamer, less flagrantly teasing way than before.

Even at home, the soft cotton shorts and tees you lounge around in provide Nanami some solace—the casual fabrics leaving just enough to the imagination rather than putting every mouth-watering curve on display.

Your usual playful flirtations also seem to be dialed back during this oasis period. As if you’re allowing the poor man a chance to realign his senses and regain some semblance of control. It allows him time to resettle back into some of his usual regimented routines. Without you on a mission at the periphery of his awareness constantly, stoking those primal fires, he finds himself able to slip back into the role of polished, tired professional and attentive partner with relative ease.

Perhaps a bit too easily, if he’s being honest with himself. Because before he can even register the transition, that fleeting grace period seems to dissolve back into the heady summer ether as quickly as it had begun.

The warm evening air smells of charcoal and citronella as Nanami moves through the crowd, trying yet failing to focus on anything but you. All around him, friends and coworkers intermingle while indulging in ice-cold drinks and delicious food fresh off the smoker. He loves food, especially Yuki's cooking when she hosts a barbecue.

But none of it registers tonight.

Because every sensory nerve-ending in his body is completely captivated and overwhelmed by the vision you make in that deep red sundress.

The rich crimson chiffon swirls and caresses over your body in sinuous waves of delicious color. You’re bathed in red, as if rose petals have unfurled and stitched themselves together to form the beautiful dress on your body. It’s a maxi dress that sweeps down to your ankles and kisses the straps of your block heels. Scorching flashes of full thighs are visible through the flowing slits on each side. The deep v-neck dips in a daring drop that leaves your sternum and the inner sides of your breasts achingly exposed. 

Each step you take has the delicate material clinging and drifting in the most hypnotic dance around your heavenly form. Nanami tracks the rhythmic sway of your hips with a burning stare, his control splintering a little more with every toss of your head that allows the deep brown of your skin to wink at him from the column of your neck.

Yuki is already three wine coolers in—not a lot for most, but more than enough for her to throw decorum to the wind. From across the backyard, Choso watches with an indulgent smile as his partner bobs off-beat to the soft music flowing from the speakers.

Choso's expression of pure adoration mirrors the way Nanami looks at you when he thinks no one else is watching. They share that unspoken understanding, that bone-deep contentment of being completely enraptured by the women they love.

At one point, the music shifts, more alcohol disappears, and Yuki is hauling you to the makeshift dance floor of the backyard. Nanami tries, he really, really does. But everything about you makes him stand at attention. Breathing, walking, laughing, smiling at nothing, and now—with just one rock of your hips to the music—his eyes are locked in.

You’ve never been a good dancer. But you’ve also never cared of the expectation to be a good one either. And Yuki is an extroverted pull that makes you sway more, that makes your shoulders roll and laughter to bubble from your lips as you watch your friend make a fool of herself. 

Nanami runs a hand through his thick blonde locks, disrupting the careful part he made before you both left the apartment earlier in the evening. The other hand clutches a glass of scotch a little tighter, the condensation sliding against his fingers before he takes a generous swig, his eyes not once leaving you. 

You can feel him before you even look over, and when you do lock with Nanami’s deep brown gaze from across the yard, you throw him a soft look from beneath your lashes as you slowly roll your hips. It’s the same motion of your hips that he got to feel last night with you straddling him, panting against his lips in the middle of the night.

Outwardly sensual in only a way he can recognize amongst everyone around him. But it’s your rapturous, carefree expression of pure bliss that simultaneously enchants and undoes the last tattered remains of his composure. With every movement, you embody the very essence of feminine energy—raw, joyful, and utterly free. You are a vision of untamed beauty, a wild goddess of the summer night come to life in a swirling dreamscape of rich ruby chiffon. 

The erotic, carnal urge to chase after your swaying, taunting form and haul you away to some shadowed corner where he can divest you of that sinful dress is overwhelming. Swallowing hard, Nanami averts his burning stare for fear of literally combusting on the spot.

“You alright there, buddy?” Yu's familiar voice cuts through the lusty fog, tinged with the warm charm of a couple beers down. “You look like you’re about to swallow your tongue or something.”

“I…excuse me,” is all Nanami can grate out, the remark feeling like fragments of glass as he speaks. He doesn’t wait for a response, simply stalking off through the open patio door and into the thankfully dim and cool interior of Yuki and Choso's home. Anything to escape your enticing presence for even a single moment.

The music and laughter from outside feels muffled as he sinks down onto the living room sofa in the shadows—rubbing distractedly at his thundering chest. But it does nothing to get rid of the vision of you dancing so wantonly and on unrestrained display in that gorgeous ruby sundress. 

Where are you even getting them? Online? Or is there a store that he doesn’t know about? He hasn’t seen other women in the city wearing dresses like you do. But then again…Nanami doesn’t really pay attention unless it’s you. 

His fingers grip the plush armrest of the sofa until the knuckles strain white, breath sawing harsh and ragged from his heaving lungs. Nanami squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to visualize anything other than the way that lightweight crimson had drifted and kissed over your thighs that peeked between side slits, the growing sheen of sweat between the generous canvas of your chest, the exposed slope of your neck free of curls—a spot of concealer on the side to hide the mark he gave you last night.

A harsh exhale escapes him as he forces his eyes open, only to instantly regret it. The muted sounds of the party filter in from outside—sweet laughter, the low thrum of bass, the periodic high-pitched squeal of your voice crying out at Yuki to get a hold of herself.

Nanami’s stomach clenches raggedly at that sound, arousal stroking down his spine in sweltering waves. Through the clear glass of the patio door, he can see the way your face lights up in pure rapturous joy as you give in to yourself. The subtle shifts and gyrations of your body in time with the beat, each swivel of your hips like a siren’s call. 

Against his volition, imagination melds into memory, replaying the countless times he’s buried his face between your thighs and simply drank in the celestial sounds of your pleasure until his name was a breathless gasp on your lips. That shrieking cry at Yuki almost the same towards him when he licks at your sensitive nerves one too many times. He forces his gaze away, leans his head back against the sofa and stares up at the ceiling.

The music fluctuates once more, that instantly recognizable intro to the next funky summer hit you adore cuing up. Despite the walls between you, Nanami can still acutely pick up the subtle cadence of your movements in time with that danceable rhythm. He knows the exact choreography of hips and legs that song inspires in you…and his slacks suddenly feel far too confining.

That’s when your voice cuts through the relative quiet like a bolt of lightning, somehow even closer now as you call out—half-playful chiding, half siren’s promise.

“Oh Kentooo…” The singsong inflection has his eyes squeezing shut even as his cock shamefully twitches against it’s restrictive fabric prison. “Where has my favorite salaryman gone off to hide? You know I can’t dance without my partner watching me.”

Gritting his teeth against the dark, full-bodied groan that tries to escape, Nanami hunches forward until his elbows are digging into his thighs. There you stand framed in the patio door, backlit in a devastating silhouette by the lantern lights emanating through the loud yard behind you.

You walk closer in that torturous dress, the double layers trailing languidly behind in currents of fabric that have his throat struggling to swallow. Your stunning frame is practically dripping in sensual confidence and self-assured power. He knows the power you have over him and would sooner swallow his favorite tie than give that up.

The rich carmine floats around you in sinuous waves as you sashay closer to where Nanami sits transfixed on the sofa. And with each step, all manners and decorum that have been taught to him fizzle away with the increasing ache in his jeans.

“Like what you see?” you murmur huskily once you’ve prowled to stand between his legs, allowing Nanami an unfettered view of your neckline, the long gold necklace between your breasts winking at him with each shallow intake of breath. You lift one leg to press a knee onto his powerful thigh—close enough for your perfume to slide down his nostrils and cloud his mind. The slit over your bent knee flutters open in an obscene gap, granting his hooded gaze a glimpse of skin his teeth ache to bite into.

“I asked,” you breathe out in a seductive timbre, near enough for Nanami to actually taste the addictive warmth of your presence on his tongue. “If you like what you see…”

The inhale that rattles through his powerful frame is involuntary. So is the compulsive way his fingertips suddenly flex against the cushion with the overwhelming urge to finally reacquaint himself with the soft temptation of your skin. Others be damned, mannerisms of being a respectful guest falling to the wayside.

Somewhere through the rapidly thickening haze of pure liquid arousal, Nanami manages a jerky nod—unable to summon even the most basic of syllables in response. He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing convulsively as you arch one delicious eyebrow in a silent challenge. With your beautiful curls pulled up into a high ponytail, he can see the slope of your ears that are adorned with the gold hoops he bought you last month.

Then, before he can gather enough of his scattered wits to chastise you for your behavior, you’re boldly reaching out and capturing one of his clenching fists in a firm grip. A soft grunt rattles up from deep in Nanami’s chest at the heated feel of your palm finally making purchase on his overheated skin.

But his breath hitches in a harsh inhale as you purposefully guide his splayed fingers towards your exposed leg—sliding his hand up excruciatingly slow to caress along the landscape of textures and planes laid out in offering. He expects the generous hem of panties he’s seen time and time again. He knows what they look like in his mind when he teases the edges before slipping inside to graze his fingers along your aching clit. But the calloused pads of his fingertips brush the thin string of a thong instead. And it’s just a single touch that has him wide-eyed, reeling—the edges of his vision dizzying into a hazy fog of aching, inexplicable need. 

You should have come with a manual. Surely there’s a guide to get through the summer months with you? Some sort of text to explain the steps he needs to take to keep himself in control in public?

The rapturous throb of your saphenous vein leaps against his fingertips as you allow him to slant just a hairsbreadth further—close enough to feel the heat of the place he’s been countless times before—close enough to slide a thick finger along fabric he knows is wet.

Only for you to tear your hand away and drop your knee as the sound of Yuki's voice pierces the heavy sensual tension hanging between your bodies.

“There you are!” She calls out cheerfully from the sliding glass door. “My song is on, come dance with me!”

There’s a gentle tuft of laughter from you then—one tinged with dark satisfaction as you drink in the wrecked, wanton expression flaming across Nanami’s features. As if thoroughly enjoying reducing him to this strung-out state of desperation. You could rule the world if given the right resources.

“Yuki, let’s get you some water. You’ve had a little too much to drink…” your voice trails off as you disappear in a rustle of vermilion and sashaying hips with one last loaded look over your bare shoulder. 

He manages a shuddering breath that feels more like sandpaper sliding down his abused lungs. The delicious scent of your perfume still clings to the charged air around him, the phantom-like caress of your dress along his knuckles, the sound of your throaty laugh disappearing back to the party outside. Each ragged exhale has his body subtly canting forward, giving silent chase to your retreating form as if by muscle memory alone. 

This game…this deliciously maddening game you delight in playing has Nanami’s entire being teetering on the razor-thin edge of unraveling completely. Each new summer ensemble seems specifically designed to further tempt and destroy the decades of discipline he’s meticulously cultivated since he was a teenager.

Nanami would think after a relationship or two, he would have steeled himself against falling victim to seduction. And yet, not a single woman from his past could have prepared Nanami for the devastating combination of your radiant beauty and barely-restrained hedonism.

Your laughter calls out to him again, his eyes snapping up to see you smiling as Yuki chugs the glass of water Choso has pressed to her lips. Completely innocent and free of devilish qualities, the fact that Nanami knows that dark side of you makes him fold his arms across his chest, sagging against the sofa and glaring at your form as he wills his erection to go down.

It’s two days before summer’s end when Nanami feels the steadily fraying threads of his self-control finally unravel into oblivion. He’s tried every possible tactic these last few months to stave off the relentless fire of desire you’ve been stoking within him—going for runs, ice cold showers, avoiding you when possible. He’s even resorted to having you model your newest sundress purchases at home in a desperate attempt at desensitizing himself. It all seems incredibly dramatic, but Nanami has no idea what else to do. Nothing has worked against the intoxicating mix of your lively beauty and increasingly bold choices designed to torment him until he’s six feet under.

He had known from the moment he accidentally stumbled upon that fateful periwinkle dress sitting in your laptop’s shopping cart that it would be his undoing. He can still picture with perfect clarity the way the model seemed to shimmer and dance on the screen as he clicked through the product imagery—he pictured it with heart throbbing clarity how it would look on you.

And he still has so many more years left of his life to enjoy.

Without conscious thought, Nanami had swiftly removed the item from the cart—an invasion of privacy that left him nauseous, but a necessary decision if only to spare himself. 

He was stupid to think it would actually work.

So it comes as little surprise to see you boldly flaunting that silken number tonight at the rooftop gala marking his company’s most prosperous quarter yet. The twinkling strings of lantern bulbs and hot summer breezes swirling all around you only heighten the flagging warning that this night won’t end the way he wants. 

As you glide about the rooftop, the pale periwinkle seems to float effortlessly around your body. Like every dress before, this one is no exception, complimenting the deepness of your skin. The whisper-weight fabric lays against your hips and waist, simultaneously shaping and gracefully draping in all the right places.

The thin straps crisscross behind your neck, framing your graceful shoulders and collarbones. As you turn, the silk lifts and drifts around you in a mesmerizing swirl of decadence. It’s another plunging V-neckline, but this dress sits on your body and decolletage with an air of romantic grace. It’s not scandalous like that night at Yuki and Choso's. 

But it’s the back—oh it’s the back that makes his gaze heavy, that makes the organ in his chest beat out of rhythm with every inch he uncovers. Try as he might, it’s absolutely impossible for him to look away from the delicate contours and valleys of your body put on full and enthralling display by this backless dress. From the elegant lines of your throat and shoulders left teasingly bare to the soft inward curve of your arched lower back—the dress is a cruel temptation showcasing every salivating inch of you that he’s spent countless nights worshiping.

It’s beautiful on you, truly and unimaginably beautiful, and it’s a terrible twist of fate that such a simple observation is destroying Nanami from the inside. All that discipline—the cold showers, the extra miles added to his runs, the attempts of desensitization—it’s useless. No matter how hard he tries, he will always notice something new each time he looks at you. And it will always wreck him and throw him off axis whether he likes it or not.

Because amidst all the warmth and sociability of this rooftop celebration, all Nanami’s rapidly sharpening focus can zero in on is the subtle glisten of perspiration trailing down the slope of your spine. Every imperceptible turn and cock of your hip amplified tenfold by the silk that gets to touch you while he watches. As if personally daring him to finally surrender every last shred of patience and simply take what he wants.

A soft chuckle escapes your full lips as Nanami’s boss leans in closer, undoubtedly regaling you with some far from amusing anecdote from the office. The charming sound has every thread of Nanami’s control taut like a bowstring. Because that sound means a lot for him nowadays—laughing at his dry humor, the movies you both watch together, the giggling stuttering into whimpers and moans of ecstasy when your back arches from his tongue.

Suddenly, the light summer breeze kicks up in and swirls around you, waving the hem of your dress and the two-day old twistout on your head. Instinctively, you reach up to tuck a lock of those dark silken twists behind one ear.

Time itself seems to slow as he watches those inky tendrils ghost across your bare shoulders and the exposed skin of your upper back. Nanami watches with visceral hunger as those wild strands make playful, meandering paths across the smoothly toned expanse of brown skin. His entire body instantaneously flushes with hot need and arousal at the simple, harmless image. The soft rise of your breasts shake as you offer a fake laugh to whatever drivel your boss has just said. And in that split second—the culmination of tonight, this dress, the entire summer of taunting and coy smiles— Nanami’s restraint finally shatters into so many useless slivers at his feet.

Before conscious thought can override anything else, he’s stalking across the rooftop with rigid, predatory intensity—adjusting the unique glasses on his nose, his mouth set in a grim line of single-minded focus. The gaggle of chattering coworkers and small-talk banter all fade away into muted static and white noise. All that exists in this heated vortex of Nanami’s rapidly narrowing universe is the coiling pull of you.

“Ah, Nanami!” His boss greets heartily, clearly surprised yet pleased to see the company’s best worker at last. “Your partner and I were just discussing a better way to spruce up the quarterly party for next year. Care to weigh in, my friend?”

The question lands on deaf ears. Because at the exact same instant his professional mentor is extending that olive branch of attempted small talk…your eyes are on his, a knowing, small smile pressed to the hem of your champagne glass as you take a sip. The sight of your jewelry, the fabric against your skin, the way you look at him…the desire that rips through his body is staggering.

“I apologize for interrupting, but I need to speak with you,” he grates out in a tone heavy with gravel and masculine focus. His palm finds the smoldering heat of your lower back without conscious thought, marking delirious patterns of desire against your naked skin. Your eyebrows furrow with a silent question at the rough timbre of his command…even though you see that undisguised storm of hunger and frustrated desire raging behind his tinted glasses.

“Of course,” you finally murmur and turn to his coworkers to wish them goodbye, setting down your glass on the table beside you.

He’s burning, raging with a fever that doesn’t even exist and each shallow inhale draws more of your achingly familiar perfume into his senses—only making things worse.

He guides you through the crowded rooftop party and towards the elevators with a molten intensity bordering on feral. Nanami’s palm maps possessive into the searing expanse of your back. Every step jostles his arm flush against the silk on your frame.

“Where exactly are we going in such a hurry?”

The rich, seductive rasp of your voice is designed to torture him further, but Nanami doesn’t rise to it, simply presses fingers more firm to your back, his other punches the elevator button with purpose.

“I said I need to speak with you,” he finally bites out. “That should be more than enough.”

You lean further into his touch and look up at him, your tongue darts out to toy with your plush bottom lip in a show of faux innocence.

“Is that so?” The melodic lilt coupled with the ghost of your warm breath fanning across Nanami’s jaw would have been enough to make a lesser man’s knees buckle entirely. Instead, it simply ratchets the tension coiling through his powerful frame into a downright maddening degree.

The soft chime of the arriving elevator makes you both turn in tandem, the mirror of the elevator doors casting your reflections—allowing Nanami to drink in the smoldering fire already blazing behind your heavy-lidded stare. There’s profound hunger glimmering there that matches his own. An unadulterated wildness reined in by the thinnest veneer of coy indifference. You’ve always been slick—but not tonight.

The mirrored doors slide open with a hushed mechanical shush, you both step inside, and the doors slide closed. 

Nanami offers a silent apology for the violation of manners his parents instilled in him before he backs you into the far wall—the breath punching out of your lungs as your back makes shocking contact with the mirrored paneling. Now it’s you breathless, struggling to compose yourself as the masculine power of Nanami consumes you.

A subtle shudder ripples through Nanami’s abdomen as you wantonly tilt your head back, arching your throat in wordless invitation just as your fingertips rise to trail heated lines over his heaving chest. The lapels are black as midnight, the undershirt a crisp white, and he’s the handsome man that’s all yours even as he fights between what’s right and what he wants. One of his palms is cupping the slope of your jawline as the other maps out the silk of your dress. He bends slowly until the heat of his mouth is tracing the full curve of your parted lips—a heavy brush of sculpted male confidence against your teasing softness. 

“You’ve pressed against my boundaries to a criminal degree, love,” Nanami warns in a dark rasp scorched with the first cinders of the firestorm yet to come. His palm slides up the bare inward curve of your back until his fingers are tunneling through the wild riot of your twistout at the nape of your neck. Tinted eyes slit in satisfaction as your head tips back farther on a shaky inhale—granting him access to the deliciously vulnerable length of your throat.

“Nothing to say?” he husks out in the open, admiring the flutter of your lashes as his voice hits you. Nanami’s mouth brands a hot trail from the sensitive juncture of your jaw up towards the shell of your ear. You whimper softly at the slow, torturous build—the same sound of rapture he has memorized and pulled from you countless times between the sheets. It’s enough to strip away any lingering reservations entirely. 

With the strength he’s never ashamed to show you, hands slide under your thighs and he yanks you up. Your legs wrap around him on instinct, your arms winding around his neck, your head tilting back again to smack on the mirrored glass. 

His tongue glides along the buttery curve of your throat, tasting the familiar tang of salt and vanilla on the tip and the smell of him, of pure Nanami clouds your mind enough to finally look down at him, your noses a hairsbreadth from each other. It’s a silent standoff, your eyes as teasing as they are filled with arousal, his eyes dark with something that makes you shiver against him. 

And then he’s kissing you, deep and hungry, his hands roaming the bare expanse of your back, dipping lower, pulling you closer. You melt into Nanami’s kiss, your initial surprise giving way to a matching hunger. Your hands slip under his suit jacket, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt. He groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, igniting your nerves, thrumming in your veins.

You don’t even hear the elevator doors open but you feel him walking, lips hot and demanding groaning into you as you slide your fingers into his golden locks and pull. Nanami knows these floors like the back of his hand, and he’s familiar with the abandoned break room on the thirtieth floor, his hand yanking the door open and shutting it hard, lips never leaving yours. 

You gasp into his mouth when your ass lands on the old buttons of a copier, the machine groaning under your weight, the plastic buttons beeping in protest. As Nanami presses you against the copier, he can’t help but marvel at the feel of you beneath his hands. The dress, this damn dress, is like water under his fingers, smooth and cool and entirely too thin. He can feel every curve, every contour, every shuddering breath you take. 

He punctuates his actions with a roll of his hips, pressing his hardness that strains against his slacks against your core. You moan, your head falling back, and he takes advantage of your exposed neck, his lips and teeth worrying the sensitive skin, his tongue licking the marks he leaves.

“How many more dresses do you have?” he growls against your throat, his voice rough with need. “How many more ways are you going to torture me?”

You gasp as his teeth graze your pulse point, your fingers threading into his hair. “T-that depends,” you manage, your voice breathy. Nanami’s chuckle is dark, dangerous, his hands trailing higher, dipping into the seam of your panties, his fingers brushing over your clit. He savors the way your jerk against him, a whimper leaving your throat as you pant into the dusty air.

“Is this what you wanted? To reduce me to this? A man so desperate for you he’d take you in a public place?”

“Yes,” you hiss, arching into his touch, your breasts pressing against the thin silk that covers them. “Yesyesyes...”

Nanami’s groan is part frustration, part desire. “You have no idea what you do to me.” There’s a hint of wonder in his voice, a note of awe at the depth of his own need. His fingers press more insistently, circling, gathering your slick to make each stroke more messy and impactful, driving you towards the edge. The buttons of the copier dig into your skin, the machine whirring and beeping beneath you, adding to the crescendo of sensation. He can hear the mechanical shuffle of papers being chucked out from one end, slapping onto the floor.

“Do you like this?” Nanami pants, his breath hot against your ear. “Do you like teasing me, driving me crazy?”

“Yes,” you admit, free of shame, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Please, Kento.”

He slides two fingers into your wet heat, savoring your wanton gasp, increases the pressure, the speed of his fingers, pushing you closer to the precipice. “Have you done this before?” he asks, his voice raw with emotion. “Teased other men like this, made them want you so badly they’d forget themselves?”

“No,” you moan desperately, your head thrashing from side to side, deep locks brushing your cheeks. “Never. It’s only ever been you, Kento. Only you.”

“Say it again,” he demands, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

“Only you,” you pant. “I’m yours, Kento. Completely.”

It doesn’t take long—countless strokes inside of you, a curl of his fingers, a twist of his wrist, and you shatter. Your cry of pleasure mixes with the beeps and groans of the copier, your body shaking, your fingers digging harder into Nanami’s shoulders that he’s sure you’ve broken the barrier. 

He holds you through it, his lips on your skin, his murmured praises in your ear, soft litanies of words that has made you fall deeper in love with him each passing day. You don’t get a chance to come down fully because he’s on you again, pressing closer, pushing your panties to the side and digging his fingers into the meat of your hips. But the angle is wrong, you’re too high and the copier digs into his thighs and impedes him from getting to you the way he wants.

With a grunt of frustration, Nanami lifts you off the machine. Your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you to the conference table. He sweeps aside the accumulated debris with one arm, sending sugar and tea packets scattering to the floor. Your back hits the table, the hard surface unyielding beneath you. Plastic cups crunches and snaps under your weight, sugar and coffee creamer powder puffing into the air, settling on your heated skin.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmurs, soaking in the radiance you beam up at him, “how many times I’ve imagined this? Pulling you away from everyone, getting my hands on you…not being able to do it because I’m better than that.”

You moan as he nips at your collarbone, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “And yet here you are,” you tease, breathless with twinkling eyes that shine right through him.

He captures your lips again, the kiss deep and demanding. You arch into him, your hands throwing off his glasses—they smack against a wall—your fingers deftly undoing his tie, working on the buttons of his shirt. You need to feel his skin against yours, need to be closer, and he shudders at the feel of your warm hands breaching the open buttons, sliding up his bare chest.

As if reading your mind, Nanami reaches for the zipper of your dress, slowly pulling it down. The fabric parts, baring more of your skin to his heated gaze. He takes a moment to admire you, his eyes roaming your body like a physical caress.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then his hands are on you, tracing your curves, fingers brushing your nipples before he gives them a pinch. A whimper shakes from you, your fingers pressing into his bare chest.

Dimly, he’s aware that he should stop this, that he’s in a public place, at a work event. But the heat of your body, the insistence of your touch, the mounting pleasure coursing through his veins—it all conspires to drown out reason.

Your hands fumble with his belt, your fingers shaking with need. He helps you, impatiently pushing his pants and boxers down just enough. And then he’s touching you, his fingers digging into your hips, sliding you closer to him until the tip of him presses to the sopping wet heat of your center, wet from your orgasm and still ready.

“Please,” you whimper, hardly recognizing your own voice. “Please, Kento…”pushing your dress further up your hips, trailing over your ribs, cupping your breasts until the skin spills between the gaps. His eyes widen at the sight, the base of his spine heating up. So many times he’s seen you like this in the privacy of your home, and now it’s in an old break room at his workplace, the consequence of you finally taking things too far.

He’s free of any feral energy as he kisses you, sliding into your welcoming heat slowly to acquaint himself again. Your fingers dig into his skin, your chest pressing into him as you adjust, the table creaking under your joined weight as you wrap your legs around his waist and dig your silver heels into his back. Soon he’s moving above you, within you, each thrust pushing you higher, each thrust fanning the fire within himself.

“Please,” you whisper against his lips, begging again for the unspoken demand of more. And even though the roles are reversed right now—you the one being teased—he gives you whatever you ask.

He sets a pace that’s just shy of punishing, each snap of his hips brushing his zipper against the inside of your thighs. The room fills with the sounds of sex—the slap of skin on skin, your gasps and moans, his grunts into the air. He cannot believe he’s in this moment, doing something so scandalous.

“You reduce me to this,” he pants against your lips. “It’s not fair.”

“I know,” you gasp, your hands pulling at open lapels of his shirt, squeezing around the buttons, the fabric groaning. “I’m sorry.”

But you’re not, he can tell. There’s a hint of satisfaction in your voice, a touch of pride. And why shouldn’t there be? You’ve brought him, the ever-controlled Nanami Kento, to his knees. He loves you too much to ever want anything different.

“I’m a good man,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, curving his next thrust that he knows will brush against that spot you like.

“You’re an amazing man, Ken,” you moan in surprise, your hips lifting to meet his to seek more. “The best. Only the best for me. Only you, Kento.”

The praise makes him shake, the fire in his body raging like an inferno, burning his skin, breaking him into a sweat. He presses a knee into the table, throws one of your legs over his shoulders and savors the ragged way your name leaves his lips as he gives you everything.

“You feel so good,” he pants, his tongue licking the skin of your neck. He tastes the saltiness of your sweat, the sanitizing taste of perfume, the powdered creamer and sugar that sticks to your skin from the table. “So perfect.”

“Come on, Kento” you keen, your nails raking down the suit on his back. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He’s lost in you, in the feel of you, in the knowledge that he’s the only one who gets to see you like this. Wanton, needy, completely undone.

Nothing else matters—not the party going on just floors above, not the risk of discovery, not the propriety you’re both abandoning. In this moment, there’s only you and him and the heat that’s consumed you both all summer, finally finding release.

Nanami’s thrusts become erratic, his rhythm faltering as the base of his spine tightens in a delicious way to let him know that he’s close. His hand slips between your bodies, past the silk of your rumpled periwinkle dress, gliding over your clit in well-practiced strokes and the leg over his shoulder tenses up, your head digging into the table, neck arching for him to see the flecks of sugar sticking to your neck. 

“Ohhh right there Kento. Right there. Please, please I’m gonna cum—I’m—“ you smack a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself, eyes shutting tight.

“Absolutely not.” Nanami hasn’t suffered for months just to be deprived of anything during this encounter. He yanks the hand from your mouth, pressing it hard into the table, and the shock on your face as you look up at him, the staccato of your breaths, the undeniable seriousness in his gaze even as he pistons into you, admiring the way your dress pools at your waist as he gives you more, harder, deeper until—

“Ohhhh fuck!” you cum with a long dragged out cry, your body clenching around him, walls locking around his cock to the point his orgasm is yanked from him as he falls over the edge with you, pulsing deep inside with a groan muffled against your neck.

He sags against you, both of your chests heaving against each other. He slips a hand behind you, trailing lightly up and down your glistening back as you lie beneath him, spent and satisfied.

As he slowly comes down, he presses a lingering kiss to your sweat-dampened hairline, the roots of your twistout beginning to frizz. There’s a hint of coconut from your leave-in as his nose brushes down to your cheek. So familiar, yet still so intoxicating after almost a year of smelling it. As if he could ever grow numb to the potent lure of your presence.

A ragged chuckle escapes him at that thought, the mirthful rumble making you pull up your head to look at him. Nanami drinks in the utterly debauched vision you make—beautiful brown sweaty skin, hair messy, lips swollen and smirking as per usual.

His arm tightens reflexively around the sensual curves of your waist, pulling you closer in a subconscious gesture of possession and longing. Because for all the delicious torture you’ve inflicted over the past few months with your endless parade of tempting summer dresses…he wouldn’t trade this hard-won moment for anything.

Nanami is many things—disciplined, regimented, a hardworking—albeit tired— professional. But he is also only human at his core. And you, his beautiful free-spirit of a partner, has a simply breathtaking talent for awaking the primal, unrestrained parts of him he usually keeps so rigorously leashed.

“You know,” you murmur in that velvety voice he loves so much. “The minute I realized the dress vanished from my cart was the minute I knew it would be the one.”

A sleepy chuckle breaks free from his lips at your words, the sound causing you to join in as well—a vibrant melody that coats his soul in pure contentment. Nosing closer, he peppers a line of feather light kisses along the line of your jaw. “You’ll never go easy on me, will you?”

“And rob myself of bringing down Nanami Kento piece by piece?” You snort, shooting him a look of pure, playful sin from beneath your lashes. “I might have to make sundress season a year-round thing.”

His answering groan is part growl, part disbelieving laughter as the palm behind your back glides along the elegant curve of your spine down to the bend of your hip. Ever the devilish temptress without even trying, even in the aftermath.

“You’ll be the death of me.”

“That’s a good way to go,” you tease, pulling him down for another kiss, sweet and sticky and full of promise.

His hands slide along the canvas of your body, fingers dipping into the ridges of the open zipper of your dress. He’ll make sure it’s dry cleaned so you can wear it next year. And hopefully he’ll be better prepared.

When you giggle against his lips and dig your heels into his back, he realizes that there will be no amount of preparation when it comes to you.

Thanks for reading!

[helaintoloki]

hi can you do a ben hargreeves angst where klaus is still able to see him in season 3 and he sees how close y/n has gotten to ben sparrow you can do whatever you want with it

warnings: language, lots of angst

notes: okay i actually loved writing this you are a genius for coming up with this scenario

summary: Ben is forced to watch you fall for a completely different version of him

Ben once thought having to watch the woman you love live her life without knowing you looked on as a spirit incapable of communicating with her was the worst fate imaginable.

But he was wrong.

Watching the woman you love grow close to another version of you while you can do absolutely nothing to interfere was more torturous than any other possible outcome.

Ben absolutely loathed the Sparrow with his entire being. He couldn’t understand why you would even consider trying to get to know the man- he was a complete jerk, absolutely hostile, and not at all understanding or compassionate to the dilemma your team found yourselves in. Ben also thought his haircut was stupid, and the Sparrow’s demeanor gave the ghost a sense of second-hand embarrassment every time he talked.

And yet you were drawn to the man like a magnet, and how could you not be? He looked and sounded exactly like what you imagined your Ben would have if he had survived the accident and been able to grown into an adult alongside you. Despite his callousness and his blatant lack of trust in you, you were eager to learn more. Did he like the same things your Ben did? Did they share the same interests? Were their mannerisms the same? You desperately needed to know, and the Sparrow did not deny you this. Though he held a certain sense of disdain for your team, he wasn’t prideful enough to turn down the company of a pretty girl who seemed to follow him around like a lost puppy. He took advantage of your kindness and your vulnerability, and your Ben hated that he could do absolutely nothing to stop this.

You sit on a lone bench and watch as the Sparrow completes his workout for the day. He’s allowed you to tag along so long as you don’t get in the way, and you agreed. You’re completely mesmerized by his toned arms and grunts of effort that escape his lips as he lifts weights, and Ben can only roll his eyes.

“Seriously? This guy?” He asks you in exasperation, but of course, you don’t hear him at all. This doesn’t deter him from continuing his attempt to persuade you to stay away from the Sparrow. “You are way too good for an asshole like him. He’s just using you to feed his ego!”

“Do you like to read?” You ask the man as he sets down his weights and reaches for his towel to wipe off the sweat from his brow.

“Read?” He retorts haughtily, almost offended by the notion. “What am I, a nerd?”

Ben knows neither of you can see him, and yet he flips the man off anyway in response to his answer. Your shoulders visibly deflate at his words, and the ghost can only frown and attempt to place a comforting hand on your shoulder. It goes right through you, the coldness prompting you to shiver involuntarily, but it makes him feel better to know you can at least sense him in some way.

“My Ben liked reading, so I just thought maybe you would too,” you offer meekly, prompting the Sparrow to roll his eyes.

“Alright, new rule. You wanna hangout with me? Then don’t bring up ‘your’ Ben. Got it?”

“Right, sorry,” you murmur quietly while awkwardly fidgeting with the rings on your fingers. You hover over the one on your index, the purple gem gleaming in the light. Ben knows that ring because he gave you that ring, and that’s why it nearly kills him all over again when he watches you hurriedly remove it and hide it away in the pocket of your sweater.

“You shouldn’t have to apologize for being you,” he gently reprimands you with a sigh before focusing his harsh gaze on his lookalike. “And you should stop being a dick to quite possibly the nicest girl you’ll ever meet. You don’t deserve her, and I’ll never understand why the universe decided you should get to have her.”

Of course, his lecture is unheard and has no impact on the scene that unfolds before him. He watches in gut wrenching agony as the Sparrow seats himself beside you on the bench, his rough hand coming to rest gently upon your thigh and squeezing to get your attention. Your eyes almost seem to sparkle as you look up at him in search of validation for your efforts to get to know him. There’s a shift in the air that fills Ben with dread, and despite all his efforts to stop it he can do nothing to prevent your lips from meeting the man’s in a purposeful kiss.

Your heart flutters in your chest as the Sparrow pulls away and carefully tucks your hair behind your ear, his voice coming out in a soft whisper as he says, “You’re with me now. Forget about him.”

And to Ben’s absolute horror, you obediently offer a silent nod in agreement to his command.

[dreamescapeswriting]

You Make Me Feel Like Christmas || BC

WORD COUNT: 1.5K

PAIRING: Chan x GN!Reader

GENRE: Seasonal piece, drabble? cute, fluffy, reader not feeling the season and chan does everything he can to fix it, established relationships

SYNOPSIS: Struggling to find the Christmas spirit, you feel disconnected from the holiday magic you once loved. Bang Chan notices and spends a day dedicated to rekindling your joy, from decorating a tree to making Christmas s’mores under the stars. Through his unwavering care and creativity, he reminds you of the warmth and magic of the season, culminating in a tender moment by the fire.

⤜Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - December 2024

⤜MASTERLIST

The chill of December had settled firmly in the air, snow gently blanketing the streets outside the window. Twinkling lights adorned every corner, the world around you buzzing with Christmas cheer—except for you... You sat curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs and a mug of hot chocolate in your hands, staring at the television playing yet another holiday movie. You forced yourself to watch it trying to push through your mood as the same storyline played out right before your very eyes.

It wasn’t that you hated Christmas, but this year, the magic seemed distant, leaving you feeling more like a spectator than a participant. Chan noticed. He always noticed, he noticed every single thing there was about you so you weren't sure why you thought you were going to get away with hiding this from him.

“Not even a smile for your favourite holiday movie?” he teased gently as he entered the living room, carrying a tray of cookies he’d baked earlier. The sweet scent of sugar and cinnamon wafted through the room, but it wasn’t enough to lift your spirits. You shrugged, offering a small, apologetic smile.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just not feeling it this year.” You stared back at the screen as the couple finally got together at the end of the film. Something that had once brought you to tears but this time it didn't even bring a lump to your throat.

Chan’s brows furrowed, his lips pressing into a determined line. He set the tray down and sat beside you, pulling you close. His arm wrapped around your waist and he sighed a little,

“That’s not like you,” he murmured, resting his chin on your shoulder. Every year you were usually going over the top for Christmas, sometimes even counting down to it from July onwards but this year he'd noticed you hadn't. He'd put it all down to stress but as the date crept closer he was starting to worry.

“Christmas is your thing. Remember last year? You made me dress up as an elf for your Instagram post.” A small laugh escaped you at the memory, but it quickly faded.

“Maybe I’m just tired.” He leaned back, his dark eyes locking with yours.

“Tired or not, I’m going to fix this,” he declared. “You deserve a Christmas that feels like Christmas.” Before you could protest and tell him that he didn't have to do that he was on his feet, his mind clearly already buzzing with plans.

The next morning, you woke to the sound of cheerful Christmas music blaring from the living room. Still groggy, you shuffled out of bed to find Chan dancing around in a Santa hat and a ridiculously festive sweater adorned with blinking lights. He was decorating the tree, which, until this moment, had stood bare in the corner of the room. The two of you had been to the tree farm a few days ago and picked out the short tree together.

You'd done it thinking that picking out a tree would put you in the mood but it had done nothing but stress you out more.

"Good morning!” he called out, twirling around with a strand of tinsel.

“I’m making breakfast in a bit, but first, come help me with this tree!”

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him like this. His enthusiasm was infectious, even if your Christmas spirit hadn’t fully returned yet. You joined him, and together you started adorning the tree with ornaments.

Every few minutes, Chan would hold up a particularly ridiculous decoration, like a sparkly reindeer, and insist on putting it front and centre.

“This one’s perfect,” he said, his grin wide as he placed it on a branch. “It’s so ugly it’s cute.” He told you before kissing your cheek softly and giving you a soft squeeze.

By the time the tree was finished, it was a masterpiece of mismatched ornaments - ones you collected every year you were together, a small tradition that the two of you had together - twinkling lights, and an impressive amount of tinsel. Chan stood back, hands on his hips, looking proud.

“There. A proper Christmas tree. What do you think?” He nudged your arm softly as he wiggled his eyebrows in your direction, you took in the sight and bit down on your lip, it might have been the worst decorated tree in the world but it was YOUR worst decorated tree.

“It’s... perfect,” you admitted, your smile growing little by little as Chan smiled, pretty proud of himself for what he'd managed to do.

“Told you I’d fix this,” he said, dropping his lips to yours for a quick chaste kiss before disappearing into the kitchen.

The day didn’t stop there though, no. Chan had an itinerary, and he wasn’t about to let you escape it. First, he dragged you outside to build a snowman, complete with a carrot nose and a scarf he insisted was stylish and something he'd seen all over Pinterest.

When your hands started to go numb, he'd been quick to whisk you back inside, wrapping you in blankets and placing a warm cup of hot chocolate in your hands. Claiming he'd found the recipe for Judy's hot chocolate from the "Santa Clause" movies and wanted you to try it.

“Now, the most important part of Christmas,” he announced, holding up a stack of Christmas cards and a box of pens.

“Spreading cheer.” You groaned playfully but took the markers, letting him guide you through writing cards for friends and family. Each card turned into an art project, Chan doodling little snowflakes and stars in the corners while you added heartfelt messages. He even decided to add his little snake doodle but instead of a crown above it's head, he added a Santa hat instead.

The day went by pretty quickly and as it started to get dark outside, Chan still wasn’t done yet.

“Time for the finale,” he said, holding out his hand to you. You raised an eyebrow at him, your eyes looking at his outstretched hand as you wondered what else he had planned for you.

“Finale?” You questioned, still not moving yet.

“You’ll see.” He smirks and you giggle taking his hand and jumping up with him.

He led you outside to the small backyard, where he’d set up a little fire pit. The flames crackled warmly, and next to the fire sat a basket filled with marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate. There were blankets set up on seats so that the two of you wouldn't freeze to death in the snow or get sick.

“S’mores?” you asked, smiling as you noticed just how much effort he was putting into all of this for you.

“Christmas s’mores,” he corrected, pulling out a bag of peppermint-flavoured marshmallows and waving them around, smirking at you. “Trust me, they’re amazing.”

You sat by the fire, the two of you roasting marshmallows and laughing as Chan’s first attempt caught fire and eventually dripped into the firepits below. When he finally got it right, he made a s’more and held it out to you with a grin.

“For you. The honorary first Christmas s’more.” You took a bite, the mix of chocolate, graham cracker, and peppermint melting in your mouth, you shut your eyes and let out a moan. It was surprisingly good.

“Okay, you were right,” you admitted. “These are amazing.” Chan’s grin grew even wider.

“Told you. I’m always right.”

As the fire burned low, you leaned against Chan, the warmth of the flames and his arms warming you up fully. For the first time all season, you felt a spark of that Christmas magic that you'd been yearning for. Maybe it was the tree, the s’mores, or the fact that Chan had spent the entire day making sure you smiled. Whatever it was, you were grateful.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft and shaking a little as you looked up at him. Chan looked down at you, his eyes warm and filled with affection as he ran his hand over your cheek and rubbed his thumb over your skin.

“For what?”

“For this-" You gestured around at the fire and over at the house,

"For everything. I needed it more than I realized.” You whisper and he presses a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tightening around you.

“Anything for you. Always...So are we feeling festive?" he questions softly as he holds your face in his hands. Your only response was a shy nod, and then his lips were on yours. The kiss was slow and sweet, the kind that made time seem to pause and the world fade away. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin as he pulled you just a little closer.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, a soft smile playing on his lips. Your stomach was flipping in all kinds of directions as you let out a small giggle,

“How’s that for Christmas spirit?” he whispered, his eyes twinkling mischievously. You laughed softly, your cheeks warm from the fire and his touch.

“Alright, alright. You win. It’s definitely feeling like Christmas now." Chan beamed, pulling you into a side hug as he cuddled you into him.

“That’s what I like to hear.” And as the fire continued to burn, you realized maybe—just maybe—Chan was your favourite part of the season.

A/n: Still on hiatus but wanted to write something cute for the holidays <3

[kiemiu]

christmas wrapping | ( fem!reader ) fluff + soft hours. established relationship headcanons wc 953 ( kiemiu's fluffmas masterlist )

boyfriend!matt who likes to slow dance to christmas music with you. usually later in the evening when everyone else has shuffled off into their own room and it's just the two of you together. the only light you have illuminates from the decorated christmas tree and the tv that's on a christmas radio station. he'll hold you close under a thick blanket and gently sway in the living room with you. his head deep in the crook of your neck as he hums along to the familiar melody. he'll let out a dreamy sigh before whispering sweet nothings to you, continuing to hold you close and sink into your embrace.

boyfriend!matt who takes you to christmas light shows. he'll drive around different neighborhoods and take you to light shows where you can watch from the comfort of his car. both of you eating warm cinnamon flavored treats while looking at the sparkling lights in awe. both of you pointing out what movies you recognize in the decorations and jokingly setting up your own theories of how high you think their light bill will be.

boyfriend!matt who forces you to watch movies with him everyday. he'll force you to make a joint letterboxd account with him so you can record every christmas movie you watch together throughout the month. you and him both switch every other day to record the holiday movies you watch together. sometimes he'll get a little lazy and just turn on a random holiday classic that plays throughout the christmas season 70 different times, other times he gets really involved in the movies and will sometimes get upset at you if you're on your phone or fall asleep during it. there will be an argument on if 'die hard' is a christmas movie.

boyfriend!matt who likes to make a competition out of everything. whether it's baking, constructing gingerbread houses, building snowmen, or skating faster at the ice rink, it doesn't matter, all of it turns into a competition to see who can do what better. he always mocks and laughs at you when he wins, but ends up silently pouting (and then denying that he's pouting) when he loses. in the end, it's all for fun and he enjoys how you make him feel like a little kid again whenever you play into his antics.

boyfriend!matt who warms you up after your snowball fights. he'll drag you outside just to pelt you with snowballs and then drag you inside to warm you up. he'll take a warm bath with you first, and then when you're all cozy in your pj's, he'll ask you to pick out a good movie while he makes hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream, his excitement evident as he makes his way towards you so he can snuggle deeply under the thick piles of blankets and cuddle with you to a christmas classic.

boyfriend!matt who buys you matching ugly sweaters. he bought them when he was shopping with nick. he saw the cute sweaters and just knew he had to get them for the both of you. he loved how it was decorated with his favorite christmas movie and he knew you'd love the obnoxious lights and tinsel that decorated the sleeves of it. he didn't show you the sweaters until the night of christmas eve and made you wear it with him on christmas day as you unwrapped presents together.

boyfriend!matt who puts his cold hands on exposed parts of your body. any time matt leaves out to do his own thing, and returns with a red nose and freezing hands, the first thing he loves to do is touch you. it annoys you beyond belief which is why he keeps doing it. every time you let out a shrill scream and swat his hands away from you, he'll laugh until his throat hurts and his limbs feel weak, always calling you dramatic but also reacting the exact same way when you do it to him.

boyfriend!matt who adores holiday shopping dates. he'll let you drag him around target as well as every shopping mall you feel the need to explore, there's never a dull moment with you, so he'll happily comply to all of your requests. he loves to go into 'lush' and 'bath and body works' to smell the candles with you, he'll help you pick out a signature holiday scent, but then he'll complain about the headache he gets as you leave the store. when you walk past 'victoria's secret' he likes to make sly comments, joking about 'sexy santa lingerie' , and although he might play it off as a joke, you can tell he secretly likes the idea. he's also just as in involved in the shopping as you are, always picking up random items and asking if you'd think chris or nick would like it as a christmas present.

boyfriend!matt who records you opening your christmas gifts. he records you on his vlog camera as you open your presents. he truly has no intention on posting it, but seeing you burst with excitement while your face lights up over gifts you could only dream of receiving, makes him want to remember this moment for years to come. he gets shy when it's his turn and you record him while he opens his own gifts, but he loves it nonetheless. in the back of his mind he tells himself it'll be a part of a video compilation he plays on the night of your wedding.

boyfriend!matt who whispers to you in the dead of night while you're asleep and tucked under his arm, for many more christmases to experience together.

' 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ' 🎁: @emely9274 @ginswife @chrisstvrns @conspiracy-ash @sturnina @lovetaylorrussellgrr @nervoussagittarius @sacaydia @chrissturnsss @hearts4werka @chrisprincesss @koilaniazul @starsforu @sturn777 @sturniolosiphone @chrisfavoritewhore @sturnsmia @leaningoutthewindow

[aliwritex]

some franco fluffy blurb? as much as i find that man hot i can't help but want to hug him and kiss him and cuddle him. i'm a lost cause

here’s a little wintery fluff (tho i am brazilian and this doesn’t make sense to me) enjoy! :)

“Baby, you don’t have anything to eat here”

You were visiting his new apartment in Spain for the first time. He had moved in a couple of weeks before but only now had the chance to actually stay for a bit before flying back home for the holidays.

You had gotten there the night before and ordered take out for dinner but when you got up in the morning you realized his kitchen was basically empty.

“Humh?” he hummed, walking into the small kitchen already drinking his mate.

“We need to shop. Don’t you have food?”

“I have protein shake” he opened the cupboard, “some rice and,” he walked over to check the fridge “to be honest I thought had some chicken left”

“Breakfast, baby. What about breakfast?” you looked up at him, starting to question how he even survived living alone, Franco just lifted his mate to show you. “That’s not breakfast, I thought you were supposed to be healthy, like an athlete”

“Well, it’s off season and I’m not even set in doing something next year.”

“Right, go get dressed, we’re having breakfast and going shopping. Now!” you said, squeezing past him in the small kitchen.

“At least your closet’s organized” you praised as you walked past him, wearing one of his sweaters with your jeans.

“Thanks?”

Franco got up from the couch where he had been waiting for you to get ready grabbing both of your coats and his keys before letting you out the door first.

“Scarf?” he asked by the door and you shook your head, already making your way down the stairs.

He went after you, making sure to get to the car first and open the door for you.

“What can you eat?” you asked as he got a kart in the grocery shop.

“Told you it’s off season, don’t care”

“Great, cause this weather makes me want a thick hot chocolate every second of the day”

“Thought you were planing on cooking something for lunch” he followed after you, into the sweets isle.

“I could do that. Some chicken, and a little pasta salad? Sounds good?” you looked back, catching him nodding, his face red from the cold. “I told you not to leave the house with wet hair, you’re freezing” you said, pulling his hood over his head and tugging the strings a little.

“I’m fine” he tugged the hood back loose.

“Sure, baby” you kissed his nose quickly, “just don’t freeze your fingers off.”

Back at his place he had watched you cook, annoyingly taking up space in the kitchen even though he wasn’t doing anything. He just wanted to be around, he had missed you in the last triple header and his time back in England so now he wanted to be close.

Thats why you ended up in his bed, all tangled up after lunch, taking a siesta in true spanish spirit. Franco was lying on his side, his head on your chest and his hand had sneaked up to hold your boob. You could feel his curls tickling your neck but it was fine, you loved to provide him comfort, be his rock when he needed.

Your fingers ran through the short hair on the back of his head, grazing softly on his neck.

“If you don’t stop i’m never getting up” he mumbled.

“I don’t want you to get up” you said into his hair, pulling him closer to you.

“Really?” he looked up at you, tired green eyes staring into your soul as his brows furrowed “I was thinking of making that chocolate you wanted”

You hummed just thinking about it “I’d love that right now”

“Then let me go” he whined

“No, take me with you”

“God, you’re so clingy!” he teased getting up from the bed “Come here”

He helped you attach to him like a coala as you giggled and walked to the kitchen, sitting you on the counter.

“Do you know how much I love you?” you asked, taking his face in your hands, thumbs rubbing his stubble

“I’m hoping it’s a lot”

“I think it might be more than a lot.” you kissed the tip of his nose and then his lips.

“I love you to, mi amor”

“I think I think I might just love you more” you told him and started kissing all over his face, cheeks, forehead, eyes, lips, anywhere you could reach.

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Saving What Was Lost Part 3: You Trust Me?✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x fem! reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: I’m so excited to bring you the next chapter! This has been one of my favorite series to write, and I have so much more in store for these two! Joel is so so soft for reader 🥹 Happy reading! I love nothing more than to read your comments on what you thought, so please consider leaving me comments and reblogs 💕

Chapter Summary: You’ve got so many reasons not to trust another man again in your life, but Joel seems to give you ten for why you should trust him. One of them being calming a panic attack in the middle of a parking lot.

Rating: Explicit 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 9.7k

Chapter Tags: Mentions of being trafficked, flashbacks of being abused, angst, soft and protective Joel, PTSD, no use y/n, age gap (reader is late 20’s, Joel is late 40’s), pre-outbreak au, mentions of an acoustic guitar, panic attacks at the store

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The long days seem to dwindle by with your heart still lodged deep in your throat. It doesn’t seem to matter that the calming rain patters on your foggy window, doesn’t matter that fall used to be your favorite season. You feel hollow, torn apart piece by piece with every second that brushes past your icy skin. 

   You feel broken. You are broken. And you’re not sure anything will ever fix that. 

   Every day you find something new that’s too hard to manage to get your body to do. Brushing your teeth, getting yourself dressed, making yourself eat when all you can stomach is the empty feeling inside you. You’re just so tired of fighting, so very exhausted of trying to just get by. But your body screams at you to fight. 

   Fight for yourself. Win. Get out of bed, eat, make an effort to survive. So, you do. You try because that’s all you hear ringing in the back of your mind. You have to keep going. Don’t let Angela or any of the ones that dragged you down keep you from thriving. 

   Live. 

   Today is like all the other days you fight to not let your depression win. Except today marks two weeks that you’ve been here. Two weeks that you’ve survived. And as much as you feel like giving up every second of every day, you always seem to find one tiny reason to get out of bed. Joel seems to be that reason. 

   Joel… and his warm cups of coffee. The kind that he douses in creamer and sugar and caramel just for you. Because that’s how you like it. And it never fails. Every single morning your cup is there just waiting for you, including Joel’s warm smile and soft brown eyes…

   That’s your reason for getting out of bed. Joel. 

   You discovered that Joel reported you as found to the police department a few days ago. You should feel relieved that he did that, but it didn’t matter. There was no one looking for you, so it didn’t make a damn bit of a difference. No one was coming to get you… Nobody even tried reaching out which makes you feel that much worse.

   You battle with yourself, wrestling your way to slide on a pair of black leggings, along with a long cashmere sweater that falls clear down your thighs. You fight to comb the knots from your hair, clenching your teeth with every painful drag of the brush. 

   Fight. Win. Don’t let them control you.

   Flexing your trembling hands, you squeeze a generous amount of spearmint toothpaste onto your purple toothbrush and jam it into your mouth, scraping it back and forth until you don’t taste the bitter aftertaste of almost two years in captivity. 

   Your fingers tremble beneath you with every slide of the toothbrush, every clinking noise against your teeth making you gag at the memories of you being left alone with disgusting men in a tiny bathroom against your will. It’s too much, this is too much. So you rinse your mouth and scamper out of the bathroom, closing the door until you can’t feel the goosebumps rising on your skin anymore. 

   You’re safe. They’re not here. You’re free. But you don’t feel free because those painful memories are alive in your mind, painting vivid pictures that make you instantly want to vomit and recoil into bed. But you don’t let the monsters take you back down into the darkness. You flee to sunlight and hope. You make your way to something that makes you feel lighter, where you can breathe easier, to something that gives you hope. 

   And that something is Joel.

   You smell the fresh coffee brew in the air, inhaling the rich scent as if you can already taste it. When you turn the corner you see Joel’s broad back to you, busy with the coffee machine and the daily newspaper, his large hand brushing past the blur of small-print words. 

   Instead of stopping to say good morning to him, you decide to venture down the hall. You haven’t been brave enough to really take in the house and explore, but now? Maybe you could try. 

   The sunlight shines through the open glass windows, making the photographs and hanging art glitter like specks of gold surrounding the black frames. Your eyes skim the family photographs, taking in Joel’s big smile in each of them. One is of him and Tommy, arms clasped around each other’s backs with a little girl standing in front of them, who you suppose is Sarah. Her dark curls spiral to her shoulders while she wraps an arm around her dad. 

   They look so happy, like a normal family who has never been broken. You wish yours looked like that. But again, it never was. You were always surrounded by screaming parents, right on the brink of a divorce while you’d stay tucked in your room with your hands covering your ears, praying for the noise to just stop. 

   But it stopped alright. It stopped the moment they crashed their car on top of a mountain and left you to fend for yourself at your uncle’s house. An uncle that never loved you. An uncle that abandoned Washington the moment you moved out at just eighteen-years-old. And then he did too…

   You keep moving, holding your composure and tears in. Even though you feel like collapsing right in this spot, right under Joel’s family picture. A family that was still together to this day while yours was nonexistent. 

   You wish you still had a family, but you never really did in the first place. Did you? No. Mom was always too busy with looking perfect, constantly obsessing with lessening her wrinkles and getting plastic surgery. And dad? Well, he was always too busy working at the law firm and hooking up with his assistant behind mom’s back. You were always left to fend for yourself, so now isn’t any different than it’s ever been. 

   You’re alone. You’ve always been alone, always just survived. Ever since you were little, that’s all you’ve known — how to be independent and just make it. So what’s different now? Now you just have to swim through the trauma and hope you don’t drown in the process. Because this right now is too much to handle, even for you. 

   It’s too fucking much.

   Choking down the held back tears, you make your way down the long hallway, your body moving on autopilot just to escape the visions that blur into muted noise. The pristine white walls clash against the polished floors, painting you a picture of hope. Something you’ve never really had before. 

   Keep fighting. Live. Make a change. Break the cycle. 

   Holding on to new hope, you keep going until you turn the corner and find a large, open room that makes you audibly gasp. All memories of broken families and internal fears are suddenly forgotten, pushed aside to take in this glorious sight. 

   Holy shit. 

   Towering mahogany bookshelves sit stacked against the white walls, the cascading windows letting in enough sunlight to reflect off the broken-in spines of each book. Two plush ivory oversized chairs sit in the corner of the room, one opposite the other. An electric fireplace sits idle against one of the bookshelves, draped in vines from the tropical plant that splays atop the bookshelf nearest the fireplace. 

   This room is… magical. Exactly what you needed. An escape from reality. An escape from your mind. 

   You trace lines against the smooth covers of the various books, feeling the cracked spines and intricate cursive letters on some of the older books. There’s genres of everything you could ever imagine. Starting from ancient history and going all the way to popular fictional books that you’d see on New York’s best seller’s lists. This room has everything. 

   You could get lost in here.

   Forgetting where you are, your hand snaps back when you hear a deep chuckle behind you. “Thought I heard you come down this mornin’. See you found one of my favorite rooms.”

   When you turn around, you see him smiling over at you, the glow of the sun making his brown eyes sparkle an almond brown honey color. If you’re being honest with yourself, it makes you feel a little lighter because his eyes are so warm. 

   He’s warm. 

   “These are all yours?” you ask with a gasp as your finger continues to trail against the golden spine of an old history book. 

   “All mine. Well, a lot of ‘em I got for Sarah. You see, she’s a bit of a bookworm, and she might’ve got me into the classics. So, now I’m jus’ as bad as her,” he laughs as he leans against the bright wall, his smile light and easy like the relaxed state he’s in now. 

   “This place, it’s incredible,” you breathe out, continuing to skim over the spotless shelves, your fingertips clashing with leather and the feel of worn pages. It smells like freedom and escape, someplace where you could stay buried for days. 

   He runs his fingers through his slicked back curls, bicep flexing against his dark blue flannel, an easy smile hanging on his lips. This might be the most relaxed you’ve seen him since you came here. He looks almost… happy the way he’s looking at you all light and carefree, like he’s enjoying the view. Like he’s happy that you’ve found something else you lost. 

   “You like it?” he asks, his eyes caramel pools that you could almost sink into. 

   “I love it,” you reply enthusiastically, your voice almost unrecognizable. 

   A warm smile spreads on his mouth, making his brown eyes sparkle that much more in the dewy sunlight. “Then it’s yours, sweetheart. Borrow anything you want, read what you want.”

   “Really?” you ask with a raised brow, sliding a book back into its place on the second shelf.

   “Really,” he nods with a smile.

   “Joel, thank you. This is… this is perfect.”

   “Jus’ glad I found someone I can share my books with again.” 

   You stay just like that for the next minute — Joel on the other end of the room, looking back at you with the warmest smile you’ve ever seen. It makes your heart flutter, makes you want to smile back, but you just give him a tight-lipped smile and look back at the cream rug covering the floor, suddenly too shaky to say anything else.

   Your eyes snap to something hidden in the corner of the room, a ray of sunlight hitting at just the right angle to make out something you missed entirely when you walked in. You guess you were too enamored by the books to notice the acoustic guitar sitting neatly on a stand right by the sheer curtain hanging over the window. 

   “Is this yours?” you ask, pointing to the acoustic guitar.

   “Oh. Yeah, s’mine.” His eyes fall to the dark wood, the body glossy and sleek as it shines against the draped curtain. A splash of sunlight makes it shimmer for just a moment, until rain clouds cover the sun and cast the guitar back in shadows.

   “You play guitar?” you question curiously as he takes a long, slow stride across the room. 

   “I used to. A long time ago.”

   You watch him make his way over to the guitar. It’s like he’s tiptoeing across glass, careful in his steps to not trip and cut his tanned skin up. That’s how it seems when he hesitantly reaches out to glide his fingertips down the tight strings, skimming his thumb meticulously against the smooth surface of the polished neck as if he’s memorizing every single particle of the instrument. Like he’s reliving something he keeps hidden away from the rest of the world to see.

   He’s quiet as he analyzes the guitar, almost like he’s reliving memories that only he can see. Were they good or bad ones? Judging by his wary stance and slow movements, you wonder if maybe they’re fragile memories.

   “Used to?” you ask quietly, careful not to disturb whatever storm’s blowing through his mind. 

   “‘S’right. Haven’t played in quite some time,” he answers defeatedly as his thumb tracks along the outline of a carved moth. He lingers there for a moment, pinching his eyebrows together as if he’s trying to fight off whatever images are haunting his mind. 

   He looks… sad. Looks as if that guitar holds years of painful memories. 

   “Why’d you stop?” you push, afraid you’ve just struck a nerve by the way his back muscles tense and his jaw clenches up. 

   His hand wraps around the neck of the guitar, veins bulging in his neck as his eyes grow a shade darker. In the flit of sunshine that creeps through the window, you see a glimmer that looks a lot like a held back tear in the center of his right eye. That in itself sends a shot of pain through your chest. 

   He clears his throat and takes a step back, just enough to where he can only graze the edge of the guitar. His dark brown eyes are in a faraway place when he replies hesitantly. “It jus’—it… I guess it’s got a few memories attached to it that makes it hard to play now.”

   When he drops his hand to his side and looks up at you, you see a man who’s hurting deep inside. You can see it in his weathered stare, in the dark circles beneath his sad brown eyes, in the way his bottom lip twitches each time his gaze falls on that acoustic guitar. 

   There’s something he lost, too. You just don’t know what. 

   Before the room gets too stifling and stuffy, he shakes off his frown and nods toward the hallway. “C’mon, I’ve got your coffee waitin’ on the counter for you. Don’t want it to get cold now.”

   “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

   He gives you a tight-lipped smile and exits the room, leaving you all alone once again. You find yourself looking back at the guitar, your eyes feeling heavy as you stare at the little moth ingrained into the smooth wood. There’s just something about it that makes your stomach drop. 

   This guitar was special to him, maybe it still is. You just wonder what can make a big, strong man like him crumble. You don’t want to see him turn to dust like you; you’ve got enough pain for the both of you. He doesn’t deserve pain. He’s too… good. And while he doesn’t technically wear his heart on his sleeve, you can see he keeps the pain hidden behind a mask. 

   Maybe one day he’ll show you his scars, too.

   When you make your way back to the kitchen, your warm cup of coffee is sitting right there on the quartz island, the steam billowing out as if he just poured it. As you slip into your chair, you notice his shoulders are more relaxed and the weathered stare he had back in that room is nearly gone. Whether he put on a mask or tucked his feelings deep inside his pockets to where you can’t see, you still notice the dark lines that edge beneath his brown eyes.

   Something hurt him, and it still haunts him to this day. 

   Slowly taking a sip of the sugary drink, your eyes snap up to him when you hear the deep timbre of his voice. “Used up the rest of the caramel this mornin’.” 

   You swallow the coffee down your throat and shift forward on the barstool. “Already?”

   He chuckles and nods his head your way. “Apparently someone who’s got a sweet tooth used it all. Can’t imagine who that was.” He winks at you, and you can feel the bright blush stain your cheeks the wider his smile gets. 

   Clearing your throat, you push a lock of hair behind your ear and try to stop the red tint from spreading any further. “Looks like you found the culprit.”

   “Looks like it,” he smiles, his lips tugging at his tanned skin, making a deep dimple press into the middle of his cheek. You can’t help yourself, so you give him a shy smile back in return. It seems to make his brown eyes sparkle that much brighter as he stares at you. 

   You take a few more sips of the caramel drink, enjoying every single drop like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. Joel sets down his glass cup and bites his bottom lip, chewing nervously as he glances over at you. “I need to go pick up some things at the grocery store today. Shouldn’t take long at all, but I was wonderin’ if you wanted to come along with me?”

   You choke on a sip of coffee and struggle to find your words. You haven’t been out in the real world in a very long time. You don’t even know how to even interact, nonetheless see strangers passing by you. 

   Tapping your nails nervously against the glass cup, you fight to get the words out. “Oh. You… want me to go to the store with you?”

   “Only if you want. Figured you’d wanna pick some things out.” 

   “Umm. Okay. Sure. I can go with you,” you breathe out nervously, pushing all your fears down as you swallow back the answer you really wanted to say.

   “Alright. Well, how’s ‘bout you finish up breakfast, and we can go after you get ready?” His thumb brushes over the curve of his coffee cup, and your eyes track his movements as he slowly brings the edge to his lips. 

   And then you’re swallowing back fears again and dropping your eyes to the floor, awaiting the panic that’ll surely flood your system when you get to the store. 

   You can do this. Fight the fear. 

   Biting the bullet, you look up and give him a slight nod. “Okay, after breakfast.”

   Joel grins and turns back to the refrigerator, away from your now wide eyes. You’re suddenly regretting your choice, but you have to go through with it. You have to be brave. For yourself. 

   You can do this. 

   Light rain patters on the passenger window, sending water droplets splashing along the side mirror. It’s only sprinkling, but the thunder in the near distance makes it seem like it might pour down at any second. 

   The engine hums as the wheels roll on the pavement, green trees blurring as Joel drives along the long, straight road. An old country song seeps through the speakers as Joel’s thumb taps along to the catchy tune. It’s oddly peaceful, driving with him in his truck. It almost makes you forget the nerves crawling up your spine. 

   “Does it always rain this much in Texas? I thought it was supposed to be like a desert here,” you ask, your eyes tracking the sea of trees outside your window.

   “Usually is. Hell, we’re usually in a drought. But for some reason, we’ve been gettin’ a record amount this year. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” he says as he continues driving through the mist.

   “That’s strange.” You trace the condensation on the window and draw little lines, hoping you’ll forget you’re about to go out in public. 

   “You must’ve brought some rain from Washington.” He smiles over at you and continues tapping his thumb along to the rhythm of the upbeat song. 

   “Guess I did,” you laugh under your breath as you finish off your window art of a blooming flower.

   The music goes silent as Joel turns down the radio with the pad of his index finger. When you turn to look at him with questions in your eyes, he clears his throat and looks warily over at you. “Do you… do you miss it?”

   “Miss what?” you whisper, letting your fingers pull against the edge of your warm sweater. 

   “Washington,” he responds back, eyes flicking between you and the road ahead.

   You take a moment to envision the forest green trees, the frigid air by the edge of the sea, the cliffsides you used to hang over to stare into the deep blue ocean. And that’s when you feel a sharp pain jab inside your chest. “Sometimes… I miss the waterfalls, the salty breeze of the ocean, the beautiful nature. I’ve never seen a state as gorgeous as Washington. And how green it is? Yeah, I guess I do miss it…”

   The front of the truck grows quiet as Joel takes in your answer. His palm rakes against his dark beard slowly, brushing across his mouth like he’s thinking really hard about your answer. And just when you think he’ll drop the conversation, he says something that leaves you speechless.

   “I’ll take you back.”

   Your eyes blow wide as you repeat the sentence in your head. I’ll take you back. Why would he do that…

   “What?” you ask, jaw dropped like you just got slapped in the face. 

   He gives you a small smile and looks over at you with the softest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. “When you’re ready, that is. And only if you want to go back. I could help you get your feet back on the ground, find you a nice place where you’ll be comfortable. If that’s what you want.”

   You stare at him dumbstruck, your words lodged deep in your throat with every second that ticks by. He’ll take you back. But why would he do that for you? Why would he do what no one else would? Why does he care what happens to you…

   “Joel, that’s—that’s too much. I can’t ask you to do that,” you protest, shaking your head like what he just said is impossible.

   He shakes his head, making a sandy lock of hair fall against the side of his forehead. “It’s not too much, and I’d do it in a heartbeat. S’no trouble,” he says adamantly, like he won’t hear anything else about it. It’s settled for him.

   “Thank you…” you whisper out, your voice barely audible above the hum of the engine. 

   He arches an eyebrow and looks over at you, tugging his lips into an easy smile. “Ya know, gonna have to get you your own car, too.”

   “Joel,” you warn through clenched teeth. He is not getting you a car. Absolutely no way.

   “What?” he shrugs. “You can’t get around without a car.”

   You shake your head unbelievably and open your mouth wide. “I can’t pay for a car.”

   “‘M not askin’ you to. I’ve got money.”

   And again, you can’t believe how insistent and easy-going he’s taking this. “Joel. I can’t ask you for a car. Absolutely not. And besides, I’m not ready to drive yet.”

   He flashes you a smile and gives you a nod of encouragement. “S’alright, sweetheart. You’ll get there in time. And when you do, you’ll have a car.”

   You lick your bottom lip, frustrated slightly that he’s being so kind to you. No one has ever been this nice in your entire life. Not even your parents… Why is he treating you like you’re important? You’ve never been important. So why does he act like you’re the only thing that currently matters? 

   “There’s no stopping you, is there?” you give up, your back flush to the warm seat as you stare into deep brown eyes that belong to the kindest man you’ve ever met. 

   He thinks you’re important. 

   “Not a chance,” he chuckles, his airy laugh floating through the cabin of the truck, striking another nerve in your heart. 

   He’s so kind, more than that. He genuinely wants you to thrive, to live. That takes a little weight off your heavy chest.

   It’s quiet for a moment, only the light wind and patter of raindrops taking up the space. But then he shifts uncomfortably and flicks his wandering eyes back over at you. There’s a deep crease between his thick eyebrows, and that look has you back on the edge of your seat. “Can I ask you somethin’?” he asks delicately.

   You swallow back nerves and nod your head in response. “Umm, okay. Sure.”

   “What, umm. What happened to your parents, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

   The question makes you tilt a little off your axis, throws you off just enough to where your right hand is discreetly clenched so tight around the side of the seat that you swear it turns pale white. You weren’t prepared for that question. You’re never prepared. But, you might as well just spill it. What else do you have to lose? 

   “They—they died when I was fifteen… Crashed their car on the side of a mountain, and they ended up rolling off the edge. On the very same day they were driving to get a divorce…”

   His eyes blow wide for a second and in the next he’s dragging a heavy hand over his mouth. “Oh, sweetheart. ‘M so sorry. That’s… traumatic.”

   You can’t help but to puff out a pathetic laugh from that. Your life has been nothing but traumatic; you just learn to live through it. 

   You silently nod and continue on. “After I found out, the judge decided I’d go live with my uncle. An uncle who barely talked to me. He didn’t even want me there, but I had no other options. So, I left as soon as I turned eighteen and moved into a dorm when I went to college.”

   “Is he still…”

   “He moved out of Washington as soon as I left. Last I heard, he died from a heart attack. So I’ve just kinda been on my own since I was eighteen. But really, I’ve been alone for much longer than that.”

   The inside of the truck goes completely silent, except the quiet hum of the purring engine. You don’t exactly like talking about your family drama and your awful past, but it’s easier when you already feel dead inside. Maybe if you talk enough Joel will decide to drop you off on the side of the street and leave you with a good luck wave. 

   He wouldn’t do that, though. That’s just your unhinged mind spiraling like your entire life is.  

   “That’s… fuck. No one should ever be put through that. What you did, what you had to do. M’so sorry.”

   You shrug it off and act like you’re just fine, but really you just don’t want to cry. You don’t want to show him how weak and pathetic you truly are. You used to be stronger than this… 

   Holding in a sob, you play it off like it’s nothing. “It’s alright. I mean, I’ve been through a lot worse since then. I guess I’m good at being alone…”

   It gets quiet again, only light breathing and shifting uncomfortably in your seat, trying to hide the pain that’s serenading through your body. Joel’s eyes keep flicking over to you, a pained expression masking his tanned face. He’s clenching his jaw, running his fingers through his dark locks, fisting the steering wheel until his knuckles are white. 

   His head turns to you when he’s stopped at a red light, and his eyes turn a lighter honey color, and those soft eyes nearly shatter you in your seat. “You don’t have to be. Alone. You don’t have to be alone anymore...”

   You swallow back the tears building in your eyes while your mouth drops open in awe. Before you even get the chance to say anything, he’s stepping on the gas and looking back into the fog of the rainy day. 

   You don’t have to be alone anymore. 

   The rest of the ride is silent as you contemplate his words and their meaning. You don’t have to be alone. He means you don’t have to be alone because he’s here now. He won’t let you be alone. Joel is the one person who isn't giving up on you. 

   He’s so patient, so generous, so good. He’s too good for you but here he is, wading through the rough waters to make sure your head’s above the waves. He won’t let you drown. Not today, maybe not ever…

   After a few more minutes, the truck is abruptly stopping, and Joel is cutting the engine. Your head lurches up, and you stare vacantly at the semi-busy parking lot. 

   The parking lot…

   It looks just like the one you got taken from… Rows of parked cars sit along the damp cement, empty carts are scattered ahead in the little blue cart holder, people rush to and from the store back to their cars. And then you see a man exit his white Sedan with a black baseball cap backwards on his head. The sight has you flinching, your nails digging into the leather of the seat when he turns his head and looks directly at you. It’s only for a second, but you feel those black pits searing into your skull just like that day they took you…

   “Well, here we are. A little more crowded than I thought it’d be for a Wednesday afternoon. We can jus’—.”Joel’s hand clasps the side of the driver’s door as he steps out, looking back at you with worried brown eyes. “Hey, you okay?”

   It’s like your voice is lurched deep in your throat as water consumes your entire vocal cords. You can’t swallow, can’t speak, can barely even blink as you watch the shady man cross the road, taking one look back at you until he disappears behind the clear sliding doors of the store. And it still feels like he’s watching you, planning his next move to where he can get you alone. 

   You remember that day all over again, just like it was yesterday. And now, all you can think of to do is panic.

   “N… no. I—.” You can’t even finish your sentence, only able to throw your seatbelt off and claw at the door handle, feeling like you’re suffocating on thick air that nearly strangles you to death. 

   You need to flee, run until your lungs collapse, but you have nowhere to go. 

   Tears well in your eyes as you fight to push out the images of the day you were taken, but they only push back harder, igniting your memories into fresh ones. You’re hyperventilating, holding your chest so tightly that you feel your heart skyrocket as you shake in your seat while your feet are planted on the wet cement of the parking lot. 

   Joel hurries around the side of the truck and throws your door open, trying his best to calm you down. “Hey, hey. It’s alright, sweetheart. You’re alright. Breathe for me.”

   “Joel… I…”

   “Breathe,” he coaxes in a soothing bravado voice. He kneels down in front of you to where he’s looking right up at you, and he’s got those soft brown eyes — the ones that always seem to calm you down. And when you have enough courage to lift your eyes, there they are. Warm, brown, soft, soothing. He’s soothing. 

   “That’s it. Take a nice deep breath for me. Jus’ like that. Attagirl,” he praises, keeping his honey-colored eyes right on you. 

   “I—I was…” you start but like always, you can’t finish. 

   You’re pathetic.

   “S’alright, sweetheart. M’right here. Jus’ breathe for me. And when you’re ready, tell me what’s wrong.” His hand brushes past your feet, close enough to touch your exposed ankle, but he never does. Because he knows better. He knows it’ll just set off a string of catastrophic events that’ll only lead you into a deeper black hole than you already are. 

   But yet, you can’t help but want it. Because you feel how warm he is. Just like that night he carried you to the bathroom. You remember how warm and comforting you felt with your face nuzzled in the crook of his neck, remember his woodsy cologne drowning out your fight or flight panic, remember how gentle he was with you…

   You slowly lift your eyes up and push away the screaming voices in your mind. They seem to come to a jarring halt when you meet those soft brown eyes and a face you swear has an angelic glow about it. His fingers flex against the floorboard, just enough to where you can feel the warmth from his tanned skin, and just that motion causes your heart to still for just a beat. 

   Warm. He’s so warm. 

   After a few more seconds of steady breaths and his heavy gaze honing in on you, you get enough courage to shakily let your words out. “I was—I was taken in a parking lot just like this. In the middle of the day. And I—I guess I wasn’t quite ready to see another one.”

   He falls silent, and his face drops like he’s just seen a ghost. His eyes glaze over as a heavy hand rakes down his clipped beard, slowly dragging it over his lips as he takes in your words. “Oh. Christ, m’so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t even think ‘bout that before I brought you here. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

   Shaking your head back and forth, you swallow and grimace. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t—I didn’t think I’d freak out. But then the memories hit me and I—I… it’s my fault. It’s all my—.”

   He leans into the side of the truck, careful not to touch you, but still close enough to where you can almost taste his woodsy breath. “Shh. Don’t for a second think of apologizin’, sweetheart. None of this is your fault. Not one fuckin’ bit of it.”

   He looks at you so intensely, so cautiously that you can clearly see the amber flecks that swirl under the cloudy skies, his jaw flexing back and forth as he searches for more to say, but he doesn’t have to say anything. You feel what he’s feeling. Regret, rage, sorrow. He wishes it never happened to you.

   You take a shaky breath and glance up behind him, right as an older couple with two kids clinging to their arms passes peacefully by. A car door slams shut across the way, and it makes you jump in place, remembering that very moment you were corralled into a black van as the door slammed shut behind you, warning you that you were trapped.

   As you cringe in your seat and feel your knuckles go white, you whisper, “I’m scared, Joel. I can’t—I can’t...”

   “Hey. Can you look up at me?” he asks gently, slightly brushing the pad of his thumb against the side of your shoe. When you look up with watery eyes, he gives you an encouraging nod. “There ya go.”

   Your body is trembling with every swift movement and every screeching halt of tires in the parking lot. You start to drift back into a panic, but Joel sees right through you and pulls you right back out with his chocolate brown eyes.

   “Keep your eyes on me. Right on me. That’s it. Such a brave girl,” he coos; his voice sounding like a melodic tune that vanishes all your dark thoughts from wrapping their tangled vines completely around your stirred mind. 

   As you continue to stare at those beautiful caramel eyes, you get lost in the sound of his Southern drawl. “I want you to focus on one thing. It can be anything. A scent, a color, whatever brings you comfort. And I want you to focus on that one thing until your mind starts to quiet down.”

   You look around the truck, searching the fresh leather, letting your eyes wander to a nearby green tree, focusing on some drifting stormy clouds that cover the sun. But none of that makes you feel good or even remotely calm, so you let your eyes wander to the rugged, Southern gentleman who’s kneeling right in front of you, begging with those soft brown eyes for you to get even just a semblance of a second of peace. 

   Warm. He’s so warm.

   You get lost in his cinnamon, woodsy scent, fade into his coffee-colored eyes and feel like you’re crashing right into him. You can’t seem to stop staring, almost like you’re under a lovesick spell, but really it’s just your body telling you he is what brings you comfort. Joel Miller, the man who saved you from your impending doom. 

   So, that’s what you focus on. Him and his warm brown eyes.

   “Okay,” you finally whisper out, never dropping your eyes from his.

   He looks at you a second and tilts his head, making sure he heard you right. “You got it?”

   “Mhm,” you hum back.

   A faint smile appears on his mouth and then his hand is skimming the brim of the floor, close enough for you to feel the electricity from his touch zapping your leggings. But still, he doesn’t dare touch you. He’d never do it without your permission. You know this now. 

   “Now, close your eyes and picture that one thing that’s gonna drown out everything else,” he says through the light rain pattering on the tips of his broad shoulders, right onto his soft blue flannel. 

   “Joel…” you reply back leery. 

   “You trust me?” he asks with knit together eyebrows.

   You chew your bottom lip for a second before you answer, throwing the question back and forth between your brain. “I—yes.”

   He gives you a smile and nods. “Close ‘em for me then. Jus’ for a second.” You do exactly as he says.

   When your eyes are fully shut, his Southern drawl floats through your ears. “Focus on my voice, sweetheart. Focus on how still it is; make your heart that same rhythm. Slow it down, jus’ like my words.”

   You focus on every breath he breathes, every sound of the shift of his shoulders, every whisk of the wind sweeping through his tousled curls. For this moment, every single other restless sound outside the truck is silent. For the first time, all you hear is him.

   You center your mind on him and him alone. And when that whiff of cedar trees and mahogany swirl all around you, you relax and breathe him in like he’s the last thing you’ll ever smell.

   “Now, open your eyes,” he says after you lose track of time. 

   You slowly lift your eyelids and look out beneath your lashes as those bright brown eyes send you into a cloud of serenity. And in that moment, you really do feel like you’re home. 

   “There ya go, nice and slow. Feel that? Things are a bit quieter now,” he says gently, giving you a soft smile that makes you choke back tears. 

   Nodding, you reply, “Yeah, it actually is quieter.”

   It’s quiet for a beat as you sit there, your palms on your thighs, fingers digging into your leggings, but his presence right in front of you is oddly calming. Just like taking a deep breath of Washington air in the mountains. You swear you almost smell those pine trees like you’re there, but it’s Joel you smell.

   “You feel a little better?” he asks, scratching his fingers down his greying scruff, brown eyes flicking up at you like you’re the most important thing in the room.

   “Yes,” you nod, still trying to wrap your mind around how quickly Joel was able to calm you down. 

   “See? Knew you could do it.” His smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and it makes you give him a shy smile in return. 

   When’s the last time someone was able to get you to smile? You can’t even remember. 

   “I did it because you helped me,” you confirm, wanting to make sure he knows he was the reason you had the courage to break through your panic attack.

   “That’s right, sweetheart. I helped you, but you were the one that broke the panic attack. You’re so very brave, and I hope you know that.”

   You’re so brave. He called you brave.

   The way he’s looking at you makes your heart skip a beat. All soft and gentle and warm. You’ve never been around a man like Joel. Never once knew how good a man could be. But Joel, he’s like an angel sent from Heaven’s gates just for you. Or so it seems. 

   You swore to never trust a man again, but you can trust him. 

   “Now, you think you can make it in the store?” He tilts his head in the direction of the sliding doors, just as a young couple walks in with an empty grocery basket.

   Gulping some courage down, you nod. “I—I think so.”

   “Attagirl. Now, c’mon.” He holds the door open for you and calls your name softly, giving you that jolt you need to exit the truck. “It’s alright. Nobody’s gonna hurt ya. Not while I’m here.”

   “You promise?” you ask when your feet hit the concrete, your voice shaky like you don’t quite believe him, but you do.

   “Promise,” he nods, his crow’s feet pulling at the corners of his bright eyes. It’s enough to get your legs moving.

   “Okay,” you whisper.

   You follow closely on his heels, your fingertips grazing the bottom of his flannel, close enough to grab on if you need to. Your heart is galloping a thousand miles an hour with every step you take, but his woodsy scent is just enough to quiet down the yelling in your head.

   When you get to the edge of the sliding doors, you freeze when they open to a busy grocery store. The loud noises of rustling bags and screeching wheels of carts is enough to make you want to run the opposite way.

   Joel must sense your worry because he brushes his arm next to yours and looks down at you with knitted eyebrows. “S’alright. I’m gonna be right by your side every step of the way. You can do this.”

   You can do this. 

   Looking up into his syrupy brown eyes gives you that little bit of strength to get you moving again. And when he grabs a shopping cart and beckons you to follow him, you do.

   “Thanks for believing in me, Joel,” you say graciously.

   “Always.”

   You keep right by his side, the fluorescent lights feeling like spotlights shining down on you. It’s like every single person shifts their eyes toward you, faces distorted and smiling like they’re laughing at your fear. The music that filters out of the speakers makes your ears ring. Children run rampant around a restless mother, a tall man with a backwards baseball cap reaches across a barrel full of pineapples, and it’s as if he’s reaching for your wrist. 

   Without thinking, you grab on to the end of Joel’s flannel and tug it toward you, digging your fingers into the soft cotton as if it’s a safety blanket. The smell of fresh firewood and green grass envelops your senses and for the moment, everything becomes a little more still. 

   “You keep tuggin’ on my flannel and you’re gonna pull it right off,” Joel chuckles, giving you a small smile as he looks back at you. 

   “Oh, sorry,” you apologize, dropping your fingers as if you just upset him. 

   “Don’t gotta apologize. You jus’ hang on if that’s what you need right now.”

   You slowly reach back up and flex your fingers around the blue material, peeking up hesitantly beneath your lashes. 

   “Your flannel, it smells like the forest. Reminds me of the mountains in Washington. It umm… it calms me down.”

   “Well then, it’s yours, sweetheart.” Those pools of honey liquid melt you on the spot; his warm smile takes the edge of fear off your chest for just that moment. And when that whiff of autumn from his white t-shirt floats through the air, it’s like he saved you all over again. 

   He drops his hands from the shopping cart and starts unbuttoning his flannel, carefully shrugging it off his broad shoulders as you stare blankly up at him. And then, he’s holding out the faded blue material to you.

   “No, I can’t. I’m fine. I—.” You take a step back and press a palm his way.

   “Here, put it on,” he insists, stretching his arm until you have no option but to take it.

   “Are you sure?” you squeak out, unsure of yourself.

   “Mhm. Want you to feel safe. And if this makes you feel a little calmer, want you to wear it.”

   Hesitating, you carefully pluck it from his reach and end up sliding your hand against the back of his, feeling a tingle of a spark from his worn, calloused skin.

   “Thanks, Joel,” you whisper above the monotone music playing over the store speakers.

   “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.” He nods his head toward the produce section and smiles. “C’mon.”

   You stay right beside him, almost flush to his hip with every wavering stride you take, but Joel doesn’t seem to mind. No, he just keeps his brown eyes flickering over to you every minute that ticks by, encouraging you with that kind smile of his, telling you with the curve of his lips that you’re doing so well. You can almost hear that Southern drawl sliding off his tongue. 

   I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. Doin’ so good. Look at you, bein’ the bravest girl I know. 

   Even though he’s not verbally saying those things at this second, you can tell he’s thinking it with the way his doe eyes soften every time they look your way. You can tell by how warm and kind his essence is, how his smile seems to send a flicker of sunshine your way even behind a thick wall of grey clouds. 

   He’s just… safe. You feel so safe around him, and that’s something you’ve never felt in your entire life. You’ve never been safe. But with him, you just might be.

   The clicking of heels and the stare of curious eyes makes you physically cringe and tense your shoulders, thinking one of them will snatch you away yet again. You keep your mind busy by counting the threads of Joel’s blue flannel, training your eyes on his slicked back tan curls, meticulously staring at every single strand that’s wrapped in a silver glow. It seems to help, gives the impression that maybe you can do this. And you are. 

   At times when he strays too far, you reach for him unintentionally. It’s like your hand is magnetized to the feel of his cotton shirt, your fingers curling into the thick material. And again, he doesn’t seem to mind, only smiles and goes on with gathering groceries. 

   He doesn’t forget the caramel, doesn’t forget to grab a few bottles of vanilla creamer and extra sugar. In fact, those were the things he went for first. 

   He doesn’t forget things. Doesn’t forget what you wanted. And that in itself proves something. What, you’re not sure. But it proves he cares, that you do know.

   You follow him to the produce section and watch him shift his focus on picking the best meat, promising to get the best steak for dinner. You haven’t had steak in years, and you don’t doubt for one second that Joel can cook a mean one. 

   Averting your eyes from his pensive stare and flexed jaw, your gaze wanders over to the cereal aisle, and you suddenly have the biggest craving for a box of Cocoa Pebbles.  

   Saliva gathers in your mouth as you think of how sugary and good and delightful a mouthful of chocolatey goodness would taste right now. Without thinking, you pull on the end of his shirt, stretching the material mindlessly as your brain transfixes on the mountain of sugar just a few feet away. It’d be so easy to go grab a box, but your feet won’t move, your words won’t form because you’re terrified to be alone for even a second in a grocery store of all places.

   With one more slight tug on the edge of his t-shirt, he turns with a soft expression and questions, “What is it, sweetheart?” No anger or hint of annoyance in his Southern drawl, just pure warmth. 

   Your voice stays silent, your immense stare fixed on that aisle of sugar and thousands of calories you’d happily inhale. You’re sure your frail body would thank you, even if it was just junk. Joel’s eyes trace over yours, following to where yours end, and then a small chuckle leaves his lips. “You wanna go grab some?”

   “Yeah.”

   “Go on then. Why don’t you go pick some out?” He nods to the empty aisle, encouraging you on. But you stand there like your feet are cemented to the shiny floor, and you have no intention of moving. 

   Fear pulses through your blood, and anxiety is trickling down your spine. Joel takes a step forward and drawls in a low but soothing voice, “S’okay. I’ll be right here watchin’. You can do it, sweetheart.”

   You look up and see warm pools of honey staring down at you and a smile that makes your knees feel weak. He’s so fucking soft with you. 

   Nodding, you take a step forward and then another, dragging your feet toward the aisle of boxes of sugary goodness. The further you get away from him, the more anxious you get. 

   What if someone takes you, gets too close to your liking, grabs your arm and drags you away? Looking back toward Joel, he gives you a small nod, telling you it’s okay. You’re okay. 

   Turning back to your task at hand, you start scanning the shelves, your appetite suddenly stimulated as you scavenge for what you’re looking for. Saliva is coating the back of your tongue, your stomach rumbling. There’s too many choices, too many kinds you want. 

   When you finally spot a box of Cocoa Pebbles, you see two more kinds you want. Lucky Charms and Cinnamon Toast Crunch sit right next to each other, calling your name for you to take them. Gritting your teeth together, you make a choice. You want all three, so you dip into your impulses and grab them all up. Hopefully Joel doesn’t mind. 

   A middle-aged man passes you in the row, and your muscles tighten around you, making you squish the boxes together in your arms. You focus on deep breaths, telling yourself he’s not going to hurt you. Not every man is out to get you, but it certainly feels like that now. Maybe one day you’ll be able to break the cycle of thinking that. 

   Quickly passing the stranger, you prance up to Joel, all three cereal boxes shoved together in your arms, just like you’re a kid in a candy store. You hear him chuckling before you lift your eyes up to him, and then he lets out a belly-aching laugh. 

   “Look at you with three boxes. You really do have a sweet tooth, don’t ya?”

   You feel your cheeks grow warm as you set the boxes down in the cart. Nervous laughter filters out of your mouth. “I couldn’t quite decide what I wanted. I can put some back if…”

   “No. I’m jus’ teasin’, sweetheart. You get as many kinds as you want. Ain’t got a limit with me.” His wide grin and crow’s feet makes a small smile tug at the corner of your lips. 

   “Thanks,” you say shyly. “I guess it’s been a while since I’ve had any cereal, or really any kind of sugar. So, this is different. I’m not used to any of this.”

   Understanding hits his brown eyes and his jaw clenches as something tosses through his mind. “Well, we’re jus’ gonna have to change that, ain’t we?” 

   Pursing your lips, you nod. “Call me a work in progress.”

   He gives you a soft smile and wraps a large hand around the cart. “You’re doin’ jus’ fine, sweetheart. Makin’ plenty of progress jus’ by steppin’ foot in this store today. Proud of you.”

   He’s proud of you.

   “I wouldn’t have even made it into the store if it wasn’t for you…”

   He takes a long look at you and just stands there for a few seconds, searching for the right words to say. “It was all you, sweetheart. You jus’ needed a little push in the right direction and someone to be there for you.”

   “Thank you for being there when I needed someone, Joel…” you whisper, your eyes a little misty with emotions running rampant through your body. 

   It looks like he wants to reach out, but he just grips the handle of the shopping cart tighter and tips his head. “‘Course, sweetheart. Whenever you need me.”

   Whenever you need me. The words get stuck on repeat in your brain as you follow him through the rest of the grocery store. You think you’d follow him anywhere.

   When you’re all checked out and the bagged groceries are sitting inside the cart, you realize Joel’s flannel is still wrapped around you. You don’t want to take it off necessarily. It smells like him, and it’s so warm and cozy and basically drenched in forest air. But, it’s not yours. You slowly start to shed the warm layer, but he stops you before you can get it past your elbows. 

   “Keep it, sweetheart.” He presses a palm out, pausing you in your tracks.

   “Don’t you want it back?” you ask with knitted brows.

   “Nah, you go ahead and keep it,” he answers. Before you can walk out the door, he turns and smiles warmly at you. “Besides, it looks better on you.” And then he continues on, like he didn’t just give you a compliment. 

   It looks better on you. 

   You hug the blue flannel back against your body, breathing in the very essence of him that seems to calm every single nerve in your body. 

   He gave you his flannel.

   Once the groceries are all packed away in the back of the truck and both you and Joel are buckled up, he turns to you before driving out of the parking lot. “So, you wanna go get ice cream?” 

   “Ice cream?”

   “Mhm. Ice cream,” he confirms.

   “Whatever for?” you giggle.

   “Don’t you like ice cream?” he inquires, flicking his brown eyes over your way.

   “Well, yes. But…”

   “I think brave girls deserve ice cream. Don’t you?”

   You study him, looking for any sign of lies in the crow’s feet that pull tightly around the edges of his chocolate brown eyes, but you find none. He isn’t messing with you or your mind; he’s being completely sincere when he uses the word brave. “You think I’m a brave girl?”

   “The bravest.” He smiles, his eyes twinkling like golden orbs under the grey skies, and it just confirms how warm he is. 

   You gawk at him, your lips parting as you just stare and stare at him. He thinks you’re brave, and he wants to take you for ice cream? Who even is this man? 

   “What?” He catches you staring and probably wonders why you’re just marveling over him. He must not realize you’re completely mesmerized by every single thing he does. 

   No one’s ever treated you so human. Like you’re important and matter. Joel sees you. He really sees you. Your layers and all. Just like transparent glass.

   “You just surprise me, that's all,” you answer hesitantly, eyes still focused on his tanned skin and wrinkles that line like maps across his face. Something you could trace easily. “You’re not exactly what I expected, I guess.”

   “And what’d you expect?” He quirks an eyebrow up as the engine hums under your seat, his eyes making their way back to your face.

   “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think you’d be so… kind.”

   He curls his lips into a sideways smile while he taps his thumb against the leather steering wheel, eyes still focused directly on you. “I try my best, sweetheart.”

   “You don’t even have to. You just are. Just like that first night I saw you sitting there across the room. Your eyes seemed so… kind.”

   Everything seems to quiet down for a moment, only the sound of your heart, the slow motion of the tires hitting the wet pavement, the thick tension coursing through the air, and Joel’s clear brown eyes that are smothering your insides. They speak louder than tidal waves, those deep brown irises. And right now, they’re making your heart clench in your chest.

   He clears his throat and then the tension dissipates. “So, how ‘bout that ice cream?” He wraps his large palm around the steering wheel and smiles over, making you mirror one right back to him.

   “I’d love some ice cream.”

   “Attagirl. Let’s go get you sugared up, then.” As he pulls out of the shopping center and drives down the smooth road, you giggle silently and watch the trickles of raindrops drip down the side of the passenger window. 

   “Have you ever tried espresso ice cream?” you ask, shifting your weight so you can see the question roll over his brown eyes.

   “As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

   “I think you’d like it,” you chirp.

   He turns his head and looks at you, pulling his lips into a smirk. “Reckon I would. That what you recommend?”

   “Mhm,” you hum. “Since you like coffee so much, might be your new favorite flavor.”

   He huffs out a laugh. “Well, looks like that’s what I’m gonna have to get. Let’s see what other recommendations you have for me.”

   As you lean against the window, you place the back of your hand over your mouth to cover the blush that's building in your cheeks. Who knew this is where you’d be in the middle of Wednesday afternoon this time of year? In a truck, wearing Joel’s flannel, getting ice cream, being free of your captors… And all you can smell is the fresh woodsy scent of him surrounding you.

Tag List: @clawdee @jellybeanxc @lotusbxtch @thebeldroramscal @laurrrra

@whxtedreams @sawymredfox @sanarsi @mountainsandmayhem @bitchytimetravelqueen

@southernbe @katinasweeney @pixelspunk @amyispxnk @mysterious-moonstruck-musings

@christinamadsen @aurorawritestoescape @evolnoomym @littlevenicebitch69 @alltheirdamn

@inept-the-magnificent @maried01 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @fandomdaydreamer @elliaze

@callmecath1 @kulekehe @yorkshirewench @untamedheart81

@tateypots @stylesispunk @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @mellymbee @pascalsbae

@locaparapedrito @ladyofmidlo72 @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @axshadows

@here-briefly @cozylittlepigeon @pastawench @keylimebeag @joelsoftie

@romanarose @captainredspade @megangovier @bishtrouille @almodovarispunk

@papipascaaaal @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler @bambisweethearts @puddles221b

@valkyreally @northennlights

[lay-z]

🎁 Day 1 ‒ All I want for Christmas (is you)

Synopsis: It’s been several long, dark months since John got shot by Makarov and dealing with the aftermath of that would have truly been nothing but gruesome if it wasn’t for the one constant ray of sunshine who refuses to be pushed or send away.

Pairing: John Soap MacTavish x fem!Reader Warnings/Info: NSFW, 18+ | John’s POV; military!Reader; friends to lovers, cussing; minor angst; tw:depression + suicidal thoughts; humour, medical inaccuracies; dirty talk; mild degradation; praise kink; hand job; fluff; happy end (literally)

Word count: 4.1k

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

John used to love Christmas season; back when he wasn’t stuck in a military hospital, alone and crippled. Back when he was still able to spend it at home with family or, hell, even in the field dodging bullets and grenades with his comrades.

This year, though, he can’t seem to be able to escape it, no matter what he does. The bloody Christmas spirit is being shoved down his throat and pushed into his grumpy mug wherever he looks, wherever he tries to hobble away on his crutches with his bad leg.

Every hallway, every door and every goddamn window is decorated excessively and there’s Christmas music playing everywhere, whether it’s the classics or some bullshit cover.

It’s almost cruel, John thinks, trying to sugar-coat a place like this while most of its clientele would probably rather die than continue to suffer through the misery they find themselves in.

John certainly finds himself wanting to simply end it all more often than usual nowadays.

No, he really doesn’t feel like celebrating.

His head aches terribly today, one of those post-traumatic headaches again, and he’s sure his skull will detonate the next time he’s forced to listen to Mariah Carey’s Christmas hymn from hell, so he keeps to his private hospital room and refuses to leave it tonight.

The chipper nurses on duty this evening, wearing their corny Christmas sweaters and silly little Santa hats, have already brought him his meds along with the poor excuse of a "Christmas feast dinner", though he can’t really complain about the latter; John has eaten much worse grub in his military days.

Now, he’s all by himself, staring at the ceiling and twiddling thumbs in his dimly lit room – too clinical and sterile to be considered homely, though he’s been moved from a normal hospital room to one in the rehabilitation ward for his permanent residency two months ago.

The silence is only broken by the muffled sounds of the nurse’s chatter and jolly cackles and soft Christmas music coming through his room door from the reception desk down the hallway.

And when that sudden familiar wave of loneliness and realization crashes over him, suffocating and gut-wrenching as usual though somehow worse than all the times before, there’s a small part of him that he couldn’t kill yet that yearns for your sheer presence in this moment.

Feisty, smartass, cheeky, terribly witty and beautiful you, who’s been refusing to stay away from him since he woke up from that bloody coma after he got shot by that prick; no matter how annoying and rude he is towards you. No matter how many time he has straight up told you to piss off, to move on, and to live your bloody life without him in it, even if it kills him inside every time.

Even if the sheer thought of you with another man or simply moving on from a miserable bastard like him can shatter his heart into a million tiny pieces.

Yes, deep down, John is selfish when it comes to you, and his heart clenches painfully as his dark thoughts begin to spiral again; he groans when his head throbs with more waves of dull pain, even though he already took his painkillers.

“Fuuuck me.” He cusses under his breath, his voice raspy and low from lack of usage today, as he reaches for his bed gallows with his right arm to help himself sit up in his hospital bed.

Glancing at the digital clock on his nightstand to his right, the time reads 20:33 p.m., which means visiting hours are long over anyway, so – stop getting your fucking hopes up, MacTavish!

You’re most likely deployed, because war and terrorism don’t take holidays off, or perhaps you’re stuck on base on standby, but God, he prays you’re just at home; safe and sound for his sake. After all, it’s been weeks since he’s last seen you, days since your last phone call.

A sudden timid knock against his room door makes him flinch first and then groan internally next.

John can only assume which of the nurses it will be. Probably the elderly one, Mrs. Bishop, who can’t stop fussing over him as if he’s some incontinent toddler asking him if he wants some eggnog or some crap like that. He secretly appreciates it, though, but no one could ever make him admit that.

“Johnny?”

However, it’s your voice, your beautiful voice, which calls out to him from the other side of the door, and for a moment John seizes up on his bed, wondering if he’s finally lost his mind, because it certainly can’t–

“Johnny, can I come in?”

Another few soft knocks follow and John’s throat feels like sandpaper when he swallows thickly before answering in a hurry as if you’d simply disappear within seconds if he doesn’t manage to open his stupid mouth immediately.

“Aye!” He calls out hoarsely, grunting softly as he tries to sit up a little straighter while he runs a nervous hand through his short cropped hair to make himself look more presentable, “Ah, yes, lass!”

When the door to the room finally opens and you’re revealed, standing in the doorway with that familiar, cheeky grin of yours while the bright hallway light illuminates you from behind, John’s heart stutters in his chest, because fuckin’ hell, – you look like an angel.

Shutting the door behind you with a soft click, your pretty eyes seem to twinkle in the dim light of his room.

“Hello there, Sergeant. Sorry, ’m late.”

His chest heaves slowly with shallow breaths and he feels like pinching or treating himself to a knuckle sandwich, because this can’t be real. You cannot truly be here right now, standing at the end of his bloody hospital bed. This must be some cruel hallucination, some proof that he has lost his mind at last.

“Cat got your tongue, hm? Heh.”

John can only watch, shocked and awed, as you saunter further into his room, taking a nonchalant glance around while kicking your boots off, shrugging your winter coat off and placing the bag you’re carrying on an empty chair nearby, like it’s no big deal at all – like you’re not just turning his shitty world upside down right now.

“What’re ye doing?” John eventually manages to ask, more harshly than intended, but you don’t care about his sharp tone anyway.

“Getting more comfortable,” you reply casually, rolling your eyes in mock exasperation as you approach his hospital bed, “Duh.”

And John inhales sharply, nearly flinching away like you just threatened to skin him with a dull combat knife, and blinks at you with wide eyes when you start climbing onto the mattress with him.

“Ach, n-no, lass–“ He hisses, brows furrowing in annoyance at your disarming nonchalance and familiar dry sarcasm of yours.

In the past, John would’ve laughed about your behaviour; he would’ve actively encouraged you to be a pain in the ass, actually, but now? Now that he’s simply not good enough for you anymore.

“Fuckin' hell, lassie,” he grunts as he sits up and makes space for you on the mattress, because he doesn’t trust himself to be that close to you now.

“I meant… What’re ye doing here… right now? Ye- Ye should be home with yer bloody family and friends and–“ His voice fizzles out in a low grumble while he’s unable to even speak aloud what is on his mind, what has been plaguing him for months now, and what makes his chest clench so hard, it always takes his breath away.

…You should be with another man.

However, you simply blink up at him with your fecking doe-eyes, looking way too innocent for all the war atrocities he knows you’ve committed in the past along with him, already snuggled up, hogging the blanket like the gremlin you are; cold tips of your fingers, chilled by the winter breeze outside, brushing against his exposed biceps tentatively, and making him crumble internally like a badly piled up house of cards.

“How did ye even get in here, huh?! Visiting hours are long over.”

You pull the blanket up to your chest before you grab the remote of the TV from his nightstand, pointing it at the flat screen, though John knows that the batteries are dead and needed to be changed like yesterday.

Your answer is way too casual for his liking again and it makes him bristle like a dog, “Your fan girls let me in. Waved me straight through to your room, Johnny-boy; said you could use some cheering up.”

There is a moment of silence where John simply looks at your side profile, admires it… hates it – hates this helplessness that comes with yearning for you so badly that it feels like he’s being ripped apart from the inside out. His 5 o’clock shadowed jaw clenches and unclenches with simmering anger and hurt and frustration, calloused hands fisting the blanket until his knuckles turn white while he tries to keep himself from snapping at you, from reaching out and shaking some sense into your thick skull, from reaching out and hugging you tightly to his chest and never letting go.

His thoughts start spiralling, then. Memories of the past, of you, of his time serving, being part of the 141, the last night he’d shared with you before he got shot, before his possible future got destroyed with one bloody bullet–

“Johnny – don’t.”

Your voice rips into his spiral like a cambrel, digging in and stopping his thoughts from spinning as his blurry eyes focus again when the sudden chill of your palm on his shoulder seeps through his shirt and into his flushed skin, making him shudder.

“Hey, breathe with me, yeah? You’re hyperventilating again,” you coo at him softly, giving his shoulder a few firm squeezes and only then, John realizes that his chest feels tight, that he’s breathing ragged while his heartbeat thuds in his ears.

He’s teetering at the edge of a panic attack, has been for the whole day, and now you’re holding onto the rope that has him hanging at the edge of that cliff, pulling him back with graceful ease like you always do for a reason he doesn’t understand – doesn’t want to understand–

He just cannot understand how you could possibly still want him.

However, John nods regardless, looking at you with wide blue eyes, “A-Aye, lass, ‘m tryin’ to.”

“Atta boy,” you praise and John doesn’t fight it when you pull him into your embrace while you lay down on your back, practically draping his thinner yet still bulky form over your body.

His heart flutters, more relaxed now, as he exhales a long and deep sigh once his face is buried in your soft hoodie, right between your chest. He inhales your scent greedily, can feel your arms snake around his broad shoulders, brushing over his back, one hand coming to gently grip the nape of his neck while the other roams along his spine, nails scratching over his shirt and making his skin pebble with goose flesh underneath the fabric.

And he lays with you like this until you speak up again,

“For a spec ops soldier, you’re pretty daft if you think you can get rid of me that easy, y’know?”

Your voice is husky as you murmur into his ear and to John’s own bewilderment, he lets out a deep groan against your chest, warm breath seeping through your hoodie and making your stomach flutter with the sudden sensation.

He’s so touch-starved, he feels like he’s drowning and getting drunk on you at the same time, wrapped up in your tight embrace for the first time in what feels like way too fucking long.

“Ye shouldn’t be here, lassie. Not tonight anyways.” John retorts petulantly yet rubs his face against your hoodie and resisting the urge to claw his way into your whole being, too stubborn to accept your affection and care just yet, because you can do and deserve so much better than him, but please, – don’t leave me.

“I’m right where I fucking belong, MacTavish. Now, stop being a fucking brat.”

John’s shoulders shake with a gruff chuckle at your playful reprimand, the sound muffled with his face still buried in your hoodie, enjoying the closeness and new source of warmth. Reluctantly, he lifts his head, peeking up at you with one eye, his thick eyebrow raised mischievously. It’s like the tables between you two have turned and it’s strangely exciting.

Almost forgotten are the times when John had you pinned against the wall in some godforsaken safe house in God knows which country or bend over the armrest of the couch in the rec room, making out sloppily and pounding away into your eager cunt.

And then, John dares to speak the words that have driven him half-mad whenever you’d uttered them to him in the past with your pretty pursed lips and a defiant glare to die for:

“… Make me.”

In his state and out of training, John has no time to react before you’ve already pinned him on his back while the hospital bed creaks under the sudden movement and added weight of you two. He huffs and grits his teeth when his head throbs dully, but the sight of you shifting and the feeling of you nudging his thighs apart is enough to distract him from the all too familiar pain.

John grunts when your palms rub over his upper thighs, “What the hell are ye doing now!?”

“Taming that bratty ass of yours, what the fuck does it look like?”

When he tries to sit up again, you push your flat cold palm against his sternum, pushing him back into the pillows with a sharp “Stay!” and to his own dismay, the obedient little soldier in him obliges while his stomach flutters all too happily.

“Stop that,” he bemoans, furrowing his brows at you in a weak glare, though his cobalt blue eyes sparkle with mischief.

And then, when you genuinely laugh in his face, John can feel his neck flush with embarrassment; warmth spreading through his chest and covering his stubbly cheeks while his eyes flicker over your face, memorizing the sight of your bonnie face lighting up with your taunting giggles for when he will be alone again.

“What? I’m not even doing anything yet,” you retort with mock innocence as you descent further down to kneel between his parted thighs more comfortably.

John lets out a breathy groan when you grope and massage his sore legs, his head slumping back against his pillow, “Ye’re doin’ too much already.”

Too much and not enough at the same bloody time.

“Relax, Johnny,” you coo at him sweetly, already tugging down his sweatpants along with his underwear to reveal his rapidly hardening dick, “How long has it been since someone played with your cock, hm? You look like you’re gonna cum when I so much as blow air on it, Sergeant.”

John clenches his jaw and huffs, nostrils flaring with annoyance and chagrin, when he lifts his head to glare down at you while you flutter your eyelashes tauntingly at him, and goddamn does his cock twitch joyfully in turn. You know exactly how long it’s been; you’re the only one, the last one who has touched him. The only one he accepts and wants.

His voice is strained, veins protruding in his neck when he replies, “Ye’re a right arsehole.”

“Shhh,” you shush him, smirking and enjoying the way his whole body jerks when his cock springs free eventually, it’s meaty weight slapping against his lower abdomen with a lewd smack where his shirt has ridden up, exposing his dark happy trail up to the coarse hair covering his chest.

“Still the prettiest cock I’ve ever seen, Sergeant. Fuck.”

Your praise and taunts, and the way you keep calling him by his former rank go straight to his head; warming his body down to his toes and making his balls ache with the pressure to release.

“Suck it if ye think it’s that bonnie.”

You snort, shooting him a playful glare as you poke your tongue into your cheek, and John knows that look, knows that you’re pondering the best way to punish him and it makes his heart race with excitement and anticipation. He knows he cannot possibly be making any demands right now; he’s already floating on cloud nine by your sheer presence alone.

And yet, he lifts an eyebrow challengingly, non-verbally asking you Well?, and in this moment, it almost feels like nothing has ever changed.

His breath stutters in his chest, eyes going comically wide, when you grasp his thick shaft suddenly and lean forward to let a generous glob of spit drop from your tongue right onto his flushed tip. It’s the hottest thing he’s seen since the last time he was able to take you reversed cowgirl to watch your ass cheeks bounce while his cock disappeared into your dripping cunt.

John’s head tilts back, body going taut as he props himself up on his elbows, “O-Oh Steamin’ Jesus – f-fuck!“

You chuckle lowly, licking your lips hungrily before you chide him, “Be quiet or the nurses might hear us. They told me to be nice to you and am I not being so nice to you right now, Johnny-boy?”

It only takes three, four slow and firm pumps of your fist from root to tip to have John leaking pre-cum like a faucet; his balls tightening at the stimulation as his cock is finally, finally touched by you after weeks of neglect. Leaving him no time to adjust, you start stroking him faster, twisting your wrist deliciously as you go up and down his cock; swiping your thumb over his sensitive tip teasingly until his legs are trembling and writhing on the mattress.

His hips buck into your hand around his length, his toes curling as the familiar heat starts blossoming at the base of his spine already, so he tries to focus on your other hand as it squeezes his upper thigh while your nails dig into his skin, leaving a sharp sting.

“Please, I’m… ‘m gonna – ah! – gonna cum, hen.”

You lean forward, eyes twinkling with affection and mischief as your free hand glides over his stomach, over the soft bit of pudge right below his naval that has been developing since he was forced to stop working out, though you don’t seem to mind as you caress him lovingly and continue to jerk him off skilfully, your voice but a gentle purr as you coax him on,

“Do it, baby. I’m right here to catch ya.”

John screws his eyes shut, his hands grabbing at the blanket and the hospital bed’s metal frame; knuckles whitening with the effort not to bust all over you like some inexperienced virgin, but oh god, he’s weak and sad and you’re being so so good to him, too good, in fact. He’s trying not to fall into a hole of self-loathing again, he knows he’d go limp in your hand if he’d let his mind wander now; teetering at the edge of coming too hard or not at all again.

“Hey, stop that,” you chastise him eventually, bringing him right back to reality when you pinch his belly and give his cockhead a squeeze that has him gasping, “Stop overthinking.”

How do you know? How can you still read him so effortlessly?

John whines and it’s a sound he’s most likely never made before. He can see your face light up with pure adoration, but he thinks himself utterly pathetic.

“Johnny… I love you. I got your six… always.”

Your soft-spoken, almost desperate declaration paired with the salacious, slick sounds of your soft hand pumping his throbbing cock faster, are his undoing at last, and his climax hits him like a sledgehammer to the chest, knocking the air right out his lungs while his spine arches and his eyes roll back so far that his vision goes black momentarily.

Forgotten are his headache and those dark thoughts plaguing him while John paints his stomach white, makes a mess on his rucked up shirt and spills over your knuckles with each tight throb of his thick cock. He’s left quaking and trembling, breathing raggedly while muttering Scottish curses under his breath, trying to gather his bearings.

“F-Fuck… fuck, fuck–“

His gaze flickers down, half-lidded and hazy blue eyes meeting yours, shining brightly with fluttering lashes while your hand keeps stroking and caressing his softening, twitching length adoringly.

“C’mere,” John beckons hoarsely, patting his chest invitingly, “Come up here. Right now.”

He reaches for your elbow as you sit up on your knees, looking for something to clean up with, but John is impatient and desperate, and he tugs on your arm with urgency, shaking his head.

“We’ve made worse messes before. Come. Here.” He repeats, more sternly, though he adds a soft “Please” for good measure.

Once his sated cock is tucked away into his briefs again and most of his cum is wiped away with some tissues, you crawl up his body, lying down next to him while John does his best to roll onto his side to face you.

His hand comes up to cup the side of your beautiful face and he allows himself to simply look at you for a moment before he feels his emotions taking over and his throat tightens painfully as he begins to choke up.

“I meant it,” you speak softly before he can get any words out, cupping your own hand over his still resting on your face, “I love you and I hate that you don’t believe me, that you think you don’t deserve it anymore, because of what happened to you.”

John swallows thickly as he processes your raw admission, eyes welling up with tears as the weight of his doubts and insecurities is slowly lifted off his shoulders.

“I need you.” He admits and his voice is cracking already, so he swallows hard again and takes a deep breath to gather the much needed courage to speak his next words,

“I can’t do this and I know – I know it’s fuckin’ selfish, but I can’t – I don’t want to live without ye, hen,” he rambles, shaky breaths catching and stuttering as he spills his heart out to you,

“I love ye, too. So fuckin’ much it hurts.“

And then, you lunge forward, closing the short distance between his face and yours to crash your lips together in a deep, meaningful kiss. John moans in relief, eyelids fluttering shut as he parts his lips all too willingly to welcome your warm tongue in.

It’s been way too long since he felt your lips on his, tasted your essence, and enjoyed your touch and company.

Now, John feels like he’s coming up for air after months of drowning in darkness, like he could take on the world and become his old self again as long as you’re with him on this journey.

His heart flutters violently when your fingers rake through his hair, not quite his signature Mohawk anymore but buzzed short, and his breath hitches when you’re extra mindful of the healing scar on his temple. Then, you grasp the nape of his neck to pull him closer, noses bumping together sweetly as you two try to coordinate and get back into the rhythm you two had perfected before everything really went to shit for the first time.

After a long, necessary moment, you and he pull back simultaneously, breathing heavy with raw kissed lips and his cock chuffing back to life inside his briefs.

“No matter what, we’ll get through this together.”

A moment of silence passes as he lies with you, facing each other in the dim light of his hospital room, and there is so much more John wants to say and promise, speak of plans of the future he hopes he will be sharing with you, but then, he simply nods obediently.

The genuine smile you flash him is breathtakingly beautiful and John’s arm curls even tighter around your waist, tucking you closer against his chest to make sure you’re real, that you won’t leave.

“Merry Christmas, Johnny.”

[merumis]

kuroo loves thunderstorms.

the first time he tells you this, he's standing just before the threshold of your balcony—the door cracked open but the screen still closed, feeling the wind curl its way around your building.

it's early november and he's wearing a sweater you gifted him last christmas. you bought it two sizes too big and he insisted on wearing it again the moment the weather started to get colder anyway. it's a rich blue and warm and soft enough that you constantly find yourself leaning into him—on the couch, in public, even before your balcony's screen door—sometimes you wonder if he wears it just for that.

between that and the way your cat swirls around his feet, his tail dragging along kuroo's calf, he seems to almost melt into your apartment. your first place post-grad, that weird mix of childhood, college, and new-adult decor muddling the whole of it: a couch that you got at a discount furniture store but fell in love with anyway; stuffed animals your friends send you every birthday; a childhood favorite of a book sitting on an old thrifted coffee table, a dark oak that you wouldn't be able to afford otherwise.

and kuroo. warm, thunderstorm-watching kuroo, whose mug of herbal tea has been long forgotten on one of your homemade coasters.

you're never quite sure what to call him. the man you sleep with some nights; the guy who will always match your halloween costume if you ask; your cat's favorite of your friends; the name your grandmother keeps asking you about every time you call. you know you told you him you loved him once—really loved him—in some drunken college stupor that feels more like watching a movie from across an open-concept's kitchen island than a memory now.

(that's a lie. you know every detail. the rum warm in your throat, being fresh off the high of his birthday. it was the first snow of the season but the rain the next day mingled with it and turned it to muck that ruined your favorite pair of boots. his breath was hot against your cheeks, the stoop of his apartment building a hollowly adored wind tunnel that decorated your instagram—stone chipped away at the corners, moss growing up the sides, a buzzer that only worked if you pressed the button three times. you kissed him like you always have and his nose was cold as it pressed into your cheek. you whispered it to him and he laughed. you didn't text him for three days.)

there's a familiar pull at your tongue now. a burst of lightning briefly illuminates your apartment and is then followed by the crack of thunder.

"you should probably close the door," you say—instead of i love you.

kuroo shrugs, turns back with a lazy smile on his face. "if you say so," he replies, like every word is a game that the two of you play. he swings the door closed and twists the lock shut. he moves in a way you want to describe as "moseying" tonight, like all of his limbs are relaxed four times more than they should be.

"you should stay here tonight," you tell him as he moves to your couch. your cat follows after him, pawing up his leg as he sits down. he jumps up and settles deep into his lap—there's a brief moment where you envy him. "rain and all."

"so you're telling me i brought my umbrella for nothing?" he teases.

you laugh. "you can use it on the balcony."

he has a pair of sweatpants in your top right drawer of your dresser. you reluctantly washed them last week after spilling apricot jam on the third wear. you never choose to dwell on how a pair of sweatpants gets left at your apartment—you can imagine what his answer would be.

kuroo hums, "it's almost like you want me here."

"i don't," you lie, "just figured my apartment had a better storm view with how much you've been lingering." his apartment is about four stories higher, a few blocks down—closer to his work. it has more windows, a larger living room, a leather couch that you can feel sticking to your bare back if you close your eyes.

it's the better view. it gets fog in the early mornings so you can only see the bounce of headlights from the street below. his bedsheets like to twist between your legs at night in a way that pulls them from the mattress, though—so you suppose you always win there.

"it's homey here," he replies, and you feel the smile tugging up at your lips, "smells like spruce." he eyes the candle he bought you on your kitchen counter, lit and melted to the edges. three wicks, because he knows it's your favorite.

the candle, your favorite expensive lamp your professor gifted you last summer, and the range hood are the only lights in your apartment at the moment. kuroo calls them homey, you call them headache-reducing.

he pulls a hand away from your cat to gesture towards you over the back of the couch now. a palm upwards towards the ceiling, fingers outstretched in a subtle beckoning of your own. your tongue curls with that sickly desire as you step towards him, slip your fingers into his as you round the couch, settling into the cushions as his arm slides across your shoulders.

you reach up to play with his fingers—absent-mindedly. you swore you would do better when you graduated, that maybe things would start to fall into place and, for once, you wouldn't find yourself chasing after a man you could have if you would just allow it to happen.

but you don't know how to say i love you on a thursday—because you swear friday will feel right. you don't say it friday because it's too young, a whole weekend ahead of you that you can't mess up. a movie on saturday, brunch on sunday. you don't say it sunday night because you won't see him until wednesday, but then you catch him for happy hour on tuesday. and you don't know how to to say it.

"you know my grandfather loved spruce," kuroo says, and you look over to catch his eye. he's staring out at your coffee table, looking at nothing in particular as he speaks. "he used to whittle—before arthritis and tremors and whatever—but his dad told him that spruce was the hardest to work with. something about how soft it is or the grain or whatever." he shifts with your cat, letting him crawl up his arm onto the back of the couch. his tail falls over kuroo's shoulder, and now you get the curl into him a little more.

he pulls you closer before you really get the chance to move.

"but he always loved spruce. the smell, the needles, the look, all of it, you know? it was just one of those things, so he learned to whittle with it.

"and when he met my grandmother, he started whittling her all these little things. a duck for their first date, a wooden box for her jewelry, eventually toy blocks, when she was pregnant with my dad." kuroo pauses, and for a while, you think you have something stuck in your chest. you thumb traces up his forefinger and he catches your hand, finally moving to look you in the eyes.

"it's nice to come here and remember him sometimes."

there's another burst of lightning and it crackles across the whole sky behind him, dodging in and out of buildings and making the texture of the clouds pop out against the whole open expanse of it all.

his breath is hot against your skin, his ears are tinged with a bit of red and for a moment you consider running to your thermostat to turn it down a few degrees, but then his lips find yours like they always do.

and in the muddle of lips, you don't even think before you whisper an i love you, murmured into his mouth as his nose traces frigid shapes against your own.

you don't have to listen to know he says it back—though you do, listening for the timbre of his voice and feeling the vibrato of it against your throat—but you can smell it, you can hear it, some days, you can taste it.

spruce-scented candles, thunderstorms that make the whole city colder, the burning of rum against the back of your throat.

you think you can feel it: leather that sticks to your skin, hands that only whittled while his grandfather was alive, but are calloused anyway, a sweater that you'd buy him in the right size if he asked.

you tell someone you love them without ever saying the words. you know he drinks three drinks at happy hour and you only have one—he insists on walking you home anyway and he always stays the night.

and you know he never brought an umbrella, that he works from home tomorrow and his laptop is sitting in his backpack next to your door.

you know that he's warm, that he's kissing you, and that he told you he loves you on the thursday evening as a thunderstorm turned into rain and fog.

[elflutter]

— holidays with the howletts

a fluffy logan x wife!reader christmas drabble

warnings: logan & reader are parents, gendered language for reader (calls self a woman, referred to as momma, wife)

based on this request | masterlist | requests open → 💌

follow @elflutter-fics for fic updates & notifs

Trodding downstairs from the attic, the last box of Christmas decorations weighs heavy in your arms. It is stuffed full of ornaments, ceramic Santa figurines, snowglobes, and a vast array of other miscellaneous Christmas decorations.

The holiday is your favorite– a warm balm against the seasonal blues that come with fewer daylight hours. The warm twinkle of lights that dot the eaves outside, the sharp scent of evergreen filling the house while you share the unique mix of traditions with your children.

You have always felt a certain magic about the season. Now, with children of your own, you cherish creating the same magic for the two of them.

While he lived with the X-men, Logan picked up a love of Christmas crackers– a tradition Charles brought from England, you assume. You have to admit, the kids look adorable in the paper crowns every year, with photographs hanging in picture frames to prove it.

Growing up, your family made sugar cookies with all kinds of seasonally shaped cookie cutters. Usually, the baking was a little uneven; and the icing job shoddy. But they tasted sweeter than anything store-bought, and the childhood memories you made with your family are ones you cherish passing down to your own children.

As you set the final box on the pile of others in the living room the front door creaks open, followed by the sound of little feet as you turn around to see your son and daughter bounding towards you. Their arms are wide as they run to you, and you squeeze them both in a tight hug. The two of them pull away, beaming.

Your daughter, nearly eight now, beams up at you as she pulls on the sleeve of your sweater.

"Momma, Momma! We found the best tree!"

You squat down to meet her at eye level, chest so warm with love for your little family that it nearly stings. Her enthusiasm for all the traditions you and Logan share reminds you of yourself as a child. As you reply, a wide smile breaks across your face, eyes sparkling with delight.

"Can't wait to see, kiddo."

You turn to see your son, two years younger and much quieter than your daughter. He sports his own soft smile, too.

Your daughter teems with exuberance, where your son is quieter by nature, even at five years old. You are endlessly grateful that he will always have his bold, brave big sister to look out for him.

With a gentle ruffle to his hair, a few snowflakes escape into the air. Your eyes find the front door, still ajar while Logan deals with the tree. It must have started snowing while your attention was focused on carrying all the boxes down from the attic. Gentle flurries dance across the air, dusting the welcome mat in a powdery layer of snow.

Logan drags the tree from the bed of his classic red pickup, throwing it over his shoulder. The tree's branches rustle at the movement, snowflakes falling from their evergreen perches to catch on your husband's broad frame. Catching your gaze, he shares a secret grin with you.

Your focus falls back to the kids. "Why don't you two sit here and help me organize the decorations while your dad hauls in the tree?"

They both nod emphatically, excited to help out like big kids. With a bittersweet pang, you realize just how fast the two of them are growing up.

The three of you sit in a little huddle on the ground, ensuring the garlands and wreaths and ornaments are properly sorted as Logan tugs the Christmas tree in over his shoulder. Although you have been together for years, your belly still flutters with its own little snow flurry. His cheeks are flushed red from the cold, green flannel flecked with white and stretching taut over his muscles. Carrying an entire damn tree by himself without breaking a sweat. You swear you are the luckiest woman on Earth.

Once Logan has the tree set up, he grabs the step stool and the four of you crowd around the tree. Logan helps your daughter stand on the stool, hands steadying her, ready to catch her if she stumbles. The two of them string the lights and garland around the tree, bumping shoulders and laughing at jokes you can't quite make out. You show your son how you fasten the tree-skirt; though it's mostly to keep him entertained.

Once it's time to hang the ornaments, you and Logan tell your kids the story of each and every one.

You hold up the engraved silver heart hung from a red ribbon—To my wife, on our first Christmas.

"Your dad gave this to me on the first Christmas after we got married." You sigh, leaning into your husband's shoulder. "Just a few months after the wedding."

You smile up at him as you continue, your hand gently cupping his stubble, savoring its roughness against your skin. "Lo, can you believe it's been ten years already?"

Logan presses a kiss to the top of your head as he wraps his arms tighter around you, enveloping you in his warmth. His breath ghosts across your scalp as he speaks into your hair.

"Best ten years of my life," Logan pulls the both of you lower to pull your children into the embrace. You can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks.

"And I've got a lot to choose from."

dividers by @saradika-graphics

comments & rbs are greatly appreciated!

[multidimensionimagines]

Alright, first part is officially finished! A request sent to me by a wonderful user that will be tagged. In the meantime, here is part 1 of

Sweater Weather (part 1)

part 2

Summary: you borrow Ford’s sweater when it gets cold

content warnings: fluff, smut, reader is fem/afab and uses she/her pronouns, minors do not interact!

Gravity Falls wasn’t a sunny paradise. Despite what the brochures and fake marketing wanted you to believe. Sure the summers there were nice. After all, living in Oregon meant getting a perfect balance of each of the seasons as they came. So, that meant hot, sunny summers and cold, bitter winters.

You did not take this into account when you first moved to Gravity Falls two years ago. Sure, you had some sweaters and pants good enough for the colder months, and you would think that living in the same place for two years would warrant you enough time to go shopping to acquire a proper wardrobe. But you, special as you were, had an extraordinary knack for forgetting things- giving your needs the old ‘eh, I’ll do it tomorrow’ and the next thing you know, winter had passed with you surviving on the tattered blankets and fireplace in your home.

Now was the end of fall, the day after Halloween- not to be confused with the iconic Gravity Falls tradition of Summerween- and while it had been chillier out it was now getting dangerously into nipping cold territory. And your boyfriend, as practical as he was, has not stopped having to remind you.

“Dear, don’t you think you’ll be cold going out in.. that?”

You paused, looking over your shoulder at him. He quickly stiffened.

“N-not that, I’m trying to tell you what to wear. I-I would never-! You’re free to dress how you wish I’m just..” he awkwardly cleared his throat. “worried.”

You chuckled, pulling on your lightweight cardigan over your top. “I know you wouldn’t. I’ll go shopping tomorrow, okay?”

You reassured him softly, walking up to give him a kiss on the cheek. He smiled shyly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’ve been saying that everyday since October 5th.”

You rolled your eyes and grinned, shoving your hands in your pockets. “Psh, oh come on, there’s no way I’ve been saying it every day-“

Ford reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little booklet, one of those pocket colanders and flipped to the page with the current month, or well, month that just passed yesterday on it.

“Actually you have, I’ve been keeping track to see when you would actually follow through on your word.”

He explained somewhat smugly before tucking it back into his pocket, revealing your annoyed but.. slightly impressed face. Of course, only the Stanford Pines would keep track of something like that.

You gave him a look but he wouldn’t put away that stupid (cute) grin on his face and brushed past him towards the front door of the Mystery Shack. You and Soos were all going out to get some food shopping done since the kitchen was ransacked by vengeful gnomes yesterday when Stan refused to give any of them candy.

“Bein’ freakishly short and wearing dumb hats all year round doesn’t make you eligible now scram!”

Soos came out from the staff room having finished putting away the rest of the cheap Halloween decorations that were more than halfway from falling apart, but of course, your boss refused to buy any new ones till they were ‘as old as he and his brother’ which you found humorous.

Dusting his hands off each other with a proud smile, Soos closed the door behind him and sighed. “Huh, there, that ought to do it! Oh hey other Mr Pines!” He beamed and waved at Ford, seeming surprised but pleased to see him out in the open. Ford awkwardly shuffled his feet and returned his wave with a small smile.

“Ah.. Greetings, Soos. And, please, you can call me Ford, it’s a lot less formal don’t you think?”

“Oh no way dude. I respect you and Mr Pines wayyyy too much to do that.” Soos stated in a somewhat more serious tone, crossing a hand in front of him.

Ford chuckled, both amused and flattered that he thought that highly of him and his brother. “Very well then.” He shrugged, watching as Soos joined you, who had their hand on the knob as you waited semi-paitently at the front door.

“You ready to rock and roll dude?” He asked, twirling his keys around his finger.

You nodded. “Uh huh!” You turned your head back to Ford “see ya in a bit, sweetie!”

Ford smiled and returned your wave as you closed the door behind you and Soos. Even though you and Ford had been together for a good few months now, he still got a bit giddy at the feeling of you calling him sweet pet names like that. He wasn’t all that used to having someone consistently dote on him in that way, plus, you just made him weak in the knees. No matter what you did. He found you absolutely irresistible. He sighed, shaking off his wandering thoughts and opened the vending machine door, as he had important business to attend to down in his lab today. And he didn’t want any distractions whatsoever.

A little while after, Ford was tinkering away in his lab, experimenting with a new device he had been drafting blueprints for, and keeping notes on what seemed to work.

“Hm… fascinating..” he hummed to himself, a pleased smirk spread across his face as he ran another successful test. He was pulled quickly from his thoughts when there was a knock at the door, but didn’t cease writing.

“Yes, come in!” He called, eyes not tearing away from the his journal pages.

From the other side of the door, you smiled of relief. Happy to hear your boyfriend’s voice after a long day, even though it was mostly shopping, it wasn’t like it was any fun shopping. You gently and carefully opened the door to his workshop, always making sure to be cautious in your step when doing so since you never could really predict what kind of strange anomaly or new device that would be coming your way. Thankfully today however, it was just a few pieces of forest crystals that sat at his desk beside his furiously writing hand. You cleared your throat and approached behind him, standing with your hands clasped in front of your lap.

Ford hummed curiously, looking back over his shoulder and instantly brightening when he saw it was you. “Ah! Greetings, my dear! How was your excursion with Jésus?”

You giggled. “It’s just Soos. And it was great! We got everything on our list and then some… I also got you something~” you rocked back on your heels as a playful tone rang in your voice to which he perked up. Ford turned his body now towards you, resting one hand on his knee and tilting his head to one side inquiringly.

“Really?”

You nodded, reaching into your pocket to reveal a small white cloth bag which had a label in black cursive on them that read ‘Old Timey Style Jelly Beans’.

Ford chuckled and took the bag from you, prying it open with his two index fingers and peering inside. “Thank you, my dear. Although, you really didn’t have to get me anything.” He said, glancing back up at you through his glasses.

You shook your head. “I always have to get you something! I like doing it, it’s nice to see your face when I come home with something for you! Besides, you hardly ever leave here as it is, I might as well do all your shopping at this point.” You insisted, resting a hand on Ford’s shoulder to steady yourself as you took a seat on his lap, taking advantage of the openness of his current leg position. He grew shy, smiling and looking away from you with a soft blush in his cheeks.

“Ah… yes, well.. um..” he cleared his throat “thank you.” He snuck a hand around your waist to keep you upright on him, bringing his head back up to face you so that you could properly see him. You peered over his shoulder to look at his desk, eyeing the new paragraphs of cursive that filled journal number four.

“What’cha working on?” You chirped. Ford beamed.

“Ah! I’m glad you asked!” He swiveled around in his chair, keeping hold of you in his lap and setting the jellybeans aside. “I’m testing a new invention of mine that I’ve had in the works for a while. I just didn’t have the pieces to do it until now…”

as he rambled on, explaining his newest discovery, you couldn’t help but accidentally tune out his words, sure you were listening, you could hear him talking, but your processing gears were occupied by the gleam in his eyes and the added crinkles that formed around them when he smiled in the excitement of explaining something to you. You let out an internal, dreamy sigh as you focused on the way his one hand was gesturing to all the different things on his desk and how the other gripped your waist so comfortingly. His rough, gorgeous hands…

“Dear, are you alright?”

Your breath hitched, you blinked and looked at him as a slow blush began to creep onto your face. “O-oh! Yeah um.. sorry you just… look really cute when you’re explaining your.. science-y.. stuff..” you admitted sheepishly, feeling kinda bad that you didn’t catch most of what he said.

Ford felt a little taken aback by the sudden onset of adoration, not that he minded it one bit. He just wasn’t used to it, a few months of being with someone so intimately wasn’t nearly enough time to get used to 60 ish years of barely experiencing it at all. He chuckled slightly, bringing his other hand to wrap in front of your torso, now encircling you in a cocoon of his arms.

“I-it’s quite alright, I wouldn’t have expected you to understand even if you were listening.”

He said with the utmost affection and sincerity. The words alone coming out of his mouth didn’t always sound too flattering, but they were hardly ever out of malice, especially not when it came to you. You had been learning to both deal with, and let him know when to not say anything. But right now you giggled and brushed it off, knowing exactly what he meant.

You two had a brief moment of looking into each others eyes, taking in each others soft gaze on the other. Ford had such deep, beautiful brown eyes that reminded you of the very forests that he explored so much. And you, oh, Ford could fill more than 10 journals dedicated to the sheer remarkable beauty of yours. He still couldn’t believe that in all the dimensions, all the universes, all the galaxies and all the stars in the sky that you chose to be his. And he was forever grateful for it. You both seemed to have the same idea as you leaned in closer, inching forward to gradually meet each others lips. Ford hummed and closed his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders he didn’t even know he was holding dropped. He gripped your waist tighter and subconsciously pulled you in closer to him and you brought your hands up to his face, cupping and caressing each cheek and running your fingers along his faint stubble. Ford was still a bit of an awkward and clumsy kisser, but you were more than happy to give him as many practice opportunities as he needed. You felt a shiver run up your spine as his thumbs began to rub into the divets of your flesh, as well as the cool air of the lab hitting your skin through your thin cardigan.

“Mmm… dear..?” Ford mumbled against your lips, gently pulling you away. Your face was revealed to him in a slight pout, which he thought was adorable. But this was no time for him to swoon, he had a pressing question he almost forgot to ask you. “Did you remember to pick up something suitable for the cold?”

Your eyes widened. Oh, shoot. That’s what you forgot.

“Uhhhh…” you squinted, looking to the side to avoid his now disappointed stare. Ford grumbled. “Okay, I forgot! Ugh..” you groaned, throwing your head back.

Ford sighed and pulled your sweater sleeve up, revealing the goosebumps that littered your arm. “Darling, look at you, you’re freezing. You should get into something warmer.” He pressed, now sounding more like a worried mother than anything. You got up off his lap. “Yeah, I didn’t wanna say anything because I was hoping you wouldn’t notice but, your lab is fucking freezing.” You shivered, bringing your hands up to your forearms in a pathetic attempt to shield them. Ford chuckled and shook his head, waving you off.

“Go on, take your time, I’ll be here all evening.”