#i feel like i should add a text bubble coming from the radio in a stylised typography vibe ifk

[abroscoe]

"Where to now?

You don’t know, but you go there anyway.

A pair of headlights, a pair of eyes, and two shaky hands, speeding through the silent town."

______

Welcome to Night Vale, Ep 13- A Story About You

I absolutely love this episode and I had to draw something while listening to it.

[floralcyanide]

The Extra || Austin Butler x OC

Chapter Three

Pairing: Austin Butler x OC

Warnings: language, Richard plays Vernon, Helen plays Gladys, and Kodi plays Jimmie.

Word Count: 2396

>> chapter three is finally here! thanks for all the support for this series <3 I appreciate it. keep letting me know if you're enjoying it, it helps me with inspiration (:

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Add yourself to the taglist HERE

February 2020

Everyone is buzzing about the Lousiana Hayride scene. It was far more intimate than the Trouble scene since significantly fewer extras are crowded together. Instead of hundreds of extras, there's way less for this scene specifically. It's not as overwhelming and loud, much to my relief. The only downside is I have to wear a wig from now on as an extra just so it isn't apparent that I'm the same person in different scenes. I'm sitting in the stylist's chair, waiting for the wig glue to dry. I'm on my phone texting Tyler when a notification pops up. My eyes widen in horror at the old contact name.

Austin &lt;3

I immediately lock my phone and ignore the message. A few moments later, another message appears on the screen. I reluctantly check what they say because the notification will bother me if I don't.

Hey, is this still Roman's number? 

If not, I apologize for bothering you.

I sigh, deciding to respond because it'll say I read the messages anyway.

Who is this?

Immediately, I see the typing bubble. I start chewing my lip nervously. 

Is this Roman?

As much as I don't want to respond, I do reluctantly. I should really turn read receipts off.

Yes. Again, who is this?

It's Austin. I wanted to make sure I still had your number, just in case.

I scan the room to see if I can spot him anywhere, but no luck. I don't respond to his message and continue scrolling through Instagram. Not long after I begin reading a lengthy caption from someone's spam account, another message pops up.

That's okay, right?

Yes, but I don't recall giving you my number.

Are you still acting like you don't remember me? We literally spent five years together.

"Wig feeling tight yet?" my stylist asks from behind me, and I hurry to put my phone away.

"Yeah, it is," I say, even though I'm not entirely sure if it is. I just didn't want my stylist to possibly see my phone screen.

"You should be all set, then."

I get up from the chair and smooth out my skirt and blouse, looking in the mirror to ensure everything is neat. I look like a different person almost entirely. The wig is a different color from my natural one and is lightly curled. A few ringlets fall along my face and I look like I walked straight out of the 50s.

I leave my phone with my things at the vanity, heading over to the set in the next building where the stage is. On some of the chairs, there are markers where the girls who will be screaming are to sit. One of them is for me about halfway into the crowd, where I have a fantastic view of the stage. I take a seat as other extras begin to pour into the room. The stage is set up, so now all we have to do is wait for Kodi to appear with other extras to begin filming. 

Baz comes onto the set and settles into his chair, "Places, everyone!"

All the extras settle into their respective places along with Richard and Helen, who aren't far behind you in the crowd. The set falls silent, awaiting Baz's call.

"Action!"

Kodi comes barreling on stage with the other extras, playing their instruments as everyone claps along to his song. He sings and plays briefly before Baz calls, "Cut!"

"I need everyone's claps to be more enthusiastic and on time with each other. Act like you're at a real hayride!" Baz says, "And, action!"

Kodi returns to the stage from his place behind the curtain as animated as ever, waving before strumming his guitar as everyone claps along better this time. His performance comes to a close and everyone ceases clapping to await Austin to take his place on the stage next. The radio host announces him, and he walks onto the stage nervously. Austin stands close to the microphone, mumbling his lines into it as the crowd remains dead silent. He begins to sing, and the microphone echoes feedback as hair falls into his face.

"Get a haircut, buttercup!" one extra yells from his spot up front, and everyone laughs on cue.

Austin takes a moment to gather his character before starting to sing, "Well, you may go to college, you may go to school," he strums his guitar, beginning to wiggle his hips, "You may have a pink Cadillac but don't you be nobody's fool."

As he wiggles more, an extra from the front stands up and squeals. Apparently, it wasn't real sounding enough because Baz makes us start the performance scene again. Thankfully, not from the beginning but after the buttercup comment is made. So Austin begins to sing again, wiggling his hips as he plays the guitar. The extras squeal again, this time doing better as Baz makes no comment. Austin continues with the scene, being almost comical with moving his hips for the crowd to become antsy. It's my turn to let out a noise now. I stand up and shriek, grabbing at my face dramatically as my eyes grow large at the movements Austin is portraying. He makes eye contact with me, a smirk that was already on his face growing at the sound of my shriek. Continuing with the scene, Austin does a spectacular job of riling everyone to believable energy in the crowd. Girls gather at the stage and rip his blazer off. I stifle a laugh, still ogling at him for the camera. Helen hurries to the stage, citing her line. Baz doesn't think she does it justice and makes us retake a few times until she gets it dramatic enough. Finally, her cry about the girls trying to kill her son goes perfectly. Austin disappears behind the curtain, readjusting his guitar across his chest.

"Cut! That was fantastic," Baz applauds after watching the final shot, "That's good for that scene for now."

I can’t deny that Austin is talented and has become even more so since we broke up. When we were together, he hadn’t played any significant roles except The Shannara Chronicles. After we split, Austin played in Once Upon A Time In Hollywood, which I thought was impressive. But playing Elvis is far more impressive in my book, especially since he can channel his character and personality very well. His performances in the Trouble and the Louisiana Hayride scenes were impeccable. I’m proud of him, even though I still feel an odd emotion towards him that I can’t quite put my finger on.

After today's filming, I don't need to come back for a week or so while other scenes without extras are being filmed. There's no use for me there other than to watch the filming. I stop by every few days and hang out with Dacre, Luke, and Olivia in Luke's trailer when they aren't filming or are practicing their lines. Sometimes Tom will even come in and say hi when he isn’t filming. Tyler has also hung out with us a few times, like today. Tyler has only been an extra for a few years, so he's sometimes still a little starstruck by Tom. However, Tyler already knows Dacre because he was an extra on Stranger Things. So both will talk about how fun the show was to film and the details of behind-the-scenes. I'm nearing the end of my week and a half long break, much to my relief. As much as I love hearing the story about how Tyler "accidentally" tripped and fell into Joe Keery's arms, I'm excited to go back to work. Hopefully, I'll be back to being an extra next week. I haven't had much to do except hang out on set or clean my apartment out of sheer boredom.

I'm lounging on the couch in Luke's trailer while reading the script. I'll read some of Austin's lines while Olivia replies with her lines. Here and there, I'll suggest a change of tone, among other things.

"Have you ever played a role before?" Olivia questions, an eyebrow raised.

"I have been in several musicals as a teenager and young adult, but nothing too serious," I shrug, "Why?"

"You have really good suggestions, almost like you've done this before," she says.

"Well, I-" I begin to say that I have practiced with someone before, many times. But I stop myself because no one is supposed to know that I know them.

Olivia looks at me expectantly, so I come up with something quickly.

"I've just helped a lot of co-stars practice, is all. I've been in a lot of productions, so…" I trail off.

Olivia nods, taking the bait, "Good point. But you're good at it. Since you write, you can possibly try to write scripts maybe?" 

I make a face in agreement, "I never thought of that."

There's a knock on the door before one of us can say anything else, and Luke gets up from his position at the dining table to answer it.

"Delivery for Roman Todd," someone says at the door.

Luke struggles to get in whatever was handed to him, and Tyler gets up to help him.

"God, who hurt you?" Tyler laughs from the front of the trailer.

"What are you talking about?" I shake my head, shouting so he could hear me over the sound of rustling.

Tyler and Luke bust through the trailer with a large bouquet of flowers and an Elvis teddy bear.

Luke grabs the card that is sticking up from the dozens of roses, "'To Roman, please forgive me? Happy Valentine's Day.'"

"Who could've sent you this?" Olivia gasps, standing up from the couch and grabbing the bear to inspect it.

"I'm actually not sure," I furrowed my eyebrows, still sitting on the couch in confusion.

"Well, whoever it is definitely wants to be forgiven," Tyler chuckles, sitting the bouquet on the dining table. It takes up almost all of the space on the tiny table.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and a message from Austin is on the lock screen.

I hope you like the roses.

I immediately facepalm my forehead, "Dammit."

"Is everything okay?" Olivia asks, handing the bear to me.

I take the red bear, inspecting it with a sigh, "Yeah. I think I know who sent this to me."

"An ex-boyfriend, maybe?" Tyler asks as he plops back down in the dining area, his face almost entirely covered by roses.

I glare at him warningly, "I think so."

"If my boyfriend sent me this, I'd forgive him. I'd kiss his feet," Tyler raises his eyebrows, whistling at the sheer size of the bouquet.

"There will be no feet kissing, okay?" I finally get up from the couch, leaving the script behind, "I'm gonna talk to him about this if you'll excuse me."

Luke, Tyler, and Olivia watch silently as I storm out of the trailer, pressing the call button by Austin's name. Frustrated, I pace outside the trailer while waiting for Austin to pick up the phone. 

"This is Austin Butler. Sorry I couldn't make it to the phone-"

I hang up, visibly annoyed, and go to look around for his trailer nearby. I hope it's somewhere close to Luke's because I don't even feel like talking to Austin, much less look for his trailer all day. And it's not like I can ask anyone where it is because that would be suspicious. After 20 minutes of aimlessly walking around, I finally spot him leaving the set. I watch as he walks to his trailer, and I follow him. I wait until he goes inside before knocking on the door.

"Who is it?" Austin shouts from inside.

"It's Roman," I say defeatedly.

He pulls the door open, revealing his shirtless torso and eyeliner-smudged eyes. 

"Did you get the roses?" he asks, and I begin walking up the steps and push past him before he shuts the door behind me.

"Austin," I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose, "I forgave you a long time ago, okay?"

"Ah, so you do remember me," Austin smirks, "You really should be an actress, Roman."

I roll my eyes and cross my arms across my chest, "Look. Again, I forgave you a long time ago. I'm doing great things with my career, whether you find it exciting or not. I mean, damn, look where I am right now! I'm buddies with Tom Hanks, Austin! Dacre Montgomery has my phone number. Would just an extra ever be able to say that?"

Austin sighs, "I didn't mean that when I said it to you. You're more than just an extra, not to just me, but everyone else. You don't have to be friends with Tom just to prove that to me."

"Yeah, but you still said it. It still bounces around in my head. I'll forgive, but I'll never forget," I say, shoving my hands in my pockets.

An awkward silence falls between the both of us.

"I still am sorry," Austin says, tilting my chin up with his hand, "Can you stop acting like you don't know who I am, though?"

I move my face from his hand, "I would, but everyone is convinced I don't know you. Plus, it's been a year. A lot can change in a year about someone. So let's just get to know each other again."

Austin nods, not looking at me, "I agree. A lot can change in a year. You certainly have."

I allow my eyes to travel up and down his body for a second before focusing on his face, "You're right. I have, but it was to be a better person and a better performer."

"Does lying make a person better, Roman?" Austin finally looks at me, pressing his lips together in a line.

"No, but putting someone down for something you don't agree with doesn't either," I say, spinning on my heel to leave.

Before I can make it out of the door, Austin grabs my wrist.

"I forgive you, okay?" I turn my head to look at him, "It's done. Let's be friends and pretend we don't know each other for our sakes."

I don't give him a chance to respond before I leave his trailer.

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[matsbarzal]

can I please request angst #14 with Petey??

angst #14. "are you going to talk to me or?"

pairing: elias pettersson x reader word count: 1.3k warnings: angst (happy ending)

Elias Pettersson knew he was good at lots of things. He knew he was a good person, a good friend, an even better hockey player. But the one thing he wasn’t good at? Understanding what he had done to upset you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have a relatively good understanding of the stupid things he did, he knew he had made plenty of mistakes in your relationships, easily fixable ones, really. Except this time.

It had been almost four days of complete radio silence, no text, no call, no FaceTime’s, nothing. You had sent him a thumbs up the moment he landed and told you he had landed, and no response since. Elias could easily tell you had been on your phone, snapchat stories and twitter likes popping up on both his feeds every now and then, but he could not fathom why you hadn’t texted him in days.

You had fought hundreds of times before, little spats here and there, petty arguments that just turned into nothing when he brought home your favourite food, but never an argument to the extent that you wouldn’t even text him.

“You alright over there, Petey? Lookin’ a little queasy… oh shit that rhymed, look at me go,” trying to ignore Brock was even more difficult than trying to understand why you weren’t texting him, especially when said blonde was his best friend and could pick up on every social cue Elias was giving off.

“Fine, yeah.”

Shrugging his shoulders slightly, the Swede thumbed through his phone, bringing up your contact card and then exiting out every few seconds. “Y/N still not texting you? You sure you didn’t do anything before we left?”

Tossing the phone onto the table in front of him, Elias groaned as he tried to rack his head for what he could’ve done wrong before leaving Vancouver. There was a multitude of things it could be, there was a spat right before he left the apartment, an argument over moving the cars, which somehow turned into him suggesting that the two of you should get a dog.

The Swede couldn’t pinpoint an exact moment in your last two days with one another where he might have upset you to the point of not speaking.

Halfway across the country, your eyes had barely left the box you had found sitting in Elias’ top drawer since he left. It was all you could focus on, your eyes constantly moving to find the little black box that you had moved to the top of the dresser, its closed lid haunting you, taunting you the more and more your eyes peered to it.

Elias hadn’t made any indications that this was what he was pushing towards, you hadn’t even realized he was considering this. Two years into a relationship, you knew it was possible, but you just didn’t realize how possible.

You loved him, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t, but did you love him enough to get married? Maybe. But add in the constant bickering, the continuous fights, the never-ending spats that had no regular conclusion and usually just consisted of some form of idiotic makeup in the hopes the both of you would forget about what you were arguing for anyways.

The silent treatment may have been petty, all of Elias’ texts going unanswered, snapchats only being sent back every time the timer would appear next to your streak. You knew it was childish, and was probably terrifying your boyfriend, but your brain couldn’t fathom what to do, couldn’t fathom what you wanted.

The game against the Canadiens had been explosive, the Canucks losing horrifically, and Elias’ play just an even bigger catalyst to the team. It was the first game you had watched where he hadn’t played his best, the turnovers were consistent, his numbers were down, his penalty minutes were even higher than usually.

And you knew there was a large possibility you were the main cause for his deterioration of play.

Pulling up your phone from its spot stuffed under the covers, you scrolled until you reached his contact name, the little blue dot beside it just an indication of how many messages had gone unanswered in the last few days. Before you even had the chance to send a message through, his contact name appeared at the top of your list.

are you going to talk to me or am i going to come home to an empty apartment tn? not sure what i did wrong but this isn’t fair

You could feel the guilty instantly seep through your body at the text message, your eyes welling up with unshed tears at the message that came through. Elias was your best friend, the epitome of everything good in your life, and something about that just terrified you.

i’ll be here when u get home, ‘Lias. have a safe flight xo

A large sigh of relief left the Swede’s lips when the three bubbles popped up under your name, an even bigger sigh leaving his lips when you said you’d be home when he got there. He allowed his phone to drop in between his legs, his eyes focusing on the iPad in front of him, currently playing reruns of New Girl, your favourite show to watch together.

Almost six hours later, you heard the sound of the lock clicking, the door swinging open to reveal a dishevelled and thoroughly exhausted-looking Elias Pettersson.

“So, are we going to do this now? I told Brock to set up his guest bedroom, I’m not arguing all night so let’s just get this over with,” his keys were tossed onto the centre island, his eyes never leaving yours as you tried to rack your brain for what to say.

“I found the ring… in your top drawer.”

Your stomach turned as you watched the array of emotions fly across Elias’ face; confusion, frustration, anger, sadness, everything smoothing together before he placed a stoic look across his features.

“You freaked out and ignored me for almost five days, because you found a ring in my drawer?” The scoff fell from his lips almost beautifully, his features twisting into annoyance as he looked at you.

“I just… I didn’t know how to react. We argue about everything, ‘Lias. We literally fight about the colour of the sky, and you’ve already bought a ring?”

Moving so he was sitting on the couch opposite of you, the Swede turned so his entire body was facing you, the stoic look now turning into a look of concern.

“Y/N… we fight about everything because that’s just how we are. Our fights have never, ever turned into anything serious. We argue with each other because we both never want to be wrong, that shouldn’t be a reason for you to freak out and not want to marry me one day, my love. Just because I have the ring doesn’t mean I want to get married tomorrow. It’s my grandmother’s engagement ring, Emil let me have it for the day I eventually propose to you. I didn’t buy it, it’s been sitting in that drawer for ages.”

You could feel the embarrassment settling in your stomach at his words, your stomach turning as you tried to think of a response. The only thing you could muster up was an apology, your eyes never leaving your hands as they twisted amongst each other.

His body moved closer to yours, one arm wrapping around your back as he gently pulled you into his side.

“You don’t need to apologize, just maybe instead of going ghost, argue with me instead? Since when are you one to hide your feelings, especially something like that?”

Shrugging your shoulders at his words, you felt his lips press against the crown of your head gently, his hands squeezing your side as he did so.

“Pinky promise that you won’t do that again? Scared the shit out of me and Brock, and Brock never gets scared.”

Pushing your pinky finger towards him, he wrapped his own around yours with a smile small, his head pressed against yours as he squeezed your pinky with his own.

“And quit going through my drawers, nerd.”

“Don’t leave your clothes in the dryer then and I won’t have to put them away for you, Pettersson.”

note: thank you for requesting this!! i hope you enjoy, and it's everything you wanted. it's not too angsty, and it has a happy ending so hopefully that's perfect. <3

[rafael-silva]

in the warmth of your embrace: a tarlos fic

TK goes home to Carlos after a hectic shift, and Carlos takes care of TK in the way the paramedic needs, which partly comes in the form of TK cuddling Carlos and running his fingers through the officer’s soft curls.

for good things happen bingo: tarlos + playing with the other’s hair

emotional hurt/comfort, softness, cuddles, kisses, soft boyfriends, tk and carlos are so in love

2.5k | rated T | on ao3

*****

TK stumbles through the door, dropping his keys into the nearby bowl and lowers his duffel bag to the floor. He toes off his shoes near the entrance, stifling a yawn as he makes his way into the kitchen.

It had been a long, hectic shift, especially for the paramedics. Call after call kept them out of the firehouse for hours, barely even giving them enough time to grab a quick bite in between the radio coming to life with a new call.

He downs half of the cold water he pours into a glass, relishing in the cool liquid running down his dry throat. He loved saving lives, had truly found himself in it, but after exhausting shifts as this one, his knees barely able to carry him anymore, he longed for the moment he gets home to the comfort of his bed, to crawl into the loving and warm arms of his boyfriend.

It was Carlos’s day off, and the officer had spent it running errands and then had lunch at his parents’. Days when both of them aren’t working were a little difficult for them, being apart for many hours. Plus, their schedules haven’t been lining up well lately, making the time apart even harder.

At least when they were both working, Carlos would drop TK off at the firehouse, giving him a chaste kiss and a smile, promising to see him at home. TK returns the smile, reciprocating the promise and with one more echoed between them of please stay safe, they part ways, the knowledge that there are chances of them seeing either other sooner than that on calls bubbling in their stomachs.

But on days when one of them is off work, they try to spend as much lazy time in bed before one of them has to get ready to leave, exchanging sleepy smiles and kisses, mumbled good mornings and stealing some more cuddles under the soft sun rays shinning in through the curtains.

Eventually, though, the love spell has to inevitably be broken when the snoozed alarm rings. With a heavy sigh, one of them gets up, the other watching him with half lidded eyes, still sleepy around the edges. With a series of kisses from the forehead down to the lips, a goodbye is said, both already longing for each other after the first moment of separation.

The excitement at seeing Carlos simmers under TK’s skin, overriding his exhaustion as he climbs the stairs to their bedroom. The house is quiet, and he momentarily thinks Carlos might have fallen asleep, but he soon spots the soft yellow glow originating from the room and knows the officer is most likely still awake.

His gut is proven right when he stops in the doorframe, his eyes landing on Carlos. Carlos is sitting up in their bed, back against the headboard, wearing sweats and one of his old police academy t-shirts. His knee is pulled up towards his chest, an open book resting on his thigh, one TK recognizes is always on Carlos’s nightstand.

But that’s not what really captures TK’s attention, it’s Carlos’s eyeglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose and his loose curls hanging over his forehead that catch the paramedic’s eyes and they linger there.

He leans against the doorframe, arms going to cross over his chest as he watches his boyfriend, a smile spreading on his face. And by the way his curls run wild and free, TK can tell Carlos had just gotten out of the shower.

Carlos is so immersed in the reading material, TK can tell by the slight crease in his eyebrows, but he immediately senses TK’s arrival and presence by the door. There’s always been a tug between them, an invisible string connecting them. They always gravitate towards each other, even in their sleep, their connection cosmic and powerful.

Carlos looks up from his book and a blinding smile takes over his face, reaching his glittering brown eyes.

“Hey, babe,” Carlos greets. “How long have you been standing there?”

“A minute or so,” TK replies as he steps into the bedroom, walking over to Carlos. “I love watching you read, you know that.”

“Mhm,” Carlos nods, a light blush painting his cheeks as he gently cups TK’s face and returns the kiss TK leans in for.

TK sighs happily, allowing himself to feel all of Carlos and to melt against him.

“Welcome home,” Carlos whispers into the small space between them when they separate.

“It’s good to be home,” TK whispers back, leaning into Carlos’s touch and goes in for another soft kiss, resting his hands against the mattress on either side of Carlos to balance himself.

“How was your day?” Carlos asks, watching TK move over to the closet to get changed out of his uniform.

“It was alright, hectic and super busy though,” TK replies as he tugs his shirt out of his pants and starts to unbutton it.

Carlos marks the page and closes the book, returning it to the nightstand. He then goes to remove his round eyeglasses but stops when TK speaks.

“Oh, no, that stays on,” TK smirks.

An eyebrow travels up Carlos’s forehead behind his glasses. “Oh?”

TK shrugs and bites down on his lower lip, his cheeks turning pink. “I like it, you should wear it more often.”

Carlos adjusts the transparent frame as he chuckles.

TK gets on the bed, a knee supporting his body as he leans over to plant a kiss to Carlos’s cheek. “It’s sexy,” he whispers. “And cute.”

“As long as it ticks both those boxes,” Carlos winks.

“Oh, it definitely does,” TK confirms with a wiggle of his eyebrows as he continues to change into something more comfortable. “And I see you’ve finally gotten around to continue it,” he gestures to the now closed book.

Carlos nods. “I had to reread a couple of chapters to get back on track but it’s good, and there was some free time after coming home from my parents’ to really get back into it.”

“Yeah, I would imagine you’d have to do that after months of not having time to read. And how was lunch?” TK asks, slipping an old NYFD t-shirt on and then sweats.

“It was lovely,” Carlos smiles. “Mom and dad really missed you there, though. Made me promise  to bring you over for another lunch as soon as possible.”

“I really wish I could have been there,” TK sighs, plugging his phone into the charger. “And here’s hoping our schedules line up better next week so we can do that.”

“Amen,” Carlos agrees. “Come here,” he lifts and opens his arm in TK’s direction. “You’re exhausted,” he adds, noticing his boyfriend is mere seconds away from toppling over.

TK nods, going to remove the duvet on his side and flicking it near the foot of the bed and gets in. The feeling of the soft mattress underneath his spent body is heavenly, but it’s nothing compared to the true comfort he feels as he rests in Carlos’s arm and tucks his face into the officer’s neck.

“I got you,” Carlos reassures, his arm going around TK’s shoulder and pulling him against him even more.

“You always do,” TK replies, brushing a kiss to the exposed skin of Carlos’s neck. “I missed you today.”

“I missed you, too, baby,” Carlos responds and presses a kiss to the top of TK’s head. “Texting will never be the same as seeing you on one of those calls.”

“Yeah,” TK agrees. “And we didn’t do much of that either thanks to the never-ending calls we got.”

“You saved lives, and I’m so proud of you, babe,” Carlos expresses, his voice coated with so much love and admiration for the younger man.

TK replies with another kiss to Carlos’s neck. “I never would have been able to make the change to paramedic without you. You guided me and supported me, your words gave me the final push I needed and your encouragement every day means more than words can express.”

“I’ve got your back, Ty, always,” Carlos vows.

“And I’ve got yours,” TK vows back.

“Is there anything you need?” Carlos asks, his hand moving up and down TK’s arms in the way he knows calms TK.

“Just this. Just you, ‘Los, you’re all I need,” TK replies with a smile.

“You’ve got me,” Carlos says and the kiss he gives TK this time is brushed against his temple.

TK nuzzles closer to Carlos, almost like he wants to disappear into his boyfriend and Carlos understands. On days like these, days that take a big toll on TK, TK is often in need of anchoring and grounding, and Carlos has learned over the months of their relationship that taking care of TK in the aftermath of said days takes on many forms. The officer has also gotten pretty good at knowing how to offer the comfort TK needs without TK having to ask for it.

He would have run a bath for TK and guided him to the bathroom when he returned home, knowing that the warm water and feeling Carlos’s touch would help TK, but after seeing just how tired TK was and how TK so eagerly gravitates towards him, Carlos knows exactly what TK needs.

TK needs to feel Carlos under his touch, to hold him close, to melt into him.

Knowing this in his heart, Carlos shifts, and TK lets out a disapproving noise at the movement.

“Trust me,” Carlos says, slightly pulling back from TK.

TK frowns as they separate, not yet catching up to what Carlos is doing. He realizes Carlos’s plan when the cop positions his body in front of TK’s, his back now to TK’s chest and TK wastes no time in wrapping his arms around Carlos and pulling him close. It’s almost an automatic response, TK needing to be close to his boyfriend.

TK, now holding Carlos, drops a kiss to the back of the officer’s head while running the pads of his fingers over Carlos’s clothed stomach.

Their breathing syncs, slow and steady as Carlos’s hand goes to cover TK’s and he intertwines their fingers together.

TK’s other hand then moves to Carlos’s head and he begins carding his fingers through the soft curls there, Carlos humming in approval as TK weaves through the strands.

TK smiles when Carlos leans into his touch, knowing how much Carlos loves this and how it relaxes him. More than once, Carlos had fallen asleep while TK ran his fingers through his hair as they cuddled in front of the television.

“I love your curls like this,” TK’s voice breaks the comfortable silence that had fallen over them.

He twirls a curl around his finger, watching it scrunch back into place when he lets it go.

“I appreciate your days off because you don’t gel up your hair,” TK continues.

“Oh, is that the only reason you appreciate my days off?” Carlos asks, and TK can pretty much hear the smirk in his voice.

TK chuckles, the vibrations reaching Carlos’s body through their connection, making him smile.

“Not the only reason,” TK replies. “Your cooking is another reason I highly appreciate your days off.”

It’s Carlos’s turn to chuckle, nodding.

“But it doesn’t compare to our mutual days off and all the free time we get…” TK trails off, his voice suggestive and low against Carlos’s ear.

“Mhm,” Carlos agrees in a heartbeat. “Can’t wait for more days off together.”

Carlos lifts their connected hands and brushes a kiss to TK’s knuckles, TK squeezing Carlos’s hand in response. The tension eases and seeps from TK’s body and peace falls upon the couple.

“Feeling better, baby?” Carlos asks.

“Yeah,” TK nods, further anchoring himself through holding Carlos.

Carlos smiles and leans back against TK some more, knowing it’s helping TK.

He doesn’t exactly know what had happened during TK’s shift, if he had a rough call or something of the sort, but Carlos doesn’t push, also knowing that TK might shut down if he isn’t ready to talk about it yet.

Over the course of their relationship, Carlos had learned to give TK some space, that that was the best way to get TK to open up. The months of their relationship have helped Carlos know the difference between TK’s silences, being able to differentiate between those moments when TK is spiraling and needs a hand, and the ones where he’s composing his thoughts and processing his emotions.

There’s subtle differences between those silences, in TK’s demeanor and even engraved in his expressions. And Carlos has learned to tell the difference.

It wasn’t easy at first, his instinct to help TK and to be there for him overriding what he knew was true. Time had proven fruitful, though, and TK started to open up to Carlos more easily and more frequently. Of course, Carlos knew it was also thanks to their developing relationship and the trust built between them, but he also knew not pushing TK to talk had something to do with it, too.

So as TK runs his fingers through Carlos’s hair, gently massaging his scalp as he goes, Carlos knows TK is collecting his thoughts, figuring out his feelings, before talking to Carlos about it.

TK’s process happens in one of two ways, either he goes on a full rant, letting everything sink in as he speaks, usually while pacing back and forth or in moments like these, quiet moments, where it all happens inside his head and it’s those moments he needs something or someone to hold on to.

And Carlos trusts that TK will come to him when he’s ready.

“Wanna sleep, babe?” Carlos whispers.

“In a bit,” TK replies. “Just wanna stay like this for a little longer.”

Carlos nods as TK’s arm tightens around him and he wiggles against TK’s chest, getting more comfortable.

Carlos can tell TK also needs some more time for his mind to calm, for the racing thoughts to quiet down and he’s willing to stay like this for as long as TK needs.

“Thank you for this, ‘Los,” TK whispers, fingers still combing through Carlos’s curls, grounding them both.

“Always, baby.”

Eventually, TK’s heart rate starts to decrease, Carlos feeling the tranquility against his back and he knows TK will soon fall asleep.

“Come on,” Carlos says as he begins to shift, realizing how tired TK is at the lack of response from the paramedic at the officer’s movement.

TK nods and lets Carlos maneuver him, but he pauses, looking at TK.

“Okay if I take them off now?” Carlos asks, his tone a little teasing as he takes hold of his glasses.

TK nods. “I’d hate for them to break. But keep them close,” he winks.

Carlos chuckles, taking off his glasses and folding the handles, gently placing them on the nightstand near his phone.

Carlos switches off the light and the soft moonlight glow immediately shines into their bedroom. They shuffle in bed for a few moments before settling down, Carlos now holding TK, the gesture offering wordless comfort.

Carlos drapes his arm over TK’s middle, pulling him closer into his chest and then brushes a soft kiss to the side of TK’s neck.

“Get some rest, baby, we’ll deal with everything tomorrow,” Carlos murmurs.

TK lets out a content sigh and in the safety of Carlos’s hold, engulfed in Carlos’s scent and everything that is Carlos, he drifts off.

And wrapped in Carlos’s arms, TK is truly home.

(Carlos wearing eyeglasses was inspired by the photo Rafa posted on his Instagram story a while back!)

[nerdyfangirl67]

A Piece of You - Criminal Minds Reader Insert

Pairing: Spencer x fem!reader

Warning: Spencer in prison, angst!, language, post prison!Spencer, PTSD symptoms, fluff ending

Word count: 5951

Short summary: Reader finds she is pregnant just as Spencer is sent to prison.

A/N: Y/F/N means your first name. Y/L/N means your last name. Y/N means your name. And Y/C/M means your comfort movie. I chose for the baby in the fic to be a girl, but feel free to change it when you read it. I found a blog post on the internet that stated Reid was in jail for about 84 days, so I added some to accommodate time for travel, etc and am going with it. I also changed a few things, like Spencer coming home without the reader knowing and I didn’t include his mother as much either, to add to the storyline. And I added/made up a few details with the whole prison call/visit things so it may not ring true. Link here: click

A warm pair of lips placing feather-lite kisses on your face pulls you away from the comforting arms of sleep. You sluggishly open your eyes, blinking the blurry figure leaning over you in the darkness of the bedroom into focus.

“Spence?” You drawl out, reaching a hand up to weave into his curly hair. “Don’t go.” He lets out a small laugh as he gently unthreads your hand from his hair. “I’ve got to go Y/N.” He says reluctantly, moving to rest his forehead against yours for a moment. You close your eyes, reveling in the intimacy of the moment. 

“I love you.” You murmur, your breath fanning across Spencer’s face. You reach up enough to press your lips against Spencer’s in a tender kiss. “Come home safe.” 

“I love you too Y/N. Go back to sleep.” He says as he brings the comforter back up over your shoulders. “I’ll be home before you know it.” 

If you had known that the kiss you’d given Spencer before he left for his trip to Mexico would have been the last you’d be able give him for the next 89 days (you had been counting), you would’ve made it more than a sleepy, wet kiss as you yearned for your bed. You would have hugged him tight, pressing your face into his chest, deeply breathing his musk in as you listen to his heartbeat. You would have pulled him in for two, three, four more kisses, murmuring words of love between each.

Most importantly, you would have told him what you had found out only the night before when he had been at work, that you were pregnant. If only you had known what was to happen, you could have saved yourself from the hell to come. 

---

No matter the case, Spencer always made sure to call, or at the very least text, you once a day. But after two days of radio silence, you were starting to worry. You had called him twice, leaving him a message each time asking him to call you when he could. You sent him quite a few text messages as well, becoming more and more concerned as time passed but you receive no call back from him.

By the fifth day, despite having sent a number of additional text messages and leaving enough voicemails to fill Spencer’s inbox, you still hadn’t heard from him. You are so worried that you can hardly focus at work. In fact, you are so distracted by thoughts of Spencer being kidnapped or him being shot and bleeding out in an alley that you got pulled into your boss’s office and reprimanded for your “airhead behavior”, as your boss had put it. When you arrive home, you are gripped with such anxiety and fear that you can only grab one of Spencer’s large sweaters and curl up in bed with it. You can’t even bring yourself to take off your shoes. 

The ringing of your phone early the next morning pulls you from the trance you had been in all night. You frantically start looking for your phone and quickly find it on Spencer’s side of the bed, answering it without looking at the number. 

“Spencer? Is that you? Are you okay?” You blurt out, not allowing the other person to talk before you are firing questions at them.

“Is this Y/F/N Y/L/N?” The voice on the other side asks quickly, stopping you. You immediately know it isn’t Spencer, just as much as you know that it isn’t someone you know. 

“Yes. May I ask who this is and what it is regarding?” You ask nervously, your heart quickening as you wait what feels like an eternity for them to answer. 

“I’m Penelope Garcia and I work with Spencer at the FBI.” She pauses for a moment, as if trying to find the right words to continue. “You were the most called number in the call log on Spencer’s phone and I felt like this is something you should know, as he seems to be someone very important to you, and vice versa.” The brokenness of her voice causes the worry in your chest to bubble up again. “Spencer is in jail...in Mexico.” 

“Wh-what?” You struggle to wrap your mind around what she is saying as you climb out of bed, rushing to find your discarded jacket and set of keys from the night before. You aren’t entirely sure why you’re rushing, or even where you’d be going, but that doesn’t slow you down. “Was there a case in Mexico? What happened?” 

“There wasn’t a case. He took some personal days and went to Mexico for some experimental medication for his mother. He...um..he was arrested for murder, but he doesn’t remember anything.” 

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to sit in one of the living room chairs as you try to fight off the sobs rising in your chest. “Is he, is he going to stay in Mexico? I mean, is he, no, when will...he didn’t do it.” You stammer out, as you try to slow your racing thoughts, stop the inevitable tears from falling, and make your word coherent. 

“Miss Y/L/N, I don’t have the answers to those questions yet. But, I can keep you updated if you’d like. The team left a few hours for Mexico to help Reid. They want to get him transferred to a prison in the states.” Her voice is comforting, but does nothing to tamp down the feeling of impending disaster that is rising in you. You manage to get out a shaky goodbye to Penelope before you lose grip on your emotions.

You struggle to get a proper breath through the onslaught of tears as the reality of the situation hits you. Your phone clatters to the floor as you bury your face in your arms, drawing your legs up to yourself as you try to push it all away. Eventually the tears slow and stop. You gradually unfurl from the cramped up position you had been in. You numbly make your way to the kitchen and somehow manage to make yourself breakfast. The rest of the day passes in a hazy blur, with you almost forgetting that you were supposed to be at work (you called in sick once you remembered, but your boss wasn’t happy the call was coming in three hours late). You spend the night, clutching Spencer’s pillow and wishing that this were all a dream. You don’t fall asleep until the early hours of the morning, when the exhaustion of the last few days finally overtakes you.

The ringing of your phone wakes you later that morning, serving as a reminder that you have to face the day ahead, as much as you don’t want to.

“Y/F/N? This is Penelope with the FBI. I called you yesterday about Spencer.” Her greeting has you sitting up, trying to clear the foggy cloud from your brain so you could think. 

“Penelope, have you found anything else out? How is Spencer?” You plow over any possible pleasantries as you ask the question that had been on your mind for the last day.

“The team was able to get him extradited to the United States.” She starts, her words helping to ease some of the anxiety that had built up since you had learned about Spencer’s imprisonment. “He isn’t out yet, but the team is working on his case. In the meantime, I’m setting up a visitor schedule. If you’d want to come down to Quantico, I can help you fill out the necessary paperwork and get on the schedule to see him, if you’d like.” You quickly voiced your agreement and after getting directions and setting a time, you hung up with Penelope, your mood considerably elevated for the first time in days. 

A glance at the clock has you scrambling out of the bed and to your closet. You had completely forgotten about the doctor’s appointment you had scheduled days ago, before your world had been flipped upside down. You manage to get dressed and ready to go in less than ten minutes, arriving at your appointment only a few minutes late.

Your appointment is short as the doctor just does a routine exam, confirming your pregnancy and letting you know that the baby was healthy so far. You receive a list of different things to avoid (such as caffeine and smoking) and a few different things that are beneficial to your, and the baby’s, health (such as prenatal vitamins). After your appointment, you quickly stop at the store to pick up a few things suggested by the doctor, before heading back to Spencer’s apartment, where you had been staying. Although he had never officially asked you to move in, you had been staying at his apartment most nights for the past few months and had your own drawer and spot in his closet. And with the events of the past few days, it had just felt right to stay, almost as if you had one small part of him still with you. 

 You go to bed early that night, really early, in hopes of getting the time to pass quicker. The prospect of seeing Spencer has you anxious and excited at the same time, making sleep nearly impossible. After a few hours of tossing and turning, with no sleep, you climb out of bed and get dressed. You grab your purse and keys before leaving the apartment. You walk the short distance to your car and start it. Despite knowing that you would be hours early to your meeting with Penelope, you still start the drive to Quantico and the FBI building. 

After almost an hour in the car, and twenty minutes with security (in which they had to confirm your meeting with Penelope before they gave you a visitor credential), you finally made your way to the floor where the BAU team worked. Your eyes scan the bullpen and immediately you recognize Spencer’s desk, even though you had never seen it before. You recognize the pattern in which the items are placed and the semi-clearness of his desk space; it is identical to the desk he uses for work at home. You make your way towards it, tracing a finger along the fake wood edge as you take a seat in his desk chair. Sitting here, you can almost feel his presence behind you, his voice speaking up, sharing an idea he had or some crazy fact, his fingers tapping along the edge of his desk. You take comfort in the feeling as you rest your head in your arms on his desktop. It isn’t long before you are closing your eyes and falling into a light sleep.

A tap on your shoulder jerks you awake, causing you to fly up in a sitting position and blink at the harsh light of the bullpen. “You must be Y/F/N Y/L/N. I’m Penelope Garcia.” A cheery blonde, wearing a bright orange dress and matching hair accessory, as well as holding a bright pink pom topped pen. 

You stand, smoothing out any wrinkles in your outfit before offering a hand out to her. “Yes, that’s me.” She takes your hand but instead of shaking it, pulls you into a hug. You are taken back by her forwardness, but give her a squeeze in return.

“Let’s go see what we can do to get you on the visitor list.” She says softly, leading the way to what you could only describe as her office, although it more resembled a cave, filled with more types of technology than you would know what to do with.

Penelope gestures to a black swivel desk chair set next to the wall. “Here, take a seat. I’m going to pull up Spencer’s information and see if we can get you some visitor paperwork.” She says as you take a seat in the chair. The longer you sit there, the more nervous you feel. Unconsciously, you rest your hand on your lower stomach, right over the small bump that was starting to form. 

You don’t realize that you are zoned out until Penelope clears her throat. “Are you okay?” She nods at your hand resting on your stomach. You quickly pull it away, straightening up in your seat. “Yes, I’m fine.”

She gives you a long stare before speaking. “I have some good news and some bad news Y/N.” You nod, waiting for her to speak with bated breath. “The good news - you can call Spencer.” 

You wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “And the bad news?”

“I can’t add you to the visitor list. It seems that Spencer doesn’t want you to come see him as a visitor.” She can’t look you in the eye as she says that.

You are quiet after that, not entirely sure what to say. The thought that he doesn’t want to see you hurts. But you also know Spencer, and whatever the reason, you know he has one.

“He can take a call in about five minutes if you want to get on the call list.” She says, looking up from one of her monitors at you. You nod quickly, before voicing your agreement. The five minutes of waiting seemed to go on forever, but finally, she is patching through to a prison phone. “Here you go, he should be on the other line now.” The fact that she immediately gave the phone to you, instead of taking some of the time to talk to him, had you smiling gratefully at her. ‘Thank you’, you mouth as you take the phone. 

“Spencer? Is that you?” You ask, your heart in your throat as you wait to hear his voice.

“Y/N, it’s so good to hear your voice.” He speaks quietly, the low quality of the phone call causing his voice to crackle.

“I know you didn’t do it Spencer. Whatever they are saying, it isn’t true.” You whisper, clutching the handset close to your ear, as if that would bring him closer to you. 

“Y/N...I don’t know-” He starts but you cut him off, knowing he was going to tell you he wasn’t sure what had happened.

“I know Spencer, but I also know you. And that isn’t who you are.” You say thickly, as you fight back the coming tears. “I want to see you Spencer. Why don’t you have me on your visitor list?”

“I don’t want you to see me like this. I don’t want you to see me here.” You start to argue that it doesn’t matter, but some yelling in the background cuts you off, after which Spencer says, “I’ve got less than a minute Y/N before I’ve got to hang up.” He says solemnly, the sorrow in his voice echoing the sorrow you felt. 

You push aside the topic of seeing him, not wanting to waste what little time you had left talking to him by arguing. “I love you Spencer. Don’t forget that okay? I don’t care how long it takes, we-I will be here when you come home. You have a lot of people here in your corner Spencer. They will get you out.” You push back the tears as you talk, not wanting him to hear you cry.

“Gosh, I love you and I miss you. I wish I was th-” His voice is cut off, followed shortly by a dial tone.

You grip at the handset, calling “Spencer? Spencer?!”, wishing for him to respond.

“I’m sorry Y/N. The call ended.” Penelope says quietly. You hand over the handset, moving to sit back in the swivel chair against the wall, roughly wiping away the evidence of your tears as you do.

“What do we do now?” You ask through the tears.

“We wait. The team is working on his case and I will keep you updated on everything that happens. Do you need anything?” She asks, giving you a good look.

You are telling her before you consciously realize what you are doing. “I-I’m pregnant. I just found out and I haven’t had the chance to tell Spencer. I don’t know what to do. I want to tell him when I can see him face to face, when he can enjoy it for what it is, a blessing. But I hate hiding things from him.”

Penelope gives out a little squeal, bouncing up from her chair to hug you tight. “Oh, you are gonna have a baby Reid!” She says loudly, taking a step back from you. The look on your face must have given away the shock on your face because she is quickly apologizing. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry. What can I do to help Y/N?”

“I just, I need someone to talk to. I miss him, a lot. It’s hard to be going through this alone.” You whisper, looking down at your hands in your lap. 

“Girl, you don’t have to ask. I’d love to be your friend.” She says excitedly, giving you a soft shoulder bump. “And I’m going to do everything I can to get the boy wonder home to you.” She gives you a small smile. “And your little one.”

---

The days follow a routine after that. Work, talking to Penelope, and the occasional doctor’s appointment. Penelope comes to some of the appointments as support, which you appreciate, and when you find out the gender, she insists on going shopping for baby items with you. You are able to talk to Spencer a few more times, although each phone call is shorter than the last, and leaves you missing him even more. 

Each doctor’s appointment is harder than the last. All you could think of when you hear the baby’s heartbeat is that Spencer wasn’t there. All you could think of when you feel the baby move for the first time is that Spencer might never be able to feel your baby move like that. He might never get the chance to feel your baby kick. All you can think of when you hear the gender of your baby is that Spencer might never get to experience that excitement, that joy, of imagining all the future things that might be in store for the baby. 

---

Late one evening in early May, after a long day at work (which you had spent almost entirely on your feet) and a feeling of nausea that had lasted all day, you dig through Spencer’s side of the closet and grab one of his cardigans. You pull it on, wrapping around you as well as you can with your growing belly getting in the way. 

You grab one of the many books resting on Spencer’s side table, taking it with you as you head to the living room. You pull the afghan blanket off of the back of the leather wingback, carrying it with you as you move to the dark leather couch. You get comfortable, wrapping the blanket around your legs and waist before opening the random book you had grabbed.

It isn’t long before the story has your eyelids drooping and your muscles relaxing, giving into the cloud of exhaustion that hung over you. The book, forgotten and half-open, falling to the floor doesn’t wake you, and neither does your cell phone, distant and tinny, as it rings from the bedroom. You don’t wake at the jingling of a key in the lock or the opening of the apartment door. However, the heavy thud that follows the apartment door falling shut has you jerking awake, one hand coming to rest on the swell of your abdomen, the other on the back of the couch. You struggle a bit to sit up, but when you do, after taking a moment to study the intruder, you realize it’s Spencer.

“Spencer?” You whisper, moving slowly from the couch, not entirely sure if he was real or a figment of your imagination. Either way, you didn’t want to scare him away. You stop when you are a foot from him. You search his light brown, almost hazel eyes, the pain and darkness within them, swirling around and hardening his expression. You tentatively reach out with your hand to caress his face. Your fingers slowly graze his stubble covered jaw before you move to rest it against his cheek. 

He leans into your touch, bringing his large, rough hand up to cover yours. Your eyes fill with tears, causing your view of him to become blurry and before you can stop yourself, you are throwing your arms around his neck, pulling him as close as you can get. 

He is quick to return the hug, but after a brief moment, he becomes stiff, his arms sliding loosely down your back. You step back, feeling hurt and confused at his sudden rejection of your affection.

“What’s wrong?” You murmur as you roughly wipe a hand across your face, trying to get rid of the tears that were running down your face. 

“You’re pregnant.” He states, his eyes no longer looking at your face, but instead, your belly.

Your heart beats faster, a rush of excitement going through you. This was it, the moment you’d been waiting for. You’d finally get to tell Spencer that he was going to be a father.

“Spencer, it’s ours.” You answer softly, gently taking his hand in yours and placing right above where the baby typically kicked. “You’re going to be a father.” 

“I-I am?” He questions in disbelief. His hand, which had been rigidly resting on your belly, slowly relaxes just as the baby kicks. He jerks his hand away, stepping back and bumping into the door. He brings his hands up, pushing them into his hair. His fingers grip onto the long, curly locks as uses his palms to cover his eyes. 

“No, this isn’t happening, it’s a dream. I don’t deserve this.” He is rambling now as he slowly slides down the door, landing in a sitting position. His face is still covered with his hands as he continues to ramble. “This isn’t real. I don’t deserve this.” 

“Spencer?” You murmur, keeping your voice low, but audible as you kneel down beside him. You place a gentle hand on his arm, afraid that your touch might startle him. He doesn’t move as he continues to talk to himself. You bring your other hand up to cradle his still covered face. You stay this way for a long time, holding him as much as he’ll allow in his closed off position. Eventually, he stops muttering to himself and is quiet. You shift then, until you're sitting next to him against the door. 

“Lie down, Spencer.” You whisper softly, brushing a lock of his hair back away from his face when he turned to face you. You slide your hand from his hair and over his shoulder, gently pulling him down towards you. He didn’t resist, placing his head in your lap and allowing you to run your fingers through his hair. 

The two of you stay that way until your butt goes numb from sitting in the same place for so long. You squeeze Spencer’s shoulder with your hand to get his attention. “Let’s go to bed, Spence.” You say. He slowly gets up, offering you a hand as he does, avoiding any accidental brushing of your stomach as he did. You keep his hand in yours as he leads the way to the bedroom, only letting go when you move to your side of the bed and get in. He is gone for a few minutes, coming back with a low-slung pair of gray sweatpants and an old college T-shirt on. He gets in bed, but instead of wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close as he usually did, he simply laces his fingers through yours. 

Weeks pass this way, with you and Spencer going back to life as it was, or at least as much as the two of you could with Spencer’s new work schedule and the fact that you were getting closer and closer to your due date. The fact that things remained the same though, as they had been when Spencer arrived home for the first time, was what worried you.

Never once did Spencer engage in the conversations you started about the baby or the nursery you wanted in the small spare room across from the bedroom you and Spencer shared. Whenever you commented that the baby was kicking, he found some excuse to leave the room. He still only ever held your hand at night, completely avoiding your ever-growing belly both in bed and anywhere else. It was almost as if he was trying to pretend as if you weren’t actually pregnant, as if what was happening wasn’t reality.  Not only were you constantly uncomfortable, tired and just all around ready for the baby to come, but you were frustrated that Spencer still acted as if you weren’t pregnant, as if anytime within the next few weeks you wouldn’t be handed a newborn, making the two of you parents. You had finally had enough when you had mentioned going shopping for baby supplies about two weeks prior to your due date and he ignored you, continuing to wash the dishes. At first you thought he hadn’t heard you, so you repeat yourself, but when he acted much the same way a second time, you slam your hand on the table.

“Spencer, you can’t ignore this pregnancy. It may not be something you want right now, or ever, but you can’t just ignore it.” You snap at him, the irritation you had been feeling at his callous behavior finally surfacing. He doesn’t answer as he continues to wash the dishes from dinner. You can tell he heard you though, by the unnecessary sheer force he was using to scrub the plate in his hand.

“Spencer,” you pause, waiting until he is looking at you before continuing. “You have to find a way to accept it. This baby is coming.” Your tone is softer now, but your words don’t hold any less bite.

“I can’t accept it Y/N. Accepting it means it’s reality.” He lets out a harsh, joyless laugh. “And the reality is that I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve a baby. And I definitely don’t deserve this life with you.” He is no longer facing you, rather his back is to you, his shoulders tensed and hunched. 

You place a tender hand on his elbow, wanting him to turn so you could see his face. Instead he roughly pulls his elbow out of your hold, flinging soapy water through the air before returning to the plate. “Spencer, look at me.” You try to speak clearly, steadily, but your voice cracks, betraying the emotion behind your words. 

He does as you ask, but his face is twisted and dark in a way you had never seen before. “Damnit Y/N. You have no idea what I’ve done or who I am.” He is yelling at you now, waving a half washed dish to emphasize his point, causing you to take a step backwards. “You think I should be the father of that child,” he gestures wildly at your belly, “when you don’t even know who I am, what I am.” He drops the plate and the sponge, letting them clatter loudly against the metal basin of the sink, as he walks towards the front door of the apartment, his hands still dripping wet. 

“Where are you going?” Your words are barely audible as you try to force them past the growing lump in your throat. 

He ignores your question as he grabs his jacket from the coat rack by the door and leaves the apartment. The loud thud of the door closings clangs against your ears, the tears you had been trying to hold back freely falling now. You were beyond angry at him, despite knowing you shouldn’t be because he had gone through hell the past few months. You couldn’t bring yourself to wait for him to come back. You were tired of the constant bickering and the numerous different times he had chosen to ignore any mention of your pregnancy or the baby.

You quickly fill your duffle bag with the things you’d need for a few days as you called Penelope. The phone rings three times before she answers with a bright, cheery “hello, Garcia.” 

“Penelope, hey. It’s Y/N. Can I stay at your place for a few nights?” You ask as you zip your bag closed. “I need some space from Spencer.” 

“Of course girl. You’re welcome anytime.” She says warmly. “I’ll get the couch made up and Y/C/M queued up on the TV.”

“Thanks Penelope. I’ll see you soon.” You end the call and upon reaching the kitchen, you find a piece of paper and a pen.

Spencer,

I am going to stay with Penelope for a few days. I just need some space.

I’ll be back in a few days.

I love you.

Y/N

You magnet the note to the fridge, where Spencer will be able to find it. You then grab your bag and make your way out of the apartment and down to your car. The drive to Penelope’s doesn’t take long, and when you knock on her door, she is there, holding a pint of your favorite ice cream and the TV remote. “Come here girl.” She proclaimed, pulling you into a side hug. 

The two of you watched feel-good movies well into the night. It is really hard for you to get comfortable, despite being on Penelope’s comfortable sofa, but you chalk it up to being 38 weeks pregnant and partaking in a ‘girls’ sleepover’. When you finally become too tired to keep your eyes open, you rifle through your bag, finding your toothbrush and toothpaste. “I’m going to brush my teeth Penelope.” You say, standing up to go to the bathroom. A wet sensation washing all down your legs has your frozen in place. The pinching sensation in your back intensifies, causing you to sit back down. “Penelope..” You call through the pain. 

“Huh? Y/N?” Penelope answers groggily, sitting up from her relaxed position on the oversized chair. If the situation weren’t so serious, you’d be laughing at the way her hair was standing up in random directions.

“Penelope, I think I need to go to the hospital.” You say, letting out a breath as the pain subsided. She is at your side within moments. “What’s wrong? Is it-oh.” Penelope stops as she sees the evidence of your leaking amniotic fluid on pants. “Let’s go Y/N. We’ve got a baby Reid on the way.” She says cheerily, helping you up. She grabs your bag, which was sitting by the door and helps you out to your car, opening the passenger door for you. The drive to the hospital goes much slower than you would like as a combination of traffic and increasing contractions makes the thirty minute drive feel twice as long. 

Upon reaching the emergency room, you are wheeled into a private birthing room with Penelope following closely behind. She stays with you throughout the next six hours of labor, leaving only once near the end. The closer the birth of your child gets, the foggier you feel. At one point, someone else enters the room, hovering near the head of your bed, but you can’t focus enough to see who it is.

After six hours and twenty-eight minutes of labor, you give birth to a beautiful baby girl. Shortly after birth, she is placed on your chest, a bright pink and green striped blanket placed over her backside. You laugh through the tears as you look into her eyes for the first time, an overwhelming feeling of love overtaking you. The hustle and clatter of the doctors around you slowly fade away as you get lost looking at the face of your newborn daughter.

“Y/N, she’s…” Spencer’s voice startles you as he trails off, causing you to take in his lanky form, framed by the hospital room door. “I...I don’t know what to say.”

“This baby, she’s a piece of you and me and if all I’ll ever get is a piece of you, then I’ll be happy. I love you and I want this life with you, but I can’t force you to love us either Spencer.” You pause, wiping away the tears falling down your face in frustration. “No matter what you think Spencer, I won’t ever stop loving you, just as this little girl won’t ever go a day without knowing who her father truly is. A kind, compassionate man who gave himself wholly and completely for the people he loved, regardless of what that meant for him. That’s who her father is.” You are looking at the baby in your arms now, her bright wide-eyed look bringing a small smile to your face.

You aren’t paying enough attention to Spencer to realize that he had come closer, almost to your bed, and was now staring at the girl in your arms in amazement. “She’s so small.” His words are thick with emotion and cause you to lift your head to look at him. His hazel eyes are glistening with unshed tears as he stares at his daughter.

“Do you want to hold her?” You question, slowly moving her towards his hands, which were hanging awkwardly out in front of him, as if he had anticipated your question. He hesitates a moment before nodding so you place her in his arms.

He cradles her against his chest, holding her as if she was made of glass. His eyes never stray from her face as they study her features, almost as if he was memorizing what she looked like in case he never got to see her again. You lean back against the stiffly starched hospital pillows as you watch them, exhaustion pulling at you.

“You would never have to force me to love her, or you.” His words snap you from the light doze you had fallen into. He is no longer standing as he watches the baby in his arms, now he is sitting in the chair next to your bed, the baby sleeping soundly in his arms. His eyes bore into yours as if he is trying to tell you with his eyes what he was struggling to with his words. 

“I have never stopped loving you.” He looks down at the baby girl in his arms, running a gentle finger over her small cheek. “I just don’t understand what I did to deserve this, to deserve you and her.”

His words break your heart and you place a hand on his knee. “Spencer, of all the people in the world, you deserve this. You deserve love and a family. You do. And I’ll be here, no, we’ll be here everyday to remind you, of who you are and what you do deserve.” You whisper, squeezing his knee as you look at him through teary eyes. 

He leans forward to press a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Thank you.” Those two words, uttered softly near your ear, hold more meaning than the typical words of gratitude and they meant the world to you. They meant he would stay, even if it wasn’t always easy, even if it wasn’t always what he felt he deserved, he would stay.

Tagging: @twilightlover2007 @brandydel @thisiscalm-andits-doctor (I added a few more of you who liked the post I made about this fic. I hope that’s okay!) @aaronhotchnerr @emofairyprincessofarkansas @sunflowersandotherthings @impala1967dwinchester 

[bluebellwriting]

Love Me Tender Part 5

Walking down the street is harder without your own personal Radio Demon parting the crowd for you, but you make do as you near your sister’s boutique. At first you wanted to be alone, but that’s kind of hard in the most crowded place in the universe, and as you continued on your mindless walk through the Pentagram you realized that being alone might not be the best thing. What you needed right now was a hug and someone to tell you that you deserved far more than whatever Alastor could give you. You couldn’t be alone with your thoughts right now.

The neon from Molly’s sign hurts your eyes from a block away, and like moths to a flame shoppers flock towards the pink light. Molly’s Miracles is the place for those in Hell with an eclectic style and a preference for the sexy. It’s very rare that you find yourself actually stopping by for a reason other than checking in on your sister, but that excuse will have to do for now.

Just like the sign, the amount of glossy white furniture and sequined clothing forces you to blink and adjust your eyes. There aren’t too many people inside, thankfully, just a moth demon posing for her friend in a red dress with the deepest v you’ve ever seen. Not your thing, but the friends cheer and squeal at the sight of it, so Molly must know her clientele quite well. 

“(Y/N)?” Molly emerges from the back, her arms full of some green, glittery fabric. She all but drops them on the checkout counter so that she can properly engulf you in a hug. It’s scary how fast she can traverse a room with all those legs, but your desperation for a proper hug is too great to be startled right now. 

“I didn’t know you were coming by today!”

“I just,” you sniff, “wanted to check up on my baby sister.”

“Aww that’s so sweet!” She squeals. “But I thought you were out with a certain you-know-who? Is he here?”

You shuffle out of her arms and embrace yourself with your own.

“Who told you that?”

“Angie did. Text me this morning that you too had a little date,” she coos.

Of course Angel would find a way to blindly inform your sister about your love life. Except that it wasn’t your love life. Just life. Normal, regular, loveless life. 

“He just happened to have some business to attend to at Rosie’s at the same time as me.”

“But he walked you there.” 

“Molly--”

“And he didn’t have to! But he did! That is so cute!”

“It’s really not, Molly,” you grumble and move deeper into the store. You trail your fingers through the silks and tulle, pretending to be interested in something from the wracks when you and Molly know there’s only ever one article in the store at a time that you would actually wear.

“You okay, hun?” She trails you through the store.

“I’m fine, Mol. Just fine. I made a great deal today, dad will be really happy. Things are going well at the hotel.” You turn to her with a sigh, hoping with expulsion of breath you will also rid you of the sobs bubbling up in your throat.

It works for a minute.

“I’m fine. I’m doing fine.” Your voice cracks at the end and Molly rushes you again, except this time you’re also being surrounded by the moth demon and her friends who apparently can’t mind their own business.

“Oh sweetie, did he hurt you?” The moth asks.

“Men are fucking pigs!” One of her friends -- a wolf -- cries.

As these complete strangers surround you with man-hating indignation, Molly rubs your back and strokes your hair.

“I-It’s okay. It’s just a guy,” you gasp.

“That’s right, it is just a guy. You don’t need him and his nasty ass.” Another friend -- a blowfish -- says as the rest of the friends and your sister release you from their grasp but remain in a circle around you like some Sisterhood Against the Radio Demon.

Oh, if only they knew that was the man they were bad mouthing right now. Actually, you kind of wish Alastor was here right now. You’d pay money to see his reaction to the Sisterhood calling his ass “nasty.” Probably confusion, mostly.

"You know what you need,” Molly chimes in. “A new outfit!”

The friends cheer and you really wish you could just melt into the clothing racks. They’re all sweet, impossibly so, for helping out a complete stranger just because of the universal experience known as “guy problems.” But the last thing you want is to be surrounded by eyes scrutinizing your body in new clothing. Your heart feels like it’s about to implode in on itself and if one person says anything about your love handles or your back fat you are definitely going to ignite this entire city block on fire.

“Molly, that really isn’t necessary--”

“I know the perfect thing! You just head back into the changing room,” she says, making her way to a shelf of silk blouses. Your eyes dart to the door, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Molly.

“Don’t. You Dare.” Her eyes flash a brief red, so you shuffle over to the changing rooms.

---

Alastor sits in Rosie’s office, well, it’s more like he’s lying down on her chez, moaning towards the ceiling, and clutching his gift to you tightly as if it were the last piece of you he had left.

Rosie watches him from her desk, looking wholy unimpressed by this display from the all-powerful Radio Demon.

“Why did I even--”

“I don’t know, Alastor.”

“I never should have--”

“No, you shouldn’t have. As intelligent as you are, dear Alastor, you can be exceptionally dumb.”

Letting out another long whine, he grips the gift box harder and rolls over onto his side. He’s an Overlord. He should not be debasing himself like this in polite company. Or anyone’s company for that matter. But this is Rosie, who was for so long the only person in the history of human existence who he could trust with his truest emotions. But even this exhibitionary indulgence is a new milestone in their relationship, one he wasn’t even ready to take right now. He can’t help it though. Not when his heart feels like it’s being gripped and twisted between two fists. Not when his stomach has taken on this horrible, aching feeling, as if he’s being repeatedly kicked there. 

The worst part is the empty feeling that has been growing deeper and wider since you left him at Rosie’s. For so long now it’s been just this nagging little spot that formed when you first met, situated in the center of his chest, reminding him that he no longer owns the piece of himself that once filled it. You do. And as long as you were with him, close to him, that hole stayed the same, was comforted by its close proximity to its missing piece. But now you were gone, and the hole has become so gaping and so hollow without you, with the thought of truly losing you forever.

“You could always go find her,” Rosie implores, shoving away the paperwork she’s fruitlessly been trying to complete.

“She said she wanted to be alone,” he moans. 

“And since when were you one to respect others’ personal space?” She doesn’t get a response. He just rubs his face deeper into her chez, ruining the fabric with his blubbering. Part of her wants to relish the sight of her egotistical, maniacal, normally heartless friend reduced to a weepling in front of her. But the bigger part of her just really wants to get back to her work and Alastor’s need for validation is in direct conflict of that. 

“Alastor,” she sighs, “I know she wanted to be alone, but honestly, this might be an appropriate time for you to tell her how you feel. Or at least to try and remedy the situation a tad.”

Alastor sits up, shoulders hunched.

“Really?”

“Yes, you emotionally obtuse oaf. Go! Be romantic! Be spontaneous!” Get the Hell out of my office, she wants to add. 

Rosie goes over to him and all but yanks him off the chez. She places a jovial arm around his shoulders but is shoving him quickly through her store, past her girls, and outside.

“Good luck, darling!” She calls as she pushes him onto the street. He whips around, eyes briefly flashing her his radio dials but her motherly wave quickly reminds him of the task at hand. 

The dials disappear but he shoots her an uncharacteristic glare before he puts on his smile. He summons a shadow to traverse the Pentagram in search of you. As his shadow wiggles off, he begins his stroll through the streets roughly in the direction you were heading.

---

Molly brings you a red silk blouse and a red and black plaid pencil skirt. They seem modest enough but you dread the way the skirt will make your curves look, the lumps and thickness it will accentuate. The blouse is nice though, if not a bit tight around the stomach, but it makes your chest look amazing. You try looking for the flared skirt you came in with, but not so mysteriously, your clothes seem to be missing. Thanks, Molly. 

You have two options now. Go out into the store in front of strangers and in front of the giant windows Molly has in the front, or squeeze into the skirt, suffer through it for five minutes, and then demand your clothes back.

Once you actually have the skirt on it’s not... that bad. It digs into your waist just a tad, making your back straighten to make breathing easier. The fabric is thick, wool-like, but soft to the touch. It comes to your knees, probably the only skirt in the store that does so, and much to your surprise, it smooths out every piece of pudge even without tights. You look at yourself in the mirror and you look... lovely. Elegant, with a hint of sexy that looks good on you for once. 

Peaking your head out of the room, you see Molly and the group of friends -- Ramona, Hugh, Paul, and Chandler, you’ve since learned -- eagerly eyeing the dressing rooms. They’re all sitting on the pink, crushed velvet couch Molly has set up for shoppers, their knees bouncing with anticipation. 

You move your body out inch by inch, as if to step out of the room too quickly would cause your body to burst into flames. The closer you get to the main room, the hotter your body burns with embarrassment, the harsher the feeling of invisible eyes feel on you. You know that Molly won’t tease you, that she is a constant purveyor of how naturally gorgeous you are. But somewhere in the back of your head, the harsh words of your mother hammer away. You can just imagine that Ramona and Hugh and Paul and Chandler and whoever peaks through Molly’s windows will have some awful things to say. It wouldn’t be anything new, you’ve heard it all. Doesn’t mean you want to keep hearing it.

Molly spots your hair poking out of the doorway and squeals. Your “new friends” squeal in response and then it’s just a chain reaction of everyone squealing and cheering at you. You creep further into the room and Molly pushes you the rest of the way onto the fitting pedestal. 

“Do a twirl!” Molly yells and the rest of them start chanting until you do, in fact, twirl on the pedestal. More squealing. Their joy and support become infectious, and slowly you pull your arms away from their place shielding your stomach. 

You look head on at the three full length mirrors set up opposite the couch, you don’t shy away. You’re loving how you look in this moment, you find it impossible to fixate on the lumps and bumps anymore. It feels as though you made to look like this, still so completely you and yet as beautiful as you always wished you felt. It’s perfect now.

“Go off, girl!” Chandler yells.

“Your man is going to wish he had you back,” Hugh cheers.

“If he bothers you again you call us and we’ll all beat his ass,” Ramona says and her friends whoop in agreement.

Behind you, you can hear the jingle of the bell hanging from the door. Raising your head to stare at the door through the mirror, (e/c) eyes meet glowing red ones, wide with shock. He has a sheepish smile, not all teeth like his “going out” smile, but just as wide. He has that damn box in his hands, his claws tapping the sides. 

Everything goes quiet and you might as well have been the only two people in the room. Molly ushers Ramona and her friends into the back room before the terror can fully set in and you’re grateful. You don’t really want anyone nearby for whatever is about to happen. 

Once everyone is out of the line of fire, you sigh and turn to face him, willing the confidence from your little fashion show to sustain you for just a little longer. 

“Alastor.”

He doesn’t say anything back, eyes still trained on you, because what is he supposed to say? ‘I’m sorry for taking you to a cesspool of women thirsting after me?’ ‘I’m sorry I’m such a tainted, wretched soul who is so undeserving of you?’ ‘I’m sorry I’m too much of a coward to tell you I love you?’ He pulls the box closer to his chest. 

“You look stunning,” is all he can muster. Not horrible, probably not the best thing either, though.

“I know,” you say back, keeping your face stern.

His smile grows wider but remains sheepish, maybe even bashful, which is impossible because when has Alastor ever been bashful? 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmurs.

“I’m really fine, Alastor,” you lie. “You don’t have as much of an effect on people as you think.” Another lie.

“There are millions of dead souls who would beg to differ but--”

You send him the most seething glare you can muster and he pulls back. He looks back down to the gift, eyeing it as if it has all the answers, the map to getting back what’s been lost between you.

“I apologize if you were uncomfortable. That was not my intention.” 

“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” you seethe. “I wasn’t anything except tired and overcome with a desire to see my sister.”

“You’re a horrible liar,” he says as he starts to roam around the store while remaining a safe distance from you. In the mirror, you catch the red glint in your eyes and blink to force it away.

Words start to pour from your mouth, recklessly and unhinged, “And you don’t owe me anything. I don’t need you following me around town after I explicitly told you not to follow me. I don’t need you to “escort” me to meetings just so you can see your girl toys. I’m not an excuse, I’m not a guise. I can take care of myself, lord knows I’ve done so for decades without you.”

“I know.” You were expecting the room to burst into flames and for the sound of radio static to overwhelm you, not for him to remain smiling down at the floor, albeit with a hint of melancholy.

“You know?”

“I know.” He starts to take small steps towards you. “I know you don’t need me, you proved that today. You are more than brilliant and poised and powerful in your own right. I know that. But I’m afraid that what has happened is rather the opposite.”

He makes it to the pedestal and even with the extra inches you are barely as tall as him. But he has never seemed so small to you in this moment.

He is not a man who cowers, he does not beg, that shows weakness and he learned from a young age that you cannot afford weakness. Don’t show your neck, don’t bow your head, stand as tall as you can and bare your teeth. He can’t do that, though, not with you. What you need is openness and vulnerability from him, signs that you bring out something that no one else can.

“My dear, you do not need me,” he whispers and holds out the box to you. Somehow you tear your eyes away to focus on unraveling the bow and peel back the packing paper. There, glittering on a small slice of foam, are two necklaces: one a heart with a keyhole cut out, the other, the matching key.

Alastor dips two claws into the package and takes with him the heart-shaped lock, and to your surprise, he clasps it to his own neck.

“But I, dearly and desperately, need you.” He plucks the key from the box and holds it out to you in the palm of his hand. 

“Alastor...”

“You can say no. You can throw this in my face and I won’t stop you,” he smiles sadly. “But you will always, in a way, have it. You will always have me.”

You’re not an impulsive person, not really, and not compared to your siblings and friends. Now that you think about it, you’ve never actually had an urge like that. Until now. Until the feeling of something glowing and bright moving up from the pit of your stomach, through your throat and your vessels until they reached your chest.

You surge forward, pull him down by his lapels, and kiss him. He tenses initially, and you hear the familiar pop of a radio cutting in and out, before he melts against you. One arm encircles your waist and the other goes into your hair, keeping you securely against him. The kiss itself is a little sloppy on his part, inexperienced and cautious, which makes sense considering his aversion to intimate activities. But there’s a relief in the inexperience, in knowing that you’re one of, if not the, first one to do this with him. It doesn’t go any further than passionate lip-locking, but the way he clings to you and you to him, like two cogs sliding together, is more than enough for you both. 

When you pull away he chases after you and his arms tighten. He’s not quite ready for you to be any less than a few centimeters from him. You release a giddy giggle and lean your forehead against his own, noses nuzzling, heartbeats sharing. You feel cool metal against your neck and look down, spotting your half of the necklace resting against your chest.

“We should go,” you whisper.

“Mm, go where?” He asks as he begins to sway your entangled bodies back and forth.

“Somewhere far away from the eager ears of my sister.”

Alastor’s ears perk up and his eyes dart to the back room, where he can just catch a retreating shadow, presumably belonging to Molly.

“You might be right about that, dearest.”

[blackwoolncrown]

The defining feature of conversation is the expectation of a response. It would just be a monologue without one. In person, or on the phone, those responses come astoundingly quickly: After one person has spoken, the other replies in an average of just 200 milliseconds.

In recent decades, written communication has caught up—or at least come as close as it’s likely to get to mimicking the speed of regular conversation (until they implant thought-to-text microchips in our brains). It takes more than 200 milliseconds to compose a text, but it’s not called “instant” messaging for nothing: There is an understanding that any message you send can be replied to more or less immediately.

But there is also an understanding that you don’t have to reply to any message you receive immediately. As much as these communication tools are designed to be instant, they are also easily ignored. And ignore them we do. Texts go unanswered for hours or days, emails sit in inboxes for so long that “Sorry for the delayed response” has gone from earnest apology to punchline.

People don’t need fancy technology to ignore each other, of course: It takes just as little effort to avoid responding to a letter, or a voicemail, or not to answer the door when the Girl Scouts come knocking. As Naomi Baron, a linguist at American University who studies language and technology, puts it, “We’ve dissed people in lots of formats before.” But what’s different now, she says, is that “media that are in principle asynchronous increasingly function as if they are synchronous.”

The result is the sense that everyone could get back to you immediately, if they wanted to—and the anxiety that follows when they don’t. But the paradox of this age of communication is that this anxiety is the price of convenience. People are happy to make the trade to gain the ability to respond whenever they feel like it.

While you may know, rationally, that there are plenty of good reasons for someone not to respond to a text or an email—they’re busy, they haven’t seen the message yet, they’re thinking about what they want to say—it doesn’t always feel that way in a society where everyone seems to be on their smartphone all the time. A Pew survey found that 90 percent of cellphone owners “frequently” carry their phone with them, and 76 percent say they turn their phone off “rarely” or “never.” In one small 2015 study, young adults checked their phones an average of 85 times a day. Combine that with the increasing social acceptability of using your smartphone when you’re with other people, and it’s reasonable to expect that it probably doesn’t take that long for a recipient to see any given message.

“You create for people an environment where they feel as though they could be responded to instantaneously, and then people don’t do that. And that just has anxiety all over it,” says Sherry Turkle, the director of the Initiative on Technology and Self at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

It’s anxiety-inducing because written communication is now designed to mimic conversation—but only when it comes to timing. It allows for a fast back-and-forth dialogue, but without any of the additional context of body language, facial expression, and intonation. It’s harder, for example, to tell that someone found your word choice off-putting, and thus to correct it in real-time, or try to explain yourself better. When someone’s in front of you, “you do get to see the shadow of your words across someone else’s face,” Turkle says.

In last month’s viral New Yorker short story “Cat Person,” a young woman embarks on a failed romantic relationship with a man she meets at the movie theater where she works. They only go on one date in the story; they get to know each other primarily over text. When the affair ends messily, it reveals not only how the bubble of romantic expectations can be popped by reality’s needle, but also how weak digital communication is as a scaffolding on which to build an understanding of another person.

In an interview, the story’s author, Kristen Roupenian, said the piece was inspired by “the strange and flimsy evidence we use to judge the contextless people we meet outside our existing social networks, whether online or off.” Indeed, even for the people we already know, we increasingly rely on contextless forms of communication. This puts an unusually large burden on the words themselves (and maybe some emojis) to convey what is meant. And each message, and each pause in between messages, takes on outsize importance.

“Text messages become marks on rocks to be analyzed and sweated over,” Turkle says.

It’s not always easy to figure out what someone meant to convey by using a certain emoji, or by waiting three days to text you back. Different people have different ideas about how long it’s appropriate to wait to respond. As Deborah Tannen, a linguist at Georgetown University, wrote in The Atlantic, the signals that are sent by how people communicate online—the “metamessages” that accompany the literal messages—can easily be misinterpreted:

Human beings are always in the business of making meaning and interpreting meaning. Because there are options to choose from when sending a message, like which platform to use and how to use it, we see meaning in the choice that was made. But because the technologies, and the conventions for using them, are so new and are changing so fast, even close friends and relatives have differing ideas about how they should be used. And because metamessages are implied rather than stated, they can be misinterpreted or missed entirely.

This metamessage opacity spawns thousands of other text messages a year, as people enlist their friends to help interpret exactly what their romantic interest meant by a certain turn of phrase, or whether a week-long radio silence means they’re being ghosted. (The New Yorker parodied this collaborative textual analysis in a video in which a group of women gather, war-room style, to answer the question “Was It a Date?”)

Features intended to add clarity—like read receipts or the little bubble with the ellipses in iMessage that tells you when someone is typing (which is apparently called the “typing awareness indicator”)—often just cause more anxiety, by offering definitive evidence for when someone is ignoring you or started to reply only to put it off longer.

* * *

But just because people know how stressful it can be to wait for a reply to what they thought would be an instant message doesn’t mean they won’t ignore others’ messages in turn.

Sometimes people don’t respond as a way of deliberately signaling they’re annoyed, or that they don’t want to continue a relationship. Turkle says sometimes taking a long time to write back is a way of establishing dominance in a relationship, by making yourself look simply too busy and important to reply.

But oftentimes, people are just trying to manage the quantity of messages and notifications they receive. In 2015, the average American was receiving 88 business emails per day, according to the market research firm Radicati, but only sending 34 business emails per day. Because—who has the time to respond to 88 emails a day? Maybe someone isn’t responding because they’ve realized the interruption of a notification negatively affects their productivity, so they’re ignoring their phone to get some work done.

I find myself ignoring or procrastinating even important messages, and ones I want and intend to respond to. I had to create a bright red “Needs Response” email label to battle my own “delayed response” problem. I regularly read texts, think “I’ll respond to that later,” and then completely forget about it.  Working memory—the brain’s mental to-do list—can only hold so much at once, and when notifications get crammed in with shopping lists and work tasks, sometimes it springs a leak.

“A lot of the time what’s happening is people have five conversations going on, and they just can’t really be intimate and present with five different people,” Turkle says. “So they kind of do a triage, they prioritize, they forget. Your brain is not a perfect instrument for processing texts. But it will be interpreted as though it really was a conversation, and so you can hurt people.”

* * *

Still, even though instant written communication can be overwhelming and anxiety-inducing, people prefer it. Americans spend more time texting than talking on the phone, and texting is the most frequent form of communication for Americans under 50.

While texting is popular worldwide, Baron, of American University, thinks that a strong preference for communication that can be easily ignored is a particularly American attitude. “Americans have far fewer manners in general in their communication than a lot of other societies,” she says. “The second issue is a real feeling of empowerment. I think we have become a version of power freaks, not just control freaks.”

In a survey Baron conducted in 2007 and 2008 of students in several countries including the United States, the things that people said they liked most about their phones were often related to control. One American woman said her favorite thing was “Constant communication when I want it (can also shut it off when I don’t).”

“What I have seen in this country, and I don’t know if it’s a national trait, is people wait until they think they have the perfect thing to say, as though relationships can be managed by writing the perfect thing,” Turkle says. “And I think that is something we pay a very high cost for.”

In Baron’s survey, people also mentioned feeling controlled by their phones—bemoaning how dependent they were on the devices, and how the constant connectivity made them feel obligated to respond.

But texts and emails don’t create as big of an obligation as phone calls, or a face-to-face conversation. When young adults are interviewed about why they don’t like making phone calls, they cite a distaste for how “invasive” they are, and a reluctance to place that burden on someone else. Written instant messages create a smokescreen of plausible deniability if someone doesn’t feel like responding, which can be relieving for the hider, and frustrating for the seeker.

More than anything, what the age of instant communication has enabled is the ability to deal with conversation on our own terms. We can respond right away, we can put it off for two days, or never get around to it at all. We can manage several different conversations at once. “Sorry, I was out with friends,” we might say, as an excuse for not texting someone back. Or, “Sorry, I just need to text this person back real quick,” we might say while out with friends.

As these things become normal, it creates an environment where we are only comfortable asking for slivers of people’s distracted time, lest they ever obligate us to give them our full and undivided attention.

[nayialovecat]

Would you mind sharing how you bring SATIM comics to life for us? ^_^

Ha, ha, I've been waiting for question like that. Okay... *stretches the clasped hands, you can hear the crash of knuckles* Here we go.

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

First of all, at the very beginning I would like to point out that each comic I make has a completely different method of creation. I draw a comic strip othey way (like SATIM), than comic page (like Kuro and Ninja or Before Henry). The former are characterized by great chaos, while the latter do not often differ from the final versions.

But let's focus now only on the comic strip for SATIM.

It all starts with an idea. I usually come up with ideas when I'm away from home and beyond the ability to save an idea, so many of them, unfortunately, are lost forever (sometimes I compe up with them again). However, if the idea is not forgotten and I return home, depending on whether I have time to draw or not - I either start sketching it right away in the form of comic frames or just writing the idea on a piece of paper. Apart from single exceptions (e.g. Radio strip), I do not write a script for a comic but I draw it straight away. The sketch is my scenario XD

For this reason, sketches can be very chaotic - sometimes the frames are completely out of sequence. I rarely sketch backgrounds at this stage (I rarely sketch them at all XD) - they are created only in the final stage of making the lineart. Let's see it on the example of Bacon Soup, part 1.

Sketches are often very simplified, I do not play with details (e.g. stripes on Sammy's harness). In addition, I draw comic strips without dividing them into individual parts at first - so on one A4 page there can be frames from two different parts of a given strip (like here).

I also use what I call recycling, i.e. reusing a frame - when I know that the frames will not differ too much, I very often draw only those differences...

The second point in creating the strip is rewriting the texts from it. Since I draw in English, often without access to a dictionary, my sketches are often very linguistically incorrect. At this stage, therefore, I initially correct dialogues, vocabulary, grammar - and then send the rewritten text to one of my English proofreaders. Each strip goes through two people - they are usually Titatotrix and Ozio, but sometimes when either of them has no time, I turn to my husband. Discussions about dialogues are very often carried out here, sometimes it leads to minor changes in the structure (e.g. adding a frame or removing it) or dialogues.

Above you can see corrected text of strip.

After linguistic proofreading, it's finally time for the lineart. This is probably the most important stage, though not the most time-consuming. I correct the sketches I made previously, usually starting with the speech bubbles and adding backgrounds to them. For this purpose, I use my UniPin fineliners, which have been proven for years and do not smear when using an eraser. Each part of the frame has its own fineliner - for example, speech bubbles are made with 2-thick fineliners, the foreground is 1-thick, but further plans and sometimes the background is 0.5 mm thick.

When the lineart is ready, there are two steps that I honestly hate - wiping the pencil lines with an eraser and scanning. Scanning a single page can take up to an hour, 'cause if it turns out that the lines that should be perfectly horizontal aren't that in relation to the edge of the sheet, the fun of arranging the sheet on the scanner begins. I honestly hate it.

After scanning, we have the stage of cleaning the lineart in the computer. I'm only human, you know, I make mistakes and errors. But since I process the strips on my computer, I can afford it. The graphics program I'm using is GIMP. I start by reducing the brightness and increasing the contrast and of course the desaturation. Then I erase all the unnecessary lines, correct mistakes (all red loops on screen above), and sometimes add in pieces that I have forgotten (e.g., I always forgotten about the patch on Sammy's trousers).

Next comes what often takes the most time - that is, arranging and placing frames. It sounds simple, but it is not. Frames must look aesthetically pleasing, the comic book must have internal symmetry - or just express controlled chaos. Setting the width of the frames, arranging them, creating recycled frames, adding backgrounds (if they were drawn separately), sometimes moving the speech bubbles... it can take up to several hours!

The next stage is my favourite - colouring. In the case of SATIM, where I really only color black and sometimes the shining elements light yellow or darker ones in dark yellow, this is also the shortest step in making the strip.

Usually, at the end, I leave myself to make bright contours on a black background. Working on them mainly involves manipulating the eraser tool, and then change colour to the background's. After this stage, sometimes there is play with details - light effects, Bendy's spots, etc.

When the strip is ready, there is only one thing to do - importing to a graphic file and zooming out (I work on a high resolution, which is inconvenient to read). Et voila!

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

I hope you'll enjoy this "secret of SATIM's strips making". I've wanted to do something like this for a long time, but I didn't feel like doing it myself, so thank you for asking, @sobercupcake ^ ^

[stressy-enby]

Chapter 4: The Team Up

Cover made on Canva.com

You were great at running. You’d been running from your problems for year, both figuratively and literally. Before however, your problems followed you, now they simply wait on bated breath for your return. What’s the point in running, though, if no one’s chasing you?

Previous - Next

Masterlist

I’ll be honest here, I’m not the happiest with this chapter. It definitely could’ve been a lot better, but I wasn’t sure how to get all the story I wanted in a way that I’m satisfied with, so we’ll just roll with it.

. . .

Tenya bounced his foot from it’s balanced perch on his knee, watching the gray ellipses bubble across the side of his phone scree.

(Y/N) (L/N): I’m almost there, cool your jets. I’m not even late!

He chuckled, imagining them saying those words in irritation, arms thrown up into the air. He sent back a quick “Alright, see you in a bit”.

It had been a few weeks since that late-night phone call, and in that time (L/N) and Tenya had become good friends. Their schedules clashed horribly, but Tenya had made a point of moving his lunch break back a half an hour so he could text or call (L/N) during it, and they both tried to go out for breakfast whenever they had a free morning.

The other night when Tenya was on the phone with (L/N) again, they mentioned that they were close to catching a check frauder, and the station was putting together a small team of heroes to capture him.

“We’ve got Red Riot, Suneater, and Creati, but we’d like to get someone else.” (L/N) had said. “Honestly, I think we should add you to the team. We need someone fast.”

“I’d be honored to join you!” Tenya had announced. “Red Riot and Creati were actually my classmates back in high school, so it would be nice to see them again.”

“Oh, cool! I can have someone send your agency a formal request, just to have the paperwork.” Tenya had felt their eye roll in his soul. “Bleh.”

Tenya was sitting awkwardly in his bulky costume in an office at the police station. Yaoyorozu and Kirishima were chatting quietly as Amajiki stood off to the side, avoiding eye contact. Antonov was also there, flipping some records with two other police officers Tenya didn’t know. He checked his phone again.

(Y/N) (L/N): Dude, quite checking your phone, I’m right here

His head snapped to the open door, seeing the person in question walking over, smirk plastered on their face, right beneath their sunglasses.

“Hey, party people,” (L/N) slipped in, closing the door behind them.

“Good of you to join us,” One of the officers remarked icily.

“Cool it, Nakamura, I’m on time.” They dismissed, taking the last free seat.

“Doesn’t matter, we’re all here now.” Antonov interrupted, sensing the tension. “Heroes, thank you for joining us today. With any luck we can be in, out, and done before noon.”

He continued to brief them. The suspect, who they knew as Kin Subete was staying at a motel on the outskirts of the city. The team, led by Antonov and (L/N) was going to go in and storm his room.

“(Y/N), Nakamura, Shugin, and I will go I with Creati.” Antonov stated. “Suneater, Red Riot, and Ingenium, you guys hang outside in case he makes a break for it.”

(L/N) rested their head on their fist, raising an eyebrow. “I think we should have all heroes outside, that way they can surround the building.”

“Ah, come on, it’s not like Subete could escape from all directions.” Nakamura snapped. “We only need eyes on his window and the emergency exits near his room.”

“But not the main exit?”

“He wouldn’t be that stupid-”

“Well, if it were me, I’d waltz right out the front door.” (L/N) said cooly. “You wouldn’t know what I looked like, so I could walk right past you while you’re en route to my room. Then I’d check out and leave as though I have nothing to hide.” 

“I’m sure none of us need reminding that they’ve done precisely that to us.” Shugin, winced, and gestured to (L/N), running a hand through her hair.

“Right. We should get someone to keep an eye on the front desk, and we’ll have you four outside, surrounding the building.” Antonov told the heroes.

“I’ll watch the desk.” (L/N) offered. They slipped the sunglasses down their nose a little to gaze at Antonov. “I’ll have no trouble picking him out of a crowd.”

“Agreed. Are there any other thoughts or questions?” Antonov closed his file, placing his reading glasses on his head.

“Someone should keep an eye on (L/N) while they’re at the desk.” Nakamura said, suspicion dripping from his words.

“My guy, do you really think I’m gonna pass up the opportunity to have my very own “Gotcha” moment?” They laughed, seemingly not offended by the insinuation.

“I doubt there’s any cause for concern, but there’ll be a hero right outside the door, anyway.” Shugin pointed out.

“Well, if there are no more baseless accusations, then can we get going?” (L/N) asked, crossing their arms. “I wanna have my lunch break on time.”

. . .

The job was faster than Tenya had anticipated. He hadn’t been positioned outside for more then fifteen minutes before (L/N) emerged from the motel, dragging a middle-age swearing man behind them.

“I was right!” They sang, waving to Tenya. “I watched homeboy here walk right past Tai and the gang. Wasn’t sure at first, but then I got a good look at each other.”

“That’s.... anti climatic.” The armored hero admitted, grabbing the wriggling man so he didn’t bolt. “Wait, how did you know it was him?”

“It’s my quirk.” They said simply, fishing a pair of handcuffs out of their pocket, and snapping them around Subete’s wrists.

Tenya contemplated asking for elaboration as (L/N) radioed Antonov.

“Ugh, I could practically hear Nakamura rolling his eyes!” They remarked gleefully when they got off the call. “Can’t wait to see the look on his face.”

“You two don’t get along too well, do you?”

“Nah, he hates me.” They shrugged nonchalantly. “He’s not the only one, though. He’s just the most obvious about it.”

“Why would-” Tenya cut himself off, feeling a little silly for even having to ask. “It’s about your past, isn’t it?”

“Ring-a-ding-ding.” (L/N) monotoned, their mouth twisting into a frown. “A lot of my coworkers don’t think I deserve to be here, or that I can even be trusted. I don’t fault them for it, I just wish that some people didn’t remind me how much they feel that way every damn day.”

“That is rather unfair,” Tenya remarked, his brows furrowing as he watched Antonov, Nakamura, and Shugin speed walk out of the motel.

“Tell Nakamura that.”

“What happened?” Shugin demanded, breathing heavily. 

“Subete walked right past you and tried to check out like I figured.” (L/N) reported. “Even if I didn’t have the power of a super convenient quirk, he seemed a little too twitchy to just be a regular patron.”

“Well isn’t that something? Alright, Nakamura? Get him in the car?” Antonov directed.

“Yeah, yeah.” He muttered, grabbing Subete and carting him off.

“Oh, I forgot to radio the other heroes.” (L/N) suddenly exclaimed. “Y’know? I’ll just run around and grab them.”

Antonov chuckled as they power walked away. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they’re softening up.”

“What do you mean?” Tenya asked, taking his helmet off.

“(Y/N)’s pretty bright, and they have a sharp memory. Now, it could’ve just slipped their mind in the excitement, but,” The older man smirked a little at the taller hero, his eyes glistening with a spark that Tenya couldn’t quite identify. “something tells me that they may’ve been a little distracted.”

“I’m still not sure I understand what you’re trying to say.”

“Oh, who knows? Personally, I just think they’re happy to have another friend. They don’t seem to have too many of those.”

[puckngrind]

Skating Lessons: part 30 - J. Anderson

Summary: Josh’s birthday in the middle of a pandemic.

Warning: language, smut, quarantine, smut

Word count: 2,957

Series Masterlist

“Momma, why doesn’t Josh get a birthday party?” Mason adds the candles to the pancakes and you hand him the sprinkles. His eyes go wide.

“Remember the germs that made hockey stop? Well Josh cannot go home to his family.” You grab the shaker realizing there were plenty of blue sprinkles.

“Aren’t we kinda like his family too?” Mason questions. You go to answer when Josh appears from the hall. His hair sticking straight up as he pulled his shirt down.

“Yup Mace. I wouldn’t want to spend my birthday with anyone else.” Josh kisses your forehead and fist bumps Mason. “You two didn’t have to make me birthday pancakes, you know.”

“Yes we did it’s your... your... Momma, what’s it called when we do something every year?”

“Tradition. Speaking of...” Your fingers scroll and click and Josh looks at you with one eyebrow up as the distinct sound of FaceTime buzzes. “Everyone ready there?” You move the phone to Josh’s view from where he sat in front of the pancakes.

“Hi Mom! And Dad, and Jess, Jordan, Jake.” Josh looks up at you with a smile as you light the candles.

“Ready?” Mason climbs into Josh’s lap and starts singing. You see Josh’s eyes water as his family joins Mason and yourself. Mason helps him blow out the candles and you hear the cheers from the Anderson family. They chat a little as Josh and Mason share his sprinkle filled pancakes.

You retreat to your bedroom to change your batter covered clothes. Mason might be an adorable sous chef but he was definitely a messy one. You see the shirt you want and reach for the top shelf in your closest when Josh’s arms wrap just under your chest and his lips ghost your ear. “You didn’t have to orchestrate that (y/n) but thank you.” You turn and wrap your arms around his neck.

“You deserve it. I was hoping to make your birthday a little better than last year.” Josh winces and you know it just brought back the memory. “Sorry. I am clearly sucking at making it better.”

“Oh Baby. Just me getting to do this makes my birthday better than last year.” Josh kisses your lips softly and you hum in approval.

“Just wait until this evening.” You pull away from him and see the confusion in his eyes. “My parents are taking Mace for the evening.”

“So I have you all to myself?” Josh pulls your body into him and you nod while sucking your lip into your teeth. “26 is looking up already.” He kisses your lips again and a slight moan slips out. “Hmm, well that can wait.” He chuckles and breaks your embrace. By the time you changed and found Josh and Mason they were outside playing on the swing set in the back yard. Neither one seems to notice that you stepped out to the patio.

“So Josh, why can you go to work but some of your other teammates can’t?” Mason asks while Josh pushes him on the swing.

“Well, remember when I didn’t play?” Josh rubs his shoulder absentmindedly. Mason nods. “Well, that’s why. The doctors and trainers can still work on me and Seth since we were hurt when the season stopped.”

“But I cannot go skating?” Mason asks and Josh laughs a little.

“No Bud, but Cam said we can go to his rink soon, kay?” Josh looks up finally and sees your smile. “Look, Momma came out. Now we can order lunch!” Both of your boys cheer.

The three of you load up in your car and head to pick up lunch from one of Josh’s favorite restaurants. Since March, getting out of the house for simple tasks was exciting. The early May weather was nice and Josh suggested you eat down by the river. The three of you found a spot in the grass by the bike path. Mason downed his lunch and got up quickly to start running around and skipping rocks in the river.

“Do you miss living downtown J?” You break the comfortable silence taking in your surroundings and Josh’s hand finds yours as you leaned back watching Mason.

“Nope. Living alone in the city isn’t the life I want anymore, (y/n).” Josh leans over and kisses your lips. “Nothing compares to what I have now.” You feel the heat flood your face.

“I was thinking, if you liked living closer... we could...” Josh’s lips stop your stammering.

“Nope. Suburban living with great schools is exactly where we should be.” Josh kisses you again. “Now we could go to my condo tonight for a change of pace.” You almost forgot Josh still had his condo. He let a few of the call ups stay in it since he moved in with you and Mason. “It hasn’t been used in months.” Josh winks at you.

“I do miss my old bed.” You laugh out.

“Who said we were using the bed?” Josh retorts with his tongue sticking out between his teeth. You immediately feel the heat in your cheeks and between your legs. 

You dropped Mason off at your parents after lunch and went back home to pack a bag. Josh got a few calls and texts from his hockey family wishing they could celebrate with him while you scurried around him.

“It feels like a pretend get away you know.” You joke as Josh slides into the driver seat after putting your bag in the back.

“It does and as soon as this Covid shit is done I’m taking you wherever you want to go.” Josh’s fingers interlace yours. “Vacation sounds amazing.”

“Agreed.” You breathe out. “But being here has been okay, yes? Normally now you are in some warm climate or home, right?” Josh’s eyes look over at you with that look.

“Well, ideally we would be playing hockey until June, but yeah.” Josh squeezes your hand. “I have enjoyed spring with you through. Next year it won’t be this way. Kinda nice since this is our first year together that we have this extra time. You know?”

“Not sharing you with hockey...” you stop yourself realizing that hockey was in fact his job and now how he was supporting not only you but Mason since quitting your job officially last month.

“Not sharing me is nice? Is that what you were going to say?” Josh pulls into the curbside pick up. You nod. “I understand. Most of the guys have said their families are loving this time and with talks of coming back in August, well it will make for a weird playoff and off season.”

“I don’t understand.” You pull your eyebrows together.

“Well if this whole bubble thing happens I’ll leave for at least a few weeks, and then we don’t start the next season until Christmas.” Josh calls the restaurant to tell them he was there.

“So you will have more time off in October and November?” You ask after he’s off the phone.

“From the sounds of it. David is representing us in all the talks. Seth is his back up.”

“Oh! And trades happen?” You whisper.

“Anytime after we are eliminated, potentially. But we are celebrating and not talking about that shit right now. Hear me, (y/n)?” Josh rolls the window and grabs your food, thanking the server. “Yeah, Baby?” He leans to place the food behind you and pulls your face to his kissing you lightly.

“We will talk about it, eventually?” You try not to sound panicked.

“Yeah for sure, when I have more answers. Now off to the condo!” Josh starts driving and instantly hums to the song on the radio. He pulls into his parking spot and sighs.

“You okay Josh?” Your hand rubs his cheek.

“Yeah, just lots of memories. It seems like a lifetime ago when you left me in my boxers in this garage. A life time.” Josh tries to pull a smile.

“That was before my accident, when I still wasn’t sure why...” you trail off. Josh’s lips find yours.

“I’m glad you trust me now.” He jokes. “Now let’s get out of the car and enjoy our evening.” The smirk you loved crosses over his lips and he lets go of you to retrieve the bags. Some how holding your overnight bag and dinner in one hand and your hand with his other you make your way to his condo. Closing the door you hear Josh’s breath hitch.

“Welcome home.” You joke.

“Yeah, it doesn’t seem very homey anymore but I’m glad the guys didn’t destroy it.” He chuckles dropping dinner on the table and your bag on the floor by the hall. “Let’s eat first.” His lips find yours and his arms wrap around you.

“Your actions and words don’t match J.” You inhale to catch your breath.

“I know. But if we let dinner get cold it’s not as good.” He breaks from you and pulls out the seat. The two of you enjoy dinner talking about normal life things and your foot finds his leg rubbing it ever so lightly as dinner was almost finished your foot found it’s way between Josh’s leg making him drop his fork. “Fuck.”

“Sorry, did I go too far?” You move your foot and Josh’s hand catches your ankle.

“No. That wasn’t a turned on fuck not an annoyed fuck.” You chuckle as Josh stands. His erection pulling his shorts tight. Holding his hand out for you to stand with him. He pulls your body flush to his and the feeling of him on you makes your body weak. His tongue quickly swiping through your mouth wanting to be closer to you. He steps into you until your back hits the glass wall. Pulling your leg up over his hip. Josh only releasing your lips to kiss down your neck then back up to your lips. You moan in his mouth and feel his grunt rumble throughout your body. Your core throbbing for him as he pulls at your top. “Off.” He orders.

“Can anyone see us?” Your hand covers his.

“No. Tinted at night.” Josh bites at your collarbone and then pulls your shirt off. “I could fuck your right here and no one would see us.”

“Josh!” You aren’t sure if it was out of protest or turned on. “It is your birthday.” He nods and reaches up to pull of his shirt.

“So maybe we should be in our birthday suits then?” Josh goes to take off your leggings.

“Wow! 26 has brought the corny jokes, eh?” You bite the inside of your cheek and look up at Josh. His blue eyes full of desire.

“Hush. Just get naked.” He starts at your leggings again when there is a knock at the door. “Who the fuck is that?” He doesn’t move.

“Oh! It’s cake!” You almost forgot that you ordered a small cake from the bakery down the street. You slink out from between Josh and the window.

“Babe! You are just in your bra!” Josh turns on his heels.

“They are leaving it at your door. No contact whatever.” You open the door slightly making sure no one was there and grab the box sitting on the door mat. Shutting the door you jump not realizing Josh had followed you. “I forgot candles but happy birthday.” You slowly open the box to reveal the tiny frosted cake. Without saying anything Josh pulls you up into his arms and you yelp. “Want to eat the cake first?” You look at Josh thankful you had two hands on the box.

“We are bringing it with us.” Josh’s animalistic tone made your panties wet. He slowly dropped you to your feet, takes the cake from your hold and places it on the night stand. “Now where was I?” Josh reaches around and flicks off your bra with ease and starts to ease you out of your leggings and panties. You easily release his shorts and drop to your knees as you pull down his boxers and spring his cock free. Josh grunts from above you and sits slightly on the side of the bed. Your hand slides down his length then your tongue licks at his tip. His thighs tighten and his fists ball up the sheets. You start to wrap your lips around him and stop.

“Can you lay on the bed instead?” You look up at Josh who’s eyes are screwed shut and he nods shifting up into the bed and you follow. Placing your body between his legs you drop your mouth down around him. Josh’s hips shift as he hits the back of your throat. You slide up and down his length slowly eliciting barbaric sounds from his lips. Your hands press into his thighs as you hollow out your cheeks for him.

“(Y/n). Slow. Down.” Josh’s voice is strained and you giggle with him still in your mouth. “Fuck.” You slowly pull off of him. You see your man completely unglued above you. You eye the cake and snake your body up his kissing his lips.

“I’ll slow down.” You smirk and flip open the box. Swiping your finger in the icing and placing your finger in Josh’s mouth. He sucks it off and his eyes go wide.

“That’s delicious.” He says. “You should try it.” Before his fingers can get to the box your finger swipes more frosting off the top and swipe it down the hard line between his pecks and abs. “Fuuuuccck.” The sound of pure pleasure escapes his lips.

“Oops. Let me get that.” Your mischievous smile is noticed as you shift your weight. Licking from his navel to his chest. Josh’s muscles contract in your path. You lick his nipples and then move up to his lips. His hands find your hips and flip both of you over.

“My turn.” Josh’s eyes are dark and his lips press to yours with a sense of need. He swipes at the cake and pulls up on his arm to rub frosting on your nipple. He immediately pulls it in between his teeth and sucks hard. You moan loudly and out of habit cover your mouth. “We are alone. Remember?” He removes your hand. “I wanna hear you.” He let’s go and your hand finds his hair. Josh’s fingers dance at your entrance. “Fuck you are soaked.” Josh kisses your lips and brings his hand back up to suck off his fingers.

“I know it’s your birthday but I need you.” You pull at his neck in desperation. And Josh only answers by pressing deep inside of you. You let out a sound of relief as he bottoms out and you feel him deep inside. He wastes no time finding a rhythm that makes you both moan out in pleasure. “Josh.” You pant out feeling your orgasm build. Josh’s lips find yours again.

“Come with me.” He grunts out as he picks up his pace causing both of you to hit your highs. Josh doesn’t let up as you come down from your orgasm. He presses his body up so his torso is hovering over yours. He kisses your lips again and then your heaving chest. He pulls out of you as his mouth leaves open mouth kisses down your body.

“What.” you try to catch your breath as his lips find your thighs. “Are you doing?”

“I’m not done but I need a break.” He looks at you with a glimmer in his eye then proceeds to lick through your fold causing your entire body to jolt.

“Holy shit!” You scream out as his tongue fucks into you and his thumb finds your clit. You move your feet to his back and feel his skin in your toes as they curl into his back. He’s relentless and knows exactly where to move to make you yell out his name. When you are sure he will let up his body moves quickly up your and he presses into you again. A slew of curse words leaves Josh’s mouth as he holds his hips tight to yours. He drops to his forearms so his lips ghost yours.

“You feel so fucking good, Baby.” Josh whispers into your ear and you feel yourself melt under him. “Hold on just a moment longer. Can ya?” He pleads and you nod. He thrusts in and out knowing giving you exactly what you need. Feeling him twitch deep inside you again sends your third maybe forth orgasm crashing over you. Josh’s solid body landing on you. Feeling his sweat drip from his body mixing with yours.

After a few moments of just laying there like that completely blissed out Josh whispers as he rolls off you. “That was...”

“Amazing.” You finish his sentence. His body curled around yours. “Is it this bed, your birthday, or being alone?” You look up and back at Josh.

“Combination maybe. This bed is definitely coming back to our place when I get rid of this condo.” Josh presses his lips to your temple. “And definitely the best birthday I’ve had ever.”

“Really? I’m sure there have been other pretty amazing ones.” You turn and run your hand down his face.

“Nope. Spending the day with the love of my life. I’m not sure anything could top this one.” Josh’s lips find yours.

“Love of your life, huh?” You joke.

“Oh, (y/n), if you don’t know you are the love of my life I’m doing somethin’ wrong.” Josh pulls back to look at you.

“I know, J. I just like hearing it.” He pulls your body on top of his.

“Trust me. I’ll tell you forever how much I love you.” He pulls you into him.

“Forever.” You whisper.

[spaceskam]

Psst. Would you write something where Alex has a really bad day at work and Forrest comes over and takes care of him? Alex protests but Forrest insists and cooks for him and runs him a bath. With some heavy flirting while he uses a loofah lol. Thanks Alyssa!!!!

(okay so it’s a LITTLE different than you asked, but I don’t think you’ll be disappointed!)(also I've tried to add a read more like 7 times and it won't work I'm sorry)

Forrest❤️️: are you home love?

Alex’s thumbs hovered over the keyboard as he stared at the text. The night before they’d agreed that they would get someone to eat after Alex got off work, but that was before his day had gone to shit.

He woke up with his leg too swollen to fit in his prosthetic which meant he had to bring crutches to the base until it went down enough that he could put it on because “you sit behind a desk anyway, Captain”. Then it seemed to be followed by a never-ending stream of just people getting on his nerves, bringing him shit that he already had copies of, sending him memos like they were in an office building, showing off the base to new recruits like it was summer camp, and everyone in the building seemed to be walking with 50lb boots and speaking with bullhorns that distracted him from getting any work done. It was all stuff that he was used to but had chosen today to be annoying.

Alex: raincheck?

Alex: I won’t be good company tonight

Alex barely had time to put his phone away before it lit up again.

Forrest❤️️: will you be mad at me if I came over anyway?

Forrest❤️️: i’ll make you food

Forrest❤️️: tuck you in and read you a bedtime story

Forrest❤️️: I’ll perform an entire John Mulaney routine from memory (radio city bb)

Alex found himself smiling and he shook his head, typing an agreement. He’d made a promise to himself that when this whole thing with Forrest started he was going to really try to make it work. Be honest and open, let himself be vulnerable to get hurt by someone fucking normal. Or, better, not hurt at all. So far there was no pain.

Well, not connected to him. They were good. Alex by himself, on the other hand... Well, he was trying. He felt very grown-up for admitting he wasn’t in a good headspace to go out, but he felt even more grown-up for accepting company when he felt that way. It was a fine line to walk, though, he just couldn’t tip it over into being horrible towards him when he was being nice.

Forrest came barreling into his house in a suspiciously quick fashion, the fact that he was clearly already almost there when he texted Alex in the first place went unspoken. He had a cloth bag of groceries hanging from the crook of his arm, looking something out of a movie.

“No wonder you're in a shitty mood,” Forrest said, walking by him as loud as everyone else had been that day and dropping a kiss to the top of his head. Alex tried not to be affected by the noise even if it made him on edge. “You’re still in that stupid uniform.”

“It’s supposed to a prideful thing.”

“Anarchy, love,” Forrest said instead of an actual response, pushing his hair out of the way and pressing another kiss to his forehead. Alex closed his eyes at the sensation, taking a deep breath. “You gonna be okay while I go cook?”

“Yeah,” Alex said, looking up at him as he stayed leaning over the back of the couch to comb his hair with his fingers. It took a few seconds of him trying to find the right words, but he remembered he was trying to be adult and communicate. “If you’re cooking, um, could you maybe try to be a little quiet? I don’t wanna make you feel bad or anything, it’s just been...”

“A bad brain day,” Forrest filled in and Alex nodded. He gave him another kiss on the face. “I got you.”

Forrest kissed his temple once more and then he took off his shoes. Alex barely heard him, aside from the soft cracks that his ankles made when he walked, as he went into the kitchen.

With a heavy sigh and knowing he wanted to play his part in making himself feel better, he sat up straight and shrugged off the bulky jacket. Then he removed his belt and felt a little bit better. His heart still felt heavy though, that ever present feeling of being three seconds away from crying sitting comfortably in his stomach. He’d gotten quite used to the feeling, but, on days like this, it was palpable.

His legs were heavy, but he slowly bent over to untie his boots. Frustration overwhelmed him when it took more effort than he was willing to give and he closed his eyes tight, taking deep breaths. He just needed to get through his not-quite-a-date with Forrest and then he could go to sleep. He’d be better the next morning.

He was still bent over trying to work up the courage to take off his shoe when Forrest slid back into the room on his multi-colored socks. Alex could feel each vertebra in his spine as he sat up, trying not took look pathetic. Forrest just smiled and sat down beside him, one large low bowl in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

“It’s spaghetti with tofu instead of beef. I think it’s technically tofu bolognese, but I hate saying that word so spaghetti with tofu,” he said with a fond smile, “We can share.”

Alex rested back into his couch, staring at him with an almost sad look that he couldn’t seem to wipe away. How come no matter how much he tried to be good for him, Forrest was still way too good to him?

“Hey, stop it,” Forrest told him, leaning over to put the things in his hands on the coffee table before scooting closer, “Stop looking at me like you’re already preparing for me to leave. I’m not going anywhere, you’re just stuck with me.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Alex argued, but he knew that was a lie. He was sad and he did feel unworthy. Still, Forrest leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips that lingered until Alex felt more at ease.

“Eat, you’ll feel better,” Forrest told him against his lips, pulling away enough to grab the bowl again.

Forrest sat close and they shared. Alex could’ve cried at the careful way he made sure not to eat too loud or scrape his fork against the bottom of the bowl. It was so stupid, but those noises could make him so angry when he felt like this. It wasn’t fair to Forrest and yet he didn’t even seem to mind.

“You wanna tell me about your day?” Forrest asked once he was done. Alex took over the bowl, using the fork to pick out the chunks of tofu once he got tired of the noodles.

“Not really,” Alex sighed. He closed his eyes and breathed a steady breath as he tried to ignore any sense of guilt. But a hand pushed through his hair.

“Okay, you don’t have to,” Forrest said, “What do you need though?”

“What?” Alex asked, voice sharper than it should be. He felt like a body full of pins and needles, yet Forrest didn’t even flinch.

“What do you need? Cuddling? Sex? Me to go? A bath? Talk to me, tell me what I can do,” he urged. But the problem was Alex had never actually been asked that before, never been asked what he needed. He didn’t know. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” Alex answered softly. Forrest nodded and leaned in for another kiss, pulling away all slow.

“I’ll run you a bath and we’ll see if that helps then we’ll know for next time,” he said, getting up and making his way down the hall towards the bathroom. Alex stared in that direction, feeling kind of dumbfounded as he tried to piece together what was going on.

With a sigh, Alex decided to just go along with it. He downed the rest of the wine glass and then dragged himself to his feet. His stump ached in his prosthetic and his other leg felt overworked and he just wanted to go the fuck to sleep, but Forrest seemed determined to try, so Alex would at least meet him halfway.

He put the bowl and the glass in the sink, filling them both with water before starting to drag himself back into the living room. Forrest came back in at the same time, giving him a warm smile.

“Let me help,” Forrest said, gesturing towards the couch. Alex eyed him and wondered if he understood that he probably wasn’t going to be able to get back up if he sat down again. “I got you, love, sit down.”

Alex did as he said. Forrest knelt in front of him and starting taking off his heavy boots, not seeming bothered at all. Guilt burned in Alex’s bloodstream and he wanted to tell him to stop doing all of this, but he stayed silent. He’d learned pretty quickly that all of this was Forrest just trying to baby him for no reason. The guilt just needed to be pushed to the side.

Forrest pulled off the sock from his foot and tucked it in his boot before standing up and holding his hands out for him. Alex reluctantly grabbed them and Forrest helped him to his feet, rewarding him with a kiss that lingered.

“C’mon,” Forrest whispered against his lips, tugging on his hands a little as he put more space between them. Alex was helpless to do anything but follow him down the hall to the bathroom.

He’d started running a bubble bath in his relatively large tub and had lit the one candle Alex had in his house to try to set the mood. Alex huffed a laugh and shook his head, trying not to feel too weird as Forrest turned to him with a proud little smile.

“Lift up your arms,” he urged, grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging it up and over Alex’s head. Alex leaned forward a bit after that, their foreheads meeting in the middle as Forrest’s hands went to undo the buttons of his pants. He pushed him to the floor and Alex swallowed, staring into his eyes as his thumbs hooked into his boxers and shoved them down as well.

“No shame,” Alex commented.

“With you? Never.”

It was all fine until Forrest had him sit down on his stool and got on his knees to remove his prosthetic. That was when it quickly went from endearing to embarrassing.

“Stop,” Alex said. Forrest froze and looked up to him, waiting for his direction. “I’ll do it.”

He nodded understandingly and untangled his pants and his boxers from both his feet before getting back up and letting Alex do the rest himself. Alex silently thanked him as he busied himself with checked the water instead of staring. Once the prosthetic was off and the sleeve was placed on the sink, Alex pushed himself to his foot.

“You want help?” Forrest asked innocently. Alex shot him a look that was probably a lot meaner than he intended, but Forrest just held up his hands and got out of his way. All that did was make Alex feel worse.

Still, he was trying to go along with it. He grabbed onto the bars installed by his tub and sat down on the edge before turning to put his leg in the water. After that, he braced both arms on the sides of the tub and lowered himself. Then he leaned forward to shut off the water before the bubbles go so high they’d be a choking hazard. When he looked over to Forrest, he saw him safely putting his prosthetic outside of the bathroom so it didn’t risk getting wet.

Alex sighed, shaking his head and looking down at the bubbles. He didn’t deserve someone so nice. He was far too ungrateful for all of this. He put so much thought and effort into making Alex feel better and he still wasn’t relaxed.

“Love,” Forrest called, smiling as he sat on the edge of the tub still fully clothed. Alex just stared at him and waited for whatever was supposed to happen next. Then he cupped water in his hands and poured it over Alex’s head.

“Okay,” Alex said, trying to laugh but it felt like there wasn’t enough room in his chest. Forrest entertained it anyway, cocking his head to the side. “This is embarrassing.”

“How is it embarrassing?”

“I-I know you like babying me and stuff,” Alex said, trying his best to word it without being offensive, “But it makes me uncomfortable. It’s not that you make me uncomfortable, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do and it kinda reminds me of when I had to stay with my brother before I got fitted for my prosthetic and he literally treated me like I was helpless. I don’t like feeling helpless.”

“Toxic masculinity,” Forrest shot back. Alex raised an eyebrow at him and he shook his head. “It’s okay to be taken care of sometimes. I’m not trying to make you feel less than, I’m trying to make you feel pampered.” Alex snorted and rolled his eyes. “Look, I know you were raised in a strict ass military home and no one ever, like, babied you without making you feel bad about it, but I’m not your brother. I want to baby you. I know that you’re extremely capable of taking care of yourself, but sometimes it’s okay to pass the reigns, you know?”

“And I appreciate that,” Alex said honestly, “I really do, but... It’s just too much, okay? Like I genuinely feel uncomfortable.”

Forrest stared at him for a minute and a lot of that confidence he’d been carrying since he’d walked in faded from his eyes. Instead, concern filled it’s place. It sufficiently made Alex feel even more like shit.

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I’ll leave and you can–”

“Forrest,” Alex sighed, reaching for his hand, “Compromise?”

“How?”

“Get in with me,” Alex suggested, tugging on his hand a little, “Be my equal, not my caretaker.”

“That’ll make you feel better?” Forrest clarified. Alex nodded. His shirt was off before he could finish nodding.

Alex let out a soft laugh as Forrest scrambled to strip as fast as he could. He made space for him in the tub and Forrest carefully sat across from him. It took a second, but they got comfortable and both leaned back a little as their legs overlapped and intertwined.

Finally, Alex was able to relax.

“I just thought about how much you probably sweat today and I’m now just bathing in your sweat,” Forrest whispered into the quietness. Alex huffed a laugh, nudging him slightly. “Don’t worry, you’re still hot.”

After a little while of just relaxing with each other, Forrest was able to coax him to turn his back to him so he could wash his hair. Alex admittedly liked that and basked in it. He did have full intention to return the favor, but by the time Forrest was combing conditioner through his hair and pressing kisses to his shoulder, he found himself forgetting all about it and relaxing against him completely.

“See? All relaxed,” Forrest hummed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his throat.

“You tryin’ to get me to get up and leave?” Alex asked. Forrest tightened his arms around him, holding him in place.

“No,” he said, kissing him again before using the water to slowly comb the conditioner out, “No, stay right here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Alex promised. He didn’t say that all of his muscles felt like jelly and he really didn’t think he was capable of going anywhere, but that wasn’t important.

“Now we know how to get you to calm down next time,” Forrest said, voice still soft as he continued to kiss on him, “Baby you, but in a sexually charged way so you still feel like a man.” Alex’s lips split into a smile and he shook his head.

“You’re such an ass.”

“That’s why you like me.”

“Mm, I don’t know about that,” Alex said, shifting just enough to get his lips on some part of his skin. It landed on his chin. “I like you because you’re kind to me even when I’m being bitchy. No one’s ever really done that.”

“Yeah, well,” Forrest breathed, craning his neck until his lips hovered over Alex’s, “When you’re feeling good, it makes up for every ounce of accidental bitchiness and more.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Alex tilted his head back to meet his lips in a kiss, reaching his arm around to hold onto the back of his head. It should’ve been awkward, should’ve been an uncomfortable angle, but Alex felt more at ease than he had all day. Forrest’s palm pressed against his lower stomach, holding him close and firm.

It was strange. That was the first time Forrest’s ever really put any umph into touching him. He was always so soft and careful and Alex liked that, but that subtle touch that was a little rougher and little stronger broke open a door in his mind that he’d forgotten he’d boarded up. When exactly was the last time he’d gotten anything even a little rough? When was the last time he’d asked to be manhandled and got it?

Maybe that’s what they both needed. Forrest would be getting him to stop playing angry, masculine soldier; Alex would get that old itch scratched.

“Hey,” Alex whispered against his lips, “Wanna know what’ll really calm me down?”

“What?” Forrest asked.

And Alex told him. And Forrest happily agreed.

And Alex finally let go of that tension he’d been holding in all day.

[bubble-tea-bunny]

nosce te ipsum 

[akira fudo x reader]

author’s note: i just watched this anime and was so inspired i wrote this in a day. anyway i would like to write something bigger for akira sometime, like more expansive, but we’ll seeeee

word count: 5,207

Nighttime drives are your favorite.

There are hardly any other cars on the roads, and your eyes are spared the ugly glare of headlights flashing in your mirrors or from cars in the opposite lanes, headed the opposite direction. Lamp posts leave spots of light to illuminate the asphalt roads in addition to your own car lights, and you’re driving into the blackness, the glittering city skyscrapers getting farther and farther away.

You bask in the silence afforded by moments like these, the radio having been switched off as soon as you got in. In the daytime, you typically have it on to mask the sound of passing cars, the whoosh which begins as a low thrum during the approach, then a quick burst of noise as they drive by, before the sound fades again. You’ve been hunched over your work all day, so to be here now, mindlessly zooming down the street, is welcome stress relief.

Your stomach growls and you wince slightly. It’s the first noise to permeate the cabin besides your occasional deep breaths, steady inhales and exhales to relax after a long day. You hadn’t bothered to eat prior to hopping in the car. The thought of food had slipped from your mind since you hadn’t been hungry, and you were too eager for quiet time to yourself to have a snack. You’ll have to grab something to eat on your way back.

Eventually the smooth asphalt roads are traded for bumpy, uneven terrain, and while this is considerably less relaxing, you’re not bothered because it means you’ll soon arrive at your destination. Instead of lamp posts to light the way, you rely solely on your car headlights and the moon above. The latter isn’t helping much at all, unable to touch the ground and only strong enough to shine on the leaves of the trees to your left and right. For any other person, coming through here might prove to be difficult at this time of night, but you have no such problems. You’ve memorized the route.

Once the car is parked and the headlights switched off, you exit and push the door shut behind you. The chirps of crickets echo in every direction. They sound nearby, the volume growing still as you pop open the trunk, as if they have come to see what you are up to. No one comes out here, much less past midnight. It wouldn’t be safe, considering the animals who might roam in the tall grass and behind thick tree trunks. But even as the chirps and the hoots of owls and the scurrying of small creatures in the bushes grow louder, like they are closing in, you’re not afraid. Would you come as often as you do if you were?

There’s only one bag in the trunk tonight. Sometimes you have as many as five. One is a nice break for your back, and it only takes a single trip to carry it out to the middle of the small clearing. It lands with a heavy thud and kicks up a small cloud of dust. The movement has disturbed the contents inside, and you recoil in disgust as the smell reaches your nose. You nudge at the garbage bag with the toe of your boot, like you’re expecting it to twitch, and with a shudder and shake of your head, you take a few steps back and reach into your jacket pocket.

The matchbox is feeling light. Okay, add that to the checklist. Buy food and a new box of matches. You strike a fresh match and briefly revel in the quiet hiss of the fire which bursts forth, eating away at the head and down the wood. Before it reaches your fingers, you toss the match onto the garbage bag and watch as it burns, tendrils of smoke trailing higher and dissipating to nothing. The stench worsens as the bag is engulfed in flames and your repulsion increases. You have to cover your nose with your hand and this might seem like good reason to leave, but you need to stay to make sure the fire is strong enough that it doesn’t accidentally go out due to any gusts of wind.

Come on, you berate yourself. You’ve done this before. Seconds of waiting are like hours and it’s ironic, you can’t help but think as you stand there, willing yourself not to be sick. You have seen and smelled and felt much worse.

When the fire is sufficiently strong enough that you’re confident it won’t go out before its job is done, you turn away and speed walk back to the car, yearning for fresh air. You slam the trunk closed. Coming out here was fun and all, but you’re now ready to leave. As if on cue, your phone dings with a text message. After sliding into the driver’s seat and getting situated, you open it to find two street names. They’re familiar to you. You’ve driven past this intersection in the past, though that had been in the day. You continue to stare down at the succinct message while mentally mapping your way there from here, and blink curiously at the three dots at the bottom of the conversation.

A new chat bubble pops up: Don’t be late.

You roll your eyes and toss your phone onto the passenger seat, not bothering to reply. Since when are you ever late? The engine roars to life and you leave the nocturnal animals to their own devices, until next time, whenever that should be. Perhaps soon. The spot of orange flames in your rearview mirror shrinks the farther you drive and there comes a point where you aren’t sure if you have driven far enough for it to be too small to see any longer, or if it has finally fizzled out.

Though you’re back in the city, you’re back in a part of it that lacks functioning lamp posts. It’s pitch black in the alleyway, and if not for your night vision, you’d be left clawing at the walls to guide yourself along. Walking with a sense of ease that doesn’t entirely fit the context, given the time and the nonexistent lighting and your generally unassuming and nonthreatening figure, you traipse down the long path between the two buildings. You hear the scuffle before you see it.

Heavy fists swinging through the air; loud roars; claws sinking into flesh with a squelch; spurts of blood. It sounds ugly. You peek around the corner. The monsters fighting have no trouble sensing each other in the darkness, yellow liquid painting the ground and walls. If you didn’t know any better, and if you didn’t pick up on the scent, it might look like paint. You appear to have arrived in the middle of the fight, but it’s soon over, and the only demon left is heaving with labored breaths, long wings outstretched and his back to you. He straightens to his full height, having been bent into a fighting stance previously, and twists around.

Glowing white eyes find you effortlessly, and a sinister smile curls at his mouth, sharp teeth menacing. You’re not frightened by the predatory leer as you reveal yourself fully from behind your hiding spot. He watches you walk closer, but your gaze isn’t on him—rather, it’s on the corpses littering the ground.

You hum in thought as you survey the scene, stepping over limbs and guts, the only bits of demon gore you can avoid because the blood is everywhere, and it covers the soles of your boots. “Well, you didn’t tear all of them to shreds at least.”

“It’s easy to get carried away.” The devilman’s voice is deep, and there’s a flanging to it, as though he’s speaking with two voices instead of just one. You shrug as though to say I guess and you’re not looking but can tell he’s shifting back, tendrils of black smoke shrouding the beast. It fades gradually and Akira now stands before you, back in human form and flanging distinctly absent from his voice.

“Do you have enough?” he asks.

You flip over a demon that looks to be in reasonable shape onto its back, and you’re satisfied to see its stomach hasn’t been cut open. One of the legs is missing and the arms are bent at strange angles, but you’ll make do. This is better than nothing.

“I do,” you confirm.

With hands tucked into your pockets, you turn to look at Akira. Blood stains his clothes and his hair and he tries to wipe off what sticks to his skin, but he isn’t entirely successful as some of it has dried.

“Hey, uh, I parked my motorcycle farther down the block,” he begins. “I don’t suppose you could give me a lift there?”

You did park closer than that, having left your car at the end of the alleyway for a short and easy walk. But you shake your head, brow raised as you motion to his bloodied form. “With you like that? You’ll stain the leather.”

Akira isn’t bothered by your refusal and merely chuckles, nodding his acquiescence. “Yeah… I figured.” He sighs heavily, the fatigue of the fight seeming to finally catch up to him. “I’ll see  you later then.”

After he has made his leave, you stay to pack up the most intact demon body you had found. It really is simple for Akira to get carried away. You’re lucky there’s even one body to take back with you, for there have been times in the past he has torn them all limb from limb, ripped apart their torsos until entrails splattered on the ground, the squelch as he trampled them underfoot music to his ears. This sense of euphoria from slaying demons he had detailed to you a while ago, and though you understood the blood thirst and the satisfaction to sate it even slightly, you did have to keep reminding him to try leaving some in suitable condition.

I don’t get it, he’d said once before. If you want them in one piece, why don’t you do it?

The answer had been a simple one to you. The fighting’s dirty. I don’t like to be a bloody mess at the end of it. If that meant you had to wait until Akira left decently unmarked corpses, you would deal with it. Though to his credit, he’d been better about it lately. There’s at least one viable body each time he goes out on the hunt for bands of demons, and once there had even been three.

This demon is much heavier than the last. Granted, you don’t have any trouble pulling this one along in a bag and tossing it into the car, but you can still detect the vast differences in weight. The car sinks slightly under the added burden, and the trunk nearly doesn’t close due to the protrusions on this particular demon, with its large curled horns and spiked scales down the length of its back. Luckily you’re able to force it closed. You didn’t want to spend extra time tying a rope around the trunk to keep it shut. You’re tired, it’s been a long night, and you’d like to go home now.

———

Akira’s always been bad about keeping quiet.

He lets himself into your house with the spare key beneath the rug, and he closes the front door a little harder than necessary with the strength he sometimes forgets stays with him in human form. You hear it slam even from downstairs and flinch at the sudden interruption, but luckily you aren’t occupied with anything that requires a steady hand. He calls out your name but you don’t reply. He already knows where you are.

His footsteps coming down the staircase are loud, and you sigh. How he can get the drop on the demons he hunts is beyond you, when he makes so much noise as it is. Once he reaches the bottom and spots you, he flashes you a boyish grin.

“That the body from last night?”

You nod, your gaze dropping back down to the table where you set the demon corpse. You’ve cut open the torso, a neat slice across the chest and down the sternum. The thick, rough skin is pinned down with needles, several more than what a human cadaver would require. A bowl of viscous membrane you have peeled away to reveal the organs sits in a silver bowl, but that’s the most you have done so far. You stopped to wash your hands and take notes.

Akira stands on the other side of the table and glances down into the depths of the demon he killed. He likes to watch you work. At first, you’d asked him to stop, becoming unnerved to be scrutinized so closely. But he didn’t really listen. He’d leave for five minutes to scavenge your kitchen for food, and then he’d be back. You have since given up telling him to entertain himself elsewhere.

Eventually he goes from standing by the table to sitting in one of the sofa chairs you have placed down here. He lounges on it sideways, back against one arm and legs bent over the other. You’re completely absorbed in your task, sawing at bones to open up room to reach in. Blood covers your hands and the sleeves of the lab coat you wear. He doesn’t know exactly what part you’re searching for, but it apparently takes some time, as you make little cuts here and incisions there. You dip your hand in, and the torso is so large almost your entire forearm disappears as you lower it.

Aha! you exclaim quietly in victory. Akira’s brows furrow as you pull out… whatever organ that is. He’s not sure. But whatever it is, you’re happy to have found it, and you set it on a silver tray for further study with some of the finer tools.

“Why are you so interested in dissecting demons?” It’s a question he has had for a while, and he had never bothered to ask it until now. Perhaps it was the fascination inherent on your face as you scanned over your tools for the appropriate one, the excitement to dive further into the innards of the demon laying across the cold table, which pushed him to speak.

You don’t respond right away, picking up a scalpel and evaluating it before you seem to decide it’s a good choice. Nosce te ipsum, you then recite.

Akira tilts his head. He’s uncertain if that was a reply to his inquiry or if you’re just muttering to yourself. “Huh?”

“Know thyself,” you explain. “In Europe in the sixteenth century, the phrase was used to defend the necessity of human dissection, which was illegal at the time. It’s important to learn the mechanisms of one’s own body, and that’s best done by delving into a body like your own.” You punctuate your anecdote with a careful slice of the organ on the tray, and a thick black liquid oozes from the cut. Your eyes brighten in delight.

Akira nods slowly, putting together the pieces. “So you dissect demons to learn more about your demon side.”

You hum in affirmation. “Correct. I’ve long wondered what arrangement of organs lies beneath the surface when I take on that form.”

The way you handle each body part as you work is elegant. You separate each one slowly, making sure you don’t accidentally rupture or put undue pressure on other organs you have yet to take out. It’s a stark contrast to the brutal ravaging Akira gives the demons he kills. He can’t help it. He lives for the blood on his claws and the rip and tear of flesh. It makes perfect sense why you’re opposed to the idea of getting your hands dirty. It’s not in your nature to be messy—it hadn’t been before you merged with a demon, and it still remains as such. If there were cleaner methods to exterminating demons, you might be more open to the idea of killing them yourself. But who knows, maybe you’re already working on that as a small side project.

Some time passes. Akira doesn’t keep track, but he does fall asleep briefly at one point. He wakes back up and his stomach growls, but you’re not paying attention. A glance at the clock tells him it’s early evening, so he suggests the two of you get food.

You don’t always accept, wanting instead to remain in your lab, poring over demon guts. On those days, you settle for eating whenever you decide to call it quits, or you might not even eat at all. Every time he asks if you’d like to tag along, he hopes you’ll say okay. He likes your company.

It may be reasonable to assume that as of the current moment, you have no appetite. You’ve been working with a corpse for the last couple of hours, and the smell isn’t pleasant. But the assumption is wrong, for the thought of getting some food in your stomach sounds like a wonderful idea.

“What’d you have in mind?”

Akira smiles widely. “How about ramen?”

———

You return home alone. Akira had left after dinner, intent to hunt for the remainder of the evening. Once you arrive and set your keys in the bowl by the door, you contemplate returning to your work, but you don’t think you’ll be able to concentrate. The warm food made you sleepy, and you’ve been running low all day after the late night you had.

Instead, you settle for changing into comfortable clothes and relaxing. Your phone is left face-down on the coffee table as you walk into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. You're not expecting any calls or messages. At this time of night, it would usually only be cross streets from Akira, to let you know where you could find more demons to take back to the lab. But you had already told him before you parted earlier that he didn’t need to do that tonight. You’re still working away at the most recent corpse.

Since your mind still drifts to thoughts of said body downstairs, you decide to at least review the notes you’ve taken today. You sit on the couch, mug in one hand and notebook in the other. The pages are incredibly immaculate despite its proximity to all the demon offal, but you do consider yourself quite the neat freak. You wouldn’t stand for a drop of blood anywhere on your journal. Besides, you sometimes bring this with you when you go out, in case you should have any new thoughts on what you have researched, and dark red splotches would seem suspicious.

Once you catch up on everything you’ve written, you glance at the clock. It’s sufficiently late enough that you can shower and head to bed and it wouldn’t be too early. But it’s still earlier than usual, and you welcome the idea of a full night’s rest. You’ll resume your work first thing in the morning.

You always clean your hands thoroughly in the lab, but you never feel as though you have truly washed away the blood and sinew until you step into the shower, the hot water, entirely too hot for most but the perfect temperature for you, stinging your skin and turning it pink. Steam rises and fogs up the mirror and the bathroom smells like peaches. With the weather steadily growing colder, hot showers are all the more a comfort.

The towel you wrap around yourself is white and fluffy. Your wet hair clings to bare skin, tendrils gently curling as they stick to your shoulders and collarbones. You’re rifling through the closet for pajamas when the door opens and closes loudly.

Your brows furrow and you look towards your open bedroom door. You know who’s here, but unless he’d texted you while you were in the shower, you weren’t expecting to see him for the rest of the night. Unless…

Once more the heavy thud of his shoes pounding on the stairs echo throughout the house, and as he stomps down the hallway. He comes to a stop in the middle of the doorframe, and you see Akira standing before you, but you know it isn’t him entirely. The demon side of him is peeking through despite his human form, too strong and too desperate for indulgence to be contained. He’s snarling, eyes wild, fists clenched tightly and heaving hard as if he’s attempting to hold back. His gaze is predatory as he stares at you, the prey in his sights. But you are not at all helpless, you both understand that.  

However, you also understand what it is Akira needs, why he’s here, and so you play your part, waiting there for him to sink his teeth in. You hear him inhale deeply, taking in your smell, not only the smell of your peach shampoo but the smell of you, the nuances of the scent which unmistakably make up who you are. And though you find yourselves cut from the same cloth, find yourselves to be kindred beasts of hell, even he moves too fast for you to track.

He doesn’t give you room to breath. His lips are on yours and his tongue shoves its way into your mouth and his hands are everywhere. Your muffled whimpers and weak squeezes at his biceps to slow down are only half an act. He doesn’t listen, and maybe it’s the lack of oxygen to your head or the fact you get it, you get what it feels like to lose control, that doesn’t leave you genuinely angered that he fails to let up.

You pant loudly when he finally gives your mouth a break, now focusing on the tender skin of your neck. He bites down, sharp teeth sinking in, and you scream because fuck, it genuinely hurts. His chuckle is dark as his hand trails up to untuck the towel around your body.

Come on, you can take it… he murmurs, licking up the blood pooling from the wounds.

And it’s true, you can take it. That was the whole point, how any of this began in the first place. It had been merely transactional, the relationship you had. Akira would provide demon corpses for you to study, and you’d provide him the space to release his baser urges when they became too much to ignore or handle himself. You were spared the trouble of messy fights, and he the possibility of harming a human. There was no worry about harming you. You’re half human but also half demon, and like him, you have far greater strength than your fully human counterparts.

Akira tosses you onto the bed and you bounce slightly on the mattress. He crawls over you and toys with your breasts, squeezing and pinching and nipping. Your fingers curl in his mane of black hair, relaxed for the most part but occasionally digging in if he bites too hard. Through hazy vision you notice he’s still fully clothed, and you tug weakly at the collar of his shirt.

“You’re overdressed,” you force out hoarsely. Sometimes you’re uncertain if Akira can even hear you in his lust-fueled hazes.

But it seems, at least tonight, he can, as he momentarily sits up to pull off his shirt. He takes the opportunity to also rid himself of his pants. Then he returns his attention to you, and the spot between your legs. His fingers firmly slide along the length of your slit and apply pressure on your swollen clit and you squeal, attempting in vain to close your legs to get away from the pleasure which is quickly sliding from just right to too much.

Akira laughs and pulls his hand away, holding it up so you can see how it glistens in the soft light of your bedroom. “Such a good girl, getting so wet for me…”

Without warning, he flips you onto your stomach and gropes harshly at your hips to position you the way he wants. You feel the head of his cock nudging at your folds and you bite your lip, but even for the anticipation as you rest your cheek on the blankets, staring at the far wall, you aren’t prepared when he pushes all the way in, giving you no time to adjust. Your teeth sink deeper and you taste blood on your tongue and you can’t keep the noise down, you never can (not that Akira would let you), and you scream at the deep intrusion. Akira is big, and though you have taken him before, you don’t think you’ll ever adjust completely.

His fingers dig into the supple flesh of your ass so tightly that his nails leave crescent moon marks, and he watches, enraptured, at the spot where you’re joined, watches as his cock slides in and out, smoothly, easily, due to your arousal. The squelch as he pushes in and the slap of skin against skin is vulgar and filthy and he thinks he could eat you whole. Would you let him, he wonders?

A particularly hard thrust prompts you to let out a shocked yelp, and your hips lower, like you’re trying to get away, in search of a reprieve from the overstimulation. He doesn’t let you (Where do you think you’re going?), one arm wrapping around your torso to pull you up against his chest. His free hand he trails up your stomach, past your breasts (your breath hitches as he passes over a nipple, sensitive and swollen) and he slides his fingers into your mouth.

You’re tired from being fucked so hard and you think you might pass out and you nearly gag when he presses down on your tongue. Akira! you mumble around his fingers. Drool dribbles out of the corner of your mouth and you wrap your hands around each of his wrists as a way to ground yourself since at this angle, you can’t reach the blankets. His grunts are loud and low in your ear as his thrusts grow sloppier.

You mewl and call his name again, goading him closer and closer to the edge. You’re almost there too, and evidently he can tell, as the arm around your waist moves down and his hand finds your clit. He rubs at it quickly and you snap, screaming as you cum. With your mouth open, he retracts his fingers and crosses that arm over your chest to keep you against him, for your body is trying to curl in on itself from the force of your orgasm.

“Fuck.”

The feeling of you squeezing around his cock nearly makes him cum, but this angle isn’t quite good enough, not deep enough. He pushes you forward and you fall limply on the bed, and he bends over you, chest pressed to your back and arms on either side of your head. You only have labored pants to give in response to the last few hard thrusts, exhausted as you are, and he orgasms with a growl.

You moan lowly at the feel of hot cum gushing deep into your belly. As a devilman, the amount Akira releases is a lot more than usual, and you never have room for it all. This is proven by the white liquid seeping out around his cock, and he smirks when he notices it. My cum too much for you, baby? he teases.

But you don’t have the energy to talk, and it seems he doesn’t mind your lack of an answer. He pulls out and you wince, oversensitive and sleepy. So sleepy…

So much for that shower.

———

You sigh deeply.

Dark purple splotches litter your body, in places that would be hidden from view when you wear clothes but also in places where they would be fully on display. You press a finger gingerly into one by your collarbone, and it throbs slightly in response to the added pressure. Man… And just when the last set of bites marks Akira had given you had faded.

You hear the rustle of bedsheets and step away from the bathroom mirror to peek your head out. Akira’s brows are furrowed and he turns away from the sunlight pouring in from the window. His breathing isn’t as deep so you know he’s at least slightly awake, but his eyes remain closed like he’s trying to fall asleep again, not quite ready to face the day.

The blankets are a mess and you’ll have to wash them today, but that can wait until after Akira wakes up. However, you don’t end up waiting as long as you think you’ll have to, for he’s given up his efforts to fall back to sleep, and his eyes slide open while you’re bent over to dig out panties from the bottom drawer.

“Not a bad sight to wake up to.”

With a roll of your eyes he can’t see, you stand back up straight and look at him over you shoulder. “Good morning to you too.”

Akira smiles, but it fades as his attention trails lower once you turn around. He doesn’t ask if he really did all that. He’d had full consciousness, full control, last night, and he was aware of every mark he left. To voice the question would be a waste of breath, so he skips over it. “Sorry. I hope it didn’t hurt too much.”

The boy in your bed is drastically different from the one who’d been there last night. His gaze is apologetic even for his lighthearted teasing and it makes you smile softly.

“It did a little bit,” you state truthfully as you drop an oversized shirt over your head. “But it’s okay. I can take it after all.”

Akira chuckles to hear his words repeated from the night before. He throws back the blankets, standing up and finding his own clothes. “Well let me buy you breakfast. To treat you for taking it so well.”

Breakfast does sound nice, and you’re not about to argue over who pays, not if Akira’s offering. Still, you can’t help playing around, as you hum in mock thought. “Hm… I guess, if you insist.”

It’s Akira’s turn to roll his eyes and you laugh. “Hey, don’t push it.” But he’s just playing around too, judging by his grin.

The relationship you share had at the beginning been transactional, nothing more than business, but it can’t be confidently said whether either of you was sure it would remain that way. Spend enough time in each other’s presence and you were bound to grow closer. Neither of you had shied away from this development. In fact, both of you like it this way better. Maybe you’re made for each other. Maybe the devils inside you are.

Each morning brings with it the falling away of dark, carnal desires and thoughts of the demons in need of eradication or of close studying. It ushers in a chance to forget, even for just a few hours. And if you don’t read between the lines, life almost seems normal. That’s more than good enough.

[kuriquinn]

love at first sight isn’t just a cheesy song [one-shot]

General Disclaimer

Rating: PG 13

Author’s Note: I wanted to do something different for “festival”. And since my hometown hosts a huge variety of festivals, I was inspired...also, some of this comes from my own memories at Warped Tour and Osheaga...

Not edited at the moment. I’m thinking I’ll probably edit all of these when I finish the prompts…

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Sasuke does not do people. He doesn’t do loud, or hot either.

Which is why he’s trying to figure out just how his best friend not only convinced him to come with him to a music festival in the middle of the summer. He’s pretty sure there was a “you owe me a favour, remember” and a choice between filling in for Naruto babysitting Kakashi’s demon brood, or this.

In which case, a hellish pit of sweat, marijuana and burning sun is getting off easy.

Still. He’s not happy about it.

And he’s already informed Naruto that as soon as they’ve seen the group he’s here to see, they’re leaving.

“Whatever, I’m only here to see Hinata anyway,” his best friend dismisses, cheeks red and grin wide and Sasuke really just wants to punch him. He’s missing a Star Wars marathon for this…this travesty, where people walk around with way too much eyeliner and—

Does that guy have empty beer cans speared on the points of his mohawk?

But apparently, Naruto’s girlfriend is in a band—and he’s still not sure what he’s having more trouble comprehending, that Naruto of all people is dating or that Hinata is in a band. Because the Hyuga girl is the shiest person Sasuke has ever met in his life and coming from someone as quiet as him and his brother, that says something. The idea of her being up on a stage in front of people just…doesn’t compute.

He has known Naruto and Hinata since they were toddlers, as all their parents were friends from high school (private Catholic school tends to forge two kinds of bonds—either Band of Brothers or Slaughter High, and he’s not entirely sure what his and Naruto’s will be), and Hinata has never been the type for public performances.

“There’s a new girl in her class this year that really brought her out of her shell,” Naruto had explained it. “We can hang around later and meet her, too.”

“No,” Sasuke retorted instantly. “I’m here for one reason only. To pay back that favour, and that involves seeing Hinata’s stupid band play and that’s it. Then we’re going home.”

“Whatever, asshole.”

They head over to the stage where some indie band no one has ever heard of slated to be playing; Hinata’s band is apparently opening not for them, but for their opening act. Which suggests how unknown the group is.

Somehow, Naruto manages to drag them to the absolute front of the crowd, just as the band is coming onstage. There are catcalls and a few cheers—okay, so maybe they already have a bit of a following—as they get settled in with their instruments.

The first thing noticeable about them is they’re all dressed in their school uniforms, all pleated kilts and crisp oxford shirts that are already soaked with sweat from the hot day. There are a few changes that Sasuke knows they’d be getting demerits for if they were at school—ties loose over their shirts, combat boots, studded bracelets, shirts untucked, that sort of thing. There’s a dark haired girl with her hair in two buns arranging herself and her guitar in front of a microphone, while a sharp-faced blond performs final tuning check on her bass.  He distantly recognises Ino Yamanaka settling in behind the keyboard, but only because they were in primary school together years ago and her hair is as ridiculously long as it always was.

And there’s Hinata—shuffling quickly and determinedly to the back of the stage where she’s practically hidden by the drumkit.

“Well, that makes more sense,” he mutters, though it’s lost in Naruto’s fervent shout of, “Yeah! You got it, babe!”

Idiot…

Sasuke rolls his eyes, already mentally counting down to the blessed freedom of getting out of this place, which is the point when the final member of the band makes an appearance, and suddenly—

Suddenly he’s having a hard time breathing.

He doubts it’s his asthma since it’s not the familiar fiery burn through his windpipes. It’s more like…he forgets how.

The most noticeable thing about her right away is the vibrant pink hair, short and spikey; the next is her eyes. They’re so green that he can still see them somehow even from where he’s standing. She has a more athletic build than her bandmates, and the pale thighs beneath her short skirt are so muscular Sasuke has to swallow a few times.

She isn’t graceful, though, stumbling across the stage and nearly tripping over the cord for her guitar. Normally he’d scoff at that, but for some reason, something in him finds it…endearing?

There are guffaws from the audience, but when she reaches her microphone she simply flashes them a cheerful, sheepish smile.

“Sorry. Gravity isn’t my friend today,” she says lightly, earning warmer laughter now; with her, not at her. Her voice is soft and filled with humour in a way that doesn’t really fit with the screaming vocals Sasuke’s ears have been assaulted by since showing up here today. “Thanks for coming out today, guys. I know it’s really freaking hot out. If we had a hose, we’d totally use it on you guys today.” Cheers. “Anyway, some of you know us, hopefully, a few of you don’t so we can make a good impression. We’re Bacchikoi Baby and we’ve got you for the next fifteen minutes, so let’s get this thing going!”

Instantly, the music starts up, harsh chords and insistent drumline and an underlying rhythm that is familiar only in the way that most alternative music all sounds the same to him. But then she opens her mouth to sing and Sasuke feels as if someone just stuck a livewire into his spine.

Her voice is low and smooth and changeable, going from smooth molasses to raw, shouting with barely any break. Something in the curl of her words on her tongue, the way sound moves from a hum at the back of her throat into something articulated makes him shiver. He doesn’t know anything about the technicalities of music or singing or voice training, but even he can tell instantly that she’s the talent of this group.

The other instruments are almost token, although he spares a distant thought to Hinata not being bad at the drums (apparently she’s in some kind of zone there), and the setlist itself is nothing special. Pretty much the same as any other angry girl band he’s caught on the radio.

But he try as he might, he can’t block out the singer.

Their first number is a catchy number that has the audience jumping and swaying to the underlying rhythm, and a harsh, angry protest chant that most of them sing along to, and then a slower but no-less commanding power ballad.

The last song is even slower, some kind of medley of Zeppelin’s Gallow’s Pole and another song he’s never heard of but which Naruto tells him is called The Hanging Tree.

“Apparently it’s from a movie,” he says with a shrug (Sasuke can’t actually hear him, but he’s pretty good at reading lips).

The thing starts off almost a cappella, before the dark-haired girl chimes in with the rhythm guitar, and Ino adds a mournful keyboard melody that even Sasuke can’t help his body swaying to. The lead singer’s voice is a haunting monotone almost, which gradually builds and fills with emotion, and then three-quarters of the way through, the song reaches a break, and all the instruments kick in. It’s a near explosion of sound, tempered by the raw emotion in her voice and—

And that’s when their eyes meet.

Sasuke’s mouth goes dry, and her eyes go wide, but she keeps singing—“If we met at midnight, a smile upon your face”—and he has the simultaneously ridiculous and hopeful feeling that she’s singing to him and it’s the kind of thing he’d normally find irritating, but—

His chest feels buoyant like he could punch a comet out of the sky if the opportunity should present itself.

What the hell is happening to me?

Afterward, Sasuke vaguely recalls following Naruto from the crowd once the actual opening act comes out; neither really care to watch them. There are a few people who leave with them.

Sasuke’s brain is flummoxed, trying to understand how another human being could have had such a strange effect on him. She was in front of him for all of fifteen minutes, and he doesn’t even know her name. But he knows her voice somehow harmonizes with the rush of his blood through his veins and heartfelt keening makes a lump of emotion appear at the back of his throat.

If I were anyone else, I’d think this was…but that’s not possible…that sort of thing only happens in the movies…

“I texted Hinata to tell her how awesome they were,” his friend says once they get out of the most densely packed crowd, fingers still flying on his smartphone. “I know you want to get out of here, so I’ll just go see her later.”

Sasuke shifts, not looking at him, and mumbles. “Whatever. Let’s just go see the band.”

Naruto looks surprised, but he’s also not about to look a gift-horse in the mouth. “Alright…”

“And then your favour is paid off,” Sasuke adds if only to keep the other teen from digging deeper.

They head for the side of the stage, where a table has been set up to sell merchandise; a dozen or two audience members are shelling out wads of cash for t-shirts and CDs, but he and Naruto bypass that and head for the back where the girls are downing huge bottles of water. They’re all pink-skinned with sunburn and exertion, clothes sticking to their bodies, but that doesn’t stop Naruto from vaulting forward and kissing his girlfriend.

He bubbles about how amazing her drum solo was, and he knew she had talent, but whoa, and the other bandmates watch, bemused.

Except for her. She’s looking at Sasuke, colours spreading across the bridge of her nose and she has freckles on her nose why is that appealing.

He clears his throat, wanting to say something casual, a less effervescent praise than his idiot best friend, but what comes out is—

“You’re really short.”

On stage, she seemed like a six-foot-tall Amazon, but she doesn’t need to know that. He sort of wants to punch himself in the face, because really?

But she only blinks and then laughs, and it sounds like music. How can laughter sound like music?

“Maybe you’re just unfairly tall,” she suggests, eyes dancing. “I’m Sakura.”

“Sasuke.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sasuke-kun.”

And girls have been calling him that with irritating familiarity his entire life, but somehow when she says it, his chest warms.

He thinks he goes temporarily deaf for a minute because all other sound in the world goes away or collects around her, and he imagines that for an instant they exist only in a world belonging to the two of them.

Even stranger, she seems to be just as aware of it as he is, because her gaze softens at him as if to say, me too.

Out loud, however, she says, “We were going to go get something to eat and go see some of the other bands.” She glances over at Naruto as he hangs an arm over Hinata’s shoulder. “Did you guys want to come with?”

“Nah, Sasuke doesn’t really like all this stuff,” Naruto answers. “I’m surprised his brain hasn’t spontaneously combusted because of all the people breathing his air.”

Sasuke’s cheeks warm as he glares at his friend.

“It’s fine,” he insists, trying to telepathically promise death and dismemberment if Naruto doesn’t shut the hell up. He flicks his eyes to Sakura, whose head is tilted to one side as if to study him. “I think I saw a food truck at the other end of the venue.”

He points vaguely in that direction.

A beat, and then her entire face lights up with a smile of utter joy.

“Sounds great!” she declares, and before he can really register, she has her hand clasped around his and is pulling him off in the direction he pointed. “Come on! And you can introduce yourself properly on the way!”

And he normally doesn’t like physical contact with people, and it’s really far too hot to be holding hands, especially with a girl he’s only just met. But her fingers fit too well in his, and her grip is strong and comforting, and he just lets her pull him along.

That’s when the utterly absurd thought strikes him that he would follow this girl anywhere.

栗

[hillywooddestiel]

The Retreat Chapter 16

Characters: CEO!Bucky x reader

Warnings: fluff, slight angst

Word Count: 1.2k

Description: Y/N Y/L/N: determined business woman, sought after by most businesses, creative visionary for advertising. She has it all. Or so she thinks. Life has a way of kicking you sideways when you least expect it, want it or are in anyway prepared for it. Numerous times. How can Y/N remain from cracking under the pressure when her career isn’t the only thing on the line and everything isn’t all that it seems?

A/N: Missed the update again but I was working so oopsie. My Stranger Things series is actually coming along quite nicely behind the scenes and should be completed soon I hope. Also the gif isn’t the dress I was picturing but close enough eh. Enjoy xx Marvel Masterlist  Series Masterlist

Story:

Very suspicious. That’s how I would describe my main feelings right now. I’ve heard nothing from my personal little stalker since the spray paint on my door and it’s freaking me out! It’s been three days of nothing, absolute radio silence. They’ve been really good days too. Bucky and I messaged each other constantly and Wanda kept making a little squeaking sound every single time she heard my phone ping with a notification; now that the girl knows about the situation she wants to know everything that happens. She’s also told me some more about her and Vis ( I still think the name is stupid). They went for coffee in their break time yesterday and it went very well so hopefully their date at the fancy french place will go well too. When they finally book it, that is. It’s weird how invested we are in each other’s personal lives.

The boutique is very high end and I feel rather out out of place. This is somewhere that minor celebrity brides and debutantes some to, not graphic designers from the marketing department of a tech company. I’ll not be able to afford anything here and still have money for rent this month- it was nice of Bucky to book it though. I think I’ll just find something online or maybe there’s a sale rack in here.

“Y/N Y/L/N?” a kind looking young woman stands at the desk by the entrance way. She’s smartly dressed with her hair in a low bun and perfect makeup. She’s the kind of person I aspire to be when I look in the mirror. 

“Yes, I’m not too early, am I?”

“Not at all, we actually like our clients to be early so we can better prepare. Can I get you a drink?” ‘Sarah’ according to her name badge offers with a smile. Champagne. She means champagne. Sure, why not?

“Yes please.” I relax a little and gladly let her lead me to some sofas. As I sit down there’s a woman on one of the pedestals in a crystal white gown that just graces the floor. Diamantes adorn her collar bones, shoulders and arms and a silk sash separates the bodice from the flowing skirt. She looks like a goddess of purity with a look of pure joy on her face. An older woman, presumably the mother, stands to her feet with teary eyes and takes her hands. I’ve never understood the whole big deal with wedding dresses and finding the perfect one; it’s just a dress after all. Why does it matter so much that people find the dress? If the person you’re marrying loves you so unconditionally, they won’t care what you’re wearing, all that will matter is that they are getting married to you. 

Another woman collects me from the couch and leads me to a changing room complete with three full length mirrors and a little white leather pouffe. There is a range of dresses hung up on the rail already that I guess Bucky must have picked out already for me to try on, or maybe the nice ladies here chose them for me and my little wallet of money. Do I even want to look at the price tags?

“So most of the dresses have simple zip up the side but if you need any help, I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you.” I nervously smile at Not Sarah before she backs out of the room and leaves me to choose the first poor dress to be put on my body. They are all so beautiful and my non-model figure isn’t going to help show that. I lift the first dress off from the rail, the weight of the navy lace coming as a shock (I have to hold it up with both arms to look at it properly). As Not Sarah said, it’s a simple zip from the middle of the thigh to the ribcage so I need no help putting it on. Wow! It has quite a long train and a tight bodice that pushes my boobs up in a not unflattering way. I look hot! It is, however, not really appropriate for a benefit attended by partners and other professionals. On to the next dress!

Who knew, trying dresses could be so fun? Before I know it, I’ve tried on nearly the whole rack and they all look amazing- in fact, there is only one left. I don’t know how I’ll decide which one I want. Maybe it’ll have to be from the price tags. Carefully running my fingers over the beaded fabric, I lift the last dress from it’s hanger and undo the zipper. The organza skirt is decorated with beads and glitter down to the floor and separated from the matching low cut (but not too low, this is a classy event) top by a sparkling belt. The charmeuse underskirt adds weight and a nice flow to the A-line cut of the dress while not being so heavy as to pull on my back muscles and make me slouch. The ruby red colour is gorgeous to look at and definitely a perfect fit for a fancy benefit. I love it. And to top it all off, it’s an amazing fit for me. I think it’s the one.

“Is everything going okay, in here?” a woman asks politely from outside.

“Yes, thank you.” I shout back, a little preoccupied admiring myself on the mirror in this dress. I spin on the spot, the light catching and bouncing off of the shiny detailing making me feel like the fanciest glitter ball there ever was. Bubbling with glee, I hurry to my bag and fish out my phone to snap a photo for Wanda- she’ll love it. I add lots of red hearts to the message before hitting send and admiring the dress some more. It’s too beautiful and perfect and amazing to pass up, no matter the price (I’m sure I can live off bargain rice for a month). With the dress back on it’s hanger, I exit the dressing room with a beaming smile and head to the front desk to pay hand over a dizzying amount of money.

Sarah is back and greets me with a friendly smile. She takes the dress and hands it over to Not Sarah, whose name turns out to be Sara in a weird coincidence, who then takes it to the back room for safe keeping.

“We’ll deliver the dress to your address on Saturday morning, freshly dry cleaned so there’s no need to worry about that. Is there anything else we can help you with today?”

“No that’s everything, thank you. How much is that going to be then?” I ask a little hesitantly, pulling out my purse from my bag.

“Oh, that’s taken care of already. We’re under instruction to charge and all of your expenses to Mr Barnes’s account.” Wait what?! I can’t believe he would do something so sweet. Well, I can. This is Bucky.

“Um, okay then… Right… Thank you...” I step back from the desk- do I just leave then? I guess I do. Probably looking like an absolute fool, I back out of the boutique and onto the busy sidewalk, getting my phone out to send a text.

-You really didn’t have to pay for the dress you know. Thank you xx -Anything for my girl xx

The Retreat Tags:

@meowchickameow

[morningfears]

Morning Fears

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18!

Summary: Best friend’s dad!Luke | You met Dylan Hemmings your freshman year of college when she was assigned to be your very first roommate. With her came her father, Luke. You never expected Dylan to become your best friend and you certainly never expected your small crush on Luke to become anything more. But life is funny that way. (Luke is around 43 or 44 in this, reader and Dylan are about 22.)

Word Count: 6.6k

PART TWO | PART THREE 

UPDATED SERIES MASTERLIST

“So, how does it feel to be a college graduate?”

You glance up from the pale pink drink on the table in front of you and blink as you take in the increasingly familiar sight of Luke, your random freshman year roommate-turned best friend’s father. He smiles warmly at you as he takes the empty seat to your right and slides a glass of water in front of you. After a quiet thank you, you take a sip before you contemplate the answer to his question.

“Doesn’t feel much different, if I’m honest,” you answer with a small smile as you tap your nails against the glass. “Maybe it just hasn’t hit me, maybe it won’t hit me until I’m finished with grad school. It just doesn’t feel like an accomplishment, you know? It doesn’t feel as powerful as I thought it would.”

Luke frowns at your answer and shifts in his seat to move a little closer to you. “It is an accomplishment,” he reminds you gently, “you worked hard. Everyone could see by the ten pounds of regalia you wore today.” When a small laugh leaves your lips, Luke grins and reaches out to gently squeeze your hand. “You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished. You’re not the same person I met when I moved Dylan into her dorm four years ago. You’ve grown so much and surpassed any and all expectations for you. It might not feel like it until you graduate for good but you’ve done something incredible. I know your parents are beyond proud of you. They gushed the entire ceremony,” he informs you with a grin, “and, I know it might not mean much, but I’m proud of you, too.”

You smile at Luke’s encouraging words, in awe of how quickly he could switch from being the goofy dad-next-door stereotype to someone who knows exactly what you need to hear. “It actually really means a lot to me. Thank you, Luke,” you inform him with a nod and truly mean every word.

You’ve never known why, never been able to understand it, but the moment you met Luke four years ago, you wanted to impress him. You wanted him to be proud of you, to see you as an adult who could take care of herself and not a dumb kid who needed someone to hold her hand and walk her through life. You wanted him to see you as an equal, not just his daughter’s best friend. And although you know that he probably means he’s proud of you in the way that he’s proud of Dylan, it still thrills you to know that you’ve at least gotten that far.

You think that maybe the reason you’re so desperate to make him see you as an adult, to make him proud, is because of the small crush you’ve had on him since the day you met. Watching him lift boxes and look incredible while simultaneously cracking the best, lamest dad jokes you’d ever heard was something that you hadn’t expected to like so much but couldn’t help falling for. And now you’re reminded of just how deep your crush runs as you glance at the exposed sliver of his chest peeking out of his shirt.

You try to be discreet, only looking when he’s glancing out at the partygoers milling about the party space, as you allow your eyes to rake over the silver necklace that you’d never seen him without, the one that stops just above the first fastened button, before they dip down to take in the deep burgundy of his button down. You have to bite your cheek to stop a groan from leaving your lips as your eyes rake over his thighs in the same black pants he’d worn to the graduation ceremony earlier in the day and you want to drop your head to the table and ask forgiveness as you imagine sitting on them.

“Are you alright?”

You blink at the suddenness of Luke’s question and nod quickly. “Fine,” you hum, “I’m okay. Just a little tired. It’s been a long day.”

“I can imagine,” Luke nods. He pauses for a moment before he returns his full attention to you. “Do you have a ride home?”

“Dylan and Alex are supposed to give me a ride home,” you inform him as you take a look around the back yard, searching for your best friend’s familiar head of curly blonde hair. When you don’t see it, you frown and reach for your cellphone. “Uh, at least, I hope they’re going to give me a ride home.”

Luke frowns as he informs you, “Dylan left about thirty minutes ago.”

“Fuck,” you sigh as you glance at your cellphone and notice the text from Dylan telling you exactly the same thing. “Well, Uber it is, then,” you huff as you tap the app on your cellphone and wait for it to load.

“I could take you home,” Luke offers with a shrug, “I know it’s probably safe for you to take an Uber but I don’t like the idea of you alone with a stranger.”

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” you shake your head as you glance up at him, “it’s fine, honestly. You probably have something better to do than drive me home. No worries.”

Luke breathes a laugh as he shakes his head. “I cleared my day for the ceremony and the party. I’m all yours,” he informs you before he quickly adds, “if you want me to take you home. I don’t have any other plans.”

You smile at Luke’s offer and nod. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother,” you agree, “thank you. I really appreciate it. I’m not going to lie, I hate taking cabs or Ubers or something if I’m alone. My mom’s always telling me how dangerous it is and it kind of freaks me out.”

Luke nods seriously as he offers you his hand to help you out of your chair. “I understand where she’s coming from,” he informs you as he begins leading you out of the ballroom, “it’s dangerous out there. I’m glad you and Dylan are practically attached at the hip. Makes me feel better knowing you both have someone to watch out for you.”

With that, the two of you fall silent as you make your way out of the venue. Your mind is clouded with a frustrating mixture of lust, guilt, and nerves as you allow yourself to slip back into your thoughts. Being alone with Luke is somewhat new, you’re still not entirely sure how to behave yourself without Dylan’s presence, and it’s enough to send your heart thumping as you peek over at him.

Despite his age, or maybe because of it, he's still incredibly handsome. The years have been kind to him, you think, as you take in the soft curls of his hair and the stubble lining his jaw. His eyes are a beautiful blue, kind and shining, and they make you want to lose yourself in them. You want to grin at his nose and that’s how you know you’re completely fucked, when the image of waking up beside him and kissing his nose with a soft ‘good morning’ flashes through your brain. But you can’t seem to help yourself, despite the nagging feeling of guilt bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

You’ve never felt this way, never wanted anyone so badly, and at first you were unsure of whether it was the fact that he seemed so unattainable or the fact that he just genuinely made you feel so strongly. Now, however, staring up at him, you know that it’s a genuine feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach, settling in right alongside the guilt. You genuinely want him, you’re certain of that. What you remain unsure of is whether or not he wants you back.

As you stare up at him, you can’t help your spiraling thoughts.

What if he actually does want you? What if something were to happen between the two of you? What would Dylan think? What would your parents think? Would it be an actual relationship or a meaningless hookup? Is it wrong to want him? Does it make you a bad person to want to be with him? Would it make him a bad person to want to be with you?

“You’re spacing out on me again.”

You blink away your thoughts and focus on Luke who looks somewhat concerned, despite the teasing tone to his voice. “I’m okay,” you assure him quickly, a small smile quirking your lips, “just thinking, sorry.”

“Please, don’t apologize. It’s alright,” Luke assures you as he opens the passenger door for you, “we all get lost in our thoughts.” Luke shuts the door and rounds the car as you settle into your seat. As he buckles his own seatbelt, he tells you, “You don’t have to, of course, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I can’t promise I won’t laugh if it’s embarrassing, but I will listen.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the giggle that leaves your lips at Luke’s teasing. Luke looks pleased with himself as he hears the sound of your giggle. He grins widely at you before the starts the car and asks you to direct him to your apartment. The moment he pulls out of the parking lot, Luke turns the radio up and you grin as Ozzy Osbourne begins pouring from the speakers.

A soft smile graces Luke’s lips as he watches you quietly sing along to Mr. Crowley. You look so content in the moment, happy and free in a way that he rarely sees you, and he’s suddenly reminded of the person he met nearly four years ago. You seem to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders now, you seem jaded and hardened by the four years that have passed, and Luke is happy to see some of that melt away if only for a moment.

Luke continues the playlist of classic rock as he drives you to your apartment and even sings along to a few of the songs with you, grinning widely as he watches you begin to truly enjoy yourself. By the time he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment complex, you’re fully channeling your inner Joan Jett and he wants to turn the car around and keep driving, just to keep the carefree smile on your lips. But as the final chords of Crimson and Clover fade out, you realize where you are and a quiet sigh he’s sure he wasn’t meant to hear spills from your lips.

However, as quickly as your genuine smile faded, a smile that Luke can instantly pinpoint as fake replaces it. “Thank you for bringing me home,” you nod, your appreciation genuine though your smile is not. “I really appreciate it.”

“You’re very welcome. Thank you for letting me bring you home,” he smiles. “Have fun with your parents in the morning,” he urges, “Dylan told me you guys were going to get breakfast before you head home for a few days.”

“Oh,” you nod slowly, “uh. Plans changed a bit. My mom got sick during the ceremony. They left as soon as I got off stage with my diploma. They headed home earlier. I’m driving back by myself tomorrow.” Luke’s smile falls as he watches you attempt to keep your tone even. “It’s not a big deal,” you shrug, “we’re having a party for me and my cousins who’re graduating high school this weekend. So, we’ll celebrate then.”

“But you’re going to be alone tonight,” he prompts, “and on your drive home tomorrow?” When you shrug, his frown deepens. “You should be celebrating tonight. You should be too hungover to drive tomorrow. You should be surrounded by people who love you tonight.”

You smile softly at Luke’s words and shrug. “It’s really not a big deal,” you laugh slightly, “it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. I’ll probably still be too hungover to drive tomorrow. It’ll just be because of wine and Chopped reruns. Like I said, this doesn’t really feel like that big of a thing, anyway.” When Luke opens his mouth to argue, you truly laugh. “If you’re so concerned about me being alone, you’re free to come up and watch an episode or two of Chopped with me. I have to warn you, though, I’ve seen all of them so I can tell you who wins the moment I see the first chef appear.”

Luke laughs at this, his frown lightening for a moment, before he hesitates. You think he’s going to tell you that he shouldn’t, that he needs to head home, but to your surprise, he nods. “I suppose I’ll have to try and guess before you can tell me who wins, then,” he teases as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “And maybe keep you from getting too hungover to drive in the morning.”

“My hero,” you retort with a playful roll of your eyes as Luke steps out and rounds the car before you can get your seatbelt unbuckled. Luke nods his acknowledgement when you thank him and gestures for you to lead the way up the stairs. “I have to warn you before you come in,” you murmur as you search through your bag for your keys, “my place looks like a hurricane hit it. Between packing for the trip home, getting ready for graduation, and work, I haven’t had much time to clean.”

Luke rolls his eyes at this because he knows you. He knows that you’re the tidiest twenty-something he’s ever met (every time he visited when you and Dylan lived together, the only cleaning supplies to be found were tucked away in your closet. Hell, he even walked in on you cleaning the apartment Dylan lived in alone after you both moved into one-bedroom places of your own). 

He’s imagining a pair of shoes scattered near the door or makeup left on the bathroom counter but he’s surprised to find a duffle bag left open on the dining table, clothes scattered around it. He raises an eyebrow at the wine glass on the coffee table and shakes his head amusedly when you grin sheepishly at him. The apartment does look messy by your standards but, to him, it’s another glimpse into a side of you he’s not usually privy to.

“Do you want something to drink?” you ask, pulling him from his thoughts. “Um, I have wine, obviously,” you laugh as you step around him to grab the glass from the table, “I have Jack, some rum, some vodka… I also have, like, non-alcoholic stuff, too. Juice, I think, and some water. I have some La Croix that Dylan drinks and a soda but, if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t drink that. I feel like it’s been in there since I moved in and I doubt it’s any good anymore. I should throw that away…” Luke watches as you scramble around, tidying the mess that he knows is killing you inside, with an amused smile on his lips.

He remains in his spot near the door for a moment, just watching, before he steps toward the living area and begins helping. He’s tidied up the coffee table, straightened papers and returned books to the shelf beneath your television, by the time you notice he’s helping and before you can argue that he doesn’t have to, he shakes his head. “I know it’ll be on your mind the entire time if your apartment is “messy” and someone is here to witness it,” he hums as he folds the large knit throw over the back of the couch, “even if you know that someone has a daughter whose definition of cleaning is kicking things under the bed or into the closet. How did you even deal with sharing a living space with Dylan?”

“It was a challenge,” you laugh as you zip your duffle bag, now filled to the brim with clothes, and place it in a chair in the corner, “but she gets it honest, I’m sure.”

“Hey,” Luke frowns playfully, his eyes still shining with amusement, “I’m a busy man. I clean when I can.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever really seen the desk in your office,” you laugh as you step around him to get into the kitchen, “is there actually a desk under all those papers?” Luke shakes his head at your question, his lips quirking into a smile as he shrugs, but says nothing to defend himself. With a triumphant grin, you grab a clean wine glass from your cabinet and turn back to him. “So, drink?”

“Just water, please,” he requests as he leans against the kitchen counter and watches you pour your glass full of grape juice. “I see you’ve decided against the hangover.”

“Mm,” you nod as you hand him his glass, “figured I’d be annoyed enough with the traffic. But juice always feels better when you drink it out of a real glass. Now, Chopped marathon or no?” Luke gestures for you to lead the way with a smile and follows you back to the couch. “My Hulu’s already pulled up. You can just find Chopped. I’m going to go change out of this dress really quick,” you inform him as he settles at one end of the couch.

“Take your time,” he nods, “it’ll give me a head-start trying to figure out who wins before you can spoil it for me.”

“A man with a plan,” you nod, your tone light as you laugh and head down the hall, “I like it!”

Luke laughs at your words and you try not to let yourself dwell as you search your drawers for a pair of comfortable (but still cute) pajamas.

You try not to think about the fact that Luke, a man you’ve had a crush on for nearly four years even though you shouldn’t, is sitting on your couch, waiting to watch Chopped with you. You try not to think about the fact that you’ve been laughing and joking like you’re old friends. You try not to think about the fact that he’s treating you the way you’ve always wished. 

You try not to think about how badly you’d like for this to be more than just him pitying you. You try not to think about how nice it would be to come home to Luke, waiting to watch Chopped with you and laugh as you ultimately spoil every episode, after a long day at work. You try not to think about how badly you’d like to curl up beside him, his arms wrapped around you and his fingers gently combing through your hair as he listened to you ramble about anything and everything. You try not to think about how nice it would be to kiss him, to feel his lips against yours and his hands on your hips.

You try not to think about how you shouldn’t want any of this.

But you can’t help yourself as the overwhelming flood of thoughts returns to the forefront of your mind as you pull out a pair of shorts that aren’t too short or too frumpy, a t-shirt that’s still completely in tact, and a pair of fuzzy socks. Before the thoughts can fully consume you, you strip out of your party dress and pull on your pajamas. You attempt to calm your racing heart as you return to the living room and settle onto the opposite end of the couch, leaving as much space between the two of you as possible.

“Figure out who’s going to win yet?” you question as you do your best to keep your tone light.

“Not yet,” Luke hums before he turns his head and fully looks at you. When he catches sight of you, clad in your pajamas and looking softer than he’s ever seen you, he can’t help but smile.

“What?” you question, your eyebrows quirked in confusion and a slight frown on your lips.

Luke shakes his head, a smile still on his lips, as he tells you, “You look so cute. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this dressed down. Even when you stayed over with Dylan, you were in jeans every time I saw you.”

“I’m not cute,” you huff, “and I’m sure you’ve seen me in clothes that aren’t, like, clothes. I’m sure I’ve worn shorts or something at the beach or around the pool.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Luke shrugs, “always jeans. And definitely never fuzzy penguin socks. Those are my favorite, by the way.”

“Okay, well. Now you’re just being mean,” you huff as you curl your feet beneath you in an attempt to cover your socks.

Luke laughs as you turn your head away from him and pretend to focus on the television. He hesitates for a moment, unsure of whether or not he’d be crossing any boundaries, before he decides to say fuck it and reaches out to gently tug at your ankle. “I promise I wasn’t making fun of your socks,” he assures you with a soft smile as he convinces you to straighten your legs and prop your feet in his lap, “I really do love them. They’re cute. It’s nice to see you like this, soft and at home. I always see this tough exterior, this girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders, so it makes me happy to see you this way.”

You’re not sure if you should play this off with a joke or if you should share your thoughts with Luke. You’re not sure if he will laugh at you, if he’ll play it off himself with a smile and a witty comment, but you can’t help yourself. You quietly inform him, “I like you seeing me this way. I’m comfortable with you.”

Luke wants to believe that he imagined the softness in your tone. He wants to believe that you don’t mean those words in the way that he knows you do. He wants to believe that you just see him as a positive adult figure but as he looks at you, truly looks at you, he knows that that isn’t the case. He can see the apprehension in your eyes, the fear of rejection or judgement or a lecture, and it sends a pang that he hasn’t felt in years surging through his chest. He knows it’s a bad idea, knows that he should let you down gently before either of you get hurt, but he can’t bring himself to crush your heart. So, instead of moving his hands and nudging you back to your side of the couch, he gently traces his fingers along your shin and smiles softly at you.

“I’m glad,” he nods and you can feel the sincerity in the statement as he gently squeezes your ankle, “I want you to feel comfortable around me.”

The two of you fall silent, his words settling in the air and sending your heart rate skyrocketing. The feeling of his fingers on your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as they gently brush across your shin, combined with the gentleness of his tone sends your mind reeling. And before you can truly register what you’re doing, you’re whispering, “Is it bad that I really want to kiss you?”

Luke wants to say yes, wants to tell you that it’s a bad idea and that you shouldn’t want him, but he can’t. Not when you’re looking at him with the most wide-eyed look of sincerity he’s ever seen. Not when you’re jumping, hoping he’ll be there to catch you.

He can’t tell you that when he feels exactly the same way.

So, he shakes his head. “Only if it’s bad that I really want to kiss you,” and it feels as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room. You find yourself unable to breathe, unable to think, and you feel as if you’ll wake up at any moment to the harsh ringing of your alarm, only to find that this was all a dream. But when Luke shifts and looks at you, concern clearly written on his face, do you realize that this is real.

“I don’t care, then,” you whisper before he can ask if you’re alright, “I don’t care if it’s bad. Please, kiss me.”

Luke knows that he should refuse. At the very least, he should hesitate. You’re his daughter’s best friend, for crying out loud. But he doesn’t. The moment the words leave your lips, he’s pulling you closer and reaching out to gently cup your cheeks as he presses his lips to yours. 

He feels any semblance of doubt disappear the moment a content sigh leaves your lips and you relax against him. You settle closer to him, as close as you can get with your thighs draped over his lap, and reach up to tangle your fingers in his curls. Luke relaxes into the couch, sighing contentedly as he feels your lips moving with his. The two of you lose yourselves in one another, the world around you ceasing to exist as you focus on finally feeling Luke against you after four years of pining, and you’re content to spend the rest of your life right here.

But your lungs, unable to stick with the program, pull you away from Luke to take in a deep breath. As you blink at him, your chest heaving and lips slightly swollen, Luke can’t help but gently brush his thumbs over your cheekbones. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes as soft as his tone.

“So are you,” you breathe, “you make my heart feel like it’s going to beat out of my chest.”

Luke smiles at this. He remembers the feeling from his own days in college, remembers how confusing feelings were in the beginning, and he wants to tell you that it’s simultaneously one of the best and worst feelings in the world, but he doesn’t want to remind you of just how old he is. He doesn’t want to remind you that he has so much more life experience than you, that he understands because he’s been there, so he doesn’t address it. Instead, he whispers, “Could I kiss you again?”

You don’t respond verbally. You shift so that you’re a little more comfortable tucked into his side and return your lips to his. This kiss is different than the first, you think, as his hands move from your cheeks, down your arms, to rest at your hips. His grip is gentle, a barely there pressure that you’re all too aware of, as he deepens the kiss. You feel any thought that doesn’t consist of Luke, of his hands and his mouth, slip from your mind as you shift to place a knee on either side of his thighs without breaking the kiss.

Luke’s grip on your hips tightens slightly as you shift on his lap to get more comfortable. You can feel him hardening in the black pants that hug his thighs just the way you like and the idea that this could go further than a makeout session on your couch has you tugging at his curls a little harder than before. His fingers dip beneath them of your t-shirt, thumbs brushing your hipbones as he groans against your lips.

“Are you sure about this, pretty girl?” Luke questions, his voice quiet as he pulls away just enough to see your face.

“So sure,” you breathe, eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. “I’m an adult, Luke. I know what I want and that’s you. Please.”

Luke searches your eyes for any hint of doubt. In them, he sees certainty clouded by lust and that’s enough to have him nodding. He shouldn’t he knows that. He should stop this before it goes any further. But he can’t help himself as the words spill past his lips. “Up, then,” he breathes as he taps your hip, “don’t want to do this on your couch.”

If it had been any other time, Luke would’ve laughed at your slight stumble as you climb off of his lap and reach out for his hand. But as your fingers curl around his and you lead him down the hall to your bedroom, decorated in blacks and reds and far more sensual than he would’ve imagined, laughing at your clumsiness is the farthest thing from his mind.

The moment you step through the doorway, Luke’s hands are back on you. It’s as if a switch has flipped in his mind as he returns his hands to your hips and pulls you so that you’re flush against his body. He reconnects your lips in a kiss that is a mess of teeth and tongue, of passion and lust and lowered inhibitions, as he allows his hands to begin wandering. You feel him brush the swell of your ass, his touch gentle and unhurried as you allow your own hands to drift.

While you work diligently to unbutton the remaining buttons of Luke’s shirt, his hands move to dip beneath your t-shirt and splay across your ribcage. His fingertips trace the band of your bra, lightly brushing the patterns of the lace, and you shiver at the featherlight feeling tickling your skin. The cool metal of his rings feels heavenly against your skin and you almost whine at the loss of it before you feel him cup your breasts and gently squeeze.

“They feel better without a bra,” you breathe against his lips as you pull away to catch your breath.

“They feel pretty damn good with a bra,” he laughs but pulls away and allows you to nudge his button down off his shoulders before he tugs at the hem of your t-shirt. Your shirt joins his on the floor and his breath catches at the sight of you standing before him. He’s seen you in bikinis, seen you in crop tops, but he’s never let himself truly look. Now, though, he feels as if he can’t tear his eyes away. “Fuck,” he breathes as his eyes rake over the black lace, “you’re so beautiful.”

When you dip your head to hide your face, Luke gently grips your chin and tilts your head up to face him. “I mean it,” he assures you, “you are so beautiful and if you’ll let me, I’d love to show you how beautiful I find you.” Unable to do more, you nod at Luke’s request and return your hands to his shoulders as he dips his head to press searing kisses to your neck. He begins walking you backward, his lips never leaving your skin, and only stops when your knees hit the foot of your mattress and your knees buckle. “Take your bra for me, pretty girl,” he breathes and you swear you feel your heart stop as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your shorts and tugs them down your legs.

Your bra joins the pile of clothes as Luke settles in front of you and you’re certain that your panties are noticeably soaked as Luke gently nudges your thighs apart to step between them. He takes his time; presses kisses down the column of your throat, brushes his lips across your collarbones, nips at your chest, and pauses when he comes to your breasts. His fingers gently pinch and tug at one nipple while his mouth envelops the other. His tongue swirls around the hardening bud, warm and enough to leave you thoughtless and floating in the pleasure of Luke.

After giving your breasts the same treatment, Luke drags kisses down your stomach, across your collarbones, and just above the waistband fo your panties as he settles on his knees before you. “Lie back, princess,” he hums against your skin, his eyes lifting to look at you and you swear you’re going to combust before the night’s over.

Luke continues to move slowly as he avoids the area you want him the most and nudges your thighs further apart. He places kisses along your inner thighs, nipping and sucking at the skin and leaving small marks in his wake as he gets as close to the apex of your thighs as he can without actually touching you. You’re certain that he’s doing it to drive you insane, to rile you up, but as he presses a kiss to your folds through your panties, you realize that this isn’t meant to be teasing. This is meant to be foreplay. And you don’t know if you can handle an entire night of this.

But then Luke tugs your panties down your legs, tosses them with the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you’d gladly take an entire night of this as you feel his tongue brush your folds. He’s in no hurry as his tongue explores your folds, his nose bumps your clit, and his hands grip your thighs to keep you spread open for him. After what feels like a lifetime of him exploring with just his mouth, Luke shifts so that his shoulders is pressing against your thigh, freeing one hand to bring his fingers to your entrance. He starts you off slow, one finger slipping into your heat and giving you a moment to adjust to the intrusion, before a second joins and he’s working you open. 

As his lips wrap around your clit and his fingers tap repeatedly at the small spot that has your thoughts blanking and your you feel the coil forming in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging a little harder than you intended, as you clench around his fingers and Luke shifts just enough to breathe, “Cum for me, pretty girl. Let me see how beautiful you look when you cum,” before he returns his lips to your clit and works his fingers just a bit faster.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you fall over the edge and just how hard you cum but you can’t bring yourself to care as you lose yourself in the afterglow of your orgasm. Luke’s fingers are gentle against your thighs as he brushes your heated skin and you’re not sure what to do other than reach out and grab his hand. 

“So beautiful like this,” he breathes as he stands. He leans over you, his hands on either side of your head, as he presses a kiss to your lips and you groan at the taste of yourself on his lips.

“Need you, please,” you whisper against his mouth, “want you.”

Luke nods, his fingers moving to brush stray pieces of hair from your face, as he presses another kiss to your lips. “You’ve got me,” he assures you as he pulls away to unbuckle his belt. “Can you move up for me, pretty girl?”

You push yourself up and move to the head of the bed as you watch Luke shove those sinful black pants and his underwear down his legs. He kicks them off, lets them join the mess of other clothes, and climbs onto the bed to hover above you. The silver chain around his neck is sandwiched between the two of you, the silver a cool contrast to the warmth of Luke’s chest pressing against yours, as he presses one more kiss to your lips. “Do you have any condoms, pretty girl?”

“Nightstand,” you whisper, still slightly dazed from your orgasm, and Luke nods. 

He grabs the foil packet from a box in the corner of your nightstand and rolls the latex onto his cock before he pauses and stares down at you. “Are you sure about this?” he asks, one more time. “If you’re not, I’ll stop.”

“I’m so sure,” you nod, your tone pleading, “please, don’t stop.”

Luke nods at this and places one hand on your hip as the other grips the base of his cock. His lips are on yours as he brushes your folds with the head of his cock, effectively distracting you as he begins to sink into your heat. You can tell that the torturously slow pace he’s set will continue through the night as he takes his time fully seating himself inside of you. And by the time he’s sheathed to the hilt, you’re already on edge. He gives you a moment to adjust, a moment to process that this is truly happening, before you’re clenching around him and he can’t help himself.

His free hand rubs slow, loose circles over your clit as he fucks into you slow and deep. You can feel every thrust, every drag of his cock inside of you, and it’s maddening. Your moans are spilling freely now, any concern you might’ve felt for your neighbors long gone as Luke’s eyes meet yours. You want this to last forever, want this moment on a loop, but you can feel yourself moving closer to your orgasm by the second. And when Luke snaps his hips just right, buries himself into your heat in just the right way, you cum for the second time and clench around him so tightly that all Luke can do is give you a moment to ride it out,.

He moves to pull out, to finish himself off, but you grip his wrist and shake your head. “I’m okay,” you assure him, your breathing ragged, “you can keep going.” He looks like he wants to argue but you clench around him and his resolve crumbles.

You’re so sensitive, every nerve ending in your body feels as if it’s on fire, but you wouldn’t trade the feeling of Luke chasing his orgasm for anything. And when he grunts, breathes your name in such a reverent tone that it’s almost overwhelming, you can’t help the moan that spills past your lips.

Luke is gentle as he pulls out, both of you groaning at the loss. He ties the condom, tosses it into the small trashcan by your bed, and settles in beside you. He hesitates for a moment, unsure of whether or not he should wrap you in his arms, but when you shift closer to him, he decides that there’s no more harm to be done. So he pulls you tight to his chest, presses a kiss to your forehead, and tugs the blankets up and over the two of you as he feels the both of you drifting. 

And while Luke falls asleep fairly quickly, your thoughts return full force and force you to lie awake. You wonder if this meant as much to him as it did to you, if this is going to happen again. You wonder if anything will come of this.

But then you think of Dylan. You think of your best friend, the one who has been there for you through some of the hardest times, who you just betrayed. And your stomach turns.

No matter how you feel, no matter how Luke feels; you can’t shake the pure terror that fills your veins at the thought of Dylan finding out. And you know that if this happens again, it’ll only increase the chances of her finding out. So as Luke sleeps soundly beside you, you wonder if this is worth it. You wonder if you’ll still feel as strongly for him when morning comes or if your senses will return with the morning light.

Author’s Note: This got a little out of hand but I had a ton of fun with it. I’m probably packing as you read this (moving actual furniture and things into an empty apartment is so much harder than just moving clothes??) so. Anyway. Hope you liked it. Any thoughts? Feel free to share.

[endlessly-searching-for-you]

Cookie Thief (Part 2)

Summary: Zahra and Craig are hosting a Christmas party for the gang, and their friends try to help. And because no party would be complete without something sweet, let’s start baking tonight! Catch up with Part 1 here.

Warnings: pure fluff and lots of sugar

Word Count: ~1700

A/N: I plan to take part in the Endless Summer appreciation week (Dec 8-15), but I promise the party preparations will pick up the pace after that ❤

A beautiful redhead pushed the bakery door and tossed her head, shaking the snow off her wavy hair. Opening For Goodness Cake was her dream for a long time, and it finally came true just before Christmas. It wasn't a big shop, but the reviews were stellar, and it was a hit especially with the high school kids. She already had requests for birthday parties in May. Who would have thought that a few years ago?

“How are you, Allie?” Quinn smiled at the girl behind the counter and reached for her apron. “I thought you might like to take the rest of the day off.”

The girl wrapped her in a hug, whispered thank you's and Merry Christmas's and ran from the shop quickly, grabbing her jacket and hat on her way, as if she was afraid her boss would change her mind. Quinn laughed, opening the cabinet and taking a bowl out. Zahra asked her to bring some of the famous cupcakes to the party, and she was determined to make them the best ones they ever had. Her head was already filled with thousands of flavor combinations, and while Allie was a good baker, Quinn wanted to do them all by herself. Humming along to the Christmas carols playing on the radio, she waltzed through her kitchen, whisking the ingredients, sampling the frosting, adding a pinch of spices here and there and testing different nozzles. When she finally finished, five dozen of perfect, mouth-watering little cupcakes stood on the counter, almost begging to be eaten. She reached for one, making a quick calculation in her head—we only need fifty-six, right?—but her hand froze mid-air as the phone started to ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi there.”

Quinn smiled, recognizing the warm and soft voice. Emily. They met a few weeks ago at a party she almost didn't go to. Her date canceled last minute, and she didn't know anyone there, but her sense of adventure won. She bumped into Em by the dessert table, and the two hit it off right away, talking the whole night about different recipes. Emily was a photographer for a food magazine, and they met a few times discussing business, but recently Quinn felt there might be something more to it. Tingling in her fingertips, butterflies in her stomach? These weren't things you feel when you think of your business partner.

“I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas,” Emily continued. “I was hoping I could see you before you go to the party, but my family decided to crash at my place.” She sighed. “And you probably have plans for tonight anyway?”

“I do, actually.” Quinn smiled. “I'm going on a date!”

“Oh.” The disappointment in Emily's voice was almost palpable. “I thought... nevermind. Have fun. Who's the lucky one?”

“He's the most perfect gentleman. Brown hair, blue eyes, big smile. And he's four,” she giggled. “My friends wanted to go on a date, and they asked me to babysit their son.” She heard a breath of relief on the other side of the line, and her giggle turned into a throaty laugh. “Sorry, couldn't resist. About the date... I thought maybe we could go out together sometime. After Christmas?” Please, please, please. She held her breath and crossed her fingers.

“I'd love that.”

Yes. Yes! YES!!! Quinn did a little happy dance when someone knocked on the closed door, startling her. She peeked carefully, waving her hand when she recognized the tightly wrapped figure.

“I need to go,” she sighed to the phone, reaching for the door handle. “My ride is here. I'll call you later. Merry Christmas!” She broke into another fit of giggles when she saw Jake's chattering teeth. “Oh, come on! It's not that cold.”

“I'm freezing!” He whined, looking at her miserably. “I hate being cold.”

“Tell me about it. Remember how we were all fighting a heat stroke, and you always had your jacket on?” She sneered. “I'll pack the cupcakes, so we can drop them off at Zahra's on the way. Okay? Hey! DON'T EAT THAT! IT'S FOR THE PARTY!”

***

Taylor was already one foot out the door, but she turned to Quinn one last time. “Please, call me when he's too much,” she asked just as Jake tugged impatiently at her sleeve and mouthed silently, “Please don't!”

“I'm sure we'll be fine,” Quinn glanced at the blue-eyed boy holding her hand. Mike looked like a sweet, perfect child who didn't do anything mischievous in his life, no matter how hard his mother insisted it was the other way around. He waved his parents goodbye and blew them a kiss, and she felt her heart melting already.

“Can I watch TV?” He asked as soon as the door closed.

“I have a better idea. We should prepare something special for Santa.” She smiled at Mike, leading him to the kitchen and piling various utensils on the counter. “Do you know what he likes?”

“Cookies!” He jumped. “And whiskey.”

“What?!” The cookie tray she was holding fell from her hands with a loud crash, and she stared at the child with wide eyes and open mouth. “Who told you that?”

“My daddy!” Mike smiled back at her.

Right. It was too easy to guess. Telling a kid that Santa loves whiskey? The idea just screamed Jake. Quinn bent to pick up the tray and chuckled quietly, hiding behind the island counter. This guy just won't grow up, ever. After all those years, everyone expected Taylor knocked some sense into him, but apparently even she had her limits. There was only as much as you could do, and Jake was... kind of a lost cause. She sighed deeply. “And what does your mom say about it?”

“Daddy said I can't tell her. It's our secret.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Quinn lifted his chin with her finger. “Do you even know what whiskey is, young man?”

“I do! I saw daddy drinking with uncle Sean. And they were walking funny,” he giggled, wrinkling his small nose. “But mommy and auntie Meech were angry. Said they were in trouble.”

“See? You wouldn't want Santa to get in trouble, right?”

“Well...” He stared at his feet. “No.”

“Let's just stick to cookies. I'd say we go with the classic gingerbread. What do you think, sweetie?” She stopped to look at Mike, and he gave her a solemn nod, climbing up onto a chair. “And we can decorate them, too! I brought all kinds of icing and sprinkles from my shop. Decorating is actually my favorite part.” She chattered happily, collecting the ingredients, and handed him a bag of flour, measuring cup and a bowl. “Do you think you can measure two cups for me?”

He carefully tipped the bag and started pouring the flour. Quinn laughed at the concentration on his face, little brows knitted together, tongue sticking out. A cloud of flour flew out of the bowl as the boy emptied the second cup, causing them both to sneeze. They looked at each other and burst into laughter, wiping the white dust from their faces.

“It happens to me all the time!” She ruffled his hair. “Don't worry. Now, we'll add the rest of dry ingredients. Sugar...” Another puff rose from the bowl. “Spices... soda. Can you mix that for me?” She handed him a spoon and turned to lift the milk pot from stove just as it was about to spill. “And this is where things start to get interesting,” she said, adding honey, butter, and eggs to the mix. “But I'll do it myself, the milk is too hot, and I don't want you to get burned. Okay?”

Mike pouted a little, but gave her the smallest nod, propped his elbows on the counter and watched as she added just one little splash of milk at a time and kneaded the dough gently, working it into a smooth and shiny ball.

“Nice, right?” She smiled, seeing his wide eyes. “I need a rolling pin. Do you have one?”

I should have asked that sooner, she realized, but he hopped from the chair, ran to his room and returned holding the rolling pin triumphantly. Quinn inspected it, squinting her eyes, scratched something blue off the surface and looked at the child questioningly. Mike's gaze dropped to the floor.

“I borrowed it,” he mumbled, staring at his feet. “It's great for playdough, and mommy never uses it anyway. Don't tell her, please?” He looked up at her, tears pooling in his big blue eyes and lips trembling.

“I promise I won't tell.” Quinn winked, and his face brightened immediately. A pair of skinny arms wrapped around her and she dropped to her knees to return the hug.

“You're the best, auntie Quinn!”

***

They weren't joking about him being intense. Quinn sighed, plopping onto the sofa. After they finished baking and decorating cookies (making a big mess and eating half of them in the process), Mike insisted on building a snowman and having a snowball fight (they ended up being completely soaked, and she was hoping he wouldn't catch a cold), then poured what looked like a whole bottle of bubble bath into the tub (“I like bubbles”), and asked her to read the same book twenty times before finally falling asleep on the sofa (she almost had a heart attack when she carried him to his bed, and he opened his eyes). He actually tried to coax her into watching TV, but at this point, she started to suspect his “mommy lets me do it” was a blatant lie. She had to admit one thing, though: he had the charm of both of his parents combined.

Her phone buzzed with a text message, and she reached to her pocket. Taylor.

She giggled, sending the last message, and grabbed a blanket. Just when her mind drifted off to sleep, the phone buzzed again, and she fished it from under her pillow with a sigh. Seriously? Right now? Who could it be at this hour?

“Zahra? What happened?” Her voice still had a hint of sleep hanging in it, but the scream at the other end of the line made her jump out of bed immediately.

“It's a disaster! A complete fucking disaster!”

_____

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