#miss green bean over here

[bakecity]

🌿🌱🪴🍃🌵

[leviathanleva]

Caffè Crema

[Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!FemReader]

Excitement for your morning coffee turns to panic when you bump into a mountainous stranger in a grey hoodie, sporting a skull mask. Sputtered apologies become a conversation in a corner of the café. And he’s so beat up, battered and bruised and scarred that you can’t help the words that leave your lips:

“Do you want to come home with me?”

[5k words ]

Chapter 1 "Caffeine Rush"

Airpods in your ears, music vibrating through your soul, you were ready for the world outside.

Sweet Saturday morning, after a week of work and barely any time for yourself, you’d decided on a treat to start off the weekend. You’d slept in late, phone alarm turned off and sleeping mask tugged on, new sheets prepared the night before because it was so comforting to wake up to the subtle smell of detergent. And once you were finally up, you’d decided fuck it, go out and get a nice steaming hot coffee in a cute paper cup from the local café, listen to Lofi or Lana Del Rey or whatever Spotify had prepared for your daily suggestions on the way, cozy up in a warm winter jacket and a thick scarf. Bless the crisp December air, it nipped at your cheeks and filled your lungs with sharp frosty air. It numbed your nose too and made your eyes water, but those weren’t as positive as the previous two affixes.

The streets were buzzing, a rare sight of the sun peeking through a blanket of grey clouds was shining down on you.

All in all, it was going to be a good day.

You waited impatiently for the light to turn green before crossing the street with a horde of nameless individuals, keeping in tandem with them.

Snow was still a no-show, you could only hope for its appearance at least on Christmas. The holidays without a fluffy coat of white powdering over everything from trees to rooftops just didn’t sit well with you, but at the end of the day, it was up to Mother Nature, not you. Anything but the ice rain you’d had the week prior; you weren’t ready to skate to the store again.

The bell above the café door shakes to life, signaling your entrance. You tuck one airpod in your pocket to listen in on the chatter in the comfy, coffee bean scented establishment, and also because you didn’t want to miss anything the cashier said. You were the anxious type after all, didn’t wanna miss a thing ever.

The heating system is blasting, cranked to the max, steam comes in large waves from behind the oak counter, be it from warm beverages or baked goods fresh from the oven, it lingers long enough for you to get a whiff before being diligently sucked away by the range hood. You unzip the top part of your jacket before getting too stuffy, loosen your scarf and take off your gloves. The staff, donned in their creamy yellow aprons, zip back and forth between tables like worker ants and you step into the line of waiting customers to keep out of their way.

The hardwood floor is licked spotless, looking down, you can almost see your reflection staring back at you. The hum of the large coffee grinder fills your exposed ear and you decide to turn off Spotify for the moment and bask in the café’s ambience instead.

The line moves, it’s almost your turn and you glance up at the display monitors listing off all the choices on the menu for today. Lattes, milkshakes, espressos, you decide on a large cappuccino, leave experimenting with unfamiliar drinks for another day when you’re feeling more courageous.

“Large cappuccino, please.” You say with a polite smile and fish out your wallet from your pocket.

Coffee is cheap here, cheaper than in most cafés and that’s one of the things that keeps you coming back to this place. It’s not easy to afford treats when you live on your own and have to pay the bills and groceries alone. However, you manage, and being able to afford a coffee or takeout once in a while is all the sweeter when knowing you owe nothing to nobody.

You take your cup and nudge your chin for the barista to keep the change before stepping away to the sidebar littered with plastic lids, sugar packets, and cheap wooden teaspoons for stirring your drink. After a brief consideration, you decide not to sweeten your coffee and only take a large lid, pop it over your cup and after zipping your jacket back up, you’re about to turn and walk out.

A walk through the park where you can sit down and enjoy your drink suggestively passes by your mind. Deciding that’s exactly what you will do, you palm through your pocket for your discarded airpods while nursing your paper cup to your chest.

And maybe it was your fault for not paying enough attention because you were buzzed to have a nice relaxing weekend. Or that you’d already achieved your first goal of the day and you were about to have a nice vibey stroll while hurrying to stuff your ears with music before you left the café. Maybe you’d jinxed your Saturday by confidently thinking it would be a swell time and nothing wrong would happen for once.

You should have known better. You should have suspected something would go wrong.

Something always goes wrong.

You whirl around with the intent of being on your way, expecting the glass doors to be in view, but they aren’t. A mountain of flesh and muscle stands before you. And your reaction time is too slow to save yourself or your coffee.

You jump, your hand flinches and the paper cup goes flying, a gasp upon your lips so loud it turns heads. You can only watch in horror as it makes contact with a wide chest clad in a grey hoodie, the lid pops off from the force of the impact and the hot contents inside go in every direction.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my freaking God.”

One hand goes up to cover your agape mouth while the other clutches at the zipper of your jacket as panic crawls up your neck and prickles your scalp.

The worst part is that your coffee wasn’t the only casualty. The poor guy had dropped his beverage to pull his hoodie off his chest the moment your scalding beverage had soaked it.

There was steam coming off it. It was boiling and you’d spilled it on him.

You wanted to die.

And he’s fucking terrifying too. Easily two heads over you and built like a truck. The intricate skull mask obscures the lower half of his face and you can’t discern if he’s absolutely pissed or just mildly uncomfortable with the large stain plastered on his top.

His eyes are sharp, trained on his ruined hoodie, crow’s feet crinkled, and you’re grateful they’re not directed at you because you were a step away from breaking down on the spot.

A stone lodged itself in your throat.

If he didn’t curse you to oblivion, he’d either break you in half, or worse, sue you.

You can’t get fucking sued. You don’t have the money to get sued.

So much for having a good day…

“Oh my God, I’m sorry.” You sputter out and grab a handful of paper towels from the counter. You’re glancing up at him every now and again for fear of his patience running out. “I’m so so sorry.”

Shaky hands are tapping away at his top, soaking in the liquid as best you can while trying to keep from breaking down. Your tongue is arrested between your teeth, bitten down on hard in a self-soothing attempt. Your fingertips are stained with coffee because there‘s so much of it that it’s turning the paper towels to mush. You couldn’t care less about that or that you were practically sweating bullets under your jacket.

All you hoped for was that you hadn’t caused the poor guy a burn.

“ ‘s okay.” He murmurs in a thick British accent while watching you fuss over him with growing anxiety. The jitter in your movements would be almost comical if not for you practically hyperventilating on him.

“Excuse me, are you alright?”

“No.” You whine, before you can stifle your voice to normalcy, and turn to the cashier peeking from behind the counter with watery eyes and a deeply carved frown. “No. I’m so sorry, we spilled our drinks. I mean, I spilled - ” You take in a breath to compose yourself and brush a hand over your forehead, shoulders slumping. You’re giving your best apologetic expression, practically mourning over the mess you’d made at your feet and of the man looming next to you.“ – I’m sorry. I can clean it up if you have a mop.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, miss. We’ll mop it up.” The cashier replies, bless her, and signals for one of the waiters to fetch the cleaning supplies. The friendly smile never wavers from her balmed lips; neither does the caffeinated twinkle in her eyes.

She’s most likely seen this sort of thing plenty of times, but for you, it’s a first and it’s your fault to top it off. It’s not an easy pill to swallow and despite the atmosphere being anything but hostile, you can’t help but still feel guilty.

Of course, this had to happen to you of all people. You weren’t allowed a single day of peace and tranquility.

With the main cause of disturbance taken care of, you turn back to your victim, who’s joined you in trying to dry off his hoodie. Your stomach churns at the sight, and you’re afraid to look around in case all eyes are on you two. You can’t bear the scrutiny, even though most people have probably resumed their dwellings by now.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt? I’m so sorry, sir.” You ask and reach for more paper towels, pressing them against his chest more so to show you’re very apologetic and trying to fix the situation rather than actually fixing it because most of the coffee has already come out.

You glance up at him after mustering up the courage, curious as to what awaited you next. He returns your gaze with one of indifference or calmness, you can’t tell, blinks at you slowly, as if he’s just now taking your flustered form for the first time, then he speaks, more clearly this time.

“It’s fine.”

A server arrives with a mop in hand and you both step away from the mess to let them clean it up. You take the lead unintentionally and guide the stranger towards one of the vacant tables in the corner of the café, away from prying stares.

You pick the chair next to the wall that has a large ficus partially looming over the seat. Maybe with enough luck, you can disappear inside it.

Finally, unzipping your jacket because you’re about to faint from the stuffiness, you lay it on the cushioned backrest of the chair and pat it down to make sure you’d not accidentally dropped any of your belongings during the accident. You tug at your sweater to air out the thin sheen of nervous sweat that’s formed over your skin, brush off the strands of hair that have come to stick to your face and take off your scarf.

The stranger sits on the opposite chair, paper towel still to his chest and sucking out any leftover residue. The stain won’t leave your vision no matter how hard you try to rip the two separate. It’s the worry gnawing at your gut that keeps you rooted to your spot, wanting to approach but too afraid to do so.

But so far he’s been a nice guy, hasn’t said one single bad word to you.

Your mind reels with how red and irritated his skin must be, praying it hadn’t blistered up already. You have half a mind to ask him to take off his hoodie so you can take a look.

A fresh wave of panic wraps its dainty fingers around your neck in squeezes, sends needles to prick over random places on your body.

And all this time, you’ve been sputtering out apologies like a broken record, his dismissal of your regret not even reaching your ears let alone registering.

“Should I call an ambulance? Oh my God, I’ve never had to call an ambulance in my life…” You ask, mumbling the last part to yourself as the realization hits you square in the face. For a brief moment, you forget how to dial the emergency line because you’ve never had to use that number before. “I’m sorry, sir – I – I didn’t mean – ”

You continue to blabber while searching your jacket pocket for your phone. The guy might have said nothing at your suggestion, but you wanted to be safe and have your phone at the ready anyway. And you’re too preoccupied going ballistic with panic in your own little world to hear him repeatedly tell you that everything is fine and you’ve done no big deal, he doesn’t need an ambulance and that he’s fine.

“Hey!” He grabs the crux of your elbow and pulls you before him, a large knee on either side of your thighs. A startled noise crawls up your throat but you make no move to step away. You’re staring at him as your hands disappear inside his and he jerks them slightly, his voice lowering now that he’s caught your attention finally. “Relax. It’s alright. Happens.” His comfort is rough. His voice gruff and sounding more like a scold than anything. He shakes you a bit too hard, not used to handling something as delicate as you, and pulls you down enough to make solid eye contact. “Alright?”

You nod and avert your gaze away, soggy paper towels left in a pile on the table making your fingers twitch with the need to do more. Apologies simply aren’t enough, not when he’d probably need to apply ointment on his chest for a few days after your little fiasco.

Why did have to be such a hot mess all the time?

“At least…Let me buy you another drink. On me? It’ll make me feel better.” The frown is still tugging on your lips as you speak, shyly looking at him from under your lashes. “Please?”

He sighs softly at your relentlessness and shrugs before letting your hands slip from him, having kept them in his grasp for longer than he should.

“Sure.”

He leans back in his chair and readjusts both his hood and the cap poking beneath it before resting his elbows on the table.

“What did you order?” You question while fetching your wallet.

The innocent look you toss him has him forcing himself to stop staring at you like a creep. He clears his throat and rubs over his tired eyes tenderly before answering.

“Black tea with milk.”

And so you reorder your cappuccino, get him his tea and decide that a simple butter croissant as an apology is enough for the moment. Every time you turn around to glance at him, nervous that he’d simply slip away from your overbearing presence, he catches your stare without fail. Heat gathers around your ears and your lips purse unintentionally every single time and you quickly turn back to the cashier, pretending you hadn’t just been discovered ogling him.

The chair looks too small to encompass his hulking frame comfortably, the table is no different, but you guess he’s used to it by now. A man of his stature isn’t a common occurrence here. Poor thing probably has to bow to enter through most doorways and have his shirts custom-made with how wide his shoulders were. If he wore shirts at all that is.

He looks like he’s brooding when you return with the order, fingers linked together and thumbs dancing around each other.

You set the tea by his side, note the callouses and scarring around his knuckles, the roughness of his skin. Your first thought is that he’s a construction worker, it would explain his size, the biceps that are as big as your head and straining against the stitches of his hoodie, the casual clothes, and the dark circles under his eyes that make it easy for anyone to guess that he doesn’t rest enough. But then he pulls his mask down and lets it rest under his chin as he takes a prolonged sip from his drink. You note the crookedly mended nose after a trauma so potent it made your eyes water at the thought of what pain he’d endured. There’s a gash running along his thin lips, multiple ones that stand out from the light stubble peppering the lower part of his face, deep ones, ones that you guessed had needed stitches and took forever to properly heal.

Now you’re not so sure he’s a construction worker.

“So what do you do for a living?” It rolls off your tongue before you can stop it. You laugh nervously and raise a hand in a soothing motion before he even has a chance to answer. “You don’t have to tell if you’re not comfortable. I’m just curious.”

The mug of tea pauses before his lips and he gives you a skeptical look.

“Military.”

“Oh.” You blurt out and awkwardly take a sip from your coffee, nearly choking at how hot it is.

And that’s precisely the answer Ghost expected. It was a big turnoff for many people when they learned his career path, mostly because the news only displayed the bad outcomes of his work and never the good. He might have saved this entire city a week ago from a bombing and nobody would know.

It came with the territory and he half expected you to think up some lousy explanation as to why you suddenly had to go.

But you aren’t like that at all because of course, you aren’t. Why would it be made easy for him to forget you and move on with his day when you could be sweet and open and give him more reason to burn you into the crevices of his conscience instead? Why would you make an excuse and leave when you could stay and kindle the embers of his humanity and make yourself space to be a permanent memory?

That’s just his typical luck.

“Must be tough.” You muse, absentmindedly taking a napkin and wiping off the milk and tea mustache staining his upper lip, as if tending to a messy toddler. It comes instinctively and you don’t fight it until your fingers are already being poked by his stubble. “But thanks for keeping us normal folk safe.” You give his wide-eyed stare a warm smile, and tilt your head slightly to one side.

You notice the subtle way in which he moves his chin towards your hand, apprehensive of you pulling away. As if he’s fighting his demons to lean into your touch, to rest his cheek against your palm and close his eyes because he hasn’t been offered softness in so long that he doesn’t remember what it feels like anymore.

You don’t mind that his large hand reaches to try and still your wrist, aching for more delicate touches, but stops before coming in contact with your flesh, pulled back by self-deprecating restrain. You almost want to encourage him, he looks visibly altered by your simple gesture, like a dog who’d been beaten all his life and was given a treat for the first time.

“What happened to you, old soldier?” You want to ask gently, pry a little while you cup his face and let him rest on the softness of your palm, close his eyes for a brief moment of respite.

Your heart aches for him.

But then you remember he’s a stranger and the moment shatters.

The smile vanishes from your face, the warmth dissipates and you flinch back.

“Sorry.” You rush to say and crumble up the napkin in your hand before tossing it on the table and trying to brush off the suffocating awkwardness. “You had something there.” You motion to your upper lip before drowning in more coffee, hoping it will ease the discomfort.

Just what the hell had you been thinking?

And he’s not far behind you on that note. The flicker of softness dies in his chocolate browns and the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth stills and dips into neutrality. The exhaustion returns to his features and his gaze flits away from you as he gathers himself back together.

“You should eat tha’ ‘fore it gets cold.”

Your eyes trail to where he’d nudged his chin and you see the butter croissant you’d purchased along with your drinks. You giggle, it turns into a light laugh when his head cocks to the side in confusion because he’s yet to realize you’d gotten it for him.

Because why would he? He’s a soldier, he gets bullets and grenades, not tea and croissants.

Poor creature, sweet scarred sufferer, with so much weight on his shoulders you couldn’t imagine bearing.

“It’s for you.” You push the small plate closer to him and flick your hand for him to dig in, treat himself on your behalf if he won’t do it on his own accord.

“What?” He reels back in his seat slightly at your words, sets down his drink and tenses up. There’s so much disbelief there that it’s almost comical.

It’s like he’d never been treated before.

Maybe he hadn’t been.

Jesus Christ, what if he actually hadn’t been?

“I mean it’s the least I can do after drenching you in coffee.” You say and press the lid of your cup to your lips, hiding the sympathetic smile from view lest he takes it as pity.

You didn’t pity the man, not in the slightest, but from the tired eyes to the worn clothes, sunk-in shoulders and need for anonymity, you guessed he’d not seen much kindness.

It was easily discernable that he wasn’t used to taking care of himself. Coming to a café to get a drink was probably the maximum self-indulgence he’d permit himself.

“Didn’t ‘ave to.” He grumbles out, voice hoarse and cutting off at the end.

“I wanted to.” You say and wave off his meager comment.

Gods, you wanted to bathe him in sugar and softness.

He tugs the plate before him hesitantly, looking over the croissant as if not trusting it or you, then he picks it up. A small bite at first, one of apprehension before the treat melts on his tongue and awakens his taste buds. He finishes it in two mouthfuls, barely chews and you’re inclined to ask if he wants another, you’re ready to feed him the whole bakery stand if he so wishes. But he declines, whether from embarrassment or mistrust, you didn’t know.

You just know he’s hungry.

You give him your name while he’s washing down the croissant with his leftover tea, just throw it out there in the hopes that he’ll give you his. And he does after heaving a sigh.

“Simon.”

“Pretty name.” You note, toss him a friendly smile that’s a silent invitation for him to say more. “Nice to meet you then, Simon.”

But your friendliness doesn’t breach his defenses a second time. He eyes you with an unreadable expression, watches you slurp your coffee while you’re left to wonder if your compliment had been a mistake.

You might have been coming off as too friendly, trying to suck up to him after ruining his top and that was the reason why you were so nice. Or maybe he thought that there was a hidden agenda behind your acts, that you’d want something in return for your kindness and that’s why he kept his guard up.

Action without a need for reciprocation didn’t exist in his world. Nobody was stupidly selfless enough to just give and not want anything in return. But you were right there, proving him wrong and he wasn’t sure that fact was a fact anymore.

Throughout his internal debate, you’re doing your best to remain casual but it’s difficult with those dark orbs boring into your soul. It’s even more difficult when the silence settles, so you decide to ramble and keep the spirits up until he feels comfortable enough to join.

It might come off as annoying, but you’re sure he’ll stop you if you’re becoming too much to handle.

You tell him about your job, a brief summary of how rough your week had been that that was the reason why you’d come here this morning to treat yourself. You tell him you’re clumsier than you’d like to admit, that you can’t imagine drinking tea first thing in the morning. You tell him that you’d love to have a pet one day, but your landlord doesn’t permit any, ask him if he has pets or would want any. Then you ask if he’s more a cat or a dog person.

And throughout the entire time, he’s staring at you with this undigestible look and you have no idea what to make of it.

The caffeine pumping in your veins helps keep your monologue going until finally he speaks up.

“Bothering you?”

“What?” You spit out, cease your rambling and scrunch your brows at him in confusion.

“The face.” He says, motioning towards his partly obscured face like it’s so obvious. “Ain’t a pretty mug to look at.”

You blink at him silently, at a loss for words at his not-so-kind statement. Your mouth parts, struggling to form a coherent reply because you’re absolutely thunderstruck that he thinks so lowly of you as to believe you’d be affected by such a thing.

Then again, he doesn’t know you, and neither do you him.

But the fact that he’s polite enough to ask while already anticipating the answer tells you that he might have had this conversation one too many times already. Or maybe he hadn’t, maybe the mean comments and ugly remarks were all in his head and he hid his face to stifle those rather than hide from other people.

You don’t know which alternative is sadder.

“No! Not at all.” You say slowly, accenting every word that comes out of your mouth, with eyes trained on his and refusing to blink in case you missed anything. “You’re handsome, really.” You dare to reach out for him and rest your hand atop his, gentle and ready to pull back in case his features portrayed any hint of discomfort with your actions. “Plus your scars mean you put yourself before me to keep me safe, right? Can’t judge you for that.”

Now he’s the one left speechless.

Wordlessly, he twists his wrist, rolls his hand around and slowly unclenches his fingers to let yours through. And your hand is so soft and warm when it slips over his mauled palm, even the skin is a stark contrast because yours is so smooth, spotless, perfect, compared to his.

He runs his large thumb over your knuckles, relishes the tingly feeling it gives him, watches intently because he’s sure that as soon as his eyes move to somewhere else, you’ll vanish and it’ll all be over. Your fingers fall against his wrist where his pulse leisurely beats, only quickening when you shift in your seat because he thinks you’ll pull away.

Manicured nails trace over the scars poking from beneath the sleeve of his hoodie and he shivers, the hairs on his arms rising. He lets you tug the sleeve back, wanting to know how far the violent marks go. Soon enough black and grey ink peeks from under the fabric and a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips at how delighted you seem.

“Oh, I love tattoos…” You hum while tracing the tips of your fingers over it.

“Got any?” He asks absentmindedly, almost mechanically as all his attention is focused on the little hand exploring his own.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out.” You giggle, eyes closing briefly in delight as you bask in the fuzzy atmosphere.

He bites his tongue at that, decides now isn’t the time for flirty remarks, bids you too esteemed to fall for a sleazy comeback that might result in him naked in your bed. No, you were made to be courted, won over with effort and flowers and all the things he hasn’t bothered with in the past.

You were the type of woman that he avoided for fear of messing things up, someone who deserved better than him and he wasn’t ashamed of admitting that. Yet here you were, practically thrust in his arms by chance.

“Do you want another tea?” You ask because his drink is gone and what’s left at the bottom of your cup is two sips at most. And you don’t end this to end, you don’t want him to leave just yet.

“I’m good.” He answers and retracts his arm before standing. “Gonna ‘ave a smoke outside. Cheers for the tea.”

It’s not a goodbye, but it still makes your heart ache and your mind switches to turbo mode to try and think of something.

Your next question doesn’t come from a place of desire or lust. You’ve no intent of trying to get the battered soldier into your bed and use him for selfish pleasure. You’d never let yourself be so cruel.

“Do you want to come home with me?”

You ask because to you, he’s a stray in need of a home, someone to take care of him a little and nurse him back into a better shape before his next big military mission. It’s naïve, stupid really, to think a grown man such as himself can’t take care of himself.

But the way he looks tells you a sad story and you’d spoken before thinking. Now you’re left with a hot face and a fluttering stomach as he stares at you over his shoulder with something akin to surprise.

“I mean…for lunch, sometime. My treat of course.” You say next, trying to salvage the moment before it got too awkward and you were forced to go to the toilets and hyperventilate while beating yourself up internally. “You don’t have to – ”

“ – Yeah.”

And you swear you saw his eyes squint with a smile hidden somewhere behind the bulk of his shoulder.

Chapter 2 >>>

Masterlist

[luveline]

Okay, I would love to see an Aaron Hotchner x anemic bombshell!reader (lmao) who gets randomly faint and Aaron freaks <3

“This is oh so difficult,” you say under your breath, a sing-song tone to your voice. You often talk in juxtapositions, unhappy words in silk, cheerful worrying. “This is… stressful.” 

“You don't look stressed,” Spencer says. 

You elbow at him affectionately. “Do I ever? Sweetheart, there's nothing ever so stressful as to wear it on your face. Now come here, you have a pen smudge on your cheek.” 

Hotch could pinch the back of your shirt to stop you, but Spencer holds out a hand to brace you away from him like a disgruntled younger sibling while you laugh and reach for him. 

“Cut it out,” Gideon says. 

“Yes, boss.” 

Hotch turns away from you both to hide his smile. The case is long (as always), difficult (as always), and getting more and more serious as days pass. There hasn't been much time to pause and take stock, and so your playfulness comes at a great time —you need moments of fun like this to stop the weight of the inevitable dragging you down hard.

Your playfulness is unfailing. “So,” you say, quieter now to avoid Gideon’s attention while you lean into Hotch's personal bubble, “what will you make me for dinner?” 

“The same thing I've made you for the last four days.” 

“Ah. Nothing, then.” You tip your head to one side. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. Just feeling kinda weird. I really am hungry, handsome, and you aren't very gentlemanly in letting me starve.” You share a smile. You say everything so particularly, it only serves to endear you to him more and more. It's like… you're just sure of yourself, and in love with the world, and at least a little in love with him. Having you here with him makes the job easier. 

“You're hungry?” he asks, standing up. He expects no answer, nor for you to stand, but you clamber onto your feet quick as anything with wide eyes. 

“I was only–” You pause. 

Hotch can see the moment you lose sight of where you are, that far away gloss to your eyes, the rapid blinking that follows, and your hand thrown out to his too quickly. You grab at his arm roughly and he's crueller in his reaction, grabbing you under the arms with a startled, “Hey.” 

“Is she alright?” Spencer asks, his chair smacking the desk as he stands. 

Your lips pull down into a frown, eyes squeezed closed. He's startled —Hotch didn't even know you could frown outside of a joke. You're feeling that heavy, sudden wrongness that comes with being faint, he'd guess. 

He rides it out with you, holding you tight. After a few moments your eyes peel open, a spark of upset about you that quickly lends to sheepishness. “Oh, sorry,” you say softly. 

“Don't be.” 

You gather your bearings. Hotch moves his hands to a more amicable place on your arms, more to comfort than to hold, while Spencer stands and offers you his bottle of water. 

“She good?” Gideon asks Hotch. 

That perks you up. “I'm always good, sir,” you say, sending a smile at your boss from over your shoulder. “Just flirting with Agent Hotchner.” 

“Did you take your medication?” Hotch asks, cutting the fat of the conversation clean off. 

“Yeah, I never miss it.” 

He is admittedly more concerned about you than one coworker would be for another after a dizzy spell, but you aren't just a coworker. Hotch cups your cheek quickly in his hand to gauge your temperature and deduces from there that it isn't a sickness. 

“You weren't exaggerating about being starved,” he decides. Your iron pills do so much, and you have to do the rest. “Reid, what foods help with anaemia?” 

“Anything rich in iron. Red meat, pork, poultry, dark greens, especially spinach. All kinds of beans,” Spencer reels off. 

“Any of that sounds good to you?” Hotch asks, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. 

You meet his lowbrow with softer eyes, nodding your appreciation. Your lips part to answer him, but you're cut off. “Be quick about it,” Gideon says, glasses slipping down his nose as he turns back to his case file, “we have a lot to do.” 

Hotch buys you a burrito for the iron and a smoothie because you deserve it. You kiss his cheek, and apparently he deserves that for being ‘such a sweetheart’. He doesn't bother pretending he doesn't want it, or the second or third kiss that comes after.

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Morning Brews & Scarlet Hues

CEOs!WandaNat x Coffee shop owner!fem!reader

Word count: 2.1K

Summary: The two hottest and most successful CEOs come into your coffee shop to flirt with you. You didn't expect them to flirt with you and you certainly weren't expecting them to be married and asking you out

Warnings: Slow burn to established relationship, mild panic attack, light angst, polyamory dynamics

Authors notes: This was a request that you can find here!

The smell of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air as you flipped the sign on the door, officially opening for the morning rush. The warm glow of the sunrise streamed through the large windows, painting golden streaks across the polished wooden countertops. The shop was quiet, peaceful—the kind of morning that made waking up at the crack of dawn worth it.

You moved through the familiar motions: turning on the espresso machine, setting out fresh pastries, and humming softly to the indie playlist playing over the speakers. The bell above the door chimed, signaling your first customer of the day.

And what a first customer she was.

Wanda Maximoff stepped inside, the scent of her expensive perfume—warm vanilla and hints of spice—blending with the coffee-rich air. She was breathtaking. Dressed in a deep scarlet blouse tucked into a perfectly tailored black pencil skirt, her heels clicked against the hardwood floor with every confident step. Waves of auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her sharp green eyes found you instantly, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips.

“Good morning, darling,” she greeted, her voice smooth like honey. She leaned casually against the counter, her gaze lingering just long enough to make your heart pick up speed. “You’re always up so early. I don’t know how you do it.”

You grinned, leaning in just slightly. “The secret is lots of coffee. Speaking of which, your usual?”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Hmm. I don’t know… I was thinking of trying something different today.” Wanda tapped a manicured finger against her lips, then looked at you through her lashes. “What would you recommend?”

You bit your lip, playing along. “That depends. Are you in the mood for something sweet? Bold? Maybe something that lingers, like a slow burn?”

Her smile deepened. “You know me so well already.”

You turned to start making her drink, feeling the weight of her gaze following your every movement. As you steamed the milk, Wanda’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the machine.

“You always look so lovely in the mornings,” she mused. “Something about the sunrise on your skin… it’s unfair, really.”

Your hands faltered for just a second before you regained your composure, glancing over your shoulder. “Flattery so early in the day, Miss Maximoff? You must really want this coffee to be perfect.”

Wanda chuckled, a low, sultry sound. “I already know it will be. I just like watching you get all flustered.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, finishing up her drink and sliding it across the counter. “One hazelnut oat milk latte, with an extra shot of charm, just for you.”

She took the cup, her fingers grazing yours briefly—just enough to send a small spark up your arm. “Perfect,” she murmured, taking a sip. Then, with a glance at the clock, she sighed. “Duty calls. But I do hope you’ll miss me while I’m gone.”

You leaned on the counter, resting your chin on your hand. “If you come back tomorrow, I might just admit that I do.”

Wanda smirked, backing toward the door. “Careful, sweetheart. I just might hold you to that.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving you standing there with a stupid smile and a rapidly beating heart.

What a way to start the morning.

⟡ ˚ ༘☕️🤎🧸 ⋆｡°

The morning rush came and went in a blur of familiar faces and steady hands crafting lattes, cappuccinos, and cold brews. You chatted with old college friends who stopped by for their usual pick-me-ups, exchanged pleasantries with the office workers from nearby businesses, and watched with a fond smile as the group of older ladies settled into their usual corner, their laughter filling the shop like the soft chime of wind bells.

By the time lunch rolled around, the café had settled into a comfortable rhythm—enough customers to keep things moving but slow enough that you could catch your breath.

And then she walked in.

Natasha Romanoff.

If Wanda was a striking flame in scarlet, Natasha was pure, effortless power wrapped in sharp sophistication. She strode through the door with the confidence of someone who owned the entire block, her tailored black suit hugging her lean frame, a deep crimson silk blouse adding just the right amount of color. The sleeves of her blazer were pushed up slightly, revealing the expensive watch on her wrist, and her auburn hair was styled to perfection—sleek, neat, and tucked behind her ears just enough to showcase the small, understated earrings she wore.

Her green eyes scanned the café with sharp precision before they landed on you. And then, just like that, the cool, detached aura softened—just a little.

"Hey, sweetheart," she greeted smoothly, approaching the counter with measured steps. Her voice was low, smooth like aged whiskey, and it sent a shiver down your spine. "Busy day?"

You smiled, reaching for a cup as you wiped your hands on your apron. "Nothing I can’t handle. But seeing you walk in? Definitely brightens things up."

Natasha huffed a quiet chuckle, her lips curling in amusement. "Careful, malyshka. You keep talking to me like that, and I might start showing up more often."

You tilted your head, smirking. "That supposed to be a threat or a promise?"

She raised a brow, clearly enjoying the banter. "Depends. What are you going to do to convince me?"

Leaning forward slightly, you tapped the marker against the cup in your hand. "Well, I could make your coffee extra special. Or I could just keep giving you a reason to come back."

Natasha exhaled a short laugh, shaking her head. "Bold today, aren’t you?"

You shrugged, already scribbling on the cup before starting her drink. "Must be something in the air."

As the espresso machine hummed to life, Natasha leaned on the counter, watching you work. "You always this charming, or am I just lucky?"

You shot her a playful look over your shoulder. "Oh, you’re definitely lucky."

She chuckled again, a sound you were quickly becoming addicted to. When her drink was ready, you slid it across the counter, her fingers grazing yours for a brief moment—intentional, you were sure. But Natasha's brows lifted slightly as she caught sight of the small, handwritten note on the cup.

For my favorite midday distraction.

Her lips parted in surprise before curling into a slow, knowing smirk. She traced the edge of the cup with her thumb, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "You really are pushing the envelope today."

You shrugged, biting your lip. "Just wanted to make sure you had something sweet with your coffee."

Natasha studied you for a moment, as if trying to decide just how much further to push back. Then she lifted the cup in a small toast. "Careful, sweetheart. I just might get addicted to this place."

And with that, she turned, walking out the door with the same effortless confidence she came in with.

You let out a breath, watching her go.

First Wanda, now Natasha.

If you weren’t careful, you were going to end up falling hard for both of them.

⟡ ˚ ༘☕️🤎🧸 ⋆｡°

The days turned into weeks, and your routine became something of a delicious torment.

Each morning, Wanda would arrive—always impeccably dressed, always so effortlessly charming. Her sharp green eyes would light up when she saw you, her soft flirtations making your heart race as she leaned in just a little too close when taking her coffee.

Then, in the afternoons, Natasha would show up—calm, confident, and devastatingly alluring. She met your teasing with equal energy, pushing back just enough to keep you on your toes. Her smirks, her low chuckles, the way she traced the rim of her cup when reading your little notes—it was intoxicating.

And the worst part? You were falling for both of them. Hard.

You didn’t know what to do about it. Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every little flirtation made it harder to ignore. You told yourself you had to be imagining things. No way two insanely attractive, successful women were both interested in their local barista. Right?

Then came Saturday morning.

You had just finished setting up the pastry case when the familiar chime of the bell rang. You turned, already preparing your usual bright greeting—until you saw them.

Together.

Wanda and Natasha walked in side by side, both dressed far more casually than you had ever seen them. Wanda wore a burgundy sweater tucked into a pair of high-waisted jeans, her hair loosely curled, looking every bit as stunning as she did in her sharp work attire. Natasha, on the other hand, had opted for a black leather jacket over a fitted white t-shirt, her jeans ripped just slightly at the knees, her hands tucked in her pockets as she scanned the café like she owned the place.

Your heart nearly stopped.

They knew each other.

They were here together.

And as they approached the counter, exchanging a small, knowing glance with each other before turning their attention to you, a slow realization began to sink in.

Oh. Oh no.

You had been flirting with them both.

And they knew.

Wanda and Natasha shared a smirk, something unspoken passing between them before they turned their attention back to you.

“Good morning, darling,” Wanda purred, leaning on the counter like she always did, her emerald eyes twinkling with amusement. “You look even more adorable when you're surprised.”

“Speechless, huh?” Natasha added, her voice smooth and teasing as she propped her elbow on the counter, chin resting on her hand. “Didn’t expect to see us together?”

Your mouth opened and closed a few times, your brain scrambling to catch up. The room felt like it was tilting. They weren’t just acquaintances. They weren’t just friends.

They were together.

As in together together.

You gripped the edge of the counter, trying to ground yourself. “I—uh—”

Wanda hummed, her smirk deepening. “You know, I had a feeling this might happen.”

Natasha nodded, taking a sip of her coffee as if this was the most casual thing in the world. “Mmm. Same. It was cute watching you flirt with both of us like you weren’t going to get caught eventually.”

You choked on air. “I—wait—you knew?”

Wanda chuckled, reaching out to trace a lazy circle on the counter with her fingertip. “Of course we knew, sweetheart.”

“We’re married,” Natasha added, lifting her left hand slightly, letting the gold band on her ring finger catch the light. “Did you really think we wouldn’t talk about the cute little barista who’s been shamelessly flirting with both of us?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Married.

They were married.

And they had both been flirting back.

You felt like your heart might actually give out. “I—I didn’t—”

Wanda reached across the counter, gently brushing the back of her fingers against yours, her touch sending a jolt up your arm. “Relax, sweetheart,” she cooed, her voice as smooth as silk. “We’re not mad.”

Natasha leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “In fact… we kind of like it.”

Your breath hitched.

Oh hell.

Your grip on the counter tightened as their words sank in, but everything felt off-kilter—like you were suddenly standing on shaky ground. Your usual confidence, the flirtatious ease you had with them, was gone. You weren’t sure if you wanted to scream, laugh, or collapse.

They had known. They had planned this. And now they were here, together, standing in front of you, looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Your breath came quicker, shallower, and your fingers trembled slightly against the countertop.

Wanda was the first to notice.

Her teasing smirk melted away in an instant, replaced by something softer, something gentle. She reached across the counter, not to tease this time, but to comfort, her fingers brushing against yours again, but with intention.

“Hey, hey,” she murmured, her voice warm and steady. “It’s okay, Y/N.”

Natasha’s expression softened too, the playfulness fading into something more sincere. “We came to tease you a little, sure, but we also came to ask you something.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on Wanda’s steady touch, on Natasha’s calm presence. “A-Ask me something?”

Wanda nodded, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Yes. We wanted to ask if you’d like to go on a date.”

Your breath hitched.

A date.

With them.

You stared at them, at Wanda’s soft but hopeful smile, at Natasha’s quiet confidence, and for the first time since they walked in, the world stopped spinning.

“You… both want to take me on a date?” you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha chuckled, the sound low and reassuring. “That’s right, sweetheart.”

Wanda tilted her head. “What do you think?”

You exhaled shakily, your heart pounding. You weren’t sure what this was, what it could be, but the thought of saying no felt impossible.

So, with a nervous but growing smile, you nodded.

“I think… I’d really like that.”

[natalievoncatte]

19. Bake

Leaning against the doorframe, Lena watched as Kara furrowed her brows in concentration so intense that it seemed her project might burst into flames. Literally. She was was craned over a cookbook on the counter and mumbling to herself about pearl-sized beads of butter and exactly what size a pearl is.

She never admitted it, but Kara sometimes she struggled with metaphors like that, little things that a human would know that eluded one of the last survivors of a doomed planet. The others, even Alex, thought it was cute or funny but they didn’t seem to notice the pain in Kara’s eyes or how lost she looked when she missed something others all knew.

Lena stalked up behind her and leaned over the counter beside her.

“Hey,” said Lena.

“Hi,” said Kara.

“What are you up to?”

“I’m making a pumpkin pie for tomorrow, but the dough doesn’t look right.”

Lena looked over Kara’s work and frowned. What she had was most definitely not pie dough. She then glanced at the fridge and saw the list of things Kara was trying to make.

“Hmm,” said Lena.

She opened the fridge and freezer and looked over Kara’s pantry and sighed.

This would not do at all.

“We’re taking a break,” said Lena.

“We?”

“Yes, we.”

In a few minutes she had an Instacart list cobbled together and had placed the order. Kara pouted when her attempted dough went in the bin, but Lena stood firm.

“Let me help you.”

Kara signed. “I want to do it myself.”

Lena’s heart felt like it was climbing up her throat. Kara was so effortlessly pretty that it was, frankly, unfair. Her glasses were off and her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and Lena was obsessed. She had on a baggy t-shirt that softened her lithe, muscular frame and hung a little off one shoulder. She looked so soft despite the cords of steel hard muscle that flexed beneath her silky skin.

It made Lena a little panicky. Sometimes she’d think to herself that seeing Kara every time was just like seeing her for the first time, which was exactly like the first time she looked at another girl *like that* as if some pathway had just opened in her brain.

After the grocery order arrived and Lena bumped the driver’s tip to four figures for coming on the day before Thanksgiving, Lena set to work.

“I’ve never seen you cook,” said Kara.

“In the only one in the family who can,” said Lena, as she scrubbed a potato. “Lillian thought doing menial tasks was beneath our dignity, and forbade it. Of course I snuck out to spend time with the staff.”

Kara looked at her softly.

“Let’s get that pie in the works while these boil,” she said, slipping the potatoes into the pot.

Kara ended up helping more than anything, as Lena worked her way through the list.

“This way we’ll just have to make the turkey tomorrow,” she explained. “The rest will all be done and we’ll have some time to relax before everyone arrives. Is your mother coming?”

“She’s staying with Alex this year,” said Kara.

She was looking at Lena as she spoke, her voice a little distant. A shiver passed down Lena’s spine and she felt her cheeks pink a little, as she glanced away and turned back to grating frozen butter for the pie crust.

Kara sidled closer, seemingly reading the cookbook, but every time Lena looked over, Kara met her gaze and quickly turned away.

“Here you go, darling. Fold it like a letter, turn, fold it like a letter, turn. Do that three times, then back in the fridge for half an hour and we do it again.”

Lena was, in all honesty, doing the real work and giving Kara the simple tasks, like peeling the potatoes (which was easy, because she could not only do so without burning herself, but could also just reach into the boiling water to grab.)

Kara neatly folded the pie crust while Lena mashed the potatoes and pushed them through Kara’s sieve for perfect, Michelin-star restaurant smoothness. Lena was a little daunted by the “green bean casserole”, not exactly standard Luthor thanksgiving fare, but it was easier as she was watched Kara follow her instructions to knead dough for dinner rolls.

They worked in companionable silence, Lena doing one task while Kara did another, and slowly they built up an array of side dishes and a wonderful smelling pumpkin pie that Lena had to practically tear Kara away from. She almost wished she’d made a spare pie for Kara to eat right now.

“I’m huuuuuungry” she pleaded.

Looking over Kara’s now-full fridge, full of delicious Thanksgiving fare ready to be warmed in the oven, she pulled out her phone.

“We’ll get take-away delivered.”

Knowing what she was dealing with, Lena ordered enough Chinese for a small army and ended up picking at spicy beef and broccoli while Kara sat next to her, devouring her own body weight from five different containers.

“Here,” she said, offering Lena a fortune cookie.

Smirking, Lena popped it open and unfurled the little message.

“What’s it say?”

A great opportunity lies before you.

Lena laughed. “Nothing. Now we have to clean up, you know.”

“I can do that, you just relax.”

Lena sank back into the couch -she was tired- while Kara rolled up her sleeves and did the dishes, moving a little too fast for a human, at least until Lena looked over to watch her, studying the flexing muscles in her forearms as she worked. There was something playing on the tv, but it was vastly less interesting.

Kara smelled pleasantly of soap when she plopped on the couch, rocking Lena towards her. She sank back and sighed, letting her head loll over so she could look at Lena.

“Thank you for doing all that work. I’d have been hopeless without you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Lena said, softly.

It was getting late, the sun having long set; they’d toiled in the kitchen past nine o’clock.

It was time for Lena to go home.

Kara looked pensive, pretty eyes downcast.

“You’re coming back tomorrow, right?”

It was an absurd question, profoundly silly, even. Lena had been to every Danvers family get together for the better part of three years now (there was that one missed year, gaping like a void in her chest, but that was over now, they were better, she wouldn’t spend another Thanksgiving drunk on her sofa and sobbing ever again)

Lena wished she’d opened one of the wine bottles. She needed a little help with her courage. Her voice cracked a little when she managed to say, “It’s getting late. I could just stay.”

Her heart was pounding.

Kara’s hand slid along the back of the couch and she crooked one of Lena’s curls around her finger, playing idly with it. They sat close, turned into each other, almost touching.

“You can have the bed,” said Kara. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Lena felt her throat go dry, and squeezed her hands together to keep them from shaking. She was as nervous as a schoolgirl, and it was weirdly delightful. Kara was watching her cocky confidence and a crooked smile.

“I wouldn’t want to put you out,” said Lena. “I trust you to keep your hands to yourself if we share the bed.”

“What will you sleep in?”

“Won’t you let me borrow something?”

Kara made a little gesture with her head. Lena nodded and headed behind the partition that made up Kara’s “bedroom wall” and turned to the clothes rack that served as her closet. Hand trembling, she swept each item aside, stopping when she found an old hoodie.

It was threadbare and the drawstrings were missing and it was much too large for her, but it was perfect, a maroon Midvale High sweatshirt. Lena carefully laid it out on the bed and in a single nervous, trembling motion, pulled her top over her head and set it aside.

It was chilly in the apartment, and her skin pricked with goose pimples as soon as the air hit it. She licked her lips nervously and popped the clasps on her bra before discarding it and dumping the sweatshirt on over her bare skin. The hem hung well below her waist.

Feeling her pulse in her throat, she pushed her leggings down and stepped out of them, then padded back out on bare feet, toes curling from the cold floor.

“You coming?”

Kara’s eyes went comically wide when she saw her, gaze instantly drawn to her pale legs.

“Yep.”

Lena retreated to the bedroom… then realized that Kara hadn’t changed. Lena was standing there awkwardly when Kara strolled around the partition and, in a slightly too hurried motion, pulled her own top off.

She was facing away, her back flexing magnificently as she stretched, now clad only in a soft black sports bra. Lena knew she was staring as Kara pushed her jeans down, revealing a pair of flannel boxer shorts beneath. She turned and looked at Lena.

Oh holy fuck, Lena thought.

“I usually just sleep like this,” Kara said, her voice quivering a little. “Is that okay?”

Lena nodded.

She climbed into the bed, sort of precariously parking on the edge. Kara lifted the covers and slid under, her weight on the mattress making it curve towards her, as though Lena were drawn, by gravity, to her embrace.

She let it take her. She ended up right next to Kara, and the lay turned on their sides towards each other.

Lena wanted to scream. This was a terrible idea.

“Hi,” Kara whispered.

“Hi, yourself,” said Lena.

God, she was right there, those muscles, the silky golden-tanned skin of her long legs (how did she have a tan in November?!), the supernaturally perfect blonde curls, and those big, pretty blue eyes just drinking her in.

Lena snuggled up under the blankets, shifting closer.

“So we’re sleeping in the same bed,” said Kara.

“Yes, I see we are. Though neither of us appears to be sleeping.”

“True,” said Kara, “though one might say that we’re about to sleep together.”

“One might,” Lena agreed.

“English is such a funny language. Someone might be confused if I went around saying I sleep with Lena Luthor.”

“Some might be jealous,” said Lena, arching a brow.

“Well of course. They don’t know what a little snuggle bunny you are.”

Lena grinned foolishly, trying to hide it behind the baggy sleeve of Kara’s sweatshirt.

“You’re wearing my clothes, too. Someone might say we’re going steady.”

“Aren’t we? Neither of us had been on a date with anyone in years.”

Lena wanted to feel bold, she really did, but she was so nervous she could barely breathe.

“Are you okay, baby?” Kara whispered. “Your heart is going really fast.”

Lena nodded. “I’m okay, just, um.”

She felt so silly. Here she was, bold, sassy, uber-confident battle bisexual Lena Luthor utterly tongue tied and helpless and in bed with her best friend.

Kara shifted closer, then closer still. Lena thought she might literally depart from her body when Kara’s legs tangled gently with hers. She stared in astonishment when Kara gently rolled her on her back… by climbing on top of her, slipping an arm around her back while the other hand brushed loose locks from her eyes and swept around to cradle the back of her head.

“Are we really doing this?” Lena choked out. “What are we doing?”

Kara’s face filled her vision, inches from kissing her. Hot breath ticked her lips.

“I think the real question is why did we wait so long?”

“If you don’t kiss me, I’m going to die.”

Kara did, dipping down slowly to brush her lips lightly over Lena’s in the most teasing, potent first kiss she’d ever had, a kiss to make her forget all her other firsts. Then Kara kissed her harder and Lena could feel the need in her, hunger and passion pent up for years.

She responded with her own, pressing her hips up to meet Kara.

“You took my favorite hoodie.”

“I did.”

“Be a good girl, and give it back.”

Lena, it turned out, was a very good girl.

When she woke up the next… noonish, she was still feeling the afterglow. Kara was passed out and snoring next to her, arm casually thrown over Lena’s belly. She slipped out from under it and stretched in the sunlight before pulling the hoodie back on. She’d have to find something more proper to wear, after a shower and some breakfast. She didn’t want to spoil her dinner, but she was hungry. Kara had been… exhausting, honestly.

She wanted to do a little dance, right until she walked out into the main area of the loft, bare-assed and hoodie-clad, and found herself face to face with Alex and Eliza Danvers.

“What are you doing here?” Lena and Alex both yelped at the same time.

Eliza was beet red, but said, “Ah, hello, Lena. You came early?”

(And often)

“I, um, that is, I, we…”

Eliza was bemused now, giving her a motherly smile.

“Why don’t you go change and wake Kara up?”

Alex continued to stare at Lena, the wheels almost audibly spinning in her head.

“Okaygoodidea,” Lena chirped out, awkwardly tugging her sole garment down as she darted back into the bedroom.

A few minutes later, Lena was in the shower while Kara very loudly explained the merits of texting first or just knocking on the door like a normal person, while Alex snapped back that it was technically still her apartment.

When she finally emerged in Kara’s flannel and Kara’s jeans, Alex and Kara were still bickering while Eliza was simply staring at the contents of the fridge. Lena walked over awkwardly (for multiple reasons) and rubbed at her arms.

“I helped Kara get all the other dishes ready. We only have to worry about the turkey.”

Eliza looked up and smirked at her.

“May I just say… it’s about time, sweetheart.”

[ohwaitimthewriter]

The Memory Keeper

Chapter 1 : List.

Pairing : Noa x human reader

Warning : A bit of mourning. Otherwise, all clear for this one!

Summarize (please I'm so bad at writing these!): A woman, allowed to live as long as the virus keeps running through her body, living on autopilot for 260 years, is going to see her life takes a new turn, finding hope in something that might come to put an end to her wandering.

Words : 3.2k

A/N : It has been a long time since I've written something and it feels pretty good to get back at it with this story! I hope you'll like it and do not hesitate to share your thoughts or like/reblog, it's always appreciated! As English isn't my native language, I'm sorry if you find mistakes or weird wording in there, let me know if you find some and I'll be glad to correct them!

Enjoy your reading 😊

The Memory Keeper masterlist.

It wasn't going to be a difficult day. The list was ready, the tasks the same as the day before and the day after. You had to go to the river: catch a fish, fill the flasks with fresh water, bathe… You had to get on your horse and on the way back, stop at the 16th tree on the right, get off, walk 30 steps and fill the bag with blackberries. You had to avoid the brambles and avoid tripping over the prominent root. Get back on the horse and ride home.

Prepare the fish: remove the head and tail, the skin, gut it and remove the bones, light a fire to cook it. Yes, evolution had done many things, but it must have missed the episode where it was necessary to improve the human digestive system. So the fish still had to be cooked.

The garden had to be tended. Over the years, it had evolved too. It had been a long time in the making. A vegetable garden, tomatoes, green beans and, you couldn't quite remember how, artichokes had found their place too. An apple tree was easy to grow. It took time, but it was easy. And then there was this little gem you'd stumbled upon one day: a rosebush. It was an important one. You had to take care of it too.

You always had to do something.

Your hands knew what to do and how to do it. Your legs took you where you needed to go, and at that particular moment, they had led you to your horse. You had to remove his saddle and bridle, check his hooves and remove any stones that might have got stuck on them. Run your hand over his belly to loosen the skin compressed by the girth. And don't forget to give him a drink. When it came to eating, he found everything on his own, except perhaps an apple, which you gave him from time to time to thank him for his help. He knew how to ask, too. In fact, he huffed and gave you a nudge.

Okay, an apple.

He followed you to the apple tree and you climbed onto his back. You could reach the branches, but it was always difficult to keep your balance. Especially when your right hip wasn't working properly. And you sighed. It really wasn't convenient.

You had to go on with the list, what was next?

“ Hearing my voice at least once and speaking so I don't forget.”

This was important. You had to remember how to speak. The world had forgotten, but you must not. You had no right to forget.

“Say something new.”

And you looked around.

“It's cloudy today.”

Which meant rain wasn't far off. Your horse was now grazing beside you.

“You should take shelter.”

You smile, you'd said one more sentence today. Your horse's ears twitched as if to say “I do what I want” and you shrugged. After all, he was the one to decide. But you didn't want to get wet in the rain. You patted his neck and went off to find shelter in your wooden hut.

You've lived here for a long time. A very long time. So long that you no longer needed a torch to light up the big room when night fell or when the clouds darkened the place. You knew exactly where the shaky table was, the armchair with its deformed, hollowed-out seat and even the little plastic pot you kept forgetting to put back on the table to avoid getting your feet caught in it. And despite the years, you never tripped over it.

You were right to come home. You'd just had time to put the water flasks and the cooked fish on the table when a torrent of water hit the floor. The end of the list would have to wait. The timing was perfect, as your stomach signaled that it was time to fill up, and the smell of the wood-fired fish made your mouth water.

Settling back in your armchair, you ate the fish, watching the rain fall against the hut's only window. Eating with your hands was no longer as disturbing as it had been at first. There were a lot of memories that had slipped away over time, but you almost smiled when you thought back to the embarrassment you'd felt the first time you'd had to eat like that. If you'd known back then where you'd end up…

A sigh.

Drops tumbled against the window and some seemed to challenge themselves to get to the bottom first. They were following the path traced by others before them, but obviously not all roads were good ones to take. Some raindrops went straight down, others tried to cut off their opponents' path, and still others weaved in and out to create their own path. Then a raindrop caught your eye. It seemed the most likely to win the mad race. It glided and slalomed proudly until it landed delicately on your windowsill, blending in with its sisters who had landed there before it.

You turned your eyes to the last piece of fish, which you brought to your mouth.

You took one last look out the window, and that's when you caught sight of it.

A shadow.

A shadow had just moved past your window. The rain kept on pounding against it and you could see the trees in the distance stirring in the wind, and you were sure you saw the shadow moving, quickly to the right, but the shadow was gone. There were only raindrops, only the wind, and you could even hear the dull roar of an incipient thunderstorm.

A deep breath. You had to.

Then a sigh.

The rain and wind must have played a trick on you. If the storm picked up, you definitely wouldn't be able to finish your outdoor to-do list. But that didn't matter, there was still plenty to do inside.

First you had to tidy up. Keeping the interior clean and tidy was important, so you couldn't leave the water bottles on the table. You grabbed them and stepped over the little plastic pot that stood between the table and what you could call a kitchen. At least, that's what you would have called this part of the hut back in the day, because there was only a broken sink and a cupboard without a door. You passed the front door and it rattled against the latch in the wind. You had managed to install a branch across the door, allowing you to keep it closed in bad weather. However, as it didn't close very well, the wind always managed to rattle it between the branch and the latch. But you got used to the noise. So you walked past the shaky door to put the water bottles in the cupboard, and when you heard a suspicious rustling sound, you jumped, staring at the door.

You frowned at the unusual sound. You had been holding your breath, but the wind suddenly whistled through the doorframe, which was sorely lacking in hermetic seals. So you breathed out, taking a calmer breath. The wind. Mother Nature was definitely testing your nerves tonight.

Well, you still had to change your clothes. Night was coming on and you couldn't possibly sleep in your day clothes. You stepped over the little plastic pot again and made your way to the wooden chest beside the fireplace to find a t-shirt and a pair of jogging shorts with a hole in the left knee. Maybe one day you'd find a stray piece of fabric while walking through the forest, so you could mend it. But you hadn't yet got to the list asking you to explore the surrounding area.

There were 7 lists divided into 4 sections, themselves arranged in 12 categories. It was your way of keeping track of time. You no longer counted the days, let alone the years; you'd long since lost the very notion of time. But to grow crops, harvest the fruits of the forest and simply follow nature's millimetric events and be able to anticipate them, you needed a reference point. The lists, though mostly identical, were that reference point. Hanging on the wall with pieces of wood you'd carved yourself, they determined your days and the things you had to do.

You didn't really know when or how you'd started making these lists. But judging by the ink, half washed away by the years - some of the lists had even gone back to being blank - it must have been a long time ago.

You put the current day's list back in its place. Tomorrow, you'd have to complete it while carrying out the next one. But there was one more thing you needed to do indoors before settling into your armchair for the night. One last important thing.

From the chest, you took out a picture frame. The corners were worn, the wood had crumbled and you had to handle it carefully to avoid getting splinters in your hands. You set the frame down on the floor by the fireplace, knelt in front of it and reached into the jar on your right to pick a rose petal, which you placed carefully in the right-hand corner of the frame.

You struggled to swallow.

That's where it always got complicated.

Once again, you reached into the jar and pulled out 7 petals. You always needed 7 petals. You placed 6 of them in a circle on the dry twigs in the fireplace and began humming a song whose words you'd long since forgotten. But you remembered the feeling. You felt a lump in your throat, and you often wondered how you managed to keep the song going.

You hummed, and on the last petal, with the help of a needle, you delicately traced his initials. You had to be careful not to press too hard, you shouldn't pierce the petal, just brush against it enough to see, if you concentrated hard enough, the outline of the letter you were drawing. You also had to blink a few times to see clearly what you were doing. It was important to get it right. Once you'd written the letter on the petal, you laid it at the center of the circle.

It was always at this moment that your hands shook. You needed a moment. Just a bit of time.

You had to wipe your hands over your eyes, the most important thing was to handle the two flints on the floor with care. Your hands had to be steady, not shaking. You interrupted the song to get your breathing under control.

Inhale.

Breathe out.

Grab the flints.

Inhale.

Exhale.

A sharp stroke.

The clatter of the stone threw sparks onto the pile of twigs and a flame sprang up. You started humming again as the fire slowly consumed the wood until it reached the petals of the circle.

A tear.

The fire continued to progress and you stared desperately at the petal in the center, quickly ridding yourself of the tears that were blurring your vision. The flame touched the edge of the petal and you watched the letter “C” burn away and disappear into the ashes.

The flame faded as the twigs gradually disappeared and, once gone, you slipped the petal on the frame back into its jar.

Now you had to put the frame away. Your fingers brushed the edge of the picture inside of it. Despite the years, you had managed, by some miracle, to keep the photograph almost undamaged. At least, sufficiently intact that you could still distinguish the shape of an ape in the center of the picture, despite the cracks.

He was a force of nature. You had taken this photo on a December day, you still knew because you could still discern the white flakes clinging to his dark fur. Back then, you loved taking pictures.

What did they call you again?

The memory keeper.

Even after all this time, it still made you smile. You gently squeezed the frame between your fingers, keeping it balanced on the knees you'd just tucked in towards you. This way, he was a little closer to you.

You made an extra effort to remember the day. He was standing high enough to see everyone around him. He must have been talking about something important; he always had that powerful, soul-piercing stare when he was saying something important. But he always looked…

“Grumpy.”

You concluded your thought in a whisper that knotted your throat. Grumpy. You almost expected to hear him growl, his ego bruised, every time you reminded him that he was sometimes a little too grumpy. “Grumpy because a lot on my shoulders,” he'd snap back at you. “No, grumpy because you're old” you'd always reply, your eyes always playful. And you were the only one who could say such a thing, with the only result being an amused snore coming from him.

And you felt yourself take a deep breath. Of all the pictures you'd taken, this was the last one you had left. You had to put the frame back in the chest, so your fingers tightened even more around the wood. Your head tilted slightly forward, closing your eyes as the wood touched your forehead.

Tonight was difficult.

You took another deep breath, and before the knot in your throat hurt too much, you straightened up and went to put the frame in the chest.

“Caesar, tonight is really difficult,” you whispered, watching the shadow of the lid close over the frame.

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

It had been a restless night. When your eyes opened the next morning, they felt heavy and swollen, and you found yourself rubbing your eyes to try and make the heaviness go away.

Today, there was much to do. After changing from your night clothes to your day ones, you removed the branch blocking the door and let the sun shine in, warming your skin. The fresh early-morning air caressed your skin and you took a few seconds to smell the distinctive light scent that follows a thunderstorm.

No sooner had you taken a few steps forward than your feet bumped into something hard, causing you to lose your balance. In a fraction of a second, you found yourself on your butt on the ground, a stabbing pain in your right hip that had failed to move to stop you from falling.

“Ouch!” was the only thing that slipped out of your mouth.

You straightened up slightly, remaining seated in the grass, to see what had caused your fall and a pile of apples laid exactly under the wobbly small porch that covered your front door.

God, what a dummy not to have put that away last night. You thought to yourself, looking down at your hands full of dirt. You'd have to go to the river to clean it up, and now you'd just have to take your night clothes with you because you'd also have to wash the ones you were wearing-the mud from the storm must have dirtied your current clothes.

A pile of apples. You thought as you rubbed your hands together.

A pile of apples. You glanced at your right hip. Pfft, if you'd made Caesar break it to put it back in its place, you'd never have fallen today. In fact, you'd have avoided more than one fall.

All because of a misplaced pile of apples.

A pile of misplaced apples.

And like a light bulb switching on, your gaze suddenly fell on those apples that actually had nothing to do there. You hadn't gathered them the day before.

Then you heard it. A muffled purr came gently from behind you. Surely you should have turned around, stood up and dealt with it, but you'd found yourself rooted to the spot, eyes glued to those apples, waiting as an orangutan appeared in your field of vision.

And you refused to look at him, your hands balled into fists to keep them from shaking. You weren't afraid. No. But for some obscure reason, your brain had simply decided to freeze.

The orangutan once again let out a rumble, softer this time, and held out his hand to you.

“I'll help.”

His voice made you blink several times. You did your best to snap out of your stupor, but this time your eyes agreed to look at him, and the orangutan seemed delighted.

Just one more moment. It took another second, just one, to see your hand slip into his and before you knew it, you were back on your feet.

“Raka, we must go.”

The second voice surprised you a little. It sounded familiar and your eyes fell on a chimpanzee, a little further away, who had just finished saddling a horse. You frowned, your horse? You were trying to determine whether it was really yours, but the distance didn't allow you to be sure. There was only one way to find out.

So you whistled.

The horse shook its head and the chimpanzee didn't have time to grab the reins before your horse galloped off to meet you. They were going to take your horse… in exchange for a stack of apples?

You grabbed the reins and stroked the horse's neck as he snorted. He chewed the bit and blew heavily through his nostrils.

For a fraction of a second, you forgot about the two large apes who, from the sounds they were making, weren't particularly happy to have lost a chance of obtaining a second means of locomotion: in your peripheral vision, you could see another horse quietly grazing.

Your hands still knew what to do, and it didn't take you long to remove the bridle and bit from your horse's mouth.

“He doesn't like it.” you said simply.

And only silence answered you, so you showed the bridle to the two apes.

“The bit, he doesn't like it, he's not used to it.”

Your answer didn't seem to convince them. They stared at you, dumbstruck, and if you paid close enough attention, you could almost see their mouths hanging wide open. And that left you bewildered. What didn't they understand? You'd heard them talking, so that certainly wasn't the problem.

“You can't take my horse.” You went on, starting to remove the saddle.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that they were staring at you as if you'd just landed from the sky.

“If you want a horse, there's a wild herd to the south, past the river.” And you pointed in the right direction.

They remained silent as tombs, but the chimpanzee followed the direction you pointed with his eyes.

“Just be careful, the group's stallion isn't very friendly.” You thought it important to tell him.

Your gaze fell back on them and the orangutan, Raka, if you'd heard correctly, hadn't moved a muscle. The chimpanzee, on the other hand, was staring at you thoughtfully, as if he was trying to put together a puzzle with a missing piece. He then moved towards you inquisitively, perhaps, confused?

“Echo, speak?”

It was certainly the most surprising sentence you'd ever heard in your life.

[court-jobi]

Alexa, Play...

((banner by me! I don't own Horikoshi's work OR the mindblowing art of @gsony24~used w permission))

Pairing: Midoriya x reader

Words: 1.6k

Rating: G~

Warnings: Southern US!GNreader, comfort fic, tooth-rotting fluff here y'all, established relationship, language barrier, dancing-in-the-kitchen level self-insert

Summary:

Izuku comes home to spot your grocery list on the fridge written out in your native language- something he sees just as rarely as hearing you speak it. Just when he thinks he couldn't possibly find you more adorable, you strike a match and chuck it into his heart with a touch as simple as a peck on his cheek, a laugh thrown his way... or -like now- when you chat over the phone in an accent he never gets to hear. He wants to hear more so badly, and asks for it so sweetly.

A/N: a short n'sweet one today, folks, bc I was missing writing for this sweet green bean. I have yet to see MHA: You're Next, but have no one to see it with ughhhhh so off to writing fanfic to soothe the pain~

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on Ao3

You're on the phone with your mom when Izuku finds your sticky note for shopping on the fridge. His mindful shut of the door was appreciated by your mouthed apology, but let him know that he'd best occupy himself solo for a bit while you catch up. The time difference between your home country and here leaves your windows to chat limited, so he’s happy when your schedules align like this. 

If you'll be on a while longer, he thinks he can take a quick drive and pick up these few things for you. Inspired by the idea, he plucks the list out from the magnet’s hold.

You've got nice handwriting, a blend between printed letters and a tilted, cursive script. Personality shines especially near the end of a word, when you're rushing to move onto the next thought. 

Painter’s tape

bananas

white vinegar (stupid drain line)

It's so simple, but when it's written in your native language by default, it feels like a secret to be reading even something so simple as a list like this– scribbled out in the way as it appears in your head.

For most formal paperwork, your kana characters are decently executed, though it's always going to be harder when you grew up speaking Japanese rather than filling out lines and lines of bellwork in the kanji style. This isn't to say you've not been trying:

Over the course of your courtship, you've bonded with young Eri as an extension of Izuku's life and have inherited some of her early learning textbooks. You happened on them by accident, when you were helping her paint her room a few months ago. It sounded elementary when you expressed the interest to read and write Japanese better, and the sweet girl was so enthusiastic to help! 

She lent you her books, but of course you weren't becoming an expert overnight. However slow you’d pace yourself, Izuku was plenty proud of you for making the effort. He'd allow you as much grace as he could spare– especially since your notes were still so cute to find here and there~

Across the room, pacing along every other tile on the floor like stepping stones, you look up catching Izuku staring. You’ve been deep in conversation for only about an hour, but give him a wrench of your nose in jest, and begin wrapping up the call explaining that he’s home and you’d like to greet him properly. 

Izuku calls out a quick 'hi’ and ‘bye' to your mom when he motions to go on speaker; you're not one to refuse him, as he well knows. 

You seem pleased on more than one front when he asks to talk to your family, so he continues to do it. For one, you’re touched by how spirited he is to even want to interact with your mother, and his dropping of formalities and reverting to English to speak to her means a lot to you. Neither point is lost on sweet Izuku, based on how your smile brightens when he jogs over to you to be more in speaking range. 

When you hang up, you're quick to pop up and kiss him as a welcome home. Izuku hangs onto you a little longer than usual, thumb rubbing into your cheek as he savors you several times in quick succession. 

Just when he thinks he couldn't possibly find you more adorable, you strike a match and chuck it into his heart with a touch as simple as a peck on his cheek or a laugh thrown his way. 

“‘Zuku, what's that look for, babe?” 

In your sentimental bliss, you're still surprised to get such adoring treatment from him almost a year into a relationship. 

“Nothing,” Izuku chimes back, “I just forget that you're this American sometimes~”

“Whaddya mean, ‘you forget’?!” the concept sounds hilarious to you. 

“I do!” Izuku offers to take your phone to plug it in nearby, “I have to remind myself that Japanese isn't your first language, until I see you on FaceTime with your mom. Out of nowhere, I'll just hear you sound so different, like: ‘byyyye~ talk to y'all later’!”

You snort at his attempt at a southern accent– stiff and stuck on the wrong vowels. Clearly this succeeds in amusing you, because you hop up and down on the balls of your feet like you've discovered a new game:

“Oh my God, ‘Texas Smash Deku’ is the stuff of my fantasies!– oo!! say, ‘I’d like a honey butter chicken biscuit’~”

“WHAT?? N-no!!”

“What YES!! Please??”

Both doubled over in laughter, you're entertained over his thorough embarrassment, but you're both smitten and carefree: holding onto each other despite nearly buckling at the knees.

Izuku tries his best to catch his breathe first, determined to explain himself,

“I can't do it right! It's like- you say things- I don't know how to describe it! It's not just the flat, movie star accent.. It's–"

“What, a-- ‘drawl’? ‘Twang’?”

Izuku snaps at the realization.

“Yes!! That!! The country kind, like that chef you watch!”

You've rolled your eyes, stepping out of his kind hold in favor of checking out what takeout he brought home. 

“-Hey, no, come back!”

“‘Makin’ fun'ah my accent, I outta smack you’.”

You're far from really mad as you tote around the kitchen getting silverware and soy sauce, but Izuku follows you around like a shadow regardless. Eyes full of that puppy love, he does try to block you in from the pantry closet,

“I’m sorry, honey~”

“No you're not.” --but you're grinning out of forgiveness anyway.

Izuku sneaks a hold on you, reeling you in. It’s cozy in your shared kitchen, alight with just the right amount of overhead lighting and enough space for you two to stand and share tasks.

“I do like hearing you talk like that,” he shares contentedly, “It’s nice to listen to that side of you, especially when you have a lot to say.”

“Yeah well,” you turn into his arms, rather than away, “I'm sure you've noticed already, it comes from her side of the family. Guess I can't really ditch the accent whenever I switch back. The more I think about it… I'm gonna be happy if I can keep sounding like her as I get older. Lets me keep something of hers- even if my ‘dashing hero’ of a man over here thinks I'm being cheeky."

“No, I'm not teasing now! I mean it,” Izuku presses into you, “I only meant, you don't hold back or anything when you're chatty with her.”

He wonders if it stems from shyness, your avoidance of using too much English here at home. If you’re jamming out while doing chores -presuming you’re alone- you’ll switch the station once you know you have an audience.

“Not trying to hide it with you! I'm just out of practice here. No one else in our circle really uses English, so it doesn't come up, I guess.”

You make the point with a wistful aire. Occasionally you'll sub English classes as a favor to Izuku’s effervescent coworker at UA, but not often enough to get too much exposure. He's always been impressed with your Japanese diction, and thinks you could very well go into teaching if you ever wanted a career change.

Still, whether its for work or play, it’s a sound that’s intrinsically you, and there’s a magic to it that Izuku finds himself chasing. A secret power of yours, if he could only unlock it.

“--Plus, I don't think a lot of the slang translates over?” you get comfortable in his arms, locking your fingers behind his neck with no intention of leaving as you muse, “You guys have your own here, and that’s hard to figure out anyway.”

“I suppose you’re right.” 

Tenderly, you run your nails through his hair, a thoughtful look up to him, 

“Do you want me to use it more at home? Lay on the sugar for ya?”

A chance to hear you at your core? Watch your handwritten notes come alive?

“If you want-” Izuku softens, “-if you’re comfortable.”

“Can you understand me though?”

“I can hear you. It only gets hard when you get excited, ‘cuz you talk fast.”

You fuss back at him, “Oh, as if you don't.”

Caught under your hypocritical eye, he can only offer an honest chuckle back, “Fair~”

But for all of your feeling put on the spotlight, you seem to hold a soft spot for the way Izuku makes his requests:

“ ‘I guess I can indulge ya, since you asked so nicely.’ ”

–and it’s enough for him to try his hand to give you a linguistic sparring partner right back:

“ ‘Say something else.’ ”

All English flies out the window when he's looking at you like this, as you fall under a fit of nervous laughter, “What am I supposed to say?!” 

“ ‘Sing me a song, my love. Something 'twangy'.”

You giggled, "'Twangy', good Lord…” 

Izuku could write novels on everything from your finest features to even your most pensive insecurities, romanticizing each of them into a beautifully imperfect anthology. He does so in his mind, at least, when you’re barely lucid on the edge of sleep but still trying to engage him in meaningful conversation. He’ll do so in the notes on his phone, when he learns of yet another favorite token of yours, and wants to add it to the list of comfort measures he can refer to when you need it most.

And when you prompt Alexa to play your newly revealed ‘Karaoke hours that will never see the light of day’ playlist -the one that’s chock-full of female power ballads which you begin to sing your own rendition to-  Izuku is certain his mind nor fingers nor heart can catalog how much more he can possibly love you… though he’ll dance in place with you as he listens and soaks it all in.

[cjlouwho]

👉👈 For the prompts, maybe something along a similar vein to Financially Irresponsible Tommy? Like, maybe Tommy refuses to write down a grocery list and just goes to the store and buys whatever he feels like, driving Buck insane?

A little off, because (technically) he did write a list 😂 enjoy!

“You bought six jars of spaghetti sauce?” Buck asked, staring at the pile of groceries laid out on the kitchen island.

Tommy smiled, very proud of himself. “They were buy one get one free.”

“Right. And you got six, because?”

“Because the guy restocking the shelves said the sale would end today. I don't know when they'll go back on sale, and you're always looking at the flyers that come in the mail to see the deals.” He picked up one of the jars. “This was a deal.”

Buck nodded. “I do love a good deal. It- It just seems like when you buy so many at once, it kind of adds up anyway. Plus, I've always made homemade sauce.”

Tommy began unloading the final bag. “I know you do, and it takes forever. This is going to save so much time, Evan.”

“You make a compelling argument.”

Buck continued looking everything over. Three cans of green beans, a family size bag of cinnamon cereal, baking chocolate, three different kinds of flour, two half gallons of milk, one very small can of beanie weenies, taco seasoning, and two 24 count cases of green, and only green, gatorade.

There was plenty more mixed in, but there was one glaring thing missing.

“Hey, Babe?”

Tommy turned from where he was standing at the pantry, putting away the six pack of canned split pea soup. “Mhm?”

“You didn't buy any pasta.”

“Why would I get pasta?” Tommy asked.

Buck closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “For the six jars of spaghetti sauce you bought.”

“You're not even eating pasta right now, Evan.”

Another deep breath. He should really start going to yoga. “Ignoring the fact you can get low carb pasta, why did you buy six jars of sauce if we're not eating pasta?”

“For when we do eat pasta,” Tommy replied as though it should be obvious.

Buck pushed himself away from the counter, walking closer to Tommy. “Tommy, Honey,” he started, bringing his hands to Tommy's face, “I love you, I really do, but this might be how I die for a second time.”

Tommy eyebrows furrowed. He wrapped his hands around Buck's wrists and pulled them back far enough to speak. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” he said, nodding back toward the groceries, “makes no sense to my brain. Have you ever made a grocery list before?”

“I had a grocery list!” he defended, letting go of Buck's wrists to pull the list from his back pocket. He handed it to Buck, who looked even more dismayed as he read it over.

“I think I'm gonna have an aneurysm.”

Tommy rolled his eyes playfully, heading back to the island to grab more groceries. “You're being very dramatic. I got everything on that list.”

“The list consists of five items!” Buck exclaimed. “Three of which are ineligible!”

Tommy came and stood behind Buck, peering over his shoulder. “Which three?”

As Buck pointed, Tommy began to read them off one by one.

“Chickpeas.”

“Why do we need chickpeas?”

“In case I want hummus.”

“You know it takes more than chickpeas to make hummus, right?”

Tommy glanced over at him. “I do now.”

Buck sighed. “What's this one?” he asked, pointing to the second item.

“Onion powder.”

“Okay, but we already have onion powder here.”

“And now we won't run out for a really long time.”

Moving on, Buck pointed to the last item.

“Meat.”

That's when Buck turned, pressing the list against Tommy's chest for him to take. “You didn't get any meat, Tommy!”

“Yes I did!” Tommy reached over and picked up an item, holding it out for Buck to see. “I got canned ham.”

“Canned ha- Tommy, my head is gonna explode,” Buck replied, pressing his fingers against his temple.

Tommy simply smiled at him, leaning in and giving him a peck on the lips. “You're so cute.”

“You're never going shopping again,” Buck decided. “Ever. I- I'll take over grocery shopping full time.”

“Evan, I go grocery shopping to decompress. You can't take that from me.”

“Your decompression is gonna be the reason I start taking blood pressure medication.”

Tommy placed the can of ham back on the counter and moved closer to Buck, wrapping his arms around his waist. “What if we go together next time?” he asked. As Buck's arms drifted over his shoulders, Tommy began swaying them gently back and forth as though they were dancing along to music. “I can show you my method firsthand, so you understand it better.”

Buck thought it over for a few seconds. “Can I bring an AED with us in case you need to restart my heart?”

Tommy nodded. “We could even pick up Jee on the way, for emotional support.”

“I don't know if I could subject her to this.”

“Christopher then?”

“Yeah,” Buck agreed. “Yeah, that'd be good.”

Tommy kissed him again, Buck sighing into it. One thing Tommy's kisses could always do is melt Buck's tension away, even if he was the one causing it.

“Why don't you go relax?” Tommy suggested once they parted. “I'll finish putting everything away and start dinner.”

“Okay,” Buck agreed. “What are you gonna make?”

Tommy looked around at all the random things he'd purchased. “How does canned ham with chickpeas and gatorade sound?”

Buck pursed his lips together. “Yeah, I'm gonna order food,” he replied, giving Tommy a pat on the ass before walking away.

[binniebakery]

ʚ thinking about yeonjun as the cute barista who works at the cat cafe that just opened ʚ you and your friend stumble into this new cafe and its like!! finally!! something to do since you moved to this town!! you weren’t all about clubbing or partying so this was definitely a safe haven for you to hang out with friends. ʚ the atmosphere is fresh and vibrant. green plants are everywhere and soft jazz fills the air along with the smell of coffee beans and fresh pastries. not to mention the cats?? literally everywhere?? ʚ its all too cute and you feel as if you're in heaven as you sit lazily on the plush couch with a nice cup of your favorite drink ʚ maybe you are just in heaven because who is that cute guy with the thin round lenses cleaning the table across from you?? ʚ you feel your fingers grip you glass a tad bit tighter than needed. and your heart starts to flutter when he suddenly glances up your way ʚ its like some type of cheesy anime scene. the way you both look at each other and immediately turn away the second you realize you were staring at each other a little too long, cheeks flushed and you almost miss the small smile the cute worker gives you ʚ you bite the inside of your cheek as you wrack your brain for ideas on how to start a conversation because well... obviously you cant waste this one chance to talk to the most attractive guy you've ever seen.. </3 ʚ its almost as if the stars align when your friend gets up to use the restroom. leaving you to your thoughts ʚ a small orange cat jumps into your lap, pawing at your leg gently for attention. unfortunately the poor thing knocks over your drink in the process :((( ʚ and of course. its just your luck that the drink spills, scaring the poor creature away and leaving you with a stained outfit. ʚ fortunately for you. mr glasses witnesses the whole thing (because he totally hasn't been staring at you the entire time..) and immediately he jumps to action ʚ "oh no!! I'm so sorry, mango has a habit of being too friendly" he apologizes and immediately uses the rag he had already been using to wipe the table down. ʚ he's so handsome up close. cheek bones prominent as he lets out an apologetic smile. ʚ its your silence that has him awkwardly laughing as he hands you some napkins to clean off the remaining drink from your clothing ʚ "so.. is this your first time here? I've never seen you here before." ʚ right. you had a voice to use. ʚ you nod, "y- yeah um.. first time here with a friend! i- it's really nice!" you stutter out and the young man takes a seat next to you as he watches you pat down your lap. ʚ "well the cats seem to like you.. you should come here often. i didn't catch your name by the way?" he inquires. ʚ "y/n. and you?" "yeonjun." he points to his nametag and you want to smack yourself for not noticing it before. ʚ "well y/n. it's lovely to meet you. it's nice seeing new faces. especially good looking ones." he continues with a smile. ʚ you almost choke from his comment. a bit forward but it seemed so genuine coming from him. you freeze as you try to think of a proper response ʚ "oh! ah- thanks.. ! you.. you're face is... nice too." you trail off shyly. yeonjun lets out a soft laugh and you mentally kick yourself for once again being the most awkward person on the planet ʚ but also his laugh is gorgeous and you could listen to it all day so maybe your embarrassment was worth it. ʚ the timing couldn't have been worse when you see your friend walking back from the restroom. but before she could reach you both yeonjun leans close. ʚ "tell you what y/n. come back again when I'm working and you can get to know this nice face a little more." his voice is quiet and it barely reaches your ears. you feel the warmth of his breath and find yourself turning redder than ever. ʚ you look up at him as he stands from his seat. yeonjun waves as he walks off and you find yourself smiling awfully stupidly because how could you deny such an offer?

♡ Recipe Notes: this isn't proofread at all but i wanted to write something cute and simple <3 yeonjun has been on my mind lately fr. enjoy!

[f1ora1f1owerswrites]

any other day

Summary: a chance encounter at a farmer's market leads to an unexpected connection between you and Jake Seresin, reminding you that sometimes the best things happen when you least expect them.

Word Count: 793.

Warnings: mild awkwardness. straight fluff hehe. use of she/her. NO use of y/n.

***

If it had been any other day, she would have missed it.

Any other day, she wouldn’t have been at the farmer’s market at all. Her Saturday mornings were usually reserved for errands or sleeping in. But something about the crisp, San Diego air tugged her out of bed and into the lively buzz of the market. Maybe it was the way the sky stretched, an uninterrupted canvas of blue, or the whisper of autumn in the breeze that felt too perfect to waste indoors. 

She wandered through the rows of stalls, her canvas tote growing heavy with fresh flowers and produce. The air smelled of roasted coffee beans from a nearby booth, mingling with the faint sweetness of late-season apples.

She turned a corner near the baked goods stall, distracted by the scent of cinnamon, and that’s when she saw him.

Jake Seresin.

Not that she knew his name yet, but the man was impossible to miss. He stood beside a stand selling jars of honey, and laughing with an older vendor who gestured animatedly to the rows of golden jars. The sound of his laugh carried, low and warm, like the hum of a favorite song.

It wasn’t just his laugh that caught her attention. It was the way he looked like he belonged in the golden glow of the morning–his olive green jacket rolled at the sleeves, jeans worn just right, and a baseball cap tugged low over sun-kissed blonde hair. He was casually leaning on the stall’s counter, listening intently as the vendor spoke, but something about the way he carried himself felt magnetic.

If it had been any other day, she wouldn’t have stopped to watch. But today, she lingered just a second longer, captivated.

It was in that second that his head turned, as if he’d sensed her gaze. His blue-green eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

She almost looked away–almost–but then he smiled. A slow, easy smile that made her breath catch in her throat.

Her lips quirked into a smile before she could help it. He straightened from his lean. He glanced at the jar in his hand, then back at her. “You ever had this stuff? It’s ridiculously good. They let you taste it if you ask nicely,” he teases, his voice carrying easily across the few feet of space between them.

“You’ve convinced me,” she says with a shrug of her shoulder, adjusting the canvas tote, stepping closer toward the stand. The vendor grinned and handed her a tiny wooden spoon with a dab of honey on it. She tasted it, and the sweetness bloomed across her tongue like sunlight.

“Okay, you were right,” she admitted. “That’s good.”

“Told you,” Jake said, grin widening.

They fell into an easy rhythm, talking as the vendor busied himself with other customers. Jake introduced himself and she found herself smiling more than she had in weeks.

“You come here often?” she asked, mimicking his casual stance by the counter.

“Every now and then,” he replied. “Usually when I need to bribe my sister with something sweet.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” she said, raising a brow.

He shrugged, a little sheepish. “More like self-preservation. She gets pretty scary if I forget for her birthday.”

She laughed, the sound light and effortless, and Jake looked like he’d just won a small victory.

They chatted for a while longer, the conversation flowing so naturally that she lost track of time. When she finally glanced at her watch, she realized she’d been standing there for nearly twenty minutes.

“I should probably keep moving,” she said reluctantly.

Jake hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah, don’t let me keep you.”

But just as she turned to go, he called after her.

“Wait–uh, before you go…”

She paused, looking back at him expectantly.

Jake shifted on his feet, the faintest trace of nervousness flickering across his once-confident demeanor. “Would it be weird if I asked for your number? I mean, only if you’re okay with it. No pressure,” he gets out quickly.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she managed to shake her head and keep her voice steady. “Not weird at all.” 

Relief washed over is face, and he pulled out his phone, handing it to her with a grin. As she typed in her number, she couldn’t help but think about how close she’d come to missing this moment. If she’d stayed home, if she’d turned the other way, if she’d stopped when she did–she never would have met Jake Seresin.

But she had stopped.

And as she walked away, her phone buzzing with a text from Jake moments later, she realized this might just have been the start of something extraordinary.

***

A/N: thanks for reading! i hope you liked this little thought i had today, i think meet-cutes are so fun to write. let me know what you think! :)

[nctsplug02]

johnny + sexting/videocalling when he's away on tour?? 🤒🤒🤒

Happy Thanksgiving! j.suh

GENRES: fluff, smut, phone sex, idol x non-celeb fem reader!

WARNINGS: phone sex.

the dinner you cooked an hour and a half ago was getting colder and colder by the minute but you were too drunk to even eat what you’d made.

wine and cooking dinner did not mix well, especially when you’re a light weight!

RING RING!

you lift your head off the counter and scrub your face with a sigh. “what time is it?”

you reach and grab your phone, hitting the green button. “hello?” silence. “hello?” you look at the screen with barely open eyes. “oh, oops.” you giggle to yourself and swipe the screen until it shows you’ve picked up.

“yes, hello?” you put the speaker to your ear and rub your eyes.

“baby!” you wince and yank the phone away from your ear. “shit!” you hiss and rub your ear, looking at the screen to see your husband with his face up close.

it was a facetime call not an actual call.

“hellooo,” johnny says into the mic. “did i wake you up?” he pulls his face away and raises an eyebrow.

“just a little bit. i closed my eyes for five minutes… that’s all.” you smile and set your phone down against the bottle of wine.

“what were you doing before you knocked out?” you giggle and shake your head. “alright, i didn’t knock out. i only closed my eyes for a good five minute, i swear. but, i did a little bit of cooking and had a few glasses of wine while waiting for your call.”

johnny rests his phone on something and sits back on the beige couch. “what about you, handsome? finished with the concert, i see.” you rub the running mascara from under your eyes.

“mhm, i just got out of the shower. couldn’t stop thinking about you. i’m sorry i can’t be there for thanksgiving, my love.” johnny manspreads and sighs with a pout.

“i—it’s fine, baby.” you clear your throat and move your eyes back to johnnys face. “i’m just thankful that you’re with me spiritually and virtually.”

“spiritually?” johnny chuckles in a confusing tone. “yes, although you’re not here physically, i can feel your presence all around the house.”

“you sure it ain’t a ghost, baby?” johnny laughs when your face changes into a grumpy one. “shut up, don’t scare me like that!” you look around and hug yourself.

johnny laughs while shaking his head, his hand rubbing his jaw. “i was just kidding, my love.”

KNOCK KNOCK!

“room service,” johnny sits up. “looks like my dinner’s here.” he leaves the frame for a good two minutes before coming back.

you watch as johnny sets up the coffee table in front of him. “what’d you order for dinner, babe?” johnny pulls the top cover and reveals a juicy, thick steak. “steak,” he sets the top cover aside. “mashed potatoes and roasted, salted green beans on the side. all that topped off with some red wine.”

you moan and grab your phone, twirling yourself around hopping off the stool. “i wanna show you what i made for thanksgiving.”

“ouu, yeah! i’m excited and a bit sad to see what i’m missing out.” you giggle and walk towards the stove. “it’s really nothing. but, i didn’t want to cook a whole turkey since it’s just me so, i decided to go for something we usually don’t cook for thanksgiving.”

you reveal what’s sitting in your pot and johnny let’s out a horrified gasp. “what?! does it look bad?!” you turn the camera back to you.

“no, baby! i’m just… you cook seafood while i’m gone?!” you laugh and bite the tip of your finger. “well, i didn’t want turkey and mashed potatoes so, i went with what i was craving.”

“ugh, you’re gonna have to make that again but when i get back, please.” johnny groans. “i promise, baby.”

you put the top cover back on the pot and you go back to the stool. “i just brought a plate over to miss hapkins next door. she was telling me a few weeks ago that since her family wouldn’t be able to travel to her, she wasn’t going to do thanksgiving.”

johnny coos at you and tilts his head. “that’s what i love about you, baby. you’re so kindhearted and caring. i love that you decided to include miss hapkins in our thanksgiving.”

“but, now i really don’t wanna eat my steak anymore.” johnny chuckles and sighs. “i miss your cooking, babe.”

“it’s just two more weeks, john. just two more and then home meals are back.” you pick up your wine glass and the wine bottle. “just like you, i’m also having red wine.”

“1869?” you hum and set the bottle down after pouring it near the rim. “you bought that without me?” he whines and you just laugh. “i was gonna save it but… hey, i deserve a treat sometimes too.”

“of course you do, baby. always.” johnny actually picks up his fork and steak knife, cutting off a sliver of the juicy meat.

johnny holds up his piece and tilts his head so he’s in frame. “happy thanksgiving, my love.” he says.

“yes, happy thanksgiving, baby.” you hold up your wine glass, clinking the glass on your phone before taking a sip.

the sweet, rich taste of red wine melting down your throat.

“mmm,” you smack your lips and set your wine glass down. “how’s the steak, baby?” johnny nods with long hums, his eyes shutting as he takes in all the flavors. “it’s perfect. it’s juicy, flavorful, thick but melts on your tongue—mmm,” johnny sighs and cuts himself another piece.

you grab your phone, glass of wine, bottle of wine and you head to the living room.

“although,” you hum. “i prefer the way you make our steak over this.” you giggle and seat yourself on the love sack, setting the bottle of wine on the ground.

you hold up your glass again. “two more weeks, john. we can wait it out.” you take a sip.

johnny groans, “you know what else is in two more weeks?” you hum and ask, what. “your ovulation week.” your cheeks heat up. “once i get home, i’m not holding back, baby.” johnny shoves the meat into his mouth and chews.

“i am not drunk enough for this.” you laugh and shake your head. “what, you don’t wanna have a baby with me?”

“i’d love to have your baby but… i want to right now.” you could feel your panties dampen.

the thought of johnny fucking you full of his baby got you off. him going at you so many rounds that your swollen cunt is oozing out his cum. his slender fingers pushing his cum back in while whispering to you that there was no such thing as wasting good stuff.

“aw, baby.” johnny coos and sets down his knife and fork with a thud. “but, just like you said, two more weeks.”

you roll your eyes and chug the rest of your wine. “babe, you don’t even know how wet i am right now. i’m literally dripping all over our love sack.”

“i don’t believe you,” johnny sits back and groans. “how can i prove it to you?”

you knew exactly how johnny wanted you to prove it and you were trapping yourself in it.

“show me your pretty pussy and let me be the judge of how wet you are.” you bite your lip, eyes moving down to his now visible bulge. “my eyes are up, baby.” you giggle and move your eyes up.

“c’mon, take off your pants and show me how wet i make you.”

the tone of his voice is like a spell, your shorts and panties are pooled on the ground and your body is twisted in a way where johnny can see your pussy.

“fuck, y/n.” johnny growls lowly and cries out. “i wish i was home right now. i’d take you so hard on that love sack.”

“move yourself to the couch and put your phone down, baby. prop it up with the candles on the coffee table.” you listen to johnnys directions and you move yourself to the black couch, propping up your phone with the cherry red and white candles.

“that’s perfect, baby—fuck, y/n!” johnny grabs himself through his sweats.

“touch yourself, baby.” johnny undoes the strings of his sweats. “i wanna see you play with yourself.”

you lay back so that you’re barely propped up with your knees to your chest and arm between your legs. your fingers massaging your clit and ever so then dipping inside your hole just to tease johnny.

“that’s it, baby. pinch your clit.” you squeal when pinching your clit with your fingers.

johnny pulls himself free, he’s rock hard, precum oozing from his tiny slit. “finger yourself, baby.” you dip a finger into your hole.

“fuck, it just slipped in like nothing…” johnny groans, flexing as he smears the precum around his head.

“just a little faster, baby.” you whimper and pick up your pace, dropping your head back and shutting your eyes. “add another finger.” you add a second finger, shuddering at the slight stretch.

johnny curses under his breath and picks his pace with his strokes. “how does it feel, baby.” you shake your head, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“not the same,” johnny pauses his strokes. “what do you mean, baby?” your eyes water up, “it’s not the same, johnny.” your legs fall together and your fingers come to a stop.

“we can make it feel like it’s the same, baby. i want you to keep your eyes closed and listen to my voice. imagine it’s me who’s pleasuring you.”

“it won’t be the sam—“

“just listen to my voice, baby.” johnny whispers. “listen to my voice and listen to how i want you to touch yourself.”

you take deep breaths, breathing out slowly and quietly while johnny softly hums.

“let’s backtrack, alright, beautiful?” your lips twitch into a faint smile. “i want you to touch yourself, not finger but touch your clit for me.”

your fingers find their way on your clit, softly rubbing and pinching your clit.

“that’s it, baby.” johnny pulls off his shirt. “don’t cry, take deep breaths, alright?” you nod and rub eights on your clit.

“you have the cutest pussy. cute little pussy that struggles to take my dick.” you moan and ball up your fist, sinking your teeth into the flesh, hard enough so that your teeth leave light indents.

you’re too busy listening to johnnys voice to even notice that johnny had pulled out a cotton fabric. “let’s skip past one finger and do two, i know you can do it.”

with your middle and ring finger, you slip the two into your cunt and let out a cry of pleasure. “oh, fuck.” you gasp and softly jerk forward. “that’s it, gorgeous. look how good you’re taking my fingers.”

johnny wraps the cotton material around his cock and begins to stroke himself. “fuck, baby. you feel so good.”

whimpers slip past your lips as you pick up your pace, the heel of your palm rubbing against your clit, giving you more friction and more pleasure.

“that’s it, y/n. take all of me like a good slut.” johnny moans and strokes himself faster. “faster, baby.” you whimper and gasp repeatedly while your fingers rub your g-spot.

“j—johnny,” you dig your nails into your thighs that hold your legs in place. “i—i’m gonna c—cum.”

“mhm,” johnny hums, his hands fisting tightly around his cock. “cum for me, y/n. show me who makes you feel good.”

your pants and moans filling up the room while your orgasm crashes over you. your legs shake and tremble, and your body jerks repeatedly like you’d been shocked. your fingers slowly and desperately still fingering your cunt.

“s—shit, i’m cumming. fuckfuckfuck!” johnny groans loudly.

johnny balls up his shirt and bites down on the fabric, covering up his moans and whimpers. his fist stroking the tip and painting his abs with white ling streaks.

“oh, fuck…” johnny slowly fucks his fist, his angry red tip popping up every second. “so fucking good.” johnny sighs, letting his hand drop and melting into the couch.

“you made a mess.” you giggle when finally pulling the strength to sit up.

johnny lifts his head and looks at his screen, seeing you barely sat up with your wet pussy on display for johnny to see.

“i made a mess?” johnny scoffs with a sexy smirk. “look at the mess you made.” you smile at him and shake your head.

“i can’t believe i got off to your voice, again.” you groan and grab your phone. “again?” johnny laughs and sits up, grabbing a few tissue from the table near him and cleaning himself up.

“is that my—wow, johnny. you’re gonna make fun of me for getting off on your voice but you’re jerking off with my panties that i’ve been looking for for a month!”

“well, i couldn’t bring you so i improvised.” johnny says a defensive tone. “whatever.” you laugh and shake your head in disbelief.

shuffling can be heard from johnnys side. “geez, it’s already one in the morning.” johnny says as he flips on a light. “already? it feels like we just got on the phone.” you frown and roll off the couch, making your way to the bathroom.

“we’ve been on the phone for over an hour, babe.” johnny says with a laugh. “it felt shorter but anyway, i’m gonna take a quick shower and i’ll call you back in fifteen.”

“why can’t we just keep calling?” johnny frowns and he flips the lights off and hugs his pillow. “because i need my phone to play music so i can karaoke.” you start the shower. “i bought you an ipad, laptop, and second phone for a reason.”

you roll your eyes, propping up your phone on the sink. “you’re so clingy.”

johnny scoffs, “says the one who gets off to my voice.”

you pull off your shirt, “at least i don’t need your boxers to help me do so.” you drop your bra and shirt.

“fuck you.”

you step into the shower. “i love you too.”

AN| hiiii, i know i’ve been really inactive but life is getting so rough right now and it’s really kicking my ass. happy thanksgiving, babies! i love you all and i am very thankful to have a growing account with all those who support and love me and my work. i’m trying my best to write with all my free time but yk sneakylink takes it all up. i know i dragged the end but we don’t talk about it HAHAHSJA. anywho, thank you anon for requesting this!!! happiest thanksgiving! 🩷

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Quiet Ones 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: like Staind said in that one song, it's been a while.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Lloyd brings you down the flight of stairs, his arm through yours as you teeter in the heels. You’ve never been one for anything besides flats or sneakers. You’re getting acquainted to the painful arch of your feet and it’s doing little for your agitation. 

While this man might be entirely too direct at times, he can be just as vague. You still have no idea why you’re dressed like some dainty rose. Whatever delusion he’s living in, it’s not the fairytale he believes it is. 

Savoury aromas waft in the air and draw your nose towards the kitchen. You glance at Lloyd curiously. He puts his hand over yours and winks. You quickly turn your head straight. 

“Don’t worry, jelly bean, I got everything sorted. Can’t have you sweating up a storm in the kitchen. Private chef,” he clicks his tongue, “besides, our guests won’t settle for anything less.” 

You arch a brow but don’t ask. As much as you want to know who he’s expecting, you dread finding out. You highly doubt it’s good company. 

He takes you into the living room. A large chandelier dangles from the high ceiling, the long crystals casting marbled pale light around the space. The tall windows peer out onto the green lawn, dim in the rising evening hue. The ornaments are just as sleek and precise as every other room. Polished marble and spotless porcelain. 

As you take in the curved couch and round ottoman, Lloyd shifts your hand from the crook of his arm and tugs you to face him. He raises your knuckles high and kisses them. You blanch and resist the urge to pull away. His mustache tickles your skin. 

“Baby, you look spectacular,” he purrs, “did I mention that dress hugs your ass in all the right ways.” 

You bite down and nearly snatch your arm away. No. Don’t rile him. Tolerance will keep you safe.  

“You didn’t,” you murmur as he clings to your hand and places it against the chest of his jacket. He wraps you up in his arms as if he means to dance with you. 

“Well, shit, it really does,” his hands crawl down your sides and he scoops your ass up in his large hands, forcing a squeak from you as you press against his chest. “How about an extra dessert tonight?” He winks. “I bet it’s sweet, huh?” 

He leans in, nuzzling your forehead as he growls. You shudder, but he might mistake it for excitement. His nose brushes yours but his lips stop short of yours as a chime interrupts him. He freezes and reluctantly draws away. 

“Wait here,” he smirks and flutters his fingers longingly as he struts away. 

You blow out through your lips and swivel to glance around. It’s a nice place but you miss your apartment. You miss being alone. You miss when you didn’t know this man. 

You mash your hands together and wring them. You hear voices. A man and a woman. Great. This is really strange. You don’t understand what exactly he’s up to. Is he not afraid you’ll start begging for help? Somehow you don’t think that would do you much good. 

“She’s in here,” Lloyd’s voice carries through ahead of him, “mom, dad, my lady,” he waves towards you. 

You stand frozen to the floor. Uh. Mom? Dad? Oh gosh, it’s a family dinner. You blink and slowly step forward as Lloyd waves you closer. 

“My mother, Delores, and father, Lawrence,” he introduces the two other figures. 

The woman is tall and blond and statuesque. You feel even smaller in her presence. She looks down her long nose, her irises blue as ice, and her lips a soft shade of rose. Her hair is so icy, you can’t tell if it’s blonde or silver. 

The man is as tall as Lloyd, a little broader, and wears a cerulean jacket over black. His hair is streaked with the same sandy shade as his son, mingled with shocks of white. He tilts his head as he measures you, his eyes narrowing. 

“Hm,” that’s all you get. You feel much the same. 

“We’ve come all this way, tell me supper is ready,” the woman, Delores, tuts. “Crab cakes, right, honey?” 

She looks at her son and he frowns. His mustache makes the expression even more theatrical. You hate to disappoint but what did he expect? I mean, look at you. 

“And I appreciate you coming,” Lloyd says, sounding unlike you’ve ever heard him in your short acquaintance. Something about it is disingenuous, for as honest as that man can be. “We’re super excited to have you.” 

“Have you had those windows looked at?” The man stops to scope the ceiling to floor panes, “impractical things.” 

Lloyd’s shoulders square. You can’t see his face but you’re certain he’s not happy. You don’t see anything wrong with the place. It’s a bit over the top, too sleek, too shiny, but it’s not horrid. Most people can’t afford anything like it. People like you in your boxy apartment. 

“This way,” Lloyd says and waves them towards another doorway.  

He takes them across the entryway and you follow behind. The dining room has high ceilings and an overly long table. You can’t imagine anyone would ever need that many seats. 

Lawrence sneers with disapproval as Lloyd pulls out a chair for his mother. Delores primps herself as she sits, popping a compact out of her purse to touch up her lipstick. You stare from the doorway, drawn forward as your host clears his throat and eases another chair away from the table. 

You near and sit. His parents have even you on eggshells. You can tell they won’t be much help to you. You’ve got more than enough with their son. 

“I’ll just go check on dinner and you can get to know each other,” Lloyd declares as he claps his hands. 

You wince as his mother snaps the mirror shut and puts it away. She looks you up and down as you keep a dull stare. His father examines the butter knife as if searching for any speck of filth. 

“So, dear,” Delores begins. “Aren’t you a quaint one?” 

You scrunch your nose up. Quaint? You’re not a house. 

“Quiet, aren’t you?” She chuckles, “well, what do you do then? How’d he find you?” 

“Probably one of those websites again,” Lawrence grumbles and curls his lips. “Women these days, they’ll jump at a dollar sign.” 

You shake your head and tilt it. You’re not a mean person. You wouldn’t consider yourself malicious at all but he annoys you. And her. Their judgement reminds you of your schoolyard bullies. 

“I do data entry,” you answer, ignoring the snipe. “We met... uh...” you frown and look at the table.  

We met when your son stalked me and starved me out of my apartment. Yeah, you don’t think that’s going to get more than another condescending trill from her and indifferent grunt from him. You pick at your nail, the movement catching her eye, and you pull your hands apart and hide them behind the table. 

“We met...” 

“At the cafe,” Lloyd strides in and approaches the chair next to you, standing behind it, “supper will be out shortly.” He sits and grabs your hand, bringing it onto the tabletop, “you know, I saw her from across the coffee shop. Just waiting. I was just taken by her. Her effortless beauty--” 

“Effortless indeed,” Delores comments. 

You flick your lashes and glance over at your abductor. How is he preferable in this moment? You blink and turn your dull gaze ahead, staring through the blonde. You don't do well with confrontation, you're more the type for avoidance.

Lloyd quiets and brings his other hand up, chewing his fingertips before ripping them away from his mouth. He keeps his grip on you with his other and sighs. He looks up and shrugs. 

The silence doesn’t last long as several bodies enter and lay out plates in front of each seat. A man in a black jacket and chef’s cap emerges and announces the appetizer; crab cakes with black truffle crostini. You stare at the food. It doesn’t look very tasty; it’s too curated. 

“Mm, crab,” Delores sings as she picks up her cutlery, “how delightful.” 

“Yes, see, I remembered,” Lloyd utters. 

“All this flash,” Lawrence clucks as he lifts his fork, “you know, there’s more too life than show. Your fancy car, the house, your women...” 

“Dad,” Lloyd goes rigid, “she’s not just another woman. I wouldn’t bring you here if--” 

“Oh, no? The last one, I recall, was wearing a bright red thong. How do you think I know that?” The older man snips. 

“She’s not like that,” Lloyd rebuffs. “I told you, she’s different. She’s the one.” 

“Well, she definitely doesn’t talk as much as the last one,” Delores remarks tritely. “And Lawr,” she nudges her husband with her elbow, “she does have a certain allure. She definitely is... different.” 

Your brows nearly meet in the middle. You close your eyes to hide the roll. You exhale through your nose. You don’t care about these people. You don’t even want to be here. So, why try? 

That's it. Don't try. You don't need to impress any of them. You're not going to dance for them like they want you to. They aren't your parents and your own parents don't earn enough of your concern. You don't care about them and you definitely don't care about the man beside you.

Defence is the best offence, right? You're not going for an outright attack, that won't work. It's about repulsion.

You wiggle free of Lloyd’s grasp and surpass the cutlery to pick up the crostini with your fingers. You shove the whole cracker in your mouth and chew without caution. You hum and nod as you swallow it down. Maybe if you can disgust his parents enough, they’ll make him get rid of you. It’s not much of plan but more than you had before. 

“Oh my,” Delores hovers her cutlery over the crab cake and gapes at you. 

“Mm, oh my, good,” you speak through a full mouth. 

“Uh, right, mom,” Lloyd raises his voice, “did you try the wine?” 

“The wine,” you say through another mouthful, “mmm.” 

You slurp messily. Your heart is racing and your skin is tingly. You don’t talk in front of strangers often. Always mindful of every single action. You never want to draw attention. Never step out of line but now, you’re toeing every one. It’s embarrassing. 

“Lloyd,” Delores breathes. 

“Honey,” Lloyd touches your shoulder, “let’s slow down.” 

“I’m starving,” you argue and nearly choke, coughing into your hand. 

“We still have several courses,” he lowers his voice, “please, jelly bean, don’t do that.” 

“Do we have any more of this stuff,” you hold up the second crostini. 

“Please,” he begs and puts his hand on your thigh, squeezing. 

You smile, food in your teeth, and show it to the table. You’re going to barf, not just from the soft cheese but your humiliation. Hold it together, just a little longer. 

“She definitely is... something,” Lawrence says and sends his wife a look of disgust. 

You clear your plate as quickly as you can. The food is like rocks in your stomach. You’re not used to eating that much, not to mention, that sort of fare. It’s rich to the point of too much. 

You wiggle your nail between your teeth and pick at them until Lloyd grabs your hand. You flutter your lashes in his direction. You really think you might throw up. Not only because of the fishy taste in your mouth. 

Before you can think of your next move, the plates are cleared away and replaced with the next course. An entree of filet mignon and seasonal vegetables, as announced by the chef. You imagine it’s similar to what they serve in those fine restaurants you could never afford. 

“Fine cut,” Lawrence offers as he turns over the steak with his knife and fork. 

You saw through your own and look at the middle, “ew, is it supposed to be this colour?” 

The table is quiet as you poke at the steak with your knife. You push it to the edge of the plate and make a face. You poke at the roasted potatoes instead.  

“Rare,” Lawrence sniffs, “I’ll take the chef’s name.” 

“Can he make cheeseburgers?” You ask. 

“Jelly bean,” Lloyd hisses, “what’s going on? What’s wrong with you?” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you shrug and look at your plate and huff, “fine.” 

Like a bratty kid you pout. You pick up the steak with your hand and gnaw on it, making it into an effort. Lloyd reaches over and takes it from you, putting it back on your plate. 

“Stop, please,” he begs. 

You shrug and wipe your hands on your dress. He latches onto your hand, gripping it tight until your joints hurt. You wince as he stands, still clinging to you. 

“I was meaning to wait until dessert but... she’s had a long day. She’s not feeling herself,” he reaches into his jacket with his other hand and turns. He looks down at you and clears his throat, lowering himself to his knee. His blue eyes meet your grimace. Oh, god. “Jelly bean, sweetheart,” he pulls out the velvet box and your stomach lurches, “will you--” 

You bend over your lap as you lose all control. You spew onto the floor, the sick splashing onto your feet and Lloyd’s pants. You cup your mouth as you puff, bile staining your tongue. You groan and stay folded over your knees. 

“Oh, Lloyd, you can’t mean to marry that?” Delores sneers. 

“Truly, son, you brought us here for... her? Really?” 

Lloyd looks at you and his forehead lines. He shakes his head and opens the ring box, picking the ring from the cushion, and grabs your hand. He shoves the row of large diamonds onto your finger. You stare at the sparkle in horror as you slowly sit up and he stands. 

“We are getting married,” he insists, “and I didn’t bring you here for your blessing. I only brought you to let you know.” 

“Married?” You and Delores echo in fraught unison. 

“Yes!” Lloyd stomps his foot, nearly stepping in the puke. “You can’t stop me, she can’t stop me,” he jabs his finger in the air, “no one can stop me!” 

“Settle down, boy,” Lawrence says. 

“Come on, baby,” Lloyd snatches your wrist and pulls you to your feet, “let me get you cleaned up.” He winks and wiggles his tongue out at you and his parents groan.  He curls his arm around you and lowers his voice to a whisper, "I got something else for you to choke on."

Well, that didn’t work. 

[toruro]

— ✧ flower me with love

an hhu unit x flowers collection !

status: in progress — 1/4 completed

a/n: please keep in mind the descriptions and genres are subject to change! nothing here, unless already posted, is final

join the taglist here!

— ✧ of love, laughter, and lies (coming soon)

violets; stars will blossom in the darkness, violets bloom beneath the snow

pairing: choi seungcheol x reader

genre: smut (18+), fluff, angst, humor, revenge(?), college au

description: classic story of boy breaks girl’s heart so her best friend tries to break his. of course, what she doesn’t plan for is falling in love, because who the fuck plans for that.

— ✧ say yes to heaven (coming soon)

daffodils; if one daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures, then one is too few

pairing: jeon wonwoo x reader

genre: smut (18+), fluff, angst, exes to lovers, idol au

description: wonwoo still hits up your phone in the middle of the night, nevermind the fact that you two broke up three months ago ... or, in which you and wonwoo may have your differences, but both can't seem to stay away from each other.

— ✧ back to december

daisies; find beauty in the smallest things

pairing: kim mingyu x reader

genre: smut (18+), fluff, angst, best friends to strangers to lovers, small town au

description: it's been four months and twenty-two days since you've last talked to mingyu, however your mother still thinks you two are friends. you don't have the heart to tell her what really happened, and now you think it's time for you to move on. (un?)fortunately for you though, mingyu seems to have other plans.

Normality is wondering. Wondering if Mingyu would still be dropping off groceries if you hadn’t told him that you loved him, if he hadn’t told you he didn’t know what to tell you. Wondering if he thinks of you now. Wondering if he has any regrets. Wondering if he’s okay, but you lost the chance to know the answer to that question four months and twenty-two days ago. Wondering if— Tomatoes. You need to buy the tomatoes, and the bread, some green beans, spinach, bell pepper, and more cheese, milk, maybe some butter, and—what was it that your mother told you to get? Oh, some strawberries. You need to get all of these things, but there were no daisies on the list, so how did a bouquet full of them end up in your cart? You tell yourself you picked them up because they’re on sale, but you know the real reason is because you miss Mingyu.

— ✧ sticks and stones (up next)

chrysanthemums; the chrysanthemum spirit

sticks and stones may break my bones, but words, they truly bruise my soul

pairing: vernon chwe x reader

genre: smut (18+), stranger to lovers, fluff, bookstore worker reader, idol au

description: to come

His lips are honey on your skin, pressing soft kisses all over your face, tongue nipping every once in a while to draw a map of stars. “The aim of love,” he whispers into your skin. There is a silence for a moment, and you weave your fingers into his soft locks, with an utmost gentleness, not wanting to ruin the moment. “Is to love,” he continues, pulling his head up to stare down at you. His lips are rosy and glossy from his assault on your skin, your cheeks a similar color. “No more.” “No less,” you finish for him.

[corroded-hellfire]

Thanks for the Help - Eddie Munson x Reader

An As You Wish Story

A collaboration with my darling @munson-blurbs, who I'm eternally thankful for 💛

Summary: The first Thanksgiving as Eddie's girl comes with some unexpected pressures, but also some unexpected kindness.

Note: Happy Thanksgiving!

Words: 5.9k

[As You Wish masterlist]

Did I already get all the ingredients for the green bean casserole out? Oh God, did I set the oven to the right temperature for the turkey? I’m missing a vegetable. What am I missing? Jesus, did the carrots just disappear?

Frantic is an understatement for how you’re scrambling about the kitchen, trying to do twenty things at once. Sure, you’ve cooked meals for people before—hell, you’ve cooked many meals for the Munson family before. But this is Thanksgiving. Arguably the most important meal of the year. You refuse to screw it up. 

What if the boys are disappointed in your cooking? Of course Eddie would say he enjoyed it no matter what, but you want the truth. The boys are good with the truth—for the most part, anyway. Luke can be brutally honest at times. Some days it’s refreshing, some days you wish the kid would keep his mouth shut when he says that the skirt you're wearing is an “old lady skirt.”

Eddie is useless in the kitchen—occasionally detrimental. The boys are too young to be of any great help to you, either. It’s all on you. You’re either going to sink or swim, you’re just having some issues getting into the water. 

This is the first Thanksgiving that the boys aren’t spending with both of their parents. Both you and Eddie were curious how they would react to this, but they don’t seem to be deviating from their usual, cheerful selves at all. Part of you is worried they’re going to compare your cooking to Brittany’s. Will they wish their mom was here cooking instead of you? No, you know with absolute certainty that isn’t the case. Even if they do prefer Brittany’s cooking to yours, there is no way they would want their mother here instead of you. Not to mention that Brittany had scampered off to California to visit her family. Eddie tried to have the conversation with her about where the boys would go, but she just rolled her eyes and told Eddie she already had plans. No Brittany already makes this Thanksgiving better than any he’s had in years. 

For you, this only added pressure—not only were you cooking an entire Thanksgiving dinner, but you also had to ensure that Luke and Ryan weren’t distraught over this abrupt change in family traditions. Eddie has told you many times not to be nervous, but since when did that work for anybody? “Don’t be nervous.” Oh great, thank you for the advice, I’m not nervous anymore!

Last night as you were getting into bed, Eddie could tell you were on edge and tugged you over to lay on his chest so he could hold you. 

“What’s going on?” he’d asked. 

You hadn’t said it out loud to him yet. You knew you could, it’s just embarrassing. Plus, Brittany was never a pleasant topic to discuss. But this is Eddie; you could bare your soul to him, and he’d still be there holding you. 

“I’m scared that I won’t be able to cook as good of a meal as Brittany and the boys will be disappointed,” you’d admitted.

Eddie let out a heavy sigh and softly rubbed up and down your back. 

“Sweetheart, half the time we were at one of her relative’s houses, anyway. Brittany only cooked Thanksgiving a handful of times. You cook far better than she does. The boys are so happy to have you with us this year. I’m so happy to have you. Plus, I’m the alternative here. Anything you make will be a masterpiece compared to whatever I’d come up with.” 

His words had soothed you a little, but when you woke up this morning, the dread still slithered throughout your chest. You feel a bit more relaxed when you see two sleepy-headed boys coming down the hall in their pajamas. Luke’s curls are a mess—more so than usual. And Ryan has a few sections of his hair that are standing straight up. What do these kids do in their sleep?

“Good morning,” you greet them.

“Mornin’,” Ryan mumbles. You only get a half-hearted wave from Luke in response. 

“You guys want some cereal?” you ask. It might be a nice break from searching for ingredients and running around in circles.

“S’the parade on yet?” Luke asks before letting out the longest yawn that you’ve ever heard. 

“About seven more minutes, bud,” you tell him. “Cereal?”

“Yes, please,” Ryan says. 

“Sure!” Luke adds. 

You turn to Eddie, who is leaning up against the counter and inspecting his fingernails like he has not a care in the world. “Um, babe?”

“Ya?”

“Can you get the boys their breakfast?” The request is terse, your anxiety amplifying your frustration that he’s taking up space in the kitchen without doing anything. 

Eddie throws Lucky Charms and milk in plastic bowls and brings them over to his sons, flipping through the channels until he gets to one showing the parade. Ryan and Luke buzz with excitement as the New York Fire Department kicks off the event, oversized balloons trailing not far behind. 

“I could be one of those balloon string people,” Luke says as a gigantic Garfield floats by. 

Ryan rolls his eyes. “It would carry you away,” he answers with a smirk. 

Luke’s eyes light up, excited by the prospect of this impromptu voyage. “Where?”

“Over the rainbow. In Munchkinland,” Ryan deadpans, crunching on his cereal. 

“Hey, Scarecrow, Tin Man, be nice,” Eddie says and picks up a couch pillow to bop each of them on the head with from behind, making his way back over to where you’re prepping veggies.

He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your hips. “Baby, did you even have breakfast yet?”

“Uh, I had a granola bar,” you say distractedly, trying to find the right page in a cookbook.

Eddie shakes his head and smiles. “Sweetheart, come on. Sit down with me. Eat something.”

“I have to get the turkey in the oven and get everything else prepped so I’m not scrambling for ingredients…” you explain, closing a drawer with your hip. 

He laughs kindly. “And you will, right after you eat an actual meal. You won’t be much of a chef if you faint.”

“Just let me make sure I have all the ingredients for the green bean casserole. I know it’s in this damn book somewhere.” You lick your forefinger as you flip through the pages on a mission to find the recipe. 

Eddie sighs and drops his forehead down to your shoulder. He knew you were going to put too much pressure on yourself today, even after he tried to explain to you last night that there’s no reason to stress about anything. At this point, any further reassurance would likely be a waste of breath, so he just grabs a slice of carrot and absentmindedly pops it in his mouth. 

You can no longer hide your frustration, even if you wanted to. “Eddie, what the hell?” Anger seeps through your gritted teeth when you chastise him. 

“Hmm?”

For fuck’s sake, you think, sighing in annoyance. “You’re eating the ingredients!”

“It was one carrot slice!”

When you glare at him, Eddie puts his hands up in surrender and starts to back away, nearly bumping right into Ryan. 

“Uh uh,” Eddie says, shaking his head when his oldest son drops his empty bowl in the sink. “Kitchen’s gonna have enough going on today. Wash your bowl and put it away, please.”

Ryan does as he’s told, though his mind wanders back to all the things he learned about Thanksgiving at school this week. He looks over at you while you prep the turkey, a huge grin on his face. 

“Did you know they don’t think there really was a turkey at the first Thanksgiving? Oh! And the first Thanksgiving lasted three days!”

You’re only half listening as you focus on basting the bird up with butter, careful not to miss a spot. 

“That’s pretty cool, Ry,” you say with half-hearted enthusiasm. 

“And they think there were only five women there. That’s crazy!” Ryan continues. 

Luke wanders into the kitchen and Ryan tells him what Eddie did—to wash and put away his bowl. He does, but not as willingly or thoroughly as his brother. 

Once the boys go back out to watch the rest of the parade, you breathe a sigh of relief. Now maybe you can chop the rest of the carrots without accidentally slicing a finger. 

The agitation that’s built up in you over the course of the morning starts to abate as you’re able to get a few tasks accomplished. You wash your hands in the sink, hoping the lemon scent of the soap will take some of the stench of onion off of them. As you turn around to grab a paper towel, Ryan strolls back into the kitchen. You hate the surge of irritation that floods through you. Ryan didn’t do anything wrong; he’s just walking around his own home.

“Can I help?” he asks, adorable smile on display. 

“Hmm, I don’t think so,” you say as you look around at all the supplies spread out on the countertops. Anything that needs to be done next involves a knife, the oven, or stove. Nothing that Ryan is old enough to work with. “I’ll let you know when there’s something I need you for, okay?”

“Okay,” he says with a shrug.

Internally, you heave a sigh of relief. Maybe now he’ll go back out with Luke or go bug Eddie. But he stays in the kitchen, bouncing around on the balls of his feet as he looks at the different ingredients that are out. 

“President Lincoln is the one who made Thanksgiving a national holiday. In 1863!”

Two things you would never do are tell one of the boys to shut up or discourage them from learning. The little devil on your shoulder wants you to do exactly that, though. Before you can say anything, Luke skips into the kitchen and glides over the linoleum floor with his socked feet. He pushes past his older brother to be closer to you.

“We learned all ‘bout the Mayflower! And the Pur…purit…purg…uh…” he trails off.

“Puritans?” you say, tone harsher than you intended. Luckily, neither of the boys notice. 

Luke pipes up this time. “I made a pilgrim hat in school, but then it, um, it broke.”

Ryan cocks a curious eyebrow. “It broke? How?”

“I sat on it.”

Eddie sees the boys getting underfoot and swoops in. “Parade’s back on,” he reports, ushering them back over to the couch before spinning around to face you. “I can help chop, if that’ll help.”

You begrudgingly agree, handing him a knife and a butternut squash. 

He hasn’t even been at the task for two minutes when he yelps, “son of a bitch!”

You jump, startled by the sudden noise. “Wh-What?” you ask at the same time the boys call out, “swear jar!” in unison. 

“Cut my finger,” Eddie mumbles, shoving his forefinger in his mouth while you huff and grab a paper towel. “Jeez, it was an accident. What’s going on with you?”

You massage the bridge of your nose, feeling like you have three kids in the house instead of just two. “Nothing,” you reply, fist clenched, “just…go put a Band-Aid on.”

With his dad occupied in another room, Ryan wanders into the kitchen. 

“Did you know that female turkeys don’t gobble?”

Did you know that this female human is about to lose her patience? You keep the snark to yourself, though part of you thinks your tongue will fall off with how much you’ve been biting it today. 

You’re the first one to listen to what the boys did in school, what they learned, and help them with their homework. You read with them, quiz them, even hit them with your own trivia tidbits. On any other occasion you’d absolutely love this. But now? Now it’s grating on you like sandpaper against your skin. 

“It’s a commercial,” Luke announces as he joins the gang in the kitchen. He stays quiet for a moment, and with your back to him since you’re checking the potatoes on the stove, you think he may have left, but then you hear, “can we get McDonalds?”

Luckily, Ryan answers for you. “No, it’s Thanksgiving!”

“Oh. Right.”

When Eddie returns, one of the boys’ SpongeBob SquarePants Band-Aids wrapped around his finger, he presses a kiss to your cheek. You start to smile, feeling yourself relax until you watch him skim some of the fried onions for the green bean casserole. 

“Boys, do you wanna help?” Your palms tightly gripping the edge of the countertop is the only thing keeping you from imploding. 

“Yes!” Luke begins to jump up and down, flashing a gigantic smile. 

“What can we do?” Ryan asks, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder to prevent him from going airborne. 

You muster up all of the enthusiasm you can, which isn’t much. “It’s a very important job. Are you guys up for it?”

“Yeah!” they cheer in unison.

“Okay.” You lean in as though sharing a precious secret. “I need you to be my little security guards. Your dad,” you gesture to Eddie, “has sticky fingers and keeps stealing ingredients. Can you two keep an eye on everything to make sure he doesn’t take anything else?”

“Aye aye!” Luke salutes like he’s taking orders in the military.

“He’ll never get past us!” Ryan promises.

Eddie raises his fingers from behind them. “And, um, what can I do?” he asks.

“You wanna help? Uh…set the table?” you offer with a shrug.

You can vaguely hear him mumble under his breath about that being a kid’s job; the boys hear it, too, and they laugh. 

“It’s like you’re the kid and we’re the grown-ups!” Ryan giggles. Eddie ignores him and puts down placemats. 

Both Luke and Ryan take their job very seriously; every time Eddie even looks in your direction, they’re on high alert, shooing him away. This gives you a bit of peace and allows you to accomplish more tasks than when you had three Munsons trampling through the kitchen like wildebeests. 

The apartment buzzer rings, followed by a cheery, Southern accent-twanged, “it’s me!”

“GRANDPA!” Luke shouts, bolting for the door. He buzzes Wayne in while Eddie reaches over his head to unbolt the lock. 

Wayne walks through the door a few minutes later, carrying an apple pie just as he promised. His brows crease when he takes in the sight of you practically tripping over the boys in the kitchen, trying to do everything yourself. 

“You’re not helping her?” he asks his nephew, a slight accusation in his tone. 

Eddie holds up his bandaged finger. “I’ve been banished.”

Wayne pulls him aside, dropping his volume to a whisper. “I’ll work on dinner. You go cheer up your girl before she starts to cry.”

Eddie cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “Cheer her up, like…right now?”

Confusion contorts Wayne’s mouth for just a moment. “What…oh, Jesus. Not like that. Just give her a pep talk.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “What are you, a goddamn animal?”

“Take a break, darlin’.” Wayne says, turning to you. “I can handle things in here.” This much you know from his countless stories as an army cook. 

With the eldest Munson controlling the kitchen, Eddie takes the opportunity to pull you aside, into the bedroom. He puts his hands on your shoulders. “Can you take a deep breath for me, babe?” He smiles when you inhale for three seconds and then exhale slowly. “Look, I know you want this to be perfect, but I’m gonna love you whether we have the fanciest dinner or PB&Js.”

You try your best to listen to him, but there’s still this nagging sensation in your brain. “But the boys—”

“Sweetheart, they think Kraft mac and cheese is the pinnacle of fine cuisine. They just want to spend time with you.”

You nod, logically knowing that Eddie is right, but your mind still not fully accepting it. 

“I want to make it the best it can be for them.”

Despite your stressed out and anxious state, Eddie can’t help but smile. It’s an adoring smile as he pulls you against his chest. He presses a few soft kisses to the side of your head before resting his own against it.

“I love how much you love them,” he says. “You know what would make this the best Thanksgiving for them? Including them, just like you did. I know they had to be driving you up the wall, but you didn’t tell them to quit it or get out. Instead, you gave them jobs and made them feel important. Princess, all they want—all we all want—is to sit around the table with the people we love and eat and laugh and just enjoy the time together.”

“That sounds lovely,” you admit with a dreamy sigh that makes Eddie chuckle.

“This is already my favorite Thanksgiving,” he tells you. ‘All my favorite people are under one roof. The delicious food you make is just going to be the icing on the cake.”

“We have pie, not cake,” you tease, poking a finger into Eddie’s chest. But your lips do quirk up in the approximation of a smile. Eddie takes this as a win and gives you a big smacking kiss on your forehead.

Wayne has a well-oiled machine going when you walk back into the kitchen. He hardly even looks tired; he completely has control over the situation. Since Eddie was busy in the other room talking with you, your small security guards are apparently taking a break from their shifts.

Ryan is still spouting out facts to his grandfather about the holiday. Now, it makes you chuckle as you listen to him giving a history lecture. Between Wayne swooping in to be your hero and Eddie trying to calm you down, there’s less pressure on you. You’re able to appreciate the enthusiasm of the boys and how they’re getting into the spirit of the holiday. With one more deep breath, you know you’re ready to get back in the kitchen and work alongside Wayne.

“Grandpa,” Ryan says as Wayne checks on the turkey. “I’ll tell you this because I know Daddy won’t care. Football on Thanksgiving didn’t become a tradition until 1876!” 

“Huh,” you muse as you open a can of green beans. “Do you know who it was between?”

“It was Yale and Princeton!”

Of course he knows that, too. Ryan never ceases to amaze you. You’re pretty sure he knows more now than you ever will. Maybe you could get him to help you with your statistics course that’s being a pain in the ass. You chuckle at the thought of Ryan attempting to explain the equations to you, getting frustrated every time you just stare at him in confusion.

Eddie walks into the kitchen and looks around, eyes landing on his eldest son.

“All I heard was, ‘Daddy won’t care.’ What exactly wouldn’t I care about?”

“Football,” Ryan says.

“You got that right,” Eddie says and musses up Ryan’s hair. “Could be worse though—at least it’s not basketball.”

Luke frowns. “Why don’t you like basketball?”

Wayne shakes his head like don’t get him started.

“All they do is shoot balls into laundry baskets! And they’re already, like, seven feet tall! It’s barely a challenge!” Eddie’s whiny protests are adorable, though it’s very clear that’s not his intention.

Luke shuffles over and whispers in Ryan’s ear, “I wonder if it’s ‘cause Uncle Steve and Uncle Lucas were on the team and were better than Daddy at it.”

The two children–or three really, with how Eddie’s been acting today–take their sports arguments into the living room while you and Wayne continue to cook.

“I gotta tell ya,” the older man says as he measures out the butter to put in the mashed potatoes, “I’ve never seen Eddie and the boys like this.”

“What, acting the same age?” you tease with a smirk.

Wayne chuckles and shakes his head. “Wasn’t gonna be what I said, but that don’t come as a shock to me neither. No, I ain’t ever seen them so happy before. Not ‘cause it’s a holiday and they’re all excited; in general. They’re happier overall. And that’s ‘cause of you.”

Emotion tightens your throat. To know that Wayne can see from an outside perspective that Eddie and the boys are happier having you around? It makes you feel light as air, but you could also burst into tears. Not of sadness, or even happiness really, just tears of so much emotion building up inside of you. Luckily, you don’t have to come up with anything to say because Wayne continues talking.

“I know the two of ya haven’t been together that long,” Wayne says with a shrug, “but I can tell by the way you two look at each other.”

“He’s my person,” you agree, managing to squeak the words out.

“I can’t wait to be at your wedding someday,” he says, emotion clear in his voice as well. “Think I might be almost as excited as those two knuckleheads out there. The small ones, that is. Darlin’, you fit right in with our family.”

In all the time you’ve known Wayne, you’ve never heard him open up like this. To anyone, let alone you. The two of you made friendly conversation when you were still the babysitter and have had some pretty long conversations with one another now that you’re Eddie’s girl. But nothing like this. It makes you take his words even more to heart; you do fit in with this family.

“That means a lot,” you say in a soft voice. Shyness suddenly creeps up in you. “I just want to make this extra special for all of them, especially now that they don’t live together full-time.”

A pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, startling you. 

“Mine.” Eddie punctuates his declaration with a kiss to your cheek. You giggle and turn around in his arms, only to find he’s snagged a green bean from the bowl. 

“Eddie Munson, I swear to God!”

The nerves that had dissipated over the course of the day start to work their way back up as all the food is set on the table and everyone begins to take a seat. You have no doubt that some of the dishes will taste great, but those would certainly have been made by Wayne. If anything on the table is bad, you’re sure that will fall in your lap.

As if he can read your mind, Eddie slips an arm around you and presses a kiss to your temple.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispers.

You follow his instructions and take your seat at the table, right next to Ryan. Eddie’s seat is at your other side, the head of the table–if it could even be called that with a table this small. 

Everyone but your boyfriend is seated, but Luke looks like he’s ready to dive headfirst into the sweet potato casserole. When the turkey had come out of the oven a little while ago, Eddie asked if Wayne wanted to have the honor of carving it. His uncle just shook his head and told Eddie that’s his job now. 

Now, Eddie stands in front of the turkey, and as you look up at him, you can see a smile quirking the corners of his lips. He clears his throat and looks out at his family sitting around him. Making a toast wasn’t something Eddie planned on doing today, but in the moment it feels right.

“So, uh, this Thanksgiving looks different for all of us this year. It’s been a bit of a weird year, but it led us to this. All of us being at this table right now with each other. Looking around at everyone’s faces I’m pretty sure everyone is smiling a little bigger, too.” Eddie lifts his glass. “My favorite people in the world are all right here with me. You all are what I’m most thankful for—not just today, but every day. So, cheers to a happy Thanksgiving.”

Everyone clinks their glasses together, and Luke makes sure that everyone has touched their own glass to everyone else’s. To no one’s surprise, Luke is also the first one to comment on the food once everyone has dug in.

“I wanna eat this food every day.” He shoves a forkful of green bean casserole in his mouth as if to prove his point.

“It really is great, sweetheart,” Eddie concurs. He reaches over and rubs his hand along your arm affectionately. Purely in a teasing manner, Wayne clears his throat, which leaves Eddie to add, “And you too, Uncle Chef Boyardee.”

Ryan’s too busy stuffing his face to speak, but it makes you chuckle at how focused he is on the food. Normally, Luke’s the one with that appetite intensity. He slows down quickly though, his eyes far bigger than his belly. His fork trails through some butter pooled in a small puddle on his plate when he gets an idea.

“Let's say what we’re thankful for! Grandpa first.”

“Easy,” Wayne says once he’s swallowed his mouthful of food. “Family.”

“New traditions,” Eddie says when Ryan points at him. Next, the finger is aimed in your direction.

“Love and acceptance.” 

Eddie’s leg purposefully brushes against yours, so you gently tap your foot against his.

“I’m thankful for you!” Ryan grins up at you, two missing baby teeth only adding to his adorableness. He wraps both of his arms around your one and gives it a hug. “I’m so happy I get to see you more.”

“It makes me happy too,” you say as you rest your head against his, emotions once again threatening to get the better of you. “I have so much fun with you guys.”

Luke takes it upon himself to announce what he’s thankful for since all attention is currently diverted away from him. 

“I’m thankful no one’s got scurvy, and for my dog,” the six-year-old announces.

“Luke, you don’t have a dog,” Eddie says.

The little boy shrugs before spearing a piece of turkey on his fork.

“That’s what you think.”

You, Eddie, and Wayne all share confused expressions that lead you to giggle, which in turn has everyone at the table laughing as well. 

Eddie and the boys do most of the clearing of the table when everyone’s finished, since they didn’t cook, but you and Wayne pitch in as well. Right after Luke puts a dirty bowl in the sink, he gasps and bolts out of the room. If it were anyone else, one of you might question it, but it’s Luke.

He runs back in and slides to a stop right in front of you. The way he starts jumping up and down makes you worry that he’ll puke, so you gently rest your hands on his shoulders to keep him grounded. 

“I made this for you!” He proudly brandishes a hand turkey he made at school. “I made it ‘specially for you!”

“For me?” you ask, your hand coming up to rest on your chest. 

“Yes! I knew as soon as we started making ‘em in class, I wanted to give mine to you.”

This is the one. This is the straw that broke the camel’s back today that has the tears finally emerging. You bend down to give Luke a big hug, trying to hide the tears while doing so–you’re not sure if he’d understand that you’re crying for a good reason. 

“Thank you,” you tell him. “I love it so much. Can I put it on the refrigerator?”

“Uh huh.”

You move a few scattered magnets out of the way to place the hand turkey front and center on the fridge. It gets held up with a magnet shaped like a heart–which Luke made at school for Valentine’s Day. While you’re busy admiring your new favorite art exhibit, Eddie and Ryan have left the kitchen and headed into the living room. You don’t even notice until there’s a crash in the room just a few feet away.

“We’re okay!” Eddie calls. “Just a VHS avalanche.”

Chuckling to yourself, you walk out of the kitchen and tilt your head in curiosity. 

“What’re we watching?”

Ryan holds a VHS up over his head in triumph, leaving Eddie to be the sole person to clean up the avalanche of fallen movies. 

“A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving!”

Luke comes into the room behind you and taps your hip to get your attention. “Are you going to watch the movie with us?” 

“Of course I am,” you say, giving his curls a ruffle. “I love this movie. But I love you Munsons even more.” 

A grin so bright lights up Luke’s face that it leaves you a little surprised. He looks more excited than when you told him he had most of this week off from school the other day.

Eddie gets up now that the VHS tapes are fixed.

“Why don’t you two put the movie in?” he asks as he walks over towards you. “Babe, will you help me put the pie in the oven?”

“Sure,” you say, a little confused about what he’d need help with. Opening the oven, putting the pie in, and then closing it seems like a pretty simple task. 

Eddie takes your hand and leads you into the kitchen. He stops right in front of the oven and peeks over your shoulder to make sure the boys didn’t follow. When he sees the coast is clear, he rests his hands on your hips and gives you a small smile.

“You just looked a little confused about Luke’s reaction,” he says, before smirking and adding, “I may not be a competent cook, but I can put a pie in the oven by myself.” 

“I’ll still be here for supervision if you need it,” you tease. “But yeah, Luke looked like someone just told him he was getting that dog, not that I’m watching a movie.”

Your boyfriend sighs and rubs his hands up and down your sides, letting his thumbs dip under the hem of your shirt.

“We watch The Charlie Brown Thanksgiving every year; it’s a tradition. Brittany never watched it with us, though. She’d either be too tired, had to make a phone call, blah blah blah… So, not only the fact that you’re watching it with us, but you’re happy to watch it with us is something new to him.”

Tears flood your eyes, and you feel your heart double in size in your chest. You’re pretty sure this day is going to kill you before it’s out.

“I didn’t realize it meant that much to him.”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says with an adoring smile. “You mean that much to him. To Ryan. To Wayne! God damn, I thought the old man was gonna stick me in the oven when he saw how stressed out you were.”

You let out a soft giggle and take both of his hands in your own. “I don’t think Roast Eddie would have been as good as the turkey.”

Eddie cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “I have it on good authority that I taste delicious.”

“You’re a perv!”

As if to prove your point, Eddie grabs your ass.

“Only for you, babe.” He laughs and takes a deep breath. “But I really am sorry that I stressed you out today. I’m so used to you having everything under control; it didn’t occur to me that you could’ve used my support.”

You nod and give the one hand you’re still holding a small squeeze. “It’s okay. And now we know for next year.”

Next year. Because you’re going to be here next year, and every year after that. You’re his girl, part of his family, and he intends to make sure it stays that way. 

Eddie grabs the pre-made pie out of the freezer and pops it into the oven. He wipes his hands off on his jeans and takes full advantage of the two of you being alone to pull your body up against his. You think he’s leaning in for a kiss, but he leans in and licks the tip of your nose. The unexpectedness makes you giggle and wrinkle up your face.

“Are you sure you’re the older one in this relationship?” you question.

“Older, yeah. More mature? Never claimed that.” He gives your ass a playful swat before heading back out to the living room, you following along behind him.

Eddie plops down on the couch, Wayne already comfy in the La-Z-Boy recliner next to it. You sit down on the couch as well but leave space between you and Eddie in case either of the boys wants to sit there. Both manage to squeeze themselves between you, making both of you chuckle as you scoot toward the respective arms of the couch. Ryan is on the cushion with Eddie, while Luke sits by your side. 

As Eddie hits play on the remote, Luke shifts at your side. He keeps moving and squirming around, never seeming to get comfortable. It’s not unusual for him to be a hyperactive kid but he’s usually ensnared by movies the moment they come on. 

“You okay?” you ask him.

He nods twice and looks up at you, a hesitant expression on his face. 

“Can you, um… Can I, uh…” He trails off, looking at your arm closest to him. It takes a moment for your brain to figure out what he wants. Happily, you lift your arm and give Luke a smile. He immediately curls into your side, and you wrap your arm around him. You have to take deep breaths to keep yourself from crying for what feels like the millionth time today. You’ve run the gambit of emotions these past twelve hours, so it’s nice to sit here and relax.

You look over and see Eddie watching the two of you, also grinning. Ryan is leaning into Eddie’s side, but not curled up and close like Luke is with you. Needing to express your emotions in some way, you lean down and press a kiss into Luke’s messy curls. His head pops up and he looks at you. Slowly, a big smile spreads on his face, identical to his father’s. Luke leans up and presses a kiss to your cheek before resuming his previous position tucked into your side. This time, a few tears do leak out–you’re just careful not to let them fall on the small boy.

As the movie gets going, you take a second to look at the others in the room; Wayne, relaxing with a can of Diet Pepsi in his hand and watching the movie. Eddie, the television screen reflecting in his big brown eyes. He grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and lays it across his and Ryan’s laps. Then Ryan, who pulls the blanket up to his chin and snuggles back against the cushions to watch the movie. Last but not least, little Luke. The mini-Eddie. A ball of energy one moment, melting your heart with his sweet words the next. 

You smile to yourself and whisper, not loud enough for anyone else to hear, “God, I’m so thankful for you all.”

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Eddie Munson's royal fuck-up

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 11

Prompt: Royalty AU

Rated: G

CW: none

Tags: Rockstar Eddie Munson; Royal Steve Harrington; Meet cute; Flirting; Secret Identity; Sort of angsty/open ending

"So, tommorow…" Chrissy says from behind the folder they've been provided. It looks so posh with its dark green binding, the royal sigil embossed on it in gold print. Eddie hates it. It probably thinks it's so much better than the other folders. "When you're introduced to Prince Steven, you're to address him as Your Royal Highness. After that, you call him Sir." 

"What, really? Dude, at least buy me dinner before we start with the kinky shit." 

Chrissy shoves his feet off the desk, which almost makes him topple off his chair. 

"Can you take this seriously? A royal visit is an important matter. We can certainly use the publicity-" 

Eddie's hand crashes down on the desk. "I'm a fucking rockstar, Chris. That ain't enough publicity? This place is my baby, mine. What does that royal asshole know about what it's like to have a rough childhood? He thinks he can come here, give a little speech, smile for the cameras, and suddenly it's all about him?" 

"What, now you care?" 

He whirls on her, but the look she gives him makes him freeze. Chrissy sighs. 

"Eds, you are so busy with the new album and the tour, you haven't even met the new volunteers. I said I'd manage the place, and that's fine. But you must trust me. Just do it for me. Please?" 

*

The skate park has new graffiti, and he hasn't even seen it yet. Eddie exhales his cigarette smoke and watches how it curls up to the sign spelling Hellfire Youth Center.

Maybe Chrissy is right. Maybe he should be here more. Maybe he's been so caught up in the whole fame and fortune thing, he's losing sight of what's important, like- 

"Watch out!" 

Like guys on skateboards barrelling towards him. 

Eddie throws up his hands. The guy tries to swerve, completely tips his precarious balance, and goes flying off the board and right into him. They land on the asphalt with an undignified oomph. 

"Shit, sorry," babbles the guy and tries to disentangle his limbs from Eddie’s. "Couldn't brake-" 

"S alright," Eddie hears himself say, even though his ass hurts like a bitch from the impact and he can already feel the bruises forming. "You can fall into my arms any time." 

Skateboard guy blinks up at him and - fuuuck, he's cute! In a scrungly, beanie-stuffed-over-chestnut-locks, black-rimmed-nerd-glasses kind of way. 

For a second, nobody says anything. 

"For fuck’s sake," someone swears, and then little Max Mayfield is running towards them, ginger braids jumping with the movement. "I told you to be careful." 

"Sorry," cutie with the glasses says again. Eddie has never seen him around. He must be one of the new volunteers Chrissy mentioned. "Guess I'll need to practice some mo- ow, shit!" 

His hands fly up to cradle his knee. There's a hole and a rapidly spreading bloodstain in the fabric of his jeans. 

"Oh fuck," Eddie says, and whips his bandana from his back pocket to press it to the wound. "Red, why don't you hop inside and get the first aid kit? I'll stay here with …" 

He trails off expectantly. Cutie's eyes go wide. 

"I, erm … Dustin." 

"I'll stay here with Dustin." 

*

Dustin, it turns out, isn't just cute, but also fun to talk to. He doesn’t gush about what a huge fan he is or ask for an autograph once. Eddie never thought he'd appreciate that one day, but it gets really old really quick. 

Instead, they jump from one topic to the next, sitting on one of the benches and watching Max go on her board. Dustin has a quick, sharp wit and isn't afraid to counter Eddie’s jabs with his own, delightfully bitchy sense of humor. Damn, to think he almost missed this one. He really needs to be around more.

"I love this place, y’know? You created something great for these kids." 

Eddie jerks to attention. The sun has started to dip, casting Dustin’s smile and the hair poking from his beanie in a soft golden light. 

"Thanks man," Eddie murmurs, and feels the bitterness boil back up. "Some people seem to think it needs better publicity, though." 

Dustin shuffles awkwardly, winces when the movement pulls on the Care Bears bandaids Max has plastered all over his knee. 

"You mean the royal visit?"

Eddie huffs. 

"Yeah, man. I mean, what are they expecting me to do, bow and grovel while his Royal Doucheness prances all over the place with his perfect hair and fancy suit and thank him for it? It's not like he cares about these kids, it's all just a gig to him."

Dustin draws his bottom lip between his teeth.

"You can't know that. Maybe he does care. Maybe he's-" 

Eddie barks a laugh. "Oh, give me a break. All the royals are good at is looking important and spending our tax money. I can fucking do without-" 

"Steve? We gotta leave, c'mon." 

They both whip around. A fancy black limousine with tinted windows has pulled up in the parking lot behind them. A gruff looking man is holding the back door open and looking at them expectantly. 

Dustin sighs and stands. 

"Coming, Hop." 

"Wait, wait, what?" Eddie babbles as he walks towards the car, shoulders in a sad little hunch. "What's going on? Who's that guy? Why's he calling you-" 

And then it clicks. 

"Oh fuck," Eddie says. 

Dustin … no, Steve … no, Steven - Crown Prince Steven fucking Harrington - gives him a tight smile while the man ushers him into the backseat. 

"Thank you for your time, Mr Munson, I'll see you tomorrow. I'll try not to be too much of a douchebag, I promise." 

The door clicks shut. 

The car glides away. 

Eddie buries his face in his palms. 

"Jesus fucking Christ. He's the fucking Prince."

Beside him, wheels grate on asphalt as Max brakes.

"Wow," she deadpans. "You're in some deep shit." 

Eddie groans. 

Tomorrow is gonna be a long-ass fucking day. 

Part 2

All my holiday drabbles

[the-kr8tor]

hiii katy. i am officially obsessed with cowboy!hobie and i'm pretty sure i've read everything anyone has ever wrote about him at this point. so here i am asking for more. i have no thoughts - brain empty- but him using his lasso... so maybe? pretty please?

(hope you're having a magnificent day/night <3)

I'm glad you like cowboy! Hobie!! Thank you for requesting, I hope you like it ❤️

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! reader

Word count: 1.5k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cowboy au, wild west au, cw suggestive, cw food mentions, cw blood and injury. FLUFF

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

The smoke from the campfire signals life from just under the cliff edge facing the raging rapids. Pink and orange hues illuminate the vast dusty plains of the west, tumbleweeds pass by with the blowing winds; and the quiet prevails with no one else but Hobie, his trusted horse, and hopefully you waiting under the belching grey smoke.

He fixes his hat on top of his head, piercings glimmering as he smirks triumphantly. Your cat and mouse chase has finally come to an end, all the running and hiding comes to a close when he spots your seated form next to the campfire. The fiery embers illuminate your features, shadows dancing on your pretty face, eyes shining under the destructive fire.

“I was waiting for you.” You flick your eyes over to his form, lips curling into an amused smile. “Your meal's getting cold.”

Hobie chuckles under his breath, the reins under his gloved hand tightens in his hold. “What's for supper?” His horse huffs, hoof kicking dirt and dust.

“Rabbit, specially caught for you. And some beans to remind you of your old country.” You stand up, dusting your pants.

He sucks in his teeth, eyes glancing over to the river nearby. “I don't miss the old country that much.” When his green eyes return over to you, you're sitting on your horse, grinning from ear to ear. His hands slowly reach for his lasso.

“Oh I'm sure you miss something.” You send him a flirty wink. “Me perhaps? Don't pretend you don't like the chase, Hobie.” Your horse neighs in agreement.

He smiles, a ghost of amusement flickering from his jade eyes. “You've had me runnin’ after you for about four months now, love. Sorry for not playin’ along today, just a bit tired is all.” He clicks his tongue to make his horse step closer to yours. His hand wraps around his lasso on his belt.

“Oh poor bounty hunter.” You coo sweetly.

“You know what happens next. You have to come with me, love.”

You feign a tired sigh, your grin says otherwise. “If you tried your luck tonight we would've done just that. Well, after dinner of course, I'm a romantic, you see.”

“I would have said yes but your three grand bounty makes me think twice.” Hobie tamps down a laugh, heat prickling his cheeks. He has found that you've had that effect on him. “You know me, job comes first.”

“That's too bad. Maybe on our next date then!” Rearing your horse, you make her kick the boiling pot, spilling its hot contents and the heated coal all over the ground, startling his poor horse. You leave him in the dust once again.

Hobie bites his lower lip to stop an excited guffaw from escaping. He follows quickly, right after he briefly calms his startled horse.

Wind nips at his cheeks as he jumps over broken down trees, dodges rocks and cliffs, and soon after, he sees your form in the distance. With victory already in his grasp, he takes his lasso, swinging it expertly over his head. Calculating his throw, he aims, lasso flying over head.

“Wha–!” The rope cinches around your torso, wrapping you in its rough hemp, making you fall off your horse harshly on the dusty ground. “Fuck! That hurt, Hobie!” Head throbbing, you hear footsteps running frantically towards you. Instead of meeting with the end of a pistol, you feel his warm hands gently hold you. “Ow. Was that necessary? I thought we had something going on, cowboy.”

Hobie takes his gloves off to examine your bleeding forehead. There's a cut just above your brow, but other than that, you're alright. He sighs in relief, hands still carefully holding you in place. If not for his lasso around you, you'd think your handsome bounty hunter actually cares for you.

“Sure, I'm alright, Hobie, nothing to be worried about.” You sarcastically say, one eye closed as blood ebbs from your cut down to your eyelids. “I just hit my head, no biggie—!” The second you meet with his worried eyes, you clamp down. Hands suddenly clammy, mouth turning dry, and stomach doing somersaults, you haven't seen him this close to you. His eyes are greener than anything you've ever seen, pools of the greenest of clovers; and face chiseled to perfection. He looks wonderous in this light. And surprisingly, he looks like he actually cares. “Shit.” You say under your breath, flirty exterior crumbling around his boots. Your voice wakes Hobie up from his lovestruck gaze.

He clears his throat, palms now hovering above your arms. “You look alright.”

Light lines up with his head, an orange halo appears, bathing him in its glow. “I think I have a concussion.” You swallow down your sudden bashfulness.

His brows furrowed, hand tentatively reaching for your chin to carefully check you again. “Does your head hurt?” His voice is soft, and his hand is warm and softer than you thought despite his callouses. You think it all adds to the mystery of the famous bounty hunter right in front of you.

His touch alone almost made you want to surrender. Almost.

You flutter your lashes, “do all the men back in England look just as good as you?”

Hobie lets out a chuckle. A simple act that has the butterflies in your stomach fly wildly. “Just a handful of us.”

“I'm lucky then.”

Hobie squeezes your chin, for a moment, a comfortable silence hangs in the air. You could sit there forever and just look at him. He feels the same way with his fingers brushing along your bottom lip. The river behind continues to flow, water crashing loudly against the rocky river beds just a jump away from the cliff behind you.

Suddenly, his horse neighs behind him. Popping the bubble of affection around the two of you. Hobie clears his throat, and you look away, flustered. He takes his hand off your chin to help you off your feet wordlessly. Tying the lasso around you, he keeps his hands to himself, or tries to as you watch him with your eyes that are practically shaped like hearts. A trait that is unheard of from a feared outlaw like yourself.

“I have to bring you in.” He sounds like he's trying to convince himself.

Arms bound to your sides, you tilt your head to meet with his downturned eyes. “D’you have to, hm, cowboy?”

Hobie straightens up, lifting your head up with his thumb pressing under your chin. He leans close, stealing the breath from your lungs. “I'm not a lawman. So I don't have to.”

You smile sweetly, “I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

Hobie chuckles deeply. “But three grand is enticin’.”

“More enticing than me?”

Hobie inhales sharply, as if he's trying to restrain himself. From doing what? You suppose you have to find out.

He makes a move to walk away to grab your horse, but you stop him with your hands grabbing at his belt buckle, fingers wrapped around the cold metal as you yank him closer to you. Your arms might be bound, but your hands remain free to your sides.

“Why don't you answer my question, cowboy?”

Hobie's eyes flick over to your hand, heart thudding loudly in his chest as he bracelets his fingers around your wrist. His thumb brushes along your pulse point, feeling your heart sync with his own.

“Because you'd love my answer to that, love. But my debts won't.”

Leaning close, you reach his lips with your own floating dangerously close above it. Briefly, you both stand there, indulging in each other's presence. Feeling like you two are the only people left in the whole world. A life with you flashes in the back of his mind. And your vision fills with only him.

With pursed lips, you slowly let go of his belt buckle. One finger at a time. “Okay then.”

Hobie feels like you've stolen his heart right there and then. Fitting well with an outlaw. Hell, he'd even let you keep it since your heart is in his grasp too.

“‘Okay?’”

You shrug, backing away. “Yeah, okay.”

“Just like that?” His fingers linger on your skin for a second. You're a mystery to him, a mystery he'd like to get to know better.

“Mm-hmm, just like that.”

Hobie blinks, shaking off his doubts. “Stay there.”

“Yep, staying right here, cowboy. Not going anywhere.”

With him walking off towards your horse to hitch it with his own, you waste no time to run off towards the edge of the cliff.

“Shit!” Hobie scrambles to get to you as you jump off. His fingers graze the ropes, and you even have the audacity to wink at him as you plunge down towards the cold water. He yells after you, watching the water with his quickening heartbeat, waiting for you to resurface. “Fuck!” Starting to take off his hat and jacket, he prepares to jump after you. “Hold on!”

Before he could dive, he sees you waving at him as the currents carry you downstream. He sighs in relief, muscles relaxing, chuckling to himself.

“See you later, cowboy!” You yell at him, floating down like you're having the time of your life. Blowing a kiss at him, your eyes stayed on him whilst he watched you go until he's barely a dot in your vision.

He hears your horse gallop away, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. His horse nudges him with his snout, huffing and puffing at him. You've won once again.

“See you later, love.”