#navy blue cord

[theorderofthetriad]

did about a month's backlog of laundry today and after hanging it all up it really hits home that i have a wardrobe like a (probably animated) fictional character

[monamipencil]

— right here | j.ww

⋆ pairings; wonwoo x fem! reader ⋆ genre; smut, stalker themes, angst, fluff, 90s! au ⋆ w.c; 2.9k+ ⋆ warnings; stalking, a brief non-con talk (doesn't actually happen), masturbating (m.&f.), almost phone sex, stealing of panties, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, he's a bit toxic and an idiot, he's a law student, reader's parents are mentioned as strict and conservative ⋆ a/n; yeah... tried to make it dark and failed miserably. and yes wonwoo reads kafka and you can't change my mind.

stalker! wonwoo who also loves horror movies and hence loves to pull little pranks on you.

“so, gotta boyfriend?” his voice is distorted by the voice changer before it reaches you on the other side. he sighs dreamily, eyes focused on your figure as you cook dinner.

you're not wearing any pants, just an oversized shirt. even though he knows your answer, he waits for you to reply. you blow the soup before tasting it, your landline phone pinched between your shoulder and ear.

“why do you ask?”

wonwoo smiles, leaning against the tree in your backyard. it's almost the same age as you. he knows that. he also knows you live with your parents 'cause they want to protect their little girl from the world. and that you're all alone for tonight, and you share his taste for horror movies.

you move around the kitchen, occupied with the dish. “'could take you out on a date,” he suggests.

you roll your eyes with a scoff, but a small part of you wants to entertain the idea. the idea of going on a date with your digital fling for 3 months does sound enticing. you let the idea sink in as you stir the contents of the pot.

wonwoo groans when you lean your elbows on the counter, giving him a perfect view of your ass. the navy blue underwear, or is it black? he squints his eyes and looks closer. whatever it is, it has him rock-hard beneath his pants.

“did you stub a toe?” you ask with amusement to which he laughs. your visage changes when you realise what he could be doing on the other end. “wait, what are you doing?”

“what do you think i'm doing?” he smirks, watching you move off the counter and closer to the phone body. you twirl the coil cord with your fingers and bite your lip.

“I don't,” you take a deep breath, “know.”

he pulls a cotton underwear from his blazer pocket and presses it to his nose, inhaling your scent. his cock twitches with need, and he suppresses a groan. holding his wireless Nokia 6110 between his shoulder and ear, he undoes his jeans.

it's freezing cold outside, and the risk of mosquitoes is high, but he simply doesn't care. wonwoo pulls his cock out, hissing at the cold air biting his tip. he wraps his fingers around the base, lazily stroking it before wrapping his cock with your underwear that went missing a couple of days ago.

you're at a crossroad in the kitchen. a part of you basks in this debauchery, and the other knows that this very well could be some middle-aged pervert or some 12-year-old messing with you.

“you're so pretty, princess.” he grunts into the phone, hips bucking into his hand.

“you don't even know how I look like..” you trail off, lowkey turned on. wait no! he could be an old man, ew.

he chuckles, eyes darting towards your figure leaning back on the counter with your pouted lips and knitted eyebrows. “maybe..”

wonwoo presses your panties on his tip with his thumb, teasing his slit. his breath quickens and worry looms over your features at his silence.

“you don't know the things I want to do to you.”

you roll your eyes again with a sigh. “really? i wonder what it could be.” the boredom in your tone amuses him.

“I want you to sit on my face,”

a scandalised gasp erupts from your throat before acting nonchalant again. “oh yeah? what else, ghostface?” your breath falters, and your stomach flips. you don't even want to think about what's happening between your legs.

“I'd slowly kiss down your body and make you come undone in all ways.”

well, shit. your legs snap close and bite your lips to stop any embarrassing noises from spilling out. the logical part of you drowns in the wave of horniness that hits you. wonwoo doesn't wait for you to speak and continues.

“I want to strip you bare and make love to you.” his hand movements quicken when he sees you slip a hand down your panties. he sucks in oxygen like he's deprived of it. the cold bites at his skin and his breaths turn foggy, but the thought of you warms him from inside.

your thoughts muddle, and any common sense is thrown out the window when you feel your arousal sticking to your panties. you can't offer him many words, and it brings you embarrassment at how easily you fold. to keep up your facade, you scoff into the speaker but wait for him to speak up.

but the line disconnects, filling you with disappointment and wanting. you place the phone on the cradle and sit down on the floor. the disappointment doesn't deter you from touching yourself to the thoughts of him. you wonder how he sounds in real life and imagine him doing the things he spoke of.

your toes curl as you apply pressure to your clit, rubbing it incessantly. your other hand plays with your nipples, pinching and rolling them over your t-shirt. you try and try but can't climax. you pull out your hands with anger and annoyance.

burying your head in your knees, you think of blocking him but realise he's probably using *67. the hiss of the boiling snaps you back to reality, and you stand up in a hurry to look at the food. you groan, looking at the sad-looking dish staring back at you.

the telephone rings, piling up on your irritated state. “what?” you bark, teeth grinding and knuckles turning white.

“come outside,” a low voice tells you.

“what?” you repeat, softer this time. before the gears in your brain could turn, you find yourself at the front door, turning the knob. it feels like whiplash when your eyes land on the person outside.

“wonwoo? what are you doing here?”

now, why the hell was your ex-boyfriend at your door? and wait.. is he your ghostface?

the possibility—possibility? it's the fucking truth. he's the one who's been calling you anonymously for 3 months and filling the hole in your romantic life. the very hole that he left.

he looks the same—almost the same—but then you notice the faint ring of dark circles, the tiredness in his eyes, and, is that your panties hanging from his blazer pocket?

it doesn't take long for your pent-up emotions to flood your senses and suddenly, you're pulling him in, and locking your hands around his neck. you press your lips to his and let his hands wander your body.

 “wonwoo, fuck!”

you throw your head back on the handrest and tug at his hair roots. his tongue laps at your cunt, and his nose brushes your clit as you lay fully bare on your couch. wonwoo’s grip on your hips holds you down while he slurps and sucks on your hole, tongue prodding inside every now and then.

his soft lips mold with your pussy lips, and his over-grown hair tickles your inner thigh. his hungry eyes meet yours before he pulls away with your fluids glistening on his skin. he ascends on you like a predator sizing up its prey. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him down.

the soft material of his t-shirt presses against your burning skin, and you feel cold without his warmth. “off,” you huff, tugging at the cloth. he obliges with a smile. soon he joins you on the couch, and feeling his bare skin on yours elicits a variety of emotions from you.

you’re ready to break down and cry but also have the urge to slap him along with the cauterizing need to have him inside you. he stills for a moment, silently looking for reassurance to go ahead. you tilt up your head, kissing him softly and breathing him in. you forgot how intimate it felt to share your breath with another.

wonwoo kisses your forehead and moves back, positioning himself between your legs. “condom?” you croak.

“I don’t have one.”

eyeing the hesitant look on your face, he continues. “I haven’t slept with anyone … after you.”

you crash your lips against his, tongue pushing past his lips. you moan wantonly, and the noises of wet kissing reverberate through your eardrums. you card your fingers through his lush black locks and tilt your head, kissing him deeper and slower.

your core pulsates as his hands rediscover your body. goosebumps rise on your skin when his thumb brushes against your hard nipple, and you shiver, feeling his cock on your thigh. you gasp for air, pulling away. his hands brush down your back to your ass, kneading the flesh beneath his fingers.

wonwoo leans back on the handrest, helping you to position on his cock. you sink down on his cock with his help. you moan in unison when you bottom out. his raw cock kissing your insides sends a flurry of tingles through your body.

you grind down to stimulate your clit. shameless moans escape your lips when he thrusts up, balls slapping against your ass. his hands make a home on your hips as he continues drilling his cock inside you. you throw your hands around his neck, pressing yourself against him. you don’t kiss him but place your lips close to his, and with every moan and whimper, your lips brush against his.

you lose yourself in pleasure, in the way his cock splits you open and in the way he sucks on your nipples. one of his hands moves down to rub your clit as he keeps sucking on your nipple. he moves to the other one, swirling his tongue around the bud.

your body trembles with stimulation, and you bounce on his cock harder, desperately chasing your high. wonwoo detaches from your tits to press a hot kiss against your lips. you moan against his lips, feeling the coil in your stomach tighten with each thrust.

his tip kisses your insides, and your arousal forms a creamy ring around the base of his cock. you're way too gone, lost in the warmth of his hands and the depth of his onyx eyes.

a certain thrust and the rubbing of his hand has you trembling above him. your legs give out, and you rest your head on his shoulder, trying to catch your breath.

“I can't—I,” wonwoo shushes you and repositions his hands on your ass, gripping it as he thrusts upwards into your cunt. the sheer force of his thrusts makes you whimper and dig your fingernails into his broad shoulders.

“wonu,” you draw out his name as your face contorts in pleasure.

“yes, princess?” the nickname never fails to fluster you, and the rich timbre of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. he leaves hot, open-mouthed kisses on your neck and chest.

“please, I want to—want to cum.”

he nibbles on your earlobe, wetting the skin with his tongue. “mhm. but bad girls don't get to cum.”

“bad girl?” you whimper, “but I didn't do anything!”

“y'sure, princess?”

“yes!”

“you started talking to a stranger on the phone. yes, it was me. but you weren't aware.” you whine when he slows his pace to a stop. you clench around his length, chasing for some friction.

“you started locking your windows. I thought you liked it when I used to climb into your room through your window—”

you cut him off, “you broke up with me for your stupid friends!”

“and.. I left it open for the first few days after you left...” your voice reduces to a whisper.

“I'm sorry, princess.” he starts. “but it seemed like you moved on with your little church boy,” he hisses through his teeth, voice lacing with venom.

“joshua is my friend.” you hiss back.

wonwoo clicks his tongue, hating the taste of his name on your tongue. the chances of you kicking him out if this keeps up are high. so he changes the topic.

“y'k how badly I wanted to climb into your room? to take off your blankets, and push aside your panty. you would like that wouldn't you?”

“for me to have my way with you while you're asleep? even if you wake up, you'll let me hit it like a slut, right?”

your pussy flutters around his cock and you whine, hitting his chest. wonwoo smirks and leans into your ear, “dirty, dirty princess.” his voice drops an octave.

“I was peeping on you all this time. you wore my shirts, princess? love me that much? hmm?”

you hide your face in his shoulders but feel his smile radiating through his voice. “fuck you.”

“you are,” he grips your hips, pulling out halfway before slamming his cock back in. your slick arousal drips down your thighs, uncomfortably. his cock stretches your gummy walls and the coil in your stomach tightens.

it's hard to adjust to his animalistic pace and you're overwhelmed. lust and passion clouds your senses and the coil snaps. the orgasm crashes over you and your lewd moans fill the room. your body trembles above his and you grip onto him for dear life.

your first orgasm in three months is mind-numbing. wonwoo continues to thrust, chasing his orgasm. he grunts when you violently clench around his length, forcing him to cum.

warm ropes of cum decorate your walls and the wet sounds of sex halts as he pulls you closer. he rests his forehead on yours, sharing his breath with you.

by the time you calm down, you're flooded with shame and the reality of what just happened. his arms and the sound of his heartbeat is no longer comforting. removing his arms around you, you stand up.

you hiss and clench your thighs at the ache between them. his essence drips out of your hole down your thighs, a reminder of what you just did.

wonwoo sits up, worry filling his system as he watches slip on your t-shirt and move away from the couch. he wants to say something, but what can he say? hey, sorry for leaving you and stalking you. 'think we can get back together?

he cringes at himself and watches helplessly as you move towards the vinyl record holder. you pull out a vinyl he recognises and place it on the player.

‘The Chain’ by Fleetwood Mac fills the room, and you walk back to the couch, sitting with space between you two. the soft strum of guitar and drums calms his nerves.

“why?” you fiddle with your fingers, refusing to look at him as you ask. he sighs and shifts a little closer, t-shirt covering his body and glasses back on. “I,” he sucks in a sharp breath.

“I had doubts about … us.”

“I didn't think we'd work out and my friends seemed to agree. I—I'm sorry.” he holds his gaze down with shame.

“it was stupid, i know. but I thought our differences won't work out.”

“how can you decide it before anything actually happens?” you bark at him, your heart clenches with frustration.

“I—”

‘and if you don't love me now, you will never love me again’

wonwoo cringes inwardly. who would have thought that the song he used to dance with you to would represent his life now? he cannot find words to express what he wants to say. two years of majoring in law and literature down the drain.

he simply moves closer till his thighs press against yours and leans his head on your shoulders. “did you only miss me for my body?”

“no!” his defense comes a bit stronger, and he hugs you closer. “no. it's not like that. I missed you.”

‘I can still hear you saying you would never break the chain’

you take his face in your hands, kissing his lips softly. but you break it as soon as your lips meet and drag him upstairs to your room. your grip on his tighter, harsher, like you're trying to prove a point.

wonwoo doesn't protest that he's naked and lets you drag him away. reaching your room, you pull him inside and show him the stacks of books lining your nightstand.

he adjusts his glasses and squints at the books. he saw you buying books and reading them almost every night. he wondered how your conservative parents suddenly allowed you to read books, let alone ... law books?

“law books. I fought with my parents and bought them, just so that we could talk about it because I don't know shit about law!”

you're sobbing, tears cascading down your cheeks, and he feels his heart skip a beat or two. his eyes dart towards the other books on your shelf, Sherlock Holmes and Kafka, his favorites too.

he pulls you into his arms, hugging you tightly. he smiles at your faux protests and holds you softly.

wonwoo doesn't tell you but he has his own collection of Fleetwood Mac vinyl records lining up in his shelf. he bought Delta of Venus and A Spy in the House of Love, even though he doesn't like the vulgarity of the books you secretly read.

he holds you closer, and for anyone who looks into your windows, they'd only see the silhouette of a single person. your sobs quiet down, and he whispers soft apologies into your skin.

and wonwoo discovers that love is simple after all. love is reading Law and Kafka in your moonlit room filled with '60s rock music.

tags; @seungkwanschicken @aaa-sia @dokyeomkyeom @bangantokchy @jespecially

@asyre @armycarat2612 @bewoyewo @gyuguys @embrace-themagic

@aaniag (send an ask to be added on the taglist!)

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Summary: With no friends and the looming threat of losing custody of his son, Eddie's the lowest he's ever been. But you know what they say: “Rock bottom just means there’s nowhere to go except up."

Warnings: angst, visits from CPS, Reader's grandma has Alzheimer's

WC: 6k

Chapter 5/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

The phone rings as Eddie wrestles Harris into his jacket. He still hasn’t figured out how to break the news about his classroom change; at this rate, he’ll be dropping him off at school before he works up the nerve. Is there any good way to tell your kid that he no longer gets to spend his days with his favorite teacher?

“Keep that on,” Eddie instructs Harris, pointing to the navy blue sweatshirt. “I’ll zip it for you in a sec.” He jogs over to the phone, answering with an irritated, “Hello?”

“Ed?” Wayne’s voice drifts from the receiver. “It’s Wayne.”

Eddie nods before remembering that Wayne can’t see him. “Y-Yeah, hey,” he says, tone softening at his uncle’s familiarity. There’s a dull ache in his chest when he thinks of how he willingly shut him out over the last month. “How’ve you been?”

“Good. Can’t complain.” Wayne clears his throat. “I’d love to see you and Harris. Whenever you get the chance.” Eddie can hear his concern, the unasked questions that dissolve on his tongue: Are you okay? Is Harris? Do I need to file that custody agreement?

He glances over at his son, who, despite Eddie’s promise, is unsuccessfully trying to thread the zipper with its teeth. He motions him over, cradling the phone to his ear and stretching the cord while he kneels to fasten the jacket. “We were actually about to head to the park if you wanted to meet us there,” he says. “This kid’s got way too much energy to keep him cooped up in the apartment. We’ll both lose our minds.”

Wayne lets out a kind chuckle. “Sounds like a Munson.” Eddie can hear the tinny jangle of his keys. “The park over on Porter Drive?”

“Yup.”

“Dad, let’s go!” Harris whines, twisting the doorknob back and forth to emphasize his impatience.

“We’ll be there in ten,” Eddie tells Wayne, catching a glimpse of the neon orange cast peeking out from under Harris’s jacket. It’s now adorned with his classmates’ names. Your signature seems to beckon Eddie, taunt him, even, and he tries to convince himself that it’s because it’s the only one that doesn’t resemble chicken scratch. “Oh, Harris broke his wrist, but he’s fine. I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

“Hoo boy,” Wayne breathes. “Definitely a Munson.”

Harris spends the short drive to the park bouncing in his carseat. “Is Grampa Wayne gonna play with me?” he asks, rocking back and forth excitedly.

“Mhm,” Eddie nods, keeping his eyes trained on the road. He nervously thrums his fingers along his jean-clad thighs. What if Wayne still didn’t think he was a responsible parent? What if he took one look at Harris’s injury and raced home to call his lawyer? “But I gotta talk with him first, okay? You can play by yourself for a little while.”

Harris hums his agreement, eagerly unbuckling as soon as Eddie parks the car. He starts to run towards the field, and all Eddie can picture is him tripping and hurting himself again.

“Harris, don’t–” he starts, but he then remembers those magic words: “Walking feet, bud. Don’t want you breaking that other wrist.” He grabs the soccer ball from the trunk and kicks it in Harris’s direction.

Wayne pulls up in his truck a few moments later, almost as exuberant as his grandson. “Har-Bear!” he calls out, opening his arms wide for a hug. Harris picks up his pace, slowing down when he remembers his dad’s instructions.

“I’m using my walking feet!” he chirps proudly, and though they’re fast walking feet, Eddie beams at him.

Wayne squeezes Harris so tightly that Eddie worries he’ll inadvertently cut off his oxygen supply. When the boy starts squirming, Wayne laughs and puts him down.

“Go ahead and play,” Eddie tells his son. “Grampa Wayne and I are gonna catch up real quick.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as the two men sit on the bench, waiting for the other to say something first. Finally, Wayne breaks through the tension.

“Missed you two,” he murmurs, not looking at Eddie. “‘S too quiet around my place without that little rugrat.”

“We missed you, too,” Eddie admits, chewing on his thumbnail. “Harris won’t stop asking for Grampa Wayne.”

Wayne preens slightly at this, shifting in his seat. “This is the longest we’ve gone without talking since…”

“I know,” Eddie cuts him off, not wanting to revisit the part of his past that Wayne’s referencing. “I, uh, started working at Rock Records,” he tells him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It sucks, but it’s a job.”

He feels Wayne clap him on the shoulder, pulling him closer to him for a brief side hug. “I’m proud of you, Ed.” He purses his lips before asking, “and no more of the…”

Eddie shakes his head. “Nope, I’m done with that. Returned the rest of what I had to Rick; told him I was out.” His gaze drops back to the ground, and he stares intently at the blades of grass as though they might disappear if he blinks. “But that might not matter anymore anyway, so…”

“The hell you talking about?” Wayne pinches his eyebrows together, adjusting his position to face his nephew.

Sighing, Eddie tells him about what happened at the hospital last week. Wayne’s eyes widen when he hears that they filed a report with CPS. “That’s some bullshit,” he mumbles, scratching at his gray beard. “Kids get hurt all the time. Can’t keep ‘em in a bubble.” He shakes his head incredulously. “They’re not gonna take him from you, okay? They’re gonna see how you provide for him, how great you are with him, and they’re gonna be sorry they wasted their time.”

“I’m not great with him,” Eddie mutters, standing up in a feeble attempt to exert some of his nervous energy. “I’m ruining his life.” He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “He had this teacher, and he adored her. Calls her ‘Ms. Sweetheart.’ And I was just…just a total asshole to her. I accused her of telling people about the CPS thing and said some really fucked up shit about her sick grandma and…fuck, Wayne. She had Harris transferred to another class just so she doesn’t have to deal with me. And now I have to say, ‘Hey, you know that teacher you fuckin’ loved? Well, she’s not your teacher any more, and it’s all my fault.’”

Wayne absorbs the information, contemplating what he says next. “So fix it,” he shrugs.

“It’s not that simple,” Eddie argues, plopping back down onto the bench in defeat. The wood digs into his lower back uncomfortably, so he stands up again.

“It’s not?” Wayne questions, digging a pack of Newports out of his jacket pocket and offering one to him. “Because it sounds to me like you owe this ‘Ms. Sweetheart’ an apology.”

Eddie takes a cigarette, toying with it before tucking it between his lips. It takes a few flicks of his old Bic lighter to get a spark, and he lets the nicotine calm his nerves before speaking again. “I don’t think she’ll forgive me.”

“Never said she would,” Wayne counters, plucking the Bic from Eddie’s hands and bringing the flame to light his own cigarette. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t apologize.”

Inhaling sharply, Eddie watches his son kick the ball around before letting out a slow, controlled exhale. “My boss asked if I could teach guitar lessons once or twice a week,” he says, using his empty hand to toy with the frayed holes in his jeans. “If…if you wanna, could you watch Harris? I can pay you.”

“Don’t insult me, boy,” Wayne scoffs, but a playful smile dances on his lips. “You’re not gonna pay me to watch my own grandson. Just let me know the day and time, and I’ll have a pot of mac and cheese ready to go.”

The pent-up tension dissipates from his body at Wayne’s easy agreement. An unspoken I love you floats between them, and he could cry from the sudden surge of relief.

“Daddy! Grampa!” Harris calls out from across the park. “Let’s play!”

Wayne stands up with a grunt, rolling his shoulders back to loosen them up. “You heard the man,” he jokes. “Up and at ‘em.”

It’s your first day off of work since the start of the school year, yet all you can think about are your students. Well, one particular student and his god-awful father. Eddie’s comment replays in your mind, cutting through you like the chilly mid-October air. The sting still hasn’t faded, despite it being three days since he’d said it. 

You say goodbye to your grandma and Elise, her home health aid, grabbing your car keys and closing the door behind you. This morning was already overwhelming; Grandma had woken up at 5 AM, ready to start her day. The sound of her TV blasting at the highest possible volume jolted you from your sleep, and you’d spent the following twenty minutes trying to persuade her to go back to bed. Unsuccessfully, you might add. 

You wince when you see your reflection in the rearview mirror. Your eyes are puffy and bloodshot, with pouches developing beneath them that only emphasize your exhaustion. You practice smiling a few times before starting the car, peeling out of the parking lot to meet Jess, Viv, and Jeff for lunch.

The pleasant aroma of burgers cooking on a grill wafts past your nose as you push open the doors to the restaurant. It isn’t too crowded when you arrive; you assume that the usual lunchtime rush is quelled by the Columbus Day holiday. Your new friends are already waiting at the table, waving you over excitedly.

“Hey,” you call out, forcing pleasantries into your otherwise flat tone. You slide into the seat next to Jess and across from Jeff. “How’s everyone been?”

“Better, now that I’m out of the first trimester,” Viv says with a small laugh. “Now that I have my appetite back, I’m definitely getting the grilled cheese.” She glances at the menu again, adding, “and a side of fries.”

Jess nods. “I think I’ll do the same.” She turns to you and her cheerful expression shifts to one of concern. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah, just tired.” Your lackluster reply is unconvincing, but she doesn’t challenge it in front of Jeff and her sister. “Chasing after kids all day is wearing me out.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Viv exclaims, taking a sip of her water. “You’re a preschool teacher. The one with Eddie’s kid in your class!”

“Mhm,” you manage; the mere mention of Eddie’s name turns your throat into sandpaper. “Well, not any more, I guess.” Your throwaway comment is met with inquisitive stares, so you give the group a rundown of last week’s events, watching their eyes grow wide.

“He’s such a fucking douche,” Jess grumbles, resting her hand over yours. It feels like forever since you’ve experienced the simplicity of a kind gesture, and you have to swallow the emotion that comes with it. 

“Seriously,” Viv agrees, looking over at Jeff. “Why were you even friends with him?”

Jeff lets out a terse chuckle and shakes his head. “Believe it or not, he actually used to be a good guy. The best, in my opinion.” Disappointment flashes across his face as he continues. “Something changed when he went to Chicago. He was always on-guard, had his walls up, but it used to be more of an ‘if you mess with me, I’ll mess with you’ attitude. But when he came back home, he was…different.”

“Different how?” Curiosity gets the best of you, and the question slips off of your tongue before you can stop it.

“It was like he was determined to hurt people before they could hurt him. No matter what I did, he never fully believed that I was on his side. I was constantly trying to prove that I wasn’t out to fuck him over.”

Viv drapes an arm over her fiancé’s shoulder. “How long did he live in Chicago, again?”

“Long enough to knock someone up,” Jeff muses, mind wandering for a moment before he brings himself back to the conversation. “About four years, I think? He left to chase his dreams of being a rockstar. Then one day, he shows back up in Hawkins with an infant, trying to act like nothing had changed.” He snorts at the very idea of it. “But it obviously did–I mean, besides the fact that he had a whole child, the rest of us had grown up, too. College, work, all that stuff.

“When he suggested getting Corroded Coffin back together, we figured, why not? It seemed like a decent way to chill out, blow off some steam at the end of the day.”

“Let me guess,” you chime in, cocking your head knowingly. “Eddie had other ideas.”

Jeff nods. “He still wanted to do the rockstar thing. And he’d always get angry at us because we didn’t. Not professionally, anyway. Kept mocking us for having 9-to-5 jobs, like it was the worst thing in the world.” He pauses, screwing up his face in contemplation. “Which, come to think of it, was weird. Because back in high school, he told me that it really messed with him, not having that stability growing up. Y’know, before Wayne took him in.”

There’s so much more you want to know, but the waiter striding over to the table to take orders brings the conversation to a natural conclusion. What you’ve gathered so far is that Eddie Munson is a many-layered man, each one more puzzling than the last. Despite your festering hurt and anger, you can’t help but hope that he untethers himself from his complicated past. If not for his sake, then for Harris’s.

“Daddy, what’s a new cents?”

Eddie’s taking the left turn onto the main road when he hears his son speaking from the back seat. “What’s new since when?” he asks, craning his head to check for oncoming traffic. 

“Noooo,” Harris whines, letting out an exasperated sigh. Eddie has no clue where his new attitude came from, and he can’t say that he’s a fan. “A new cents.”

“That’s not a thing, buddy,” Eddie answers, starting to twist the radio knob. 

“Yes, it is!” Harris insists, clearly growing frustrated. “Ms. Marion told Ms. Paula that I’m a ‘new cents.’”

It suddenly clicks for Eddie, and he grips the steering wheel tighter and hopes Harris doesn’t notice the edge in his voice. “You mean a nuisance?”

“That’s what I said!” Harris groans. “What does it mean?”

Eddie pushes past the question to ask one of his own. “What exactly did Ms. Marion say?” Maybe there was a misunderstanding, he reasons with himself. 

But Harris’s answer only confirms his initial suspicion. “She looked at Ms. Paula and said, ‘this one’s a ‘new cents.’ An’ then she pointed to me.”

“Why the hell would she say that?” Eddie’s speaking to himself, but his son replies, still too young to grasp the concept of rhetorical questions. 

“‘Cause of my shoes being untied. An’ she doesn’t like when I ask her to tie them.”

Eddie cringes. He’d meant to teach Harris how to tie his sneakers, but the lessons had to be put on hold when the kid had broken his wrist. Pausing before posing his next question, Eddie carefully selects his words. “Did…Did Ms. Sweetheart ever do that? Get mad about your shoes or call you a nuisance?”

“Nope,” Harris shakes his head. “An’ Mr. Will didn’t either.” And considering that his laces had always been tied in neat bows when Eddie arrived to pick him up, he can only assume that the two of you did this without a second thought. Jesus, why even bother to be a preschool teacher if you’re gonna bitch about tying shoes?

“So, what is it?” Harris snaps him from his thoughts. 

“Huh?” Eddie’s right foot presses on the brake as he approaches a stop sign. “Oh. Um, I don’t know. Sorry, Har.” It’s the second time in as many days that he’s lied to him in order to spare his feelings. Yesterday, he’d waited until they were already in the school to tell Harris that he was picked for a super special project where he’d act as a secret agent in another class. He didn’t know whether to be proud or ashamed that he’d spent all night thinking of that excuse. 

“‘S’okay,” Harris shrugs, raising and dropping his legs so they bounce off the bottom of his carseat. His ankles are exposed, and Eddie realizes that he must’ve grown. Again. Which means that he needs to scrape together some money and buy him new clothes. Again. “How much more days until I get to go back to Ms. Sweetheart’s class?”

“Not sure.” Lie number three. He flicks on the radio, the sounds of Ozzy effectively distracting Harris for the remainder of the car ride. 

If only it was that easy to fool himself. 

A harsh knock on your classroom door and the formality of your first and last name draws your attention from the mountain of paperwork on your desk. Will left thirty minutes ago with the rest of the TAs, so you’ve been sitting alone, humming a song you’d listened to on the car ride to work.

“Yes, that’s me,” you tell the tall man standing in the doorway. His intimidating stature and sullen disposition juxtapose the orange and yellow hues of autumn-themed artwork lining the walls. “Can I help you?”

He flashes a name tag as he steps into the classroom. “My name is Andrew Smith. I’m here on behalf of Child Protective Services to speak to you regarding one of your students…” he checks his notes, “Harris Munson.”

“Oh, um,” you stumble over your words, “he’s–he’s not my student any more. Not since Tuesday of this week.”

“Right,” the social worker nods slowly, patience already running thin, “but I briefly spoke with his new teacher, and she said that she didn’t have enough information to answer the questions, and directed me to your classroom.” When you don’t respond, he gives the legal rundown about the process and your obligations as a mandated reporter. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s proceed with this, shall we?” He clicks his pen, eyes boring a hole into you as he speaks. “How well would you say you know Harris’s father, Edward Munson?”

More intimately than you know, you bitterly think. “Fairly well. He dropped Harris off and picked him up every day.”

Mr. Smith scribbles that down. “Was Edward Munson punctual? Did he drop off and pick up Harris on time?”

“Yes,” you confirm, and your mind flickers back to the very first day of school. “There was only one time he was late for pick-up, but it’s common for that to happen once in a while with any parent.”

“Right, okay. And how would you describe Harris’s disposition around his father?”

“He adores him. He’s a generally happy kid, but he lights up around his dad. Or even when he’s just talking about him.” One lunchtime conversation in particular centered around how his dad could play anything on the guitar, even “Old MacDonald.” Harris had been bursting with excitement to report that Eddie made the funniest animal sounds, and you’d be lying if you’d said your interest wasn’t piqued. “I’ve never seen Harris act nervous or scared around him.”

Pen flies across the paper, and you swear he’s writing more than you’d even said. “Besides the broken wrist, did you ever notice any injuries or abnormal bruising anywhere on Harris’s body?” 

You shake your head before realizing he’s waiting for a verbal response. “Nope, never. Just the usual bruises that come with being a kid.”

Mr. Smith cocks his eyebrow, pressing his lips together. “And where were those bruises located?”

Shit. Did you say too much? Why can’t you just shut up when you’re nervous? “Knees and calves?” You point to the spots on your own body, as though the social worker needs visual aides, while silently berating your own stupidity.

“And based on your interactions with him, how would you describe Edward Munson as a father?” It’s a loaded question, and its magnitude is a weight on your chest. 

“Caring, attentive, very loving,” you answer honestly. “Responsible. Harris always showed up with lunch and a snack, bathed, clean clothes, whatever supplies he needed. I never worried that Harris was unsafe or in an unhealthy environment.” You force yourself to meet Mr. Smith’s gaze when you say the next part. “We, um, actually were at the hospital at the same time. My grandma got hurt, and we bumped into them when being discharged.”

This grabs his attention. “And did Mr. Munson appear to be impaired or otherwise behaving out of sorts?” The way he looks at you could easily be mistaken for a glare. “Under the influence of any substances, perhaps?”

“Not at all.” You keep your tone firm and even.

He shoves the paperwork at you, pointing to where your signature is required. “Thank you for your time,” he says flatly, leaving the room before you have time to reply. It seems nearly impossible to go back to the task you were working on before the interruption, but you try to push away the intrusive thoughts about everything that could possibly go wrong.

An hour later, the heavy-handed knock raps on the door to the Munson’s apartment. Eddie knows the drill; unfortunately, this isn’t his first run-in with Child Protective Services. He’s double, triple, quadruple-checked that every electrical outlet is covered, the matches and lighters are far from Harris’s reach, and there’s no remaining product from his recently-abandoned dealing days. The visit is technically unannounced, but since he’s not getting many visitors these days, there are limited options of who could be at his door.

“Edward Munson?” The social worker asks, giving him the same opening spiel he gave you. “I’ll just need to take a look around your home and make sure it’s a suitable living environment for your son.”

“Of course.” Eddie hopes he sounds more confident than he feels, but he can sense the waver in his voice. “Yeah, come on in.” He opens the door a bit wider and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, drawing unwanted attention from the social worker.

“Something the matter, Mr. Munson?”

“N-No,” Eddie insists, shaking his head. If he confesses to being nervous, this Smith guy could mistake it as an admission of guilt, and that’s the last thing he wants. “Just, um, long day?”

Smith recognizes the response with nothing more than a disbelieving glance as he makes his way through the apartment. Eddie watches silently, pushing down his anxiety with a thick swallow. His mind races when the social worker rummages through the refrigerator. Are there fruits and vegetables in there? Did I throw out that container of leftover spaghetti that overstayed its welcome? His stomach sinks when Smith marks something down in his notes but doesn’t have time to ruminate over it before Harris pokes his head out from the bedroom.

“Daddy? You gonna come back an’ play Hot Wheels with me?” His big brown eyes instantly melt Eddie’s heart, and all he wants to do is scream at the man, See? See how much my kid loves me? See how happy he is? Now, why don’t you go deal with the parents who actually deserve to lose custody and leave me to play with him.

Before Eddie can stop him, Harris traipses out and sees Smith rifling through the pantry. “Who’re you?” he asks.

“Har-Bear, this is Mr. Smith. He’s, uh, one of my friends.” Eddie scrunches his face and shakes his head defeatedly at the blatant lie, but Harris doesn’t notice.

Mr. Smith gives a short wave, neither kind nor impolite. Just one slight movement to acknowledge the boy’s presence. He’s determined to get back to his job, but Harris has other plans.

“I like your glasses.” He points to the wire-rimmed frames on the man’s face. “My Grampa Wayne is s’posed to wear glasses, but he doesn’t. Daddy says it’s ‘cause he’s a mule.”

“Stubborn as a mule, Har,” Eddie gently corrects him, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “I’ll be in in a minute, okay?”

But Harris ignores his request, forging towards his dad’s friend. He lifts his arm and flashes an innocent smile. “Look at my cast! It’s from when I jumped on my bed and breaked my arm.”

“Harris!” Eddie hisses, trying to keep his cool. “Can you go play? In the room?” Pleading with him is like negotiating with a terrorist, and he knows his efforts are futile.

“Actually, I do need to take a look at Harris’s bedroom,” the social worker muses, tapping his pen against his lower lip. Eddie has to stifle a scoff at the charade that this just occurred to Smith. Like he didn’t have this mapped out, another bullet point on the list of uninformed judgments he needed to make.

“We, um, we share a room,” Eddie mumbles, as though there would be another possible reason as to why there’s a twin bed nestled into the same space as Harris’s race car bed. “I used to sleep on the couch, it’s just easier to be close to him when he has nightmares an’ stuff.” His heart races when Smith jots this down. “N-Not that he has nightmares a lot. I don’t let him watch scary movies or anything. Just normal kid stuff.”

The man nods, visibly irritated by his rambling. He clamps his mouth shut to inhibit the flow of unnecessary explanations that freely pass through his lips without a second thought.

Harris motions Smith over, using his uninjured hand to grab the stranger’s and leading him into the room. “That’s my bed,” he announces. It sounds like he’s giving a tour, and Eddie almost laughs at the absurdity of the situation. “And that’s where I falled,” Harris points to the unassuming patch of carpet alongside it. 

“Ouch,” Smith mutters, and Eddie swears he can see a semblance of a smile. Leave it to Harris to thaw the most hardened of hearts. “I bet that hurt.”

“Yeah, but there was no blood,” Harris says nonchalantly. “An’ I didn’t need a shot. Just this cast. All my friends signed it. Even Ms. Sweetheart!”

“Ms. Sweetheart?” Smith repeats.

“She’s my teacher. Well, she was my teacher. Now I’m a super secret spy in Ms. Marion’s class, but don’t tell anyone!”

Eddie scoops up a couple of toy cars off of the floor and hands them to Harris, determined to end the conversation before anything else can be revealed. Can you get your kid taken away for being an asshole to his teacher? He doesn’t want to find out. “Here ya go, bud. Why don’t you get the racetrack set up, and I’ll play with you as soon as Mr. Smith leaves.”

“Actually,” Smith says, “I’m about finished. Mr. Munson,” he says, his natural stoicness settling back in as he turns back to Eddie, “after completing this investigation and conducting our interviews, I’ve determined that Harris may remain in your custody. I’ll just need you to sign a few forms and I’ll be on my way.”

Eddie’s relief is palpable. He sweeps Harris into a hug, clutching him to his chest and wordlessly swears to never put him back down. “Th-thank you,” he mumbles, acutely aware of the tears leaking from his eyes. “Wait–what interviews? No one interviewed me.”

Smith nods. “Yes, we spoke with Harris’s teacher. She only had great things to say about how well you take care of him.”

She did? He barely knows the woman; Harris has only been in her class for two full days, and she never indicated any partiality towards him. He makes a mental note to thank her tomorrow at drop-off. For now, all he wants to do is treasure every moment with his boy.

Eddie doesn’t want to let Harris out of his sight, but he begrudgingly takes him to school, not wanting to add a truancy charge to his growing list of misgivings. 

Ms. Marion greets both Munsons with a muted stare, harsh enough to drain Harris of the excited energy that typically buzzes through his little body. “Are we going to listen today?” she quips.

“Yes,” Harris says.

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Harris’s affect is robotic and monotone, and the uncharacteristic spiritlessness nearly distracts Eddie from thanking the older woman for her interview.

“The guy–um, the social worker–he told me that you said some nice things about me. About how I am with Harris,” he stammers. “So, uh, thank you.”

Ms. Marion crosses her arms over her faded pink sweater, pursing her overlined lips. Her forehead is marred with frown lines. “That wasn’t me, Mr. Munson. I directed him to speak to Harris’s previous teacher, since she spent more time with him.”

Ms. Sweetheart.

After everything he’d said and done, you’d still vouched for him. Spoken so highly of his parenting abilities that CPS allowed him to keep custody of his son. You could’ve easily ruined his life, but you didn’t. 

What Eddie doesn’t understand is why.

Perhaps he doesn’t need to; at least, not immediately. Right now, he just needs to fix this. And he knows exactly where to start.

Friday marks one week since your blowout fight with Eddie. One week since he’d caught you pathetically crying in your car because of the venom he’d spewed. One week since you’d informed him that you’d had Harris transferred to another class.

Which is why you’re confused when the boy bounds up to your classroom door, shouting, “Ms. Sweetheart! Ms. Sweetheart!”

“Hey, Harris,” you greet him, unable to mask your confusion. “What are you doing here? You’re in Ms. Marion’s class now, remember?”

Harris nods, his curls bouncing with each movement. He drops his backpack to the floor with a thud and unfastens the zipper, tongue poking from between his lips as he digs through it to brandish a cassette. “This is for you.”

You take it from him, eyes widening as you take in Toni Braxton’s face staring back at you. “Harris…where did you get this?”

“My daddy put it there and said to give it to you. So I did,” he answers with a shrug. He looks up at you, innocuous and angelic as he adds, “I miss you. I wish you could be my teacher again.”

“Me, too,” you reply before thinking. Clearing your throat, you kneel down to meet him at his height. “Thank you for my gift. It was very sweet. Go ahead and head to class now, okay? I don’t want you to be late.”

“Mmkay!” he chirps, slinging his still-opened bag over his shoulder. “Bye, Ms. Sweetheart.”

Why would Eddie buy you a tape? Why this tape, the one you’d come in for when he’d said such malicious things to you? You can’t make sense of it, regardless of how many times you try to piece together the puzzle.

At dismissal, you find yourself waiting by the door, hoping to catch Eddie before he can dash out of the school. There’s no logic to his actions: he despised you enough to weaponize your grandma’s cognitive decline, and then he gives you a gift with no further explanation. 

You distractedly hand parents the sign-out sheet, barely registering when Joshua Harrington’s dad asks you about any upcoming plans for a class Halloween party. 

“Is there gonna be a list of things you need? Candy or cupcakes or something?”

“Oh, uh, I’m gonna send home information about that next week,” you stumble over your words as you try not to make it obvious that your mind is elsewhere. 

“Great,” he says, stretching out the word as he tracks your gaze to the spot behind him. “Everything okay?”

“Yup.” You slap a smile on your face just as you spot the mane of frizzy curls you’d been searching for. “Um, excuse me for a second.” You call out to Will, letting him know you’ll be right back, before sprinting down the hallway. 

“Ms. Sweetheart!” Harris’s eager face twists into a frown. “You gotta use your walking feet in school. Or you could get hurt.”

Eddie moves to correct him, but you just smile sweetly. “You’re right, Harris. Thanks for reminding me.”

You allow your gaze to travel upwards, eyes locking onto Eddie’s. You can’t quite read his expression; his brows are furrowed in confusion but the flush in his face indicates that he knows why you’re here. 

“Harris gave me the tape. The Toni Braxton one.” Like he’d gifted you myriad cassettes that required this distinction. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t mention it.” The right corner of his lips turns up into a half-smile. “Besides, I  should probably be the one thanking you.”

“Me?” What is he talking about? As far as you know, you’re the bane of his existence. 

“Yeah. For, uh, what you said to that social worker guy. Even after I treated you like a piece of…” he presses his palms to Harris’s ears and lowers his voice, “shit.”

That makes sense; he was relieved that you’d sang his praises when it had mattered most. This was an expression of gratitude; nothing more and nothing less.

“You’re a good parent, even if you’re mean to me,” you say nonchalantly. “I wasn’t going to make up lies and ruin your lives out of spite.”

The statement hangs in the air, gathering an awkward silence that has you and Eddie both grappling for ways to end the conversation. 

He’s the one to interject. “Well, anyway, I hope you like the tape.”

“Mhm.” It’s all you allow yourself to utter in front of Harris. A thousand questions swarm your head, threatening to spill off your tongue, the first of which is simply: why? “I’ve gotta get back. But, um, enjoy your weekend.” You pivot on your heel before Eddie can wish you the same. With the necessary chaos of your life, you can’t invest any more time trying to unravel him. 

“Daddy, when is Ms. Sweetheart gonna be my teacher again?”

Eddie knew it was inevitable that Harris would ask about going back to your class, but he thought he’d bought himself more time with the spy game he’d concocted. He can’t delay the truth any longer. 

“I’m sorry, buddy. I don’t think you can switch back.” There’s a pang in his heart when his son drops his hand, digging his heels into the parking lot asphalt. 

“Is it because you were mean to her?”

His question catches Eddie off-guard. “Wh-What?”

“In there,” Harris points towards the school, “she said you’re mean to her.” He squints when he looks up at his father, the midday sun shining in his eyes. “Why were you mean?”

Eddie exhales, puffing out his cheeks and rubbing the back of his neck. “Sometimes grownups accidentally hurt each others’ feelings.” Or purposely, in his case, but he omits the complexities from his explanation. He reaches out to once again take Harris’s hand, but the boy pulls back. 

“Ms. Sweetheart says that when we hurt someone’s feelings, we gotta say sorry. Even if it’s on accident.”

“I did,” Eddie counters, raising his brows. “I gave her the tape.”

But Harris remains unconvinced. “That’s not saying sorry. You gotta actually say it. Or else it doesn’t count.”

“It doesn’t count, huh?” Eddie clicks his tongue and puts his hands on his hips. “All right, I’ll say it the next time I see her.”

“And then you can be friends?” The question is posed innocently, but it rattles Eddie. Friends? Did he even know how to be a decent friend any more? He’d fucked it all up with Gareth, Jeff, and Danny, and he’s known them for forever. “Daddy?” “Uh, maybe,” Eddie replies meekly; this time, Harris grabs his hand when he offers it. “We’ll just have to see.”

--

taglist 1/2:

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[korizzybee]

Imagine being Jake Sully’s and Neytiri’s adopted daughter, child of someone who was an old friend of Jake’s:

Info: reader’s mom’s avatar had darkskin black features (Afro hair + dark eyes + dark blue skin) so reader also has those features, reader has an Jamaican accent, reader is Navi Avatar hybrid and has 5 fingers and eyebrows, reader is 13 years old

Boom your mom was 5 years old when she moved from Jamaica to North America, she and Jake became childhood friends (more like they became soul siblings)

The same day the RDA recruited Jake, they recruited your mother too

She also spends time observing the Navi and learning their ways with Jake, but Tsu’Tey was her teacher instead

As she lives there for months, she and Tsu’Tey fall in love and mate at the tree of spirits (JAKE N NEYTIRI DUUUUPE)

She and Neytiri actually became pregnant at the same time, literally shortly after they both mate with their men at the spirit trees

Your dad dies during the war yada yada yada, they win and skip boring stuff

For some reason when Neytiri has her baby, your mother is unable to give birth to you and she remains pregnant for 2 more years

The pregnancy drains her energy, making her look even skinnier and her skin color fade as her cheeks become hollow

When she finally gives birth and before she dies she whispers a name that’s a mixture between her’s and Tsu’Tey’s

Neytiri holds your small crying form silently shushing you while Jake cries over your mom’s dead body, she was like an older sister to him

Jake adopts you and when you’re old enough he starts teaching you about your human culture as it was a big part of your mother’s life and she loved her culture more than anything

This leads him to also explaining why you’re different from all the other Omaticaya, but he also explains it’s not a bad thing

You growing up with mixing your life with both your Navi and Jamaican cultures

You are the closest to Neteyam, he’s SOOOOO protective over you (you are his favorite shhhh don’t tell Lo’ak)

Since you’re a lot shorter than your older siblings, you often get carried by them

Jake teaching you so much about humans, pop culture references, music tastes n everything!!!! (Girl you literally take inspiration from his teachings and make your own clothing style out of Navi clothes)

Neytiri making you the most beautiful song cord ever about the love story of your mom and Tsu’Tey and your birth

You and Kiri bonding over both being adopted

You and Tuk are so goofy together, always making Neytiri laugh n shi

You two also bond over being the babies of the family

You and Lo’ak always playing tag in the forest

You immediately loved spider when you all first met him as little kids, (I mean, your mom was once human so you didn’t hate them at all)

ALWAYS wearing your mother’s Na’vi and human hair pieces and your father’s necklaces

Jake teaching you how to fight the human way because your mom was better than everyone in the RDA at that

Going to the Lab with Kiri to see videos of your moms together (they also grew to be close friends and would sometimes just make videos of them being stupid together)

Jake and Neytiri are the only ones allowed to do your hair (your mom taught them how to take care of Afro hair once), they make sure your hair is always healthy

You look so much like your mom but you get your smile, eye shape, and bodily markings from Tsu’Tey

When you can’t sleep, Jake would tell you his childhood memories about your mom

You’re a very spiritual child, always talking with a calm voice, you’re a little shy and always have a good opinion on everyone (girl while Neteyam finna future clan leader, you’re the future Tsahik)

Boom Quaritch bitch ass shows back up (YALL IM SORRY BUT HIS AVATAR IS SO FINEEEEE) and y’all have to flee

You have your own Ikran and she’s named after your mother (let’s just call her Irie)

Y’all make it to the lands of the Metkayina and Ronal starts hating on y’all for being different then she points out how your hair and looks over all are different from your family’s

Neytiri hissing at her as Neteyam and puts you behind him side eyeing Ronal, Jake defending your looks (W DAD)

Y’all get to live among the clan and lowkey….Rotxo he kind of crushing on you I mean not tryna be that one writer butttt uhhh you are the prettiest member of your family (behind Neytiri no one beats her)

You and Rotxo lowkey be flirting with your eyes, giving each other shy looks and blushing like middle schoolers

BUT ANYWAYS THAT’S IT FOR PART 1 IMA DO A PART 2 (this has been marinating in my drafts for months)

[writermai05]

Arsonist's Lullabye

Prologue: All you have is your fire

Summary: Zuko’s bad day gets a bit better after an encounter with an unfamiliar face. 

Pairing: zuko x fem! reader (Live Action or Animated) 

A/N: I am delusional, and when I had the idea for a zuko x reader modern AU where he works in Iroh’s boba tea shop, I had to follow through with said idea. Let’s see if this goes anywhere, and feel free to leave comments or suggestions on how the fic could play out maybe :) 

Word Count: 773

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Avatar: The Last Airbender, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot.  This is a modern AU that takes place in the avatar world. Bending still exists. Zuko and the gaang are in college in this series !!

TW!: Physical abuse, burns, Ozai in general, Zuko’s backstory is so sad. 

Zuko knew it was going to be a long day as soon as he opened the shop at 12pm. 

Within the first two hours, he had run out of tapioca pearls, dropped a container filled with matcha on the floor (which by the way, was a pain in the ass to clean up,) and slipped on the floors he had just mopped. Perhaps he was just born unlucky. Perhaps, most people in life didn’t have to struggle the way that he was, the way that he always had. It wasn’t all bad. He was lucky enough to be here, working in his uncle’s tea shop in the Earth Kingdom, rather than in his father’s company back in the Fire Nation. 

The Jasmine Dragon was beloved by many. People from all over the city came to have some of the shops' amazing teas and pastries. It wasn’t too busy, having only three people come in today.  perhaps because school at the University of Ba Sing Se hadn’t quite started up yet, outside of the students who had moved in early. The shop was particularly chilly today, but the atmosphere managed to maintain the same warm and cozy feeling, with the dim atmospheric lighting and the sage and emerald hued furniture. Zuko had a second to just relax in the stillness. 

 He appreciated these quiet moments the most.  The moments where he could stop worrying about the shop, and overthinking the worst things he had ever done in his life. Such as when he lashed out at his uncle, multiple times, or about the people he had bullied in high school. He was almost able to forget it all. Forget the fact that his younger sister, Azula, was still stuck in a house with his abusive father, or even forget the feeling of his father’s hand, burning the flesh of his face, leaving a scar in its wake, as well as a near complete blindness in his left eye. His demons may be restless, but boy did Zuko keep them on a tight leash. 

Zuko’s reverie was broken by the sound of the door’s bell chime. He immediately snapped out of his thoughts, waiting patiently for his assistance to be needed. 

“Um, excuse me,” 

A girl, who seemed to be around his age, was standing right in front of him. She wore a navy blue dress with a pale blue lining and detailing around the edges. A belt of the same color was around her waist, with a brown leather cord connecting a bag onto her hip. Her black jacket was cropped to about rib length, with brown leather cords fastening it closed, as well as matching black pants and brown boots. 

“This is my first time here…Is there anything that you’d recommend?” She asked politely. 

There was something about the way her kind eyes twinkled in the orange lighting that made Zuko fluster. He cleared his throat before opening his mouth to talk. 

“Well, Lychee juice is a customer favorite. But personally, my Uncle Iroh’s jasmine green tea is the best in Ba Sing Se.” 

“The best in Ba sing Se?” She raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

“The best.” he nodded. 

“I’ll take it.” She said, reaching to the tote bag slung over her shoulder. Zuko interrupted her actions with the wave of his hand. 

Zuko shook his head. “Don’t worry, It’s on me.” he said, as he began punching numbers, into the register. 

“Oh no! I can’t let you do that-” She protested. 

He shrugged, a blush beginning to warm his cheeks.  “For a first time customer.” 

“Thank you so much…” She trailed off, waiting for him to tell her his name.

“Zuko.”

“Zuko. I’ll be sure to come by again. And I fully intend on paying that time.” She said with a playful glare. 

The boy smiled slightly.

“Your tea will be ready shortly.” 

Zuko had Iroh bring the tea over to the girl. He wasn’t confident in his ability to steadily bring the tray of hot tea without causing more burns to cover his body. The older man made sure to give the girl a complimentary fruit tart to enjoy, but not before looking at his nephew with a teasing glint in his eyes. Zuko groaned. 

“Not a word, uncle.” He said as he walked through the staff doors into the shops’ kitchen. 

After about 20 minutes had passed, Iroh came into the kitchen, clutching what looked like a napkin and some paper Yuan bills. 

“Zuko! The girl left this on her table after she left!”

Zuko carefully took the napkin from his uncle’s hand, reading the message. 

“Thanks for the tea! - y/n.” 

[honestsycrets]

before anyone else II: the reverent | admiral!miguel o'hara x princess!reader

❛ pairing | admiral!miguel o'hara x princess!reader

❛ type | double-shot, explicit

❛ summary | politics and murder? easy. but if he thought he could stomach forcing the princess he loves into marriage... he was wrong. or reader forces admiral miguel o'hara into marriage.

❛ tags | forced marriage, royal!au, admiral!miguel, princess!reader, mention of murder, betrayal, treason, angst, f!reader, persuasion inspired, Spanish is not translated, female led breeding session, hand jobs, spicy bath time, ignoring miguel.

❛ sy's notes | the update no one asked for. the first chapter felt very incomplete without this one, so i just wanted to complete this series with a little bit of angst and smut.

“And what is that? Up there, Lyla.” 

Lyla is closer to you than he remembers. In his make-believe voyage to Stone’s home, he would need a new ship. Today Lyla invited you to sail imperial seas, cutting through the waters with a new ship, the Reverent. He hadn’t shown you much of anything in his rush to leave the capital eight years ago. He makes that right with Gwen at your side, donned in the clothing of the guard. You opted for a soft blue gown, a navy blue rebozo thrown over your shoulders. The fat bow that drew in your stomach tumbled down against the dress’s long train.

“That’s the Crow’s Nest.”

His men and women were ogling. It wasn’t exactly normal to have a soft woman on board—much less their princess. You held the top of your hat, glancing up at the beam. Sun bounced in your eye, and you laughed delightfully, clapping your hands together. “A crow’s nest? Why do they call it such a thing?” 

“The Vikings would release crows from the crow’s nest if they could not see,” Gwen answered, he did not know she cared so much about ships. You looked at her in delight as she explained. “Chart the path they took toward land.” 

“¡Qué chévere! Lady Gwen, you are quite knowledgeable.” 

“All sailor legend,” Miguel responded, the string of jealousy coursing through his bones, before he jerked his head toward those gathered along the main deck. He never did like crowds. “Back to shore! Off to your work, then!” 

“Thank you for showing me proper sailing,” they dispersed to the sound of your many thanks, a slight bow in your waist. If it were your father, he would never do such a thing. Gwen stepped to the side, holding her hands behind her back. “You have a wonderful crew.”

"You heard the admiral, off you go!" Lyla rushed off to the stern to take the ship's wheel.

“And Lyla?” she stopped, turning her big brown eyes at him. She probably knew what was coming as you slipped by Miguel, sliding your hand around his inner elbow. “No rum.” 

It was one time, she threw a curse. 

“Have I missed something?” you asked, setting your head against his thin poet’s shirt. He smelled of the salty sea and the thin film of his own sweat. The warmth of the sun must have drained you already, donned in tumbling full-body fabrics.

“I’ve something for you.” 

“Have you?” you asked, turning around to face him. Miguel reached around his neck, loosening the cord. His gift was not a necklace. If it were, he’d be far outmatched with jewels like sapphires, diamonds, and topaz nestled between your breasts. He pulled a ring from the cord, slipping onto his knees. You recognized the ring that he presented to you immediately. A modest ring of pearl set with tiny bits of a jewel that wasn’t quite diamond on either side.

“Oh, Miggy. You kept it?” you slipped your hand down to his waiting fingers. Miguel slid his ring onto your finger.

“It isn’t much. A guards pay, yes?” He began, realizing he was stumbling over his words. “But I… couldn’t help but think you would prefer it to something new.” 

You pulled your hand free, kneeling to catch his lips in a small, patient kiss. He was grateful for anything he could get-- repressed as he was. Gwen bit back a smile, a soft murmur of princess, to urge you not to draw out such attention in front of a band of sea-numb sailors. You slid back onto two feet, your hands coming together one over the other. 

“I love it. I always have, Miguel.” 

“Yes, well--” he cleared his throat. He pushed past Gwen toward the steer of the boat, barking some orders in intelligible sailor slang. “I should check on Lyla. Lest she beaches us on some obvious outcropping.” 

Gwen and you both knew it was to loosen himself of the embarrassment of a kiss well deserved. You glanced down at the engagement ring glittering on your finger, a smile working over your cheeks.

“Perhaps I should not have asked Lyla for her help,” you leaned over to whisper in Gwen’s ear. “My Miggy will never let her live it down.” 

“Yes,” Gwen agreed. “Perhaps not.” 

Hours ago, Miguel was on the salty sea. Tonight, Miguel held a bloody seax, wiping away kingly blood from its blade with a handkerchief that he’d promptly dispose of. For all his talk, the king took death well. Admirable, even! Barely a coward’s cry, a simple do it mijo, as Miguel drove his blade across his neck. Perhaps he expected his death, perhaps he missed his sons. Miguel couldn't help but think he knew what would happen by asking Miguel to deliver you to Stone like a hunk of precious cargo.

“I would say that went quite well. No fuss from the council members. No fuss from the king,” Lyla relaxed at the king’s desk, her breeches smattered in blood. Miguel lifted his eyebrows at her, a bit of sweat dripping down his neck. “How about your fiancé? Think she’ll make a fuss? You did slit--”

“¡Callate! Go with the men and take the body to the undertaker.” 

“You’re no fun,” Lyla threw her boots off the desk, guards flanking her side, heading toward the king’s chambers. Miguel replaced his seax in the sheathe, cupping his face in one of his large hands. The door creaked wide open. Jess, whose frame was also streaked in blood, strode in. Miguel threw her a handkerchief.

“Council members are done and dusted.”

He mulled over what was undoubtedly coming: talk of the next steps. Miguel braced himself for her prodding.

“It has been a long time, years maybe since the people favored the king. I dare say not ever."

"What of the imperialists?"

"My guards are posted to suppress those still loyal to the king." 

“I can't imagine they were happy under his rule.” Miguel moved toward the king’s rum cabinet, grabbing a bottle of glass. He sniffs the pretentious liquid, striding around the front and pouring Jess a cup first, then himself. “He did nothing for them but levy heavy taxes. She is the one who handled public relations. They’ll welcome a new king.” 

“Well, it is better to have a warrior king over a puppet king. Even the corrupt will be happy not to fall to Stone.”

He hummed in agreement. 

“About your rule."

Oh, here she goes.

"You’ll marry her before the end of the rose festival. It is the perfect time for romance.” Jess drank her rum, clinking their ringed fingers together in a toast. “Everyone knows of her standing engagement to Stone. We can frame the wedding as an act of love and her father as an obstacle to it. The women will love it.”

“If she’ll have me.”

“Miguel. We agreed. She has no choice.”

The sound of it grated something low in his belly. His fiancé with no choice but to marry the man who murdered her father. Murder was in no way his preferred choice... It was unavoidable. He had no other choice.

“I know.” 

Miguel threw back the rum. He cast a glance to the window, the sun rising over the horizon. She watches him push off the side of the desk, his claws scratching lines of blood behind his neck. He spoke to himself as much as he spoke to Jess with his next words.

“My woman is gentle. I do not know how to tell her-- that I’ve waited a decade to marry her only to force her to."  

Jess had no answers. The king is dead, sang some distant lament, a panic echoing through the halls. He wondered which you would agree to attend first: the funeral or the wedding.

Your mother was assassinated when you were just a girl. Your brothers met their deaths while at war with Stone. That was the nature of war and being a royal. For much of your life, you were accustomed to the pain of loss. Creating connections with your subjects was what you always aspired to develop. You could talk to people in the crown city you knew would be there year after year. Like the willowy brunet who sold you rose oil even after Miguel left. That was why the rose festival was so important to you. 

It was tainted that early morning with the shrill scream of the king is dead-- bouncing off the halls, sending your heart strumming in your chest as you lurched up in your silky sheets, throwing your feet over the bed onto the cold marble floor.

“My father is dead?” you asked one of the two sentinel guards who stood wordless at your door. Gwen was parked in one of your great lounge chairs, rushing to stand upon the sound of your sleep-laden voice. You picked the bottom of your sleeping gown, rushing down from your place on the bed to the double doors. Gwen stopped you short of them. 

“By order of the Chief of the Imperial Guard, I’m afraid you can’t go out, princess,” she spoke smoothly. She cleared her throat. “It is not safe.”  “Safe?” you repeated. “The last man I could call family is dead and you long to speak to me about safety?” 

She steeled her face. Guilt trickled in, inking in her stormy eyes. She strode in front of the double doors, her hand over the pommel of her sword. You couldn’t believe your luck-- not only to be alive, drawing breath, but to at the same time be sequestered in your quarters like a small bird in a gilded cage. 

“Yes, princess. It is for your own good.”

The doors swung open. In place of your father, with his jovial hops, your fiancé. Miguel took measured steps, swinging the door shut behind him. The doors boomed as they came to a close. Like the other sentinel, Gwen took her place in protecting the only feasible exit. Your chambers were high in a tower, looking before the beautiful coast and its silvery waves. You often looked out the window and thought of him.

“I take it you have heard.” 

Something in his countenance set off an air of distrust. His chin was level as if it was cut out of marble, and effortlessly the words spilled from his lips. There had never been a day in your life that you did not trust Miguel O’Hara. That though he was curt, sharp, and decisive, he always bore your best interest in mind. That was something you reconsidered now.

He stood almost too pieced together. Miguel stood in a clean militant uniform, the finest set of regimental you ever did see him in. Any other time you may have drooled over the sight. Over the way he combed his hair back, tickling his broad throat. Or how tightly the shirt fit when he moved forth, then swayed back on his heel. His thumb hooked on the clasp of an iron belt.

“What have I heard, Miguel?” 

“Of the military coup.” 

His words carried no recognizable trace of remorse. They only communicated the facts of your situation.

“You…” you faded off. It couldn’t have been. ”It was you?” 

“I had no other choice.”

Though he said the words, he knew you would find them inadequate. Wholly untrue, even. Your mind buzzed in disbelief, pacing backward to your bed. You glanced at the clothes your maid set out for the day, settled over bundles of fluffy pillows. As the sun raised over the glittering ocean, one that you visited often in his memory, you felt stilted. “I asked you not to--” 

“Talk ill of the dead, yes, I know. I will not.” 

“You missed my point entirely. I asked that you would not blame them for the past. To not dwell on it. You've done just that!” 

It was perhaps an impossible ask to ask a man like Miguel, cocky as he were, to bury the past when your father made such requests of him. You could handle your father’s death by any other means. By an assassination by Jess or the many others who sought his head. With your heart something akin to numb, you dropped onto your bed, scratching at the ribbons laced in your hair from the night before. You pulled them free. Miguel made his way close, bending onto one knee between your own, sliding his gloved hand up your exposed skin. 

“Perdóname,” he spoke candidly. You gazed at him with watery, bright eyes. If anything on this earth could fill him with remorse, it would have been that. He pressed a kiss to your knee. “It had to be done.” 

“You say that but I wonder if you truly understand what those words mean,” you bit out. He appeared contrite, lowering his head lower, if at all possible. “What would you have me do next, hm? I have no more brothers to rule the crown. I care nothing for politics, only the health of my society, and what of Stone? Do you not think he will feel disrespected?” 

“I did it for you.” Miguel simpered. 

“For me? None of this is for me,” you repeated after him, knocking his hands from your knee. You replaced the skirt over the spot he kissed, finding the feeling of his slightly chapped lips blooming blisters of hot anger through your body. “No, you did it for yourself, Miguel. You are so selfish. My father gave you an ounce of power and you repaid him by taking his life.” 

“I am selfish? He gave me nothing but years of pain.” Miguel’s facade cracked, his face going insipid. “I took these positions to please him. For you.” 

“And how is it that these choices are now my fault?” you interrupted Miguel, looking up at his hard features. “Now where do I figure into this-- bloodlust of yours? What do you want of me?” 

“I want you to marry me. You will marry me. You have no other choice.” 

You weren’t going to let him skate by this time. You wouldn’t allow him to be this wonderful, handsome, caring man you fell in love with at first sight as a girl. The certainty with which he said those words was enough. You pushed past him, Miguel snatching your slight wrist in his thick grasp, holding you there. He couldn’t let it be. Not so easily. 

“Get out,” you whirled your wrist around in his grip to break it. He easily could have overcome you, the admiral that he was. You heard the rumors of his swashbuckling run-ins with pirates and saw him in action as a guard. You knew the depths of his strength. He let you slip away. “That is an order from your princess, Miguel. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but it is the rose festival. I have duties to maintain peace that don’t require things such as murder and treason to the crown.”

He snapped his head down, inspecting something wildly interesting on the stony floor. His hands flexed and curled into tight fists, as though he could do or say anything more that would talk you from throwing you out of your quarters. His anger piqued before he absolved it of outward expression, instead speaking with a hard voice.

“We will speak of this again.” 

“Out.” 

He never wanted this. But it was necessary.

Miggy, Miggy, me duele. 

The pain will pass, mi amor. 

The only type of hurt Miguel wanted to give you preceded pleasure. One that could be fixed with patience and doting attention. That was what the rose festival provided nearly eight years ago. Today-- that reality couldn’t be any different from his reality. 

Jess’s military presence was intense. Normally, you could cut bundles of bouncy rosy flowers and interact freely with others attending, creating rose products that could be bought, traded, or sold. Your chamber ladies held wicker baskets jam-packed with long flowers to be given to expecting or aged mothers, a small gift for their motherly worries. A parasol blocked the warm Mediterranean skin from your exposed skin. 

“She looks beautiful today, eh?” 

Lyla nudged him with a sticky creampuff between her fingers. Its rosy pink filling was smeared over her slight lip. Miguel’s arms turned one over the other, not a complaint on his lips. She was right as she usually was. You never wore red-- but the occasions that you did never failed to render him breathless. Unfortunately for him, the long dress hugged your curves beautifully, a fat bow behind your back, the diadem settled neatly along your head. You looked beautiful-- like that night, sliding into a hot bath of nothing but warm petals and rose oil purchased from some overly excited peasant. What he wouldn't give to hold your parasol, or the baskets, to simply be close.

“Suppose you didn’t think this bit through,” she leaned in, whispering words in his ear. “The whole let’s assassinate what’s left of her family.” 

“Shut up,” Miguel pushed off the wall. “If you’re so knowledgeable, help me.” 

“I could do that. Princess!” Lyla waved, rushing over. He followed her like a second shadow, nipping on her heels. Your gaze snapped to hers. A slightly forced smile worked at your lips as you brought your red-gloved fingers to the basket your chamber lady had. He tried to make eye contact-- but found you looked anywhere but his eyes, avoiding him in the cruelest way you could. 

“Lady Lyla, I have something for you.” 

“For me?” she laughed, a teasing thing. “I never receive gifts.” 

“I give you casks of rum.” Miguel protested. You looked at Lyla for a moment, eyes flickering gently, before continuing your search. 

How did you punish him? You look anywhere but at him. You ignore his existence. He longs.

“Yes,” you plucked out a ruby red crown of roses. “Well, girls, perhaps Lyla would like to feel like a woman for once. Trapped on the admiral’s battered and broken ship does not serve for much of a love life. Other than brief encounters at distant ports. Which I am sure you do not care much for.” 

“Eh,” Lyla shrugged off the suggestion, slipping onto a knee so that you could set the crown of flowers on her head. She stands back up, nodding her head appreciatively. “I’ve had relations with some beautiful women.” 

“Oh, please tell,” you took her thin arm and pulled her from his side, pinching your skirt between your fingers and walking on. As if he were fucking invincible-- “I am sure the admiral has taken on many lovers during the years. Have you?” 

“He’s not even had one.” Lyla laughed, “Unless you count his hand.” 

She thought she was so funny. Your chambermaids certainly thought she was, chittering in laughter among one another. He quickly understood that you not only did not want to speak to him but by peeling his-- begrudgingly said-- best friend away from him, you sought to make a point. To make him feel as lonely as your grief made you. In this busy, love-filled festival, he certainly felt it. 

Miguel doesn’t buy things often. But there was something in the way the tiny stick of a man spoke. The glitter in his plain brown eyes invited Miguel to buy the stupid oil treatment that he spilled into his bath now. I think I remember you, you were the princess’s guard, the man said. You bought the princess this treatment years ago!

He couldn’t have remembered it. Miguel abandoned the towel by a gilded chair, sliding his sore muscles into the hot water. He shouldn’t have left to help his men at the docks. His muscles were tight with the tension of moving crates of products onto ships all afternoon and into the late hours of the night. The subsequent days of the rose festival proceeded much the same. It was nearly over. Jess would come soon to press him about his marriage. One that he was not certain would proceed-- not if things kept in this vein. Yet, he couldn't bear to walk to your chambers again, to force you into it.

“I’ve thought about it.” 

Miguel would have jerked out of the bath if not for your hands sinking into the warm waters of the bath. Your gloves were thrown somewhere else, not here, dipping around his broad torso and below the waters. You wrenched your hand around his cock, gently pulling his dick to hardness underneath the waters. It did not take much-- it had been so long. He couldn’t quite process your words with the way you stroked him, milking him as if he were detached from his cock. 

“Miggy."

"Yes...?" he didn't know what else to say.

"You murdered my father because you want to be king,” you said, the words held a vein of resentment. You enjoyed it, stroking the soft skin of his dick, tracing the veins that rushed to his head. You especially loved how he stiffened and grew in your silky hands. Miguel gripped the sides of the bath, his knuckles growing white as he held the rim. 

“I don’t want to be king. I want you, I’d-- carajo-- murder him a hundred times over,” he supplied the truth, the words falling from his lips with great effort. Your other hand sunk lower, grasping his balls in your palm and melding them. You squeezed him in some mock punishment. But it wasn’t-- not nearly. It felt good. He cried out, a small pant of air filling the room. 

“Hush, Miguel.” 

“No-- te necesito. I need you, I’m so fucking-- I’m hard,” your languid circular strokes of his shaft were agonizing and caused him to ache. His nails dug into the side of the bath, mesmerized by how gently you treated him, settling a kiss at the side of his neck. Your pace quickened, jerking him more insistently. The many days at sea that he stroked himself just like this-- with the dream of your hands being the one to do it, to do just this, all culminated in Miguel’s harsh panting, trying to obey-- to be good for you, just as you had years ago. 

“I know you do. You want me to marry you?” you murmured against his neck, tracing his pulse. He dropped his head back, closing his eyes, offering you only a small nod. Your hands drew back, leaving him bobbing in the water, so hard it hurt. So hard-- “Stop it.” 

Miguel complied. You drew back your deep red cowl, drawing the strands loose as you moved in front of him. He bore at you in an incredible amount of awe, his hand pulling at his cock like it were second nature. He pounded into his own hand, so high on the lovely sight before him that it surged in his chest, the beautiful way your nails pulled at the frilled bottom of your nightgown, lifting and pulling it off your body. His mind was a haze, skin warm by the hot oil in the bath. What remained was a desire to be touched by you. 

“¿Qué? I didn’t hear you,” your fingers teetered along your clit, stroking along your wet lips. Miguel soaked his own lips with the hunger that rose from the need to touch and be touched by you. 

“Sí,” Miguel murmured, the words short and slight. You slipped into the water, gripping the rim of the bath and presented your ass to him. Miguel’s eyes caught your puffy lips, flecks of rose matted to your skin. He didn’t dare move-- lest you tell him to get out. 

“Come mount me,” you urged, the words soft, gentle, inviting him to climb over your body. He didn’t know why-- but happiness bloomed in his chest, “Since you murdered what family I had left, you’ll give me more.” 

“Give you… you want me to…” Miguel’s mind fizzled out, all cognizant thought of what you meant left field. In its place was the certainty of what you wanted. You wanted him-- his children. He clambered over you, nudging your lips with his cockhead. 

“Sí, mi amor, I want you to impregnate me.” Your hand reached back, nails clawing into his muscular hip. Miguel flinched, the blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance. Water sloshed over the rim of the bath onto marble floors. What you asked for was to be used, to be filled. He couldn't equate the depths of your need when just a few days ago you banished him from your chambers.

“Is that so? Then I won’t pull out.” 

“I expect you not to,” you bit back. 

“Fuck,” Miguel murmured, taking his time in sliding forward. He wanted to savor the feeling, the way his cock slid apart walls that hadn’t been used in years. Your body stretched to make room for him, the feeling of burning pleasure dancing down your spine. Miguel gasped, realizing he should have fingered you first-- because your body was tight, so warm and good, full of his cock deep in your belly. You moaned his name, sounding so beautiful in ways that Miguel had only dreamed of in the past few years. 

He snapped his hips in forceful but short thrusts, his fingers gliding up your sides to your breasts, his thumb and index finger rolled and pinched your nipples. “Dios mío,” he found himself panting. “I’ve missed this.” 

“So Lyla says,” you threw back. “Ah, there, faster--” 

“As you wish.” 

You were talking far too much for his liking. His hands snapped down to your core, fingers delving against the clitoral hood, that sweet little spot he knew would cause a weakness in this facade of yours. You gasped, lowering your head down over the rim of the bath, accepting his thrusts with helpless cries of his name, growing in their intelligibility, until felt it more than he heard it. Your pussy spasmed around him, milking him for his seed. Not yet, he wanted to remember the way you cried for him-- for his children. He snapped his hips hard, short thrusts snatching any relief of orgasm far away. 

“Por fa Miggy,” you whispered, something soft and hot. His eyes went wide, failing to focus on anything but your voice. “Don’t be a tease. Give me your seed.” 

He responded with nothing short of a sharp growl, turning his hands onto your hips. He threw his hips forward in a harsh, punishing pace, as if he were taking out every second you punished him out on you now. Water soaked the floor, replaced with the ringing slap of his hips thrown against yours, his heavy balls full of cum that-- seconds later, he released. Miguel choked loud grunts, scratching at your back for relief. You felt his warm seed fill your walls, his chest bowing over yours as he spurt his cum seated against your cervix. His claws drew lines of blood free of your unmarred hips, marks of his claim. 

“Stay-- stay there,” Miguel murmured against your back, pressing small kisses along your back to your shoulder. “If you want a baby, my seed needs to take.” 

Soon enough, Miguel grew soft and fell free from your body, globs of his cum spilling down your thighs. He stepped out of the bath, drying himself off and throwing the towel on the slippery floor. He extended his hand out for you to take. You did, sliding over the crumpled clothes Miguel threw on the floor so that you would not slip. 

“You marry me tomorrow,” you supplied. Miguel’s bushy eyebrows pushed up, suddenly realizing why Jess had not yet come to bother him about his failure to secure a fitting date for marriage. You must have arranged it. 

“What do you mean tomorrow?” 

“Then our honeymoon. I want to have a child in my arms before the year is up, Miggy. You can handle politics, war, Stone. I care not for any of it.” You settled your hand on Miguel’s chest, drawing it down over his firm pecs to the muscles of his stomach. He glanced toward your core, cum soaking your walls. “You have no choice.” 

“You mean to say you are forcing me into marriage?” Miguel bit out, a heavy breath slipping out of his lips when you grabbed him again. Already? You walked him back out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, pushing him onto the silken sheets. He fell with a grunt, catching your body and dragging you on top. Cum from your leaking cunt soaked his thigh. You brought your thumb to his lips, quirking it against one of his fangs. Miguel turned his face to the side, glaring into the dark night.

“As if it were so hard. Now, the correct response is yes, my princess.” 

He chuckled, small and pleased.

“Yes, my queen.” 

Queen did sound so good when it came from his lips. 

[redbleedingrose]

Rhys in grey sweatpants, I had that image put in my head now I want to spread the gospel 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

Just him with his sleep hair and voice in nothing but his grey sweatpants 😮‍💨

UMMMMMM

Rhysand is totally the best dressed of all the males in the night court and possibly Prythian.

Only Eris rivals him in the clothing department and I stand firm on that statement.

He just knows what gets you going. He knows the colors that suit him and he is not afraid to work it.

I feel like for the most part, Rhys really plays the role of high lord well. And he dresses the part too.

All of his clothes are freshly tailored and laundered. He never really wears the same outfit twice. And when he meets you???

He makes sure that you have all the clothes that you could ever want or need. He also insists on matching most days. You basically are THE moment in Prythian, everyone who isn't you wants to BE you. And it is all thanks to Rhysie's impeccable fashion sense. All your clothes make you look like the star of the night, pun not intended.

And all of your shoes and jewelry he has designed for you? Don't even get me started. Each outfit needs its own individualized look and feel and vibe. And he makes sure that is there for you. He is always there to help you put together your look.

Playing dress up for him is sooooo much fun. He has you doing twirls in your dresses and gets on his knees to help you put your heels on. He kisses every portion of your exposed neck whenever he clasps on your necklaces for you. You are treated like an utter princess around him, never having to lift a finger beyond your desire.

He also loves to help you with your earrings. And he is so gentle with it too. His pretty violet eyes focusing on your ear lobe as he ever so carefully puts in your earrings. He makes sure that they don't feel to heavy or cause any irritation to your ear as you are sensitive to different kinds of metals. When he is done, his eyes focus back on you with this look of utter pride that you are his. You are his mate. His high lady. His everything. And he is just obsessed.

You are lucky if you can make it to ANY event on time because this male will find any excuse to show you just how obsessed he is.

Back to Rhys' fashion sense...

He really rarely wears clothes that are "lounge wear." TBH, I feel like he started moreso a little after meeting you because he sees what it does to you.

Rhysie is the kind of male who can look good in practically anything. But in lounge wear??? send freaking help he is the hottest male to have ever EXISTED!!!

His gray sweatpants are one of your favs on him. He is always wearing it with a tight black or navy blue t-shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders and biceps. You can basically see the outline of his abs whenever he wears those shirts (which you will be riding later so help you gods).

And omg just think of all of his tattoos exposed on his corded forearms. And think about those muscles flexing while he fingers you speechless.

Anyway, poor rhysie needs to replace his sweatpants any time he wears them because they always end up stained from you riding his thigh.

But he knows that.

Thats why he wears them, slutty smug bastard. The smirk any time he pulls them out and surprises you by wearing them is enough to know that he knows exactly what he does to you. And he is proud of it too.

His formal clothing is not to be forgotten.

His tight fitting dress shirts where he leaves the top two buttons open so that you can see his smooth tan chest underneath??? The dark swirls intricately peaking out and climbing up his neck??? The small silver chain he wears??? The one that has your name engraved over and over, all along the metal because he belongs to you??? Because he knows that every part of him, his heart and soul, is all entirely owned by you???

The only ring he wears is his wedding ring too.

Sigh, I need a Rhys.

This was terrible but I love Rhysand so you are gonna get my unhinged thoughts about him always.

[onboardsorasora]

Maybe Max is new to his neighborhood and hears about his direct neighbor, Daniel but never sees him. Realizes he sees lights in the townhouse next door at very random times but no one else seems worried.

Their mutual neighbour Vicky checks on the house for Daniel often. Because he apparently keeps weird hours. She feeds is fish for him.

Anyway he's heard a lot about this guy, the neighbors at their end of the cul de sac love him, even though he's often absent. And they take care of things for him. Daniel's lawn never gets unruly, and someone takes in his mail for him. Max wonders just how safe it is for so many people to have a key to your home. Especially if they know you're not there. They always talk about seeing him and Max can never say hes had the pleasure.

It's probably almost 3 months of that when Max gets home late one evening from a night out. He sees a lone lamp light on in Daniel's house and the front door is open. Max is on alert.

He goes to the house, slowly. He has Vicky on speed dial but it's like 1 am so he'll assess then call the police if anything. He goes up the stairs and pushes the door open, there's shuffling upstairs- definitely the sound of someone rummaging.

Max is no hero, he calls the police. Fifteen minutes later and there's a patrol car. The officer that gets out, Esteban, doesn't seem too worried about the situation. Which makes Max annoyed because he very clearly stated that the robber person was still in the house.

Esteban walks to the front door, doesn't even draw his gun.

"ki Ki ki" he calls out, weirdly. Max furrows his brow in confusion

"rraaa rrraa!" Calls from inside. Esteban chuckles and enters the house, Max follows him.

"Danny, you left your door unlocked again. Your neighbor is worried." Esteban reprimands up the stairs.

"ah shit. Right. My bad." A sharp accented voice groans then there was the sound of rapid footsteps down the staircase. A man jumped onto the bottom landing and Max swallowed thickly.

A tangle of curly hair, framed a hot face pulled back in a chagrined smile. Corded muscle bulged as he rubbed the back of his head. He wore a dirty tight blue shirt and large, navy almost cargo pants that Max recognized as those from a fireman.

His hot neighbor was a fireman.

"Sorry about all the trouble. Thanks for like looking out though." His neighbor, Danny, greeted, sticking his hand out for a handshake. Which Max took.

"oh it's- it's no problem. Can't be too safe y'know? I'm Max by the way."

"Daniel. Sorry we're literally meeting like a thief in the night or whatever. Vicky told me you'd moved in, but we've been short shifted at the station." Daniel explained and Max blushed that Vicky had updated Daniel about him.

"are we all good here? I'm gonna tell dispatch that you're buying a box of donuts for the night shift." Esteban teased and Daniel groaned again

"I'll remember to close the door!" He called when Esteban left.

"I take it this happens often?" Max asked and Daniel blushed.

"too often," he grumbled. "When I do a double or triple I tend to forget that doors aren't like self closing outside of the station."

Max snorted, he could see the problem.

"I hope I'm not coming off as creepy or anything but do you wanna like get some coffee? After I've maybe slept for thirteen hours?" Daniel hedged and Max smiled.

"We can have it at my place." Max offered and Daniel grinned back.

"Sure."

[layla4567]

Me gustas tú

Inspired by this song

Summary: The straw hats take a well-deserved day of rest. While they are on the ship, you and Luffy will go ashore and spend a day on the beach.

Word count: 1.476

Pairing: Luffy x GN!reader

Warnings: slightly canon divergence, sfw, Y/N use, Luffy confessing his feelings, beta read, If I forgot something, let me know.

The Going Merry disembarked and docked at a dock near a lonely beach on a desert island, ideal for a break from aimless sailing. The first to jump onto the sand was Luffy, running like a lynx and climbing like a monkey, he jumped from the deck and landed with a somersault, spreading the sand in the form of a cloud that made the others cough. The captain's shouts of joy were contagious and you suddenly found yourself laughing at his antics. Nami and you went down like civilized people admiring the saline and clear sea water of a turquoise color like quartz. Zoro and Ussop followed behind you while Sanji stayed in the kitchen for a while finishing washing the dishes.

Luffy ran and jumped waving his arms along the seashore smiling widely, he looked like a child who had just seen the beach for the first time. Nami next to you elbowed you laughing

"I can't imagine what he'll be like when he sees the tundra."

"Or the jungle"-You followed the joke

Then each one went to their own side to do different activities. Nami sat on the ground resting on a towel in the sun, Ussop stayed practicing with his slingshot near some palm trees and Zoro stayed with one shoulder leaning on the wood of the boat, in the shade. You took advantage of the fact that you had your swimsuit under your clothes and you took off your shirt and pants, revealing your navy blue swimsuit and you ran to jump in the waves.

Luffy, seeing you, ran towards you and copied your movements, going deeper into the sea and jumping high every time he saw a small wave coming, causing the foam to splash and hit you in the face.

"Luffy stop! You're soaking me!"-You said laughing as you put your hands forward to avoid the water.

He turned around smiling, lowering his hat until it fell on his back still held by the cord around his neck "But isn't that what the sea and the beach are for? Of course you will get wet!"

"But not like that Luff- Oh!"

Luffy hugged you around the waist and lifted you into the air to put you against his shoulder and go deeper into the water. You screamed in surprise while the other straw hats laughed at your situation. The captain was happy as a clam and ignored your fists against his bare back demanding that he put you down.

"MONKEY D. LUFFY PUT ME DOWN NOW!"

"Uhhh (y/n) said his full name, the boy is in trouble."-Zoro mocked from afar.

"Okay, okay, but don't be angry!"-Luffy said

Luffy laughingly let you go and you fell on your butt into the water just as a large wave crashed into your back and pushed you forward, getting your head wet. When you was able to regain your balance you was spitting out salt water in disgust. You gave a murderous look at Luffy who quickly dropped his usual wide and confident smile.

"And now is when he will start running, in 3..2…-" -Nami said

"LUFFY YOU ARE DEAD MAN!!!"

The brown boy ran like hell, stumbling on the sand in fear while you ran after him waving your fist in the air.

"SORRY, SORRY, SORRY, DON'T HIT ME!"

Ussop and Zoro had approached Nami and sat on the sand ready to watch the show.

“I bet (y/n) gets to him first.”-she said

"And I bet that Luffy is wins, he is more agile and faster"

Nami looked at him with a slightly offended raised eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Ok, what do we bet?"

"Wait are you really going to bet on (y/n) and our captain?"-Ussop asked confused but amused.

"5,000 berries" -Zoro said ignoring the boy.

"Bet"

The two sealed the pact while Ussop shook his head laughing. After a while watching the two crew members run as if they were playing hide and seek, Nami, smiling proudly, saw how you knocked Luffy to the ground with a tackle.

"You owe me those berries…" -Nami smiled mischievously at an angry Zoro.

Later the only ones left on the beach were you and Luffy, the others decided that they had had enough of the sun and took refuge on the deck of the ship with their elbows resting on the railing looking at the two of you. You and your captain were sitting together, one on each side, on the white sand with your legs stretched out and your hands behind you, admiring how the burning sun fell on the horizon, turning the sky a bright red. You sighed, closing your eyes and reveling in the salty breeze and the song of the seagulls soaring through the clouds. Luffy next to you couldn't focus on anything but your beauty. He looked at your face instead of concentrating on the nature that surrounded him because being next to you, who cared about everything else? Even the most beautiful flower or the warmest sun did not compare to everything you were to him.

You threw your head back, smiling even with your eyes closed, and the captain came closer to your side, bumping his shoulder into yours. At that touch you opened your eyes in surprise and when you turned your head to see him you found his brown eyes staring into his and a sweet smile on his lips. Being close to him always meant that the environment would be charged with electricity and Luffy is a very hyperactive and energetic being like a puppy. It wasn't the same as sitting near Nami or Sanji whose energy was calmer, no. Luffy emanated sparks and joy throughout his body and even though he was sitting it was as if his anxious molecules could not be still, as if behind that mischievous smile and those mischievous eyes there were hidden intentions to keep moving and jump from here to there. Luffy was always on the move

"Is something the matter?"-You asked because of his insistent, somewhat goofy look.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I just got lost in your gaze."

You laughed shaking your shoulders and he laughed with you without stopping to look at you, and thinking that the flirt was Sanji. You slapped his arm with the back of your hand.

"Don't talk nonsense Luffy, the only one who can flirt here is the cook"

Suddenly, smiling, the boy in the straw hat stood in front of you, very close to your face, with his arms at your sides, caging your torso.

"Of! Luffy what are you-?"-you said startled

"Listen, I want to tell you something important."

Luffy swallowed and seemed more anxious than usual, besides he never spoke so seriously, you didn't know whether to worry or not.

"Ok yeah sure, I'm listening"

He sighed and his breath hit your face "I've been meaning to tell you this for a while… I like you."

"Aw Luffy I like you too"

He shook his head making his dark curls move. "No no, you misunderstood me. I really like you."

You went blank having understood what the pirate boy had meant. You moved your eyes from right to left, looking into his, feeling that your words were dying on your tongue, unable to pass through your lips.

"(y/n) I love you! Phew I finally said it.."

Luffy seemed happy and relieved to be able to let those three words come out of his mouth, regardless of your answer he already had a smile on his face. You let out a small airy laugh and swallowed hard.

"I think I like you too, I mean, I love you too."

The boy rested his cheek against your belly, tickling you and letting the air escape from your lungs. His grip was strong as if he wanted to squeeze a lemon. You fell back laughing as your hands rubbed his back. Now you understood why he always seemed so clingy to you, close to you like chewing gum. And all those jokes he played on you and the way he always seemed to tease you so you would get angry. Feeling playful, you wrapped your legs around his hips and forcefully turned him over so you could now be on top of him. Luffy fell heavily in the sand and you rested your chin near the junction of his collarbones.

Luffy stroked your damp hair "So you're not angry anymore for throwing you into the sea?"

You rolled your eyes with a lopsided smile. “Oh shut up and come here.”

With both of your hands you grabbed Luffy's chubby cheeks and planted a kiss on his lips. At first he opened his eyes in surprise but then he closed them smiling between your lips. From a distance on the ship you could hear the cheerful whistles and cheers of the crew.

[bbyhellfire]

our phantom of forever

➠ summary: eddie is resurrected by vecna, only to realize you don't exist in the upside down.

➠ pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader (she/her pronouns)

➠ word count: 1.3k words

➠ warnings: angst city, death, resurrection, allusions to suicidal thoughts (eddie wishing for death), swearing, reader moved to hawkins with her parents, vecna being vecna.

➠ a/n: pushing the 'eddie is alive' agenda 😌 i have a couple ideas about eddie making a deal with vecna that i'm debating turning into a series or just standalone one shots, so let me know what you think! and let's continue to live in delulu

It was stupid, running away from Vecna in the Upside Down. It wasn't like he controlled it or anything. But Eddie Munson isn't exactly known for his smart decisions.

He makes a mad dash from the Creel House the first chance he gets. He's alive, resurrected by the very monster responsible for his death. Eddie should be relieved that he can feel his heart beating as he runs through the decrepit streets of Hawkins. The never ending fog blurs his vision, not that it matters. Upside Down or not, he knows where he is going. No alternate dimension can change that.

All Eddie wants is you. He wants to curl his wrecked body around yours and cry into your neck as you tell him everything will be okay. He knows it won't happen, Vecna won't be so quick to let his new plaything go. But the hope is still there, and it's enough to take him across town towards the direction of your home.

If he can't physically be with you, then at least he can be surrounded by you. A piss poor replacement, but he'll take what he can get.

The ash-like spores make his lungs burn with every jagged breath. His body, still weak from his death, begs for him to stop, but he is already here. The navy blue paint is chipped and vines have broken through the front windows, but it's still your home. The world around him blurs into a watercolor of black and blue as he rushes through your front door and up the stairs to your bedroom.

Maybe you'll be waiting for him. You'll greet him with open arms and a teary smile and –

Nothing.

You're not there. In fact, none of your belongings are there. Not your bed, not your desk, your posters, your clothes. The room is empty.

What the hell?

He moves towards your bathroom. The counter should be covered in your toiletries. The doodles he'd given to you should be taped up along the mirror.

An owl with "You're owl I need" written on the bottom.

A mug with "I love you a latte" etched in the front.

Another of a cat holding a sign that says, "I've got felines for you."

The bathroom is as empty as your room. The only things waiting for him are those fucking vines, slithering out of the bathroom sink like a bouquet of snakes.

No, no, no.

Vecna controls this universe, right? So it's not completely unreasonable that he could make you disappear. Right? That has to be it. This is just Vecna. It's all Vecna.

"Do you really think so little of me? After I saved your life? Think, boy."

Eddie's head shoots up to the mirror, expecting to see the monster standing behind him like this is some sort of horror movie, but he's alone. Of course Vecna has an omnipresent voice that echoes throughout. Of course he fucking does.

He's never gonna beat the God complex allegations, Eddie thinks as the vines in the sink start to move. A little nudge of encouragement so to speak.

He bolts out of your room and down the hallway to your parent's bedroom.

Empty.

He tries the linen closet.

Nothing.

He practically tumbles down to the first level. Your living room, dining room, kitchen, even the garage. Everything is devoid of you and anything connected to you.

Dread is settles in the pit of his stomach. He is running out of places to check. All he thinks to do is scream. And he does. He wails and wails until his vocal cords hemorrhage. The dull taste of blood in the back of his throat makes him add obscenities to his screams. Maybe it'd be enough to echo through the other side. Hell, he'd take your parents materializing to scold him. He'd take anything as long as it means you're there. But nothing ever comes. It's just him and his pain.

It's like you never existed.

Only when he's back in your bedroom, standing in the exact spot where your bed should be, does he remember Nancy's diary. Ice cold realization turns his organs into stone.

He tries not whimper, "She isn't here, is she?"

"No, she's not, but you already knew that." With every word, the fog thickens into a violent red until the monster responsible for all of this appears in front of him. Eddie shakes his head in furious denial as the date in Nancy's diary taunts him.

November 6, 1983.

It's like you don't exist in the Upside Down because of you don't exist. Your family wouldn't move to Hawkins until the following month. It wouldn't be until the start of the spring semester when you and Eddie would properly meet, paired up for a science project. By February, he'd build up the courage to ask you on a date. His adoration for you would bloom with the spring flowers. He would be head over heels in love with you by the fall.

But with the Upside Down frozen at a point in time where he didn't even know your name, you won't be here. There will be no record of you, no liferaft to cling to as his humanity is thrown into freefall.

"No, it's not fair! This isn't fucking fair!"

"The human existence is anything but fair. Your life was an excellent example of that."

Eddie knows that very well, but he doesn't need this walking smear stain reminding him like he's a toddler. He remembers every taunt, shove, and outrage that formed his life. They were his to experience, not anyone else's. They were his life no matter how unfair it may have been. Vecna didn't get to use them against him.

Now, he is angry. He lunges toward the monster, but vines shoot out to wrap around his waist before he can reach Vecna. They throw him back violently, wrapping around his middle and neck to keep him flush against the wall. The tendril around his waist tightens until he stops moving, his arms pinned to his side. Another vine slithers around his neck, squeezing until he has no choice but to look up at the monster of the Upside Down.

"So ungrateful even after I gifted you the chance of another life. Do you understand I can take that away from you? And then how would you see her again?"

Eddie grimaces, scrunching his nose and glaring with all the resentment building inside. He knows where this is going, the manipulation so obvious it's insulting.

The weight of his situation presses down on him harder than the vines bundling his body. He finally cries. Fat, angry tears run down his dirty cheeks as he glares at Vecna. Eddie hopes he looks as pathetic as he feels. Maybe Vecna will be disgusted and realize he made a mistake resurrecting him. He is not a killer, not a hero, not a villain. He is just Eddie.

He wishes for a reinstatement of his death sentence. He'd rather his body be picked apart by demobats than a life shackled by shame and defeat.

"I'm not unreasonable, Eddie," Vecna takes heavy steps towards him. "You can see her again, if it's what you really want. It won't be easy, but it will be worth it. I just need you to do something for me."

The tears keep falling, his vision blurring from the splotches in the shape of you. He thinks of you, the way you smell, the comforting feeling of your hand in his, the sweet nothings you'd whisper when you thought he was asleep. He remembers the nights you'd spend wrapped in his sheets, eyes glassy from all the weed you'd smoke, as you talk about the future.

That is all he will ever have of you – memories. Memories that will fade until only the pain of what could have been remains.

What else is he supposed to do?

"What is it?"

divider by @/silkholland

[thefirelookout]

Dead silence

This post is an attempt to share or let out some of my complex feelings about the situation in Bangladesh.

We went to our city's protest yesterday. It was a silent, peaceful protest. The Bangladeshi student community here in Kingston stood in a human chain with placards. "Save Bangladesh student", yes grammatically wrong, yes, it assumes that young revolutionaries need saving, so on and so forth. The protest started and ended quietly. My non-Bangladeshi friends were a bit confused, since they're used to chanty protests for Palestine, or union picket lines with cars passing by, honking in support. There was more noise even for the Iranian protests, Zan Zendegi Azadi. The silence of a graveyard in this one, though.

Who cares about little old Bangladesh? I sometimes wonder. We're not in the eye of the middle eastern storm like Syria, Lebanon or Palestine are. We're not strategically important, we don't even have many natural resources like Sudan or Congo do. The Prime Minister visited China recently to ask for an aid or a loan, and came back pretty much empty handed. China isn't very interested in us. India has gotten what it needed to get, and can milk more out of us, but they can do the same with Nepal or Bhutan too. We're never in the headlines, the US or the West in general isn't interested in us at all. And Pakistan denies that the 1971 genocide ever happened.

Which is why, the world isn't missing our voices due to the internet blackout.

The voices were all over my Facebook newsfeed. Aunties and apus on Facebook live selling sarees, jewelry, crafts, elderly boomers sharing gardening tips, quick fixes or herbal remedies that they swear by, people sharing posts about cricket or which cricketer's wife wore what, food bloggers calling every possible dish juicy (be it a burger or the meat in biriyani), celebrity drama, political drama to the extent of what was allowed back home. That sort of thing.

Now, again, there's the silence of a graveyard over here. And I feel like screaming till I snap my vocal cords. Can you all please come back? Please? The silence is unbearable! Please! I won't judge you if you sell your wares! Please! I won't judge if you think turmeric water can act as a miracle detox! Please, please I won't say a word if your post about your stupid cricket match! Just something, please say something! I haven't seen a single one of you online. Please don't die, please stay safe. When the internet comes back, please, post about your vacations and your pets. Not the dead, please, don't post about the bodies. I can take a bit of silence but not more bodies please!

Speaking of bodies. There was an armoured vehicle, painted navy blue in the colours of the police (fuck them). And there was a body on top of it. Dead, obviously, very dead, because it flopped down with the slightest nudge, and was left on the streets. Before that happened, the vehicle drove about as if parading its spoils of war, with the body on top. Sending a message. This will happen to you if you raise your voice.

That image has been haunting me for two nights now. So yeah, I'm not man enough to get some incisive political analysis out. I have no either or predictions for what happens if the regime falls or doesn't fall. My body feels numb, I've been binge eating because I still have food in the house and I won't be gunned down if I go out to get groceries now. My non-Bangladeshi friends, bless their first world hearts, have never had to live under fascism. Bless their hearts, have never had to stifle their voices to the extent that we've had to. Bless their beautiful hearts, could hardly pronounce Bangladesh. But they still showed up to that docile little protest because they care about my spouse and I. I can't even begin to thank them.

My insides are tearing up. I'm sitting with a poker face typing all this word vomit, but my insides are nothing but a scream. No clever realpolitik comes out of a heart that's screaming, because our mouths are sewn shut.

[magicalrocketships]

Reality show au for the f1grid!! Your choice of show haha

three different reality shows because i couldn't decide

Great Pottery Throw Down. Carlos talks sensually to the camera while pulling on the neck of a long necked jar. It later snaps off in the kiln. George has practiced relentlessly for eight months but drops his twelve identical line art tiles on the floor while running to the drying room in the dying seconds of the task. KMag gets Potter of the Week once after taking so long at the glazing bucket that nobody else had time to properly glaze their fish vases. Zhou makes the judges cry week after week by exquisitely producing themed cat pieces and looking incredible. To try and beat him, Max makes a cat lid for his teapot that is so disastrously awful that Keith cries laughing while judging it.

Great British Sewing Bee. Charles insists on trying to make a wide-legged trouser for every transformation challenge. He cries while trying to lace together two contrasting shower curtains with a jute bungee cord down each leg, but Esme says she sold see-through gathered trousers like that in her shop in the early 80s. Lewis wins garment of the week four times in a row after excelling in the made to measure. Ollie Bearman is the youngest contestant and Pierre has to show him how to sew on a hook and eye. Max turns out to be impeccable in the pattern challenge, despite swearing so much trying to understand the instructions that they can barely show him on TV, and only ever producing garments in shades of navy blue. He thinks the transformation challenge is stupid, except for in children's week, where he gets to make a cat costume out of towels. Pierre wins. Nobody expects that.

Great British Bake Off. George practices relentlessly for 17 weeks, reads every cookbook he can get his hands on, then accidentally drops his ice cream fairy dream castle on his way to the judge's table. Mary Berry judges it anyway, and says if it wasn't for the bits of floor tile in the whipping cream, it would be impeccable. Daniel says "this is an Australian delicacy" before every single challenge, splashes in some kind of alcohol at the last possible moment, and charms literally everybody in sight. He's the breakout star despite going out in week eight, and later takes over as a presenter. Yuki wipes the floor with everybody, every single week, and in the end of season pictorial round up, is conspicuously close to Pierre as they talk about setting up their own food truck. Zhou produces exquisitely themed cat pieces and later has his own cookbook. Max is asked to tone his language down while baking, and the internet starts to count how many times he laughs at Daniel's jokes and talks Daniel up in the to-camera interviews. They later get married.

[tiredly101]

Devilish handsome singer part 4

Pairing: Mafia leader!Waly Darling x Mafia leader singer!Male reader

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7,

Summary: Wally decides to go visit M/n at the wrong time and instead falls more in love while he is punishing a traitor.

Illustrated Mafia Au, picture done by @clownsuu

Extras: wrote a little bit in Spanish but do use translation if you don't understand, some gore mentions and Mario and Gepeto ain't happening because I live Gepeto to much to leave him be with Mario- you'll see Gepeto's future boy in the next part!

Wally hasn't been able to get M/n out of his head since that talk they had at his house when he broke in to see him but M/n seemed more amused than anything which is a good sign... Right?

"Howdy, I need you to take me to Gepeto's...," said Wally and Howdy nodded not daring to question it. As they were driving to their destination Wally's mind drifted back to how their conversation finished.

"Well Mr. Darling I believe you should go porque aunque seas una muy atractiva visual I see no need for you to stay longer," said M/n making Wally scrunch his face in confusion.

"I don't know spanish," said Wally making M/n laugh softly while opening the door and when Wally stepped outside M/n said a soft "letting a ""I know" fly around the air before closing the door of his house leaving Wally puzzled.

"Sir, we are here, should I keep the car running?," Said Howdy snapping Wally out of his thoughts before nodding while getting out the car. He entered the bar to see M/n sitting in a table wearing some black dress pants with a navy blue silk shirt that was tight on his figure. All the staff was standing around him in a circle and he laughed.

"Mario, Mario, Mario... I remember when I picked you off the street, made you part of this family and I believe everyone remembers what happened to Selene, right? Giselle can you please remind Mr. Genapetti what happened to Maria since he doesn't seem to remember?," Said M/n with a kind voice but his eyes held no kindness in fact his eyes didn't show any emotion but rage in them. Giselle Shaked like a leaf but took a deep breath before talking.

"You ripped out her vocal cords and after a week you decided to hang her on the street lamp as an example for us," said Giselle shakily making M/n clap his hands in a "proud" way as if she had passed a test.

"Good memory Giselle, I indeed did that to stupid Selene! Now Mario, do you think you deserve such punishment for giving Mr. Darling my address and for trying to sell me to multiple businesses partners?," Asked M/n while lifting with his shoe Mario face that had multiple tears running down it. Mario softly said "give me one more chance... I won't let you down again" which made M/n chuckle before kicking Mario's face.

"Your lucky that you are dating Slevia because she is the only reason why I'm giving you a second chance... don't become a Selene, understood Mr. Genapetti?," Said M/n making Mario scramble to his feet towards Gepeto who hugged him. Wally was still at the entrance with a cherry red color in his cheeks at the scene he had witnessed, Wally got off the bar and went back to his car which made Howdy drive away from the bar.

Part 5? Will be made so let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

Tag list:

@darling-w @mythjustiice @lotusflowerexe @whynot5243 @vampyrefay @frindtheshapeshifter405 @unluckyredflames @elegantkidfansoul @fluffyart5000 @totofranken @sjalyne @thezhephir @mythjustiice @waywardstardustcollector @thezhephir

[florelia12]

Poet Man

Red Fountain

Headmaster’s Conference Room

19th January, 1030

Uniformed

Agent H

Helia dropped his pencil and ran a hand through his hair. He had spent the past few minutes decoding the note he’d received with his stomach caught in an anxious twist, and now that he had unravelled the coded message from his grandfather, a numbness settled in his chest.

He got up from his seat, note in hand, and walked over to his art station where a chamomile scented candle was lit. He held the note over the small spark and watched as it burned in his hand.

Agent H

The words turned to ash and dropped onto his palette, mixing with the earth toned oil paints he had been working with for his new painting.

He hadn’t heard those words in a long time; hadn't been called that since he’d left Red Fountain two years ago.

Agent H

Helia turned that name over and over in his head trying to get used to it after two years of collecting dust in the back of his mind as he started to pull out the boards on his wooden floor. Once he cleared the wood, he found the hatch built into the ground underneath his humble cottage.

He pulled it open and came eye to eye with the seal of the Company of Light — a golden wheel with its spokes extending from a sword in the middle and curves that curled up from the bottom. He grabbed the sealed box and set it down on his work table. He pressed his forefingers down on the lock that was designed to only open to his touch and a click followed.

Helia opened the box to reveal a blue cape, a pair of gloves and a round, dim gem sitting inside the compartments. He reached for the gem and the moment he touched it, it glowed oragne and came alive, its magic rushing through his fingers.

Standing in front of his mirror, Helia stared at his reflection; at the paint smudges on his cheeks, and on his worn out linen pants; at the black cord loosely wrapped thrice around his neck. He let himself relish in the facade he built for himself over his two years of solitude. He didn’t know what this meeting with his grandfather would entail but he had a gut feeling that he might not be returning to his home on Harmony anytime soon.

Especially since Saladin had addressed the note not to his grandson Helia, but to Agent H.

Although there was something so achingly comforting about this artist persona he had fallen into, the gem in his hand was a weighted reminder that it wasn’t who he truly was. It didn’t matter if he’d felt strangely at peace over the past two years as a starving artist studying under a retired art patron. The note, the seal, and the Sphalerite gem were tangible proof that he belonged elsewhere.

Vacation’s over, Agent H. He told himself as he held the gem up to his chest. After a deep breath, he pressed the gem into the skin over his heart. The thrum of power in the gem joined the soft heartbeat, and he closed his eyes as he felt the power rush through his body. When he opened his eyes again, the transformation had already taken place.

There he stood in the navy and beige uniform, the heroes’ cape cascading down his shoulders from where it was attached to the gem that sat over his heart. It was a simple uniform, meant to be misleading to enemies. But the material of it was woven with magic crafted by the Sorcerer Saladin himself. Paired with the gems mined from the powerful core of Eraklyon, the Specialists of Red Fountain who wore this uniform were protected by its magic. It could bend blades crafted by the Great Hagen himself, withstand fire breathed by the lost dragons of Domino and protect from the cold of the Omega Dimension.

Boys had to give their blood, sweat and tears to become the men who would earn the honour to wear this uniform.

Helia had been fifteen when he wore the uniform for the first time after he was presented with the Sphalerite gem. On the day he was accepted into Red Fountain. A day he’d never forget, the day his grandfather who was never known to be emotional uttered the words, “Our boy has finally become a man.”

It’s not like he’d ever been allowed to be a boy. He had thought bitterly to himself. Not to mention that the sentiment was expressed in secrecy for no one could know they were related.

His grandfather explained the meaning behind the Sphalerite gem he had been given, but Helia had been handed far more weighted things to worry about.

Each gem awarded to the Specialists was selected carefully by the professors of Red Fountain. Each aspiring Specialist was observed keenly during their entrance tests, and Saladin would then decide which gem suited the Specialist who’d wear it.

“This is a Sphalerite Gem.” Saladin explained as he picked up the gem from the tray Codatorta held out for him. He pressed it into Helia’s chest, and the rush of energy overcame him. A feeling that he had yet to realise would one day become as familiar as taking in a breath of air.

“Specialists who wear this gem are of sharp mind and tongue. They are valuable in missions that require critical and fast thinking, where the words they speak play just as important a part as their combat skills. They are masters of the game of manipulation, of strategy; who hold the vital touch of darkness on the side of good.”

Saladin had spoken to each and every Specialist who stood at attention during the Initiation Ceremony, had handed them their gems and the role they had to play in the Squad they would later be assigned to. It may seem like a harmless few phrases but it would define who they were until the day they died; more likely on the battlefield than old age as far as statistics went.

Helia would never forget those words. He struggled to understand them at first, or why they were presented to him. Later as he looked into the rare gem he had been given and read the meaning behind the word Sphalerite, he knew exactly who everyone expected him to be. He understood that he didn’t earn the gem, but inherited it.

Treacherous.

Now that Helia knew more about Art, he was even able to understand how even the overpowering bright orange mixed with the undertones of red in the Sphalerite gem played a part in its meaning. The appearance of the gem itself was deceiving; the way the orange shined in sunlight was pure and positive while the red would boil as dark as blood in the dark.

Deceptive.

That’s who he was. The kind neighbour who left out milk for his cat didn’t know that the boy next door who thanked her with a small smile had been raised to be a lethal weapon. The Patron who took him under his wing and provided him with the resources to earn a name for himself as ‘Helia, the Artist’ didn’t know that it was simply an alias for Agent H. Saladin himself probably wouldn’t even recognise his grandson if he saw him right now, with his palms stained with red paint instead of blood.

A mission gone wrong, trust irreparably broken, and a pardon from a pissed off Council of Light had landed him in Harmony, the realm of the Arts. Forcing Helia to invent a new life for himself, one that would appease those who feared he would turn against them for their silent betrayal. Now, it was time to go back; to put an end to the deception that was Helia, the Artist.

He wondered what name he would be given this time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ace to Poet Man. Target approaching on your left. Over. ”

“Poet Man to Ace. Roger that. Over.”

Helia ducked and rolled over as a rogue bullet flew over his head, hitting the metal walls. He straightened once he was safely hidden by a broken column and went silent. He listened carefully for the footsteps as they approached from the other side.

Just as they reached, Helia turned out and shot them square in their chest. Neon pink paint splattering all over their black coverall.

“Hey!” A sweet voice whined from behind a face shield.

He gasped as he lowered his guard only for a split second before someone else shot him from behind.

“Hey!” He whirled around, throwing his hands out and shooting an annoyed look at the curly-haired girl that shot him.

Aisha let out a mocking laugh as she kept the gun pointed at the pair now covered in paint. “That’s what you get for cheating with earpieces and shooting my girl!”

“She’s my girlfriend and your team has been cheating with magic so we’re just levelling the playing field.” Helia shot back as he lifted his face shield.

Aisha shrugged and disappeared behind one of the obstacles, the game continuing on while Helia had been outed in a manner that was rather disappointing for one of Red Fountains top Specialists. He blamed his victim for distracting him.

As he turned around, Helia found her pouting at him with her arms crossed and her face shield resting on her head.

“You shot me.”

Helia couldn’t help but smirk, finding her irritation utterly adorable.

“That’s the game, sweetheart.”

“But, you shot me.” Flora argued back.

“I didn’t know it was you!” He tried defending himself, playing along. Flora narrowed her eyes at him, still refusing to give in.

“I’m sorry.” Helia whispered teasingly, moving closer. The tactic was already working as the annoyed look in her green eyes gave way to anticipation. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to his chest as she let out a surprised gasp, the paint on her coverall now sticking to his.

“There. Is that better?” He asked, lowering his head so his lips hovered over hers.

“Aisha already shot you, it doesn’t count.” Flora murmured back, snaking her arms around his neck.

“Hmm, then tell me how I can make it up to you.”

“Don’t you already know, Poet Man…”

Helia smiled and dipped his head, capturing her lips with his. He held her tight as he kissed her, Flora going on her tiptoes to reach his height. Neither of them paid any attention to the battle going on around them as their friends shouted out and shot at each other with paint.

“Attention player three from blue team and player four from red team. Kissing your opponent is against the rules. Please put your face shields back on and leave the arena. Both of you have been shot and are out of the game.”

The announcement from the speakers forced the couple to part reluctantly. Helia pecked her cheek one last time before putting his arm around her shoulder, a sly grin on his face.

“Am I forgiven?” He whispered into her ear as he led her out of the arena. Flora giggled, her eyes glinting mischievously.

“Nope.”

“You’re breaking my heart.” Helia threw his head back, groaning playfully and making her laugh.

“Who else is going to do it?”

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 49, vol. 25, 6 décembre 1903, Paris. 3. Robes d’intérieur, toilettes de cérémonie, corsages, jupes, lingerie. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

(1 et 2.) Robe de maison en molleton bleu ciel, de forme ample, garnie de galon brodé. Manches juives, froncées du haut. Mat.: 4 m. 50 de molleton.

(1 and 2.) House dress in sky blue fleece, loose fit, trimmed with embroidered braid. Jewish sleeves, gathered at the top. Mat.: 4.5 m. fleece.

—

(3 et 4.) Robe de maison en drap léger bleu bluet, vague devant, ajustée du dos, avec volant en forme surmonté de biais piqués. Grand col en broderie anglaise. Mat.: 4 m. 50 de drap.

(3 and 4.) House dress in light blue cloth, wave at the front, fitted at the back, with shaped flounce topped with stitched bias. Large English embroidery collar. Mat.: 4.5 m. cloth.

—

(5 et 6.) Robe en drap et velours noir vague, avec collet-étole et nœud de velours. Manches juives. Mat.: 4 m. 50 de drap, 1 m. 50 de velours.

(5 and 6.) Dress in vague black cloth and velvet, with stole collar and velvet bow. Jewish sleeves. Mat.: 4.5 m. cloth, 1.5 m. velvet.

—

(7 et 8.) Robe en molleton bleu marine, serrée à la taille par une cordelière. Collet en velours et molleton. Manches avec poignets de velours. Mat.: 4 m. 50 de molleton, 4 mèt. de velours.

(7 and 8.) Navy blue fleece dress, tightened at the waist with a cord. Velvet and fleece collar. Sleeves with velvet cuffs. Mat.: 4.5 m. fleece, 4 meters velvet.

—

(9 et 10.) Robe en drap ou satin, mousseline de soie. Jupe ouverte sur un tablier froncé en mousseline de soie. Corsage court, à petite pointe devant et derrière, avec revers de dentelle et empiècement bouillonné en mousseline de soie. Manches larges avec revers de dentelle. Mat.: 22 mèt. de satin ou 10 mèt. de drap.

(9 and 10.) Dress in cloth or satin, chiffon. Open skirt over a gathered silk chiffon apron. Short bodice, with a small point at the front and back, with lace cuffs and bubbled silk chiffon yoke. Wide sleeves with lace cuffs. Mat.: 22 meters satin or 10 m. cloth.

—

(11 et 12.) Robe en soie. Jupe garnie de deux entre-deux de dentelle termines par des bouquets d’oranger. Corsage-blouse froncé dans une ceinture, avec grand col de dentelle entouré de niché de mousseline de soie. Manches plissées, ornées de dentelle. Mat.: 22 mèt. de soie ou 10 mèt. de drap.

(11 and 12.) Silk dress. Skirt trimmed with two lace inserts ending in orange bouquets. Blouse-bodice gathered into a belt, with large lace collar surrounded by nested silk chiffon. Pleated sleeves, decorated with lace. Mat.: 22 meters silk or 10 m. cloth.

—

(13 et 14.) Robe en éolienne. Jupe avec quilles plissées en mousseline de soie, ornée de bouquets de myrte. Corsage-blouse à empiècement entouré de draperie formant deux pans. Ceinture drapée. Manches avec bavolet plissé et orné de dentelle. Mat.: 22 mèt. d’éolienne ou 10 mèt. de drap.

(13 and 14.) Éolienne dress. Skirt with pleated keels in silk chiffon, decorated with bouquets of myrtle. Bodice-blouse with yoke surrounded by drapery forming two panels. Draped belt. Sleeves with pleated flap and decorated with lace. Mat.: 22 meters éolienne or 10 m. cloth.

—

(15 et 16.) Robe en drap. Jupe garnie de mousseline de soie. Corsage à pointe, entouré aux épaules d’une draperie de mousseline de soie. Mat.: 10 mèt. de drap.

(15 and 16.) Cloth dress. Skirt trimmed with silk chiffon. Pointed bodice, surrounded at the shoulders by a drapery of silk muslin. Mat.: 10 m. cloth.

—

(17 et 18.) Corsage en taffetas bleu mer plissé à petits plis, garni d’une petite guipure retenant les plis, simulant l’empiècement. Manches-blouse. Mat.: 5 mèt. de taffetas.

(17 and 18.) Bodice in pleated sea blue taffeta with small pleats, trimmed with a small guipure retaining the pleats, simulating the yoke. Blouse sleeves. Mat.: 5 meters taffeta.

—

(19 et 20.) Corsage en velours rubis blousant légèrement devant, orné de guipure gracieusement disposée. Mat.: 4 mèt. de velours.

(19 and 20.) Ruby velvet bodice slightly blousy in front, decorated with gracefully arranged guipure. Mat.: 4 meters velvet.

—

(21 et 22.) Corsage en soie fantaisie. Dos et devant s’ouvrant sur un plastron de mousseline de soie froncée, retenus par des barrettes de velours. Mat.: 4 mèt. de soie fantaisie, 0 m. 50 de mousseline de soie.

(21 and 22.) Fancy silk bodice. Back and front opening onto a gathered silk chiffon bib, held in place by velvet barrettes. Mat.: 4 meters fancy silk, 0.5 m. chiffon.

—

(23 et 24.) Corsage en bengaline oeillet rose, recouvert d’un col formant étole en soie fantaisie. Manches d’une seule pièce, terminées par un poignet. Mat.: 4 met. de bengaline, 1 mèt. de soie.

(23 and 24.) Pink carnation bengaline bodice, covered with a collar forming a fancy silk stole. One-piece sleeves, finished with a cuff. Mat.: 4 meters bengaline, 1 meter silk.

—

(25 et 26.) Jupe en diagonale noire, ornée de baguettes piquées. Mat.: 3 m. 75 de diagonale.

(25 and 26.) Black diagonal skirt, decorated with stitched baguettes. Mat.: 3.75 m. diagonale.

—

(27 et 28.) Jupe en croise fin, avec tablier et volant plissé surmonté d’un biais. Mat.: 4 m. 50 de croisé.

(27 and 28.) Fine crossover skirt, with apron and pleated flounce topped with a bias. Mat.: 4.5 m. croisé.

—

(29 et 30.) Jupe en forme eu drap satin, doublée de taffetas et cerclée d’une fine passementerie. Mat.: 3.5 m. de drap.

(29 and 30.) Skirt in the shape of a satin sheet, lined with taffeta and surrounded by fine trimmings. Mat.: 3.5 m. cloth.

—

(31 et 32.) Jupe en cheviotte avec volant légèrement plissé, surmonté d’un entre-deux de guipure. Mat.: 4 mèt. de cheviotte.

(31 and 32.) Cheviotte skirt with slightly pleated flounce, topped with a guipure insert. Mat.: 4 meters cheviotte.

—

(33.) Cache-corset ajusté orné de broderie.

(33.) Fitted corset cover-up decorated with embroidery.

—

(34.) Cache-corset orné de dentelle.

(34.) Corset cover decorated with lace.

—

(35.) Cache-corset orné de petits plis et rie broderie.

(35.) Corset cover decorated with small pleats and embroidery.

—

(36.) Groupe de chemises de jour ornées de petits plis et de broderie.

(36.) Group of day shirts decorated with small pleats and embroidery.

—

(37.) Groupe de chemises de jour ornées de dentelle et de trous-trous dans lesquels on passe un ruban.

(37.) Group of day shirts decorated with lace and holes through which a ribbon is passed.

—

(38.) Groupe.de chemises de nuit ornées de broderie et de petits plis.

(38.) Group of nightgowns decorated with embroidery and small pleats.

—

(39 et 40.) Groupes de mouchoirs en batiste et toile fine, ornés de broderie faite à même et de dentelle.

(39 and 40.) Groups of handkerchiefs in cambric and fine canvas, decorated with self-made embroidery and lace.

—

(41.) Cache-corset de forme boléro, orné d’entre-deux de Valenciennes et bordé d’une dentelle.

(41.) Bolero-shaped corset cover, decorated with Valenciennes interlaces and edged with lace.

—

(42 et 43.) Pantalons de forme droite, ornés de petits plis et dé broderie.

(42 and 43.) Straight pants, decorated with small pleats and embroidery.

—

(44.) Chemise de nuit ornée d’un col-châle festonné et plissé à petits plis distancés.

(44.) Nightgown decorated with a scalloped and pleated shawl collar with small spaced pleats.

—

(45.) Chemise de nuit plissée â petits plis, ornée de volants festonnés.

(45.) Pleated nightgown with small pleats, decorated with scalloped ruffles.

—

Prix des patrons: Robe d’intérieur en papier, 3 fr. 25; en mousseline, 5 francs. Corsage ou jupe en papier, 1 fr. 75; en mousseline, 2 fr. 50. Jupe avec volant ou jupe de mariée en papier, 2 fr. 50; en mousseline, 4 francs. Cache-corset, chemise de jour, pantalon ou chemisé de nuit en papier, 1 franc; en mousseline, 2 francs. Port: O fr. 30.

Price of the patterns: House dress in paper, 3.25 fr.; in muslin, 5 francs. Bodice or skirt in paper, 1.75 fr.; in muslin, 2.5 fr. Skirt with flounce or wedding skirt in paper, 2.5 fr. 50; in muslin, 4 francs. Corset cover, day shirt, pants or night shirt in paper, 1 franc; in muslin, 2 francs. Port: O.30 fr.

[exquisiteserotonin]

Precious Possessions

Next Chapter

The day is here! The one I hope some of you have been waiting for, the first chapter of my first Dave York fic. I hope you love it as much as I love writing it!

Series Summary: Defense intelligence conferences are always the same informative but also always boring. You didn't expect anything different for this one, but an unexpected meeting with a man named Dave York, changes the trajectory of your conference experience and maybe even more.

Rating/Warnings: This chapter is MA, no smut yet, build up and tension are the name of the game

Word Count: 3.5K

A/N: Also used this song for a little bit of inspiration -

Chapter 1: When He Sees Me

“If you have any more questions or comments, I’ve got my official contact information here,” you spoke clearly as you pointed to the screen behind you, “thank you for your time.”

You shouldn’t have been surprised with the number of attendees at your breakout session. The use of AI in defense intelligence continued to be the hot topic in the intelligence community especially for this year’s conference. You hadn’t spent years of nearly sleepless nights and exhausting mornings with development and research to not be considered one of the foremost experts on the subject.

Professionalism and a line of people eager to speak with you prevented you from leaving when you wanted. You scanned the room full of individuals in stuffy business suits and some in even stuffier medal-decorated uniforms. If you didn’t hold your breath, you’d pass out from the stench of testosterone-fueled arrogance.

“So when I think about AI, the pattern analysis and the information clusters---I kind of get how it makes our jobs easier, in theory,” you heard a voice laden with contemplation but also with condescension say.

You were crouched on the ground packing up your laptop, power cord, and briefcase eager to leave. You stretched your fingers and then closed them into tight fists before opening them again. Tension filled your shoulders, chest, and back as you zipped your briefcase. You took a deep, cooling breath through your nose, holding it in and letting it expand in your lungs until swirling notes of calm slowly began to circulate within you.

“But?” You looked up, slowly releasing the calming air from your lips. When you stood up, you were taken aback by the sight of a roguishly handsome man.

He stood before you, both hands on his hips in a posture that aimed to imbue you with intimidation at his authority. You held his brown-eyed stare with your own, always looking for an excuse to use your well-honed observation skills. He wore a well-fitting, but simultaneously well-used navy blue suit, worn just enough that you assumed he reserved it especially for conferences. You concluded that he be must upper-level management with a defense contractor, but more likely a high-level manager at an intelligence agency.

“I think AI’s shortcoming is its innate lack of understanding of human behavior,” he stated with a shrug. “A lack of human perception means you can’t analyze and decipher intent and it can’t interpret how we make decisions based on feeling, based on interpersonal communication.”

“You assume that this is a problem that’s not being taken into consideration,” the urge to defend your work was palpating in your veins. “More funding and support is needed for human analysts; how else do you think innovation would move forward?”

He took his right hand and rubbed the side of his face, while smoothing the side of his brown hair. His expression was full of collected calm paired with a confidence that you somehow suspected was well-earned. That pissed you off the most. He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and lips curled up into a smirk, revealing a dimple on his right cheek on his clean-shaven face.

“Hmm,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on you like it was a challenge he had to win, “your misplaced hostility speaks volumes.”

A tightness grew in your shoulders and rose to your neck from the nerve of his words. You clenched your jaw, your tongue pressing tightly at the roof of your mouth behind your teeth.

“But not quite as loud as your misogyny,” the words left your mouth before you could stop yourself. “Enjoy the rest of the conference.”

You glided away, disallowing him the chance to introduce or explain himself. You shook hands with attendees while giving away dazzling smiles as you made your escape. It was easy to weave through the crowd, as most people found ways to linger and speak to good friends and long-lost acquaintances. That was just how international conferences worked.

Fortune was in your favor as you found solace in an elevator. You backed yourself into one of the corners, continuing to people watch as more conference-attendees entered. You noted a man in his mid-to-late 50s, his graying blonde hair cut close to his head and his blue uniform filled with rows of medals and insignias. He was followed by a couple, who appeared to be trying their hardest to hide their intimacy with each other through closed-off, professional postures. But you knew better. The way they looked at each other screamed at you that they used this annual conference to conduct their long-standing affair.

A groan nearly escaped you, when you saw the same man who approached you after your presentation. His eyes were alight with intense determination and his brows knitted towards each other, creasing the space just above his nose. A tight intensity settled over your chest and neck as you backed yourself further into your corner of the elevator. The unremitting concentration that inhabited his eyes gave you the distinct feeling of being hunted. You tried as fast as you could to avert your eyes away from him. The dimple that revealed itself in the errant grin he gave you when his eyes met yours told you that you failed. 

You made every attempt to affect disinterest, placing hyper focus on your phone, examining the cuticles of every single one of your nails, even staring at the floor. You barely paid attention as the people you shared the elevator with exit at their floor. Not even the surreptitious couple, who you assumed left the elevator at the same time. Inevitably, the handsome and arrogant stranger was the only one who remained.

“I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” you heard him say.

“Hm?” You could feel your brow beginning to furrow as your attitude fought against your level-headedness to gain control. “I’m sorry?”

“You called me a misogynist,” Dave reminded you with a smirk, speaking of it as a badge he wore with honor.

“Oh yes, that’s right,” you sighed the sarcasm dripping from every word, “and I’m hostile.”

“No,” the voice he spoke with was calculating and unmoving, “I said you had hostility, and you took it upon yourself to assume that I was a misogynist.”

“Semantics,” you said your voice was quick like it was jumping from a trap.

“I’m not the kind of man stupid enough to belittle someone’s life’s work,” he raised his hands up as if he was conceding to you, “especially when she’s clearly brilliant.”

You narrowed your eyes at him as he spoke those words, trying to decipher if there was some kind of hidden meaning or intent behind them. There was an air about him that commanded your attention. Perhaps it was the dichotomy that he seemed to present the further you observed him. He was competent yet personable, casual yet professional, and guarded but disarming. You worked through these thoughts in your mind as the whirring of the elevator took over as it continued upward.

“Well, at least you’re smart enough to know when you’ve made a mistake,” you said with a nod of your head.

“Are you going to the networking social?”

You weren’t certain if he was simply curious or was inviting you.

“Oh god no,” you were quick to answer with a loud groan, almost too loud, “that’s just not my thing.”

The handsome stranger shrugged, “They’re usually filled with self-righteous assholes, anyway.”

The accuracy and the irony of his statement bubbled up laughter from your belly. A feeling made of confusion, guilt, and absurdity came over you as you felt yourself beginning to let your guard down. He wasn’t supposed to apologize. He wasn’t supposed to be interesting or intriguing. He should have just been a one-dimensional, arrogant asshole.

“Well,” you spoke, an unexpected grin forming on your lips, “looks like we might actually be on the same page this time.”

He held his hand out and offered you a smile full of purpose. “I’m Dave, Dave York, D.I.A.”

The immediacy with which you gave him your name surprised you. As he shook your hand you noted a slight awkwardness to his grip, though you could tell he was making every effort to give you a strong handshake. The skin on the inside of his palm and his fingertips were slightly weathered with scar tissue. You noticed the cold feeling of metal on his left-hand ring finger and took note of the wedding ring, trying not to frown. A corner of your brain wondered about the stories that could be found in the lines of those weathered hands.

“Hmm, D.I.A.,” you murmur to yourself. “Was following me to the elevator just your creepy way of getting me to talk shop with you?”

“You think I’d be that obvious?” His voice lowered an octave when he turned to face you and a chill tingled all over you.

“Well I don’t know you,” you replied with a shrug, “but I’d say if you were, you’d be pretty shitty at your job.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you don’t you, firefly,” he said, his brow lowering as he took one step toward you.

His hands tightened on his hips as he stepped toward you and he squared his shoulders behind him. Your brain took stock of each movement, at each attempt to make himself seem bigger and you seem smaller. A wicked little laugh brewed inside your abdomen as you accepted his challenge, moving one inch forward. You were close enough to breathe in his scent and your gaze moved from his neck, up to his lips and then to his eyes. 

“When you’re a woman in the IC, you’ve got to find ways to adapt; it’s nothing personal.”

An unremorseful apology. 

The elevator bell rang out with a loud ding.

“This is my stop,” holding your gaze to him, neither of you moved

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime this week.”  

“Maybe,” you agreed with the tilt of your head, that felt almost too flirty to you. “Enjoy the rest of your conference.

“You too,” he affirmed as he pulled his phone from his pocket, quickly becoming engrossed by a text message that you suspected was from his spouse.

Slight disappointment set in that you could not continue the conversation, but your exhaustion was quickly winning out. Your eyelids and muscles felt heavy as they screamed louder for rest. You ambled to your room and as you opened the door you immediately kicked off your high heels and shook your arms out of your blazer, tossing it on the bed. You walked back to the bathroom and reached into the shower, turning the dial towards hot. Mindlessly, you began unbuttoning your light coral blouse when you heard a knock at your room door. An audible sigh of frustration left you as you quickly turned the water off.

Who could possibly have any reason to bother me right now, you thought to yourself, using the peephole to look outside.

“Hey, it’s me,” you saw and heard your coworker from the other side of the door, “Brad.”

You took a deep breath, making your annoyance before opening the door.

“Hi, Brad,” you greeted tentatively, “everything OK?” 

“Oh yeah, everything is fine,” he replied with a grin that was too perfectly and polished. “Heard you did a good job on your presentation.”

“Heard?” You said with a raised brow.

“That’s the word from all the guys I’ve run into who attended,” he explained leaning against your doorway. “They were really impressed with you.”

A wave of exhaustion immediately took over your shoulders and you stepped back. You felt inconvenienced and nearly disgusted as you observed Brad’s eyes meet yours but travel down the length of your body. Every word that left him wrapped you in disgust.  The perfection that he displayed reeked of privilege. He was the typical aging former college frat boy and it did nothing for you. The entitlement he wore on his shoulders might as well have been a flashing, neon sign shouting out that he could get away with anything. 

“That’s cool,” you say quickly, inching closer and closer to shutting the door. “Well, I’m going to finish up some reports and turn in; I am beat.”

“What?” he stared back at you in confusion. “It’s not even 6 yet, and happy hour’s just started.”

“And you are much better at rubbing shoulders with the bigwigs, B,” you compliment hoping it would make him leave faster. “Work that magic of yours. Happy-hour it and let me know how it goes?”

You shut the door quickly hoping that you left him dumbfounded.

With him gone you were able to return to all the things you planned to bring you relaxation. You returned to the shower, the water warming quickly. The warmth of the water encompassed you, easing the tension of your neck, shoulders, and back muscles. You stepped out, wrapping yourself in a towel. The next hours were perfectly mundane. You wrapped yourself in a hotel robe, had a light dinner, read for fun, and basked in your nightly skincare routine. Before you knew it you had fallen asleep in your bathrobe with the tv on.

You woke up with a start, your brain hazy with confusion. Rolling over, you were greeted with the bright light of the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand. 12:12 AM. You weren’t even sure what time you had fallen asleep. You nestled yourself back into the bed, trying to will the white noise of the air conditioner and soft fullness of the down comforter to lull you back to sleep. Instead, you found yourself tossing and turning and very much awake.

With frustration, you pull on a pair of high-waisted sweatpants and a yellow tank top, layering your navy-blue blazer over it to appear at least halfway decent. You took one last look at yourself in the mirror, brushing fingers through your hair before securing it into a messy French twist with one of your hair clips. A puff of air left from your lips as you chuckled at yourself.

Don’t be ridiculous, you thought to yourself. You’re not trying to impress anybody.

The silence of the empty halls amplified the echo of your light footsteps towards the elevator. You waited patiently, with arms crossed until you found yourself on the ground level of the hotel. Relief washed over you when you noticed that the hotel bar was less busy than you expected. The bartender attended to you quickly filling your order of a whiskey, allowing you to find a quiet corner booth to enjoy your drink.  The bar was open to the lobby and allowed you to people watch as you took slow sips of your drink. You glanced at your watch.

12:57 am. No one interesting is going to walk through those doors at this hour.

You took another sip of your drink, letting the smokiness coat your lips, tongue, and the back of your throat with sweet burn before you looked up again, noticing a familiar, handsome face walk through the lobby doors. Dave. He was rubbing his hands from the cold December air and his brown hair was covered in a dark gray beanie. You kept your eyes on him, thinking he wouldn’t notice until he locked eyes with you and raised his right arm with a wave. He stopped, shuffling his feet beneath him with indecision until he began to walk towards the bar, towards you.

“We meet again,” you greeted, gesturing for him to take a seat across from you. “Back late, I see.”

“Ah, yeah,” he acknowledged his arrival as though it were an afterthought, “sometimes you get caught up with colleagues and you just don’t have a choice.”

“True,” you agreed, “I get it.”

“What about you?” He inquired, pointing towards your drink. “You’re up late.”

“Oh, yeah, I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, taking another sip of it, “that’s why I look like this.”

You waved your hands towards yourself, trying to emphasize how completely unimpressive your appearance was. A chill overcame you as his expression changed, his brow furrowing almost scornfully.

“I don’t know about that,” his eyes reading every inch of you from your head all the way down to your toes, “you look…good.”

Goosebumps tiptoed up and down your arms, like little finger tips tapping and teasing you. You unconsciously crossed and uncrossed your legs, feeling the fabric of your underwear rub against you, your entrance welling with your own sweet dew. Your eyes took a split-second glimpse of his wedding ring. Against your better judgment, you allowed yourself to smile at his compliment. You traced the rim of your whiskey-filled lowball glass, thinking how to respond.

“Congratulations, you have eyes,” you quipped, coaxing a low, growling laugh from him before you continued. “So, I couldn’t sleep, and I came down here to people watch.”

He leaned forward at your comment, his brown eyes round and wide as he raised his eyebrows with interest. His shoulders loosened and his newly relaxed demeanor invited more conversation.

“You like that?” He asked, his brows raised with curiosity. “People watching, I mean.”

The double entendre that left his pouted lips electrified you, feeling his electricity unexpectedly flick at your nipples and then at your core. The dim lighting of the hotel bar, the light jazz music playing over the speakers, and your hushed voices amplified the mysterious ambience around you. All of it together seemed so perfect that you couldn’t help following his lead, so you leaned in closer. Even in a beanie and wearing a thick jacket, you found him nearly irresistible.

“It’s a favorite pastime of mine,” you answered, keeping your eyes on him, “I like to think about people’s stories, people’s personal stories.”

“Is that why you were looking at me, observing me?” His tone dipped in a thin layer of accusation coupled with intense interest. “Trying to figure out my story?”

You stare back at him with a deep breath, wondering why you kept engaging when you knew you should stop.

“I’m not surprised you noticed,” you stated nonchalantly, “as unsurprised as you probably are about me wondering about your wedding ring.”

He strained his left hand open and closed, looking at his own ring as though it was a triviality. To your surprise, he leaned toward you even more, like a challenge.

“You know there’s a lot more to people’s stories than what you can piece together from a fleeting observation,” as he spoke, it felt like his charisma was vibrating off him and floating towards you. “Life, relationships are messy, complicated.”

 You read the unspoken words that uttered from the moves of his body. One hand resting open in the empty space between you in the booth. The fingers of his other hand rubbing at his chin and lips, which curled into an enticing smile. These movements and these words lingered in your brain, until you understood that they were filled with intrigue and desire. You breathed them in and mirrored them.

“So what about your story Dave,” you inquired, leaning in but making sure you kept your eyes to his, “your life, your relationship?”

You found yourself involuntarily licking your lips. The whiskey along with the heat of embarrassment flushed your cheeks and neck. It had you finally admitting to yourself that this man was really fucking attractive. He tilted his head towards you, smiled, and damn near melted you as he traced the bottom of his pouty lips with his thumb. Your eyes tracing every move of his immense, sinewy hands, as he checked the time on his gold watch.

1:47 AM.

“It’s too late right now to tell you that,” he teased, drawing a slight huff of frustration from you, “Ask me tomorrow night, here at the bar. 7:30.”

“How presumptuous of you to assume I’d be available,” you said, tipping your whiskey towards him, impressed by his ability to avoid answering a hard question.  

 “Oh firefly, you’re not the only one who’s good at reading people,” the words left his lips luring you and trapping you like a vice. “Nothing about this tells me you’ll say no.”

Dave gestured at the narrow space between you, his hand almost cutting through the warm air like a sharp blade. The innuendo of his words threatened to set you ablaze. You took another sip of whiskey, allowing it to warm and loosen your muscles, allowing it to calm you.

“Well then,” you willed yourself to hold your tongue lightly against your lips before breathing out the last word, “tomorrow.”

With a nod of confirmation, he stood up and swaggered towards the elevators. An audible gasp that had been saving itself in your lungs escaped you when you knew for sure that he was gone. You chased it with a final gulp of your whiskey, feeling its exquisite burn as it moved through you. Leaving a tip on the table, you stood up and made your way towards the elevator.

Tomorrow night. Your brain spoke to you again.

At that moment the elevator doors opened, and you entered. You returned to your room, discarding your blazer and sweat pants, before plopping into bed. You grabbed the fluffy comforter up to your chin, inviting in and surrendering to sleep.