#now i want an open face bagel and lox | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ginnsbaker · 5 months ago

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (15/?)

Part Summary: You and Leigh go on your first date, and nothing goes as planned.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 10.700+ | Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Smut | Author's note: The date chapter is finally here! It's basically Leigh and R getting to know each other. But beware of the tags ;) Thank you for being so patient! Please enjoy :) Only one or two more chapters to go!

Your mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ as you come, Leigh's fingers moving deftly down your jeans. She is entranced by the sight of you falling apart in her hands, torn between kissing you and watching as you ride the final waves of your orgasm.

The moment she opened the front door and saw you, she couldn't resist. You’re dressed in a loose white button-down shirt, open at the chest to reveal the collarbones she recently discovered she’s so fond of. The sleeves are rolled up to your elbows, and your boot-cut jeans fit perfectly, accentuating all the right places, especially at the back. The subtle scent of your perfume, sweet and intoxicating like chocolate, drifted across the room, pulling her closer. Without a second thought, she grabbed you by the collar, kissing you deeply as she pulled you into the kitchen.

“You're so beautiful,” Leigh whispers, her breath hot against your ear. Her eyes are locked onto your face, mesmerized.

You gasp, your body tensing as you reach the peak. “Leigh, please” you breathe out, shifting uncomfortably. The tight confines of your jeans restrict your movement. Sure, they make your figure look fantastic, but at moments like this, you question if it's really worth it.

Leigh's lips hover just above yours, her fingers still working their magic. “I can't decide,” she murmurs, her voice low and husky.

“Decide what?” you ask, your voice quivering.

“Whether I want to kiss you or keep watching you like this,” she replies, her eyes dark with desire.

Your hands find their way to her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Both,” you whisper. “Do both.”

As you both recover, you adjust your clothes, tucking your blouse back into the waistband of your pants. Still catching your breath, you glance at Leigh, who is already rinsing her fingers under the running water of the sink.

“What was that for?” you ask, your voice still a bit breathless.

Leigh grins, glancing over her shoulder at you. “Payback for last week.”

She moves around the espresso machine, then says, “By the way, I'm really sorry,” as if she hadn’t been driving you to an intense climax just minutes ago. “I can’t believe I overslept.”

You lean casually against the counter, your legs still weak from coming so hard, thoroughly entertained by her stream of apologies and quietly thrilled that she cares so much. The bagels you brought—laden with lox and a thick layer of cream cheese—wait patiently between you.

“It’s really okay,” you say, watching her make a fuss. Catching her hand as she goes for another apology, you squeeze it gently. “You… more than made up for it.”

She has the good grace to blush, a soft smile breaking through her earlier fretfulness. “Thanks for waiting,” he says, her voice still a little hoarse and, somehow, even more beguiling. “I’ve been looking forward to today. I guess last night just took more out of me than I thought.”

“You don’t say,” you tease lightly, observing the casual disarray of her hair and the relaxed hang of her clothes—it’s Leigh unplugged, and you’re increasingly fond of this version.

Leigh's eyes shift to the side, landing on the two take-out lattes you had bought earlier, now sitting forlornly on the counter. She grimaces slightly as she realizes they've gone cold—leftovers from your long wait outside her house, where it hasn’t stopped raining.

“Oh, you brought coffee too,” she husks out. “And I made you wait…”

“Yeah, I might have been a bit optimistic about the timing,” you say.

Leigh gives you a long, scrutinizing look, clearly baffled by your patience.

“I don’t get it,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Get what?”

“It’s just—I’m clumsy, you know? I forget things. I’m always late to appointments. I keep expecting you to realize how dysfunctional I am and run off,” she jokes, though her eyes tell a different story. The coffee maker gurgles, signaling that the brew is ready. She moves to pour the coffee, her shoulders tense, hesitating before speaking again. “But you don’t. You just... stay. And I don’t understand why.”

You watch her pour the coffee, the steam rising in soft curls. “I stay because I love you, Leigh,” you say simply. You’ve told her that three—maybe four—times now. Not that you’re counting, but each time it gets a little easier to say. And you hope, for her, it gets a little easier to hear.

She hasn't said it back, and while you’re unsure if she feels the same, you know she cares—maybe not enough to utter those three words yet, but enough to be here now. Her accepting this date, spending this day with you, it’s a concession you wouldn’t trade for the world.

Leigh's gaze flickers, eyes widening a touch, lips parting as though words are on the brink of breaking free. You hold your breath, waiting for whatever she might reveal. But then, she blinks—like she's snapping back from a distant thought—and quietly turns to pour another cup, her glance drifting off as she collects herself.

She hands you a steaming mug, her fingertips brushing yours. You take it from her carefully, feeling the warmth seep through your fingers, spreading a comforting heat up your arms.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice low, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth as you take a slow sip.

Leigh watches you over her own cup, her eyelashes casting long shadows on her cheeks as she takes a tentative sip. Words have the power to bring things into being, and for Leigh, speaking things into existence feels like an indelible commitment—a promise carved into stone.

But maybe some things are beloved even before they ever take shape.

After breakfast, you both head to The Beautiful Beast to drop off Logan. Jules is happy to take care of him, as the house is empty with Amy away on a trip with friends. With Logan settled, you and Leigh head to the art exhibit you had tickets for.

Inside the exhibit, you find yourselves packed tightly among the throngs of people. The crowd presses in, and while the vivid artwork is a distraction, the constricted room makes it tough to fully enjoy the pieces. Far from the tech hubs and arts districts, the local community jumps at anything that breaks the monotony of their usual scene. Moreover, today’s rain has chased everyone indoors, turning this rare cultural event into a magnet for locals starved for something different. With the parks soggy and deserted, people had the choice between shopping malls or here.

As you and Leigh wade through the crowded gallery, people jostle for space, elbows occasionally colliding with your sides as they vie for a better view of the vibrant installations. Suddenly, a passerby brushes against you, nearly pulling you away from Leigh. Instinctively, you snatch her hand, holding fast for dear life. In the confusion, unsuspecting of the sudden tug, Leigh loses her footing. Her thick heel comes down hard on your foot, and you yelp in pain. Tears spring to your eyes, and you try to hold back a cry, but the pain is sharp and persistent.

“Sorry, sorry!” Leigh's cheeks flush with mortification as she quickly steps back. “Are you okay?”

Trying to brush it off with a grimace that's more a wince, you manage a weak smile.

“I'll live,” you say, half-joking, even as you gingerly test your foot. “But I think that was my cue to start wearing steel-toed boots around you.”

Despite herself, Leigh chuckles. “I'm really sorry,” she laments, reaching out to gently squeeze your arm. “Let's find a place to sit, okay?”

You cautiously try a step, hopeful but hesitant. The sharp pain bites, making you flinch, and you end up limping. Immediately, Leigh slips her arm around your waist to stabilize you.

“Let's find someone to help you get to a first-aid station,” she suggests, eyeing your gait with concern.

“But the exhibit?” you protest weakly, looking longingly back at the art you were both eager to see.

Leigh gives you a wry smile. “I'm more worried they might have to amputate your foot,” she jokes, successfully coaxing a laugh out of you. Yet, as you chuckle, you wince again, putting weight on your foot without thinking.

Noticing your discomfort, Leigh guides you gently towards the front of the gallery. Soon, you're at the information booth, where a helpful attendant offers you an ice pack and points you to a bench near the entrance. As you try to get comfortable on the small bench, you struggle to keep the ice pack properly positioned on your foot, repeatedly bending down in an awkward dance of readjustment.

“Here, just put your foot on my lap,” she suggests, patting her lap lightly.

You start to object, not wanting to impose, but before you can finish your sentence, Leigh decisively grabs your leg and guides it onto her lap. She starts massaging the sole of your foot while holding the ice pack firmly against the swollen area. It's a simple, caring gesture, and you can't help but watch Leigh as she focuses on making you feel better.

When she looks up and catches you staring, she smirks. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You shake your head slightly, a small smile playing on your lips. “I just didn't think we'd end up back here, and we haven't even seen a third of the art yet,” you say.

Leigh laughs softly. “It's okay, the exhibits weren't all that impressive anyway,” she says. “Besides, I was starting to feel claustrophobic there.”

A twinge of disappointment pulls at you. You’d been excited about the exhibit, about sharing something you thought would be cool and sophisticated. With your foot throbbing and Leigh’s less-than-enthused review, the day feels like it’s stumbled right out of the gate.

Leigh notices your sudden quiet and nudges you gently. “What's wrong?”

“I just thought you’d be into this. I was almost entirely sure,” you say, avoiding her gaze.

“I am,” Leigh says, still holding your foot. “I love exhibits, but right now, my top priority is spending time with you.”

You blush at that. “We are spending time—”

She cuts you off with a small laugh. “I mean, like, actually talking. It’s hard to have a conversation when we’re constantly moving and trying to look at everything.”

You mull that over, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the kind that feels more like understanding than emptiness. Then, out of the blue, Leigh asks, “So, how did you end up being an animal doctor?”

You’re startled by her sudden question, but it’s a welcome distraction from your foot and the disappointing exhibit.

“It’s a bit of a long story,” you start.

“I’ve got time,” she says with a smirk.

You take a deep breath and lean back on the bench, feeling more comfortable as your leg rests on Leigh’s lap. Her foot massage is so soothing, it’s almost putting you into a sleepy state.

“Well, I always loved animals. My parents used to joke that I’d bring home every stray if I could. But it wasn’t until I volunteered at a local shelter in high school that I realized it was what I wanted to do with my life.”

Leigh tilts her head and smiles. “That’s sweet. What was it about the shelter that made you decide?”

“It was this one dog,” you say, your voice catching and your eyes getting misty. “A scrappy little terrier mix named Max. He’d been through so much, but he still had so much love to give. Helping him heal and find a forever home—it just clicked. That’s when I knew I wanted to help as many animals as I could.”

Leigh looks at you with a kind of awe, as if something beautiful is unfolding before her eyes. “That’s amazing. I love that you found your calling through something so meaningful.”

You shrug, feeling a bit bashful under her stare. “What about you? When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”

She laughs, a light, airy sound that makes you grin from ear to ear. You could listen to it forever.

“Oh, I’ve always known,” she says. “Actually, I was always writing in my diary as a kid. I'd write about my day, things I enjoyed, pretty much anything that came to mind. I loved reading pocket books, too, and I even tried my hand at writing fiction once or twice.

“But I quickly discovered that fiction wasn't really my thing. I loved writing, though—just the act of putting words on paper, sharing my thoughts and experiences. It felt natural, like breathing.

“And even though I wasn't making up fictional characters and places,” Leigh continues, “I realized I could still tell stories. They were my stories, rooted in the everyday things I observed and experienced. That was my niche, and I just ran with it.”

“Did you have a specific moment, like with Max?” you ask.

“Not really,” she says. “It’s just what I wanted to do, that’s all.”

You nod. “Knowing what you want to do or be saves a lot of time, doesn’t it?”

“I guess?” She smiles at your insight, then adds, “Though maybe in another life, I’d be a serious journalist. If I thought I had the natural knack or talent for it, maybe I would.”

You frown slightly at that, concerned by her self-doubt. “Why do you think you’re not good enough to be a ‘serious’ journalist now?”

Leigh looks surprised by your question, then thoughtful. “I don’t know. I guess I always see those roles as being for people who are more... intense, more investigative. But you’re right. Maybe it’s just a matter of believing I could.”

“You’re an amazing writer, Leigh,” you say earnestly. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“How can you say that?” she asks, leaning in a bit closer. “Have you read any of my work apart from my tiny blurbs in the gossip column?”

You feel a blush warm your cheeks. “Well, I might have done a bit of Googling,” you confess, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly. “Your articles popped up, and I... may have read all of them.”

Her eyebrows lift, and she gives your foot a careful pinch. “Is that so?” she teases, her voice dropping lower. The blush spreads down your neck and chest. “And what did you think? Did they pass muster with our impromptu art critic here?”

“Honestly, I was blown away,” you say, looking her straight in the eye. “Your writing is intuitive, engaging. It pulled me right in. You've got this strong, clear voice that really comes through, even in the straightforward pieces.”

Leigh regards you for a moment longer than usual, as if trying to read the pages of a particularly dense novel—searching for the truth in your words. Then, as if finding what she was looking for, her features soften, the guarded lines around her eyes relaxing.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice carrying a tender gravity. “That really means a lot to me.”

You beam up at her, blissfully unaware of the profound impact your praise has had on her appreciation of her own writing.

Before you can pick up the thread of your laid-back conversation again, a man who could easily double as an Instagram model approaches. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a rogue lock of hair artfully obscuring one icy-blue eye. Both you and Leigh pause, taken aback by his sudden, striking presence, and an instinctive wariness settles in between you.

“Hey there. Are you okay?” he asks, hovering slightly, his focus solely on you, as if Leigh is merely a shadow on the wall.

“It's nothing, just a bit of swelling,” you say. You look up at him briefly and force a smile before focusing your attention back on Leigh. She's already staring down the stranger, as if trying to laser through his meticulously sculpted side-profile.

He presses on, “I could drive you to the hospital to get that checked out.”

You exchange a quick look with Leigh, catching the flash of irritation that crosses her face before she masks it with a polite smile.

“That’s very kind of you, but I'll be fine.”

Despite this, he doesn’t give up. “Really, it's no trouble at all. You shouldn't walk on that,” he says, pointing at your foot that’s clearly on someone else’s lap. This time, his gaze lingers a little too long for comfort.

Leigh gently lowers your foot from her lap and stands up, positioning herself between you and the persistent stranger. There's a considerable height difference between them—Leigh is notably shorter—but she doesn't seem intimidated in the slightest. Instead, she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin like she’s ten feet tall.

“Excuse me,” Leigh clears her throat. “We’re on a date here.”

The man blinks, surprised. “A date?” he echoes.

“Yes,” Leigh confirms, her smile now a thin line of resolve. “The kind where I kiss her goodnight after.”

You catch a few curious glances from nearby onlookers and feel a blush creeping up your neck. You duck your head, trying to shield yourself from their stares. More than anything, though, you're struck by Leigh's bold declaration to a near stranger—that she was going to kiss you by the end of this date.

Of course, you’re hoping she would, but hearing her say it out loud sends your stomach into a flutter of somersaults

His face registers the rebuff, and he nods awkwardly, stepping back. “Right, sorry,” he mutters before finally turning and walking away.

Leigh is heaving slightly, visibly tense, her back to you, and you gently take her hand to bring her focus back.

“Hey,” you mumble softly. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Leigh says as she turns back to face you, her eyes now softer. You sense the tension easing from her as your fingers intertwine more firmly. “I’m sorry if—”

“Thank you,” you interrupt gently, wanting her to know her protectiveness was welcome. “I really appreciated that.”

She laughs, a sound of relief. “Okay, good. I didn’t want to come off too strong.”

You want to tell her that she does, that she's always been a force to be reckoned with. But you bite your lip, not wanting it to come across as criticism. You like this quality of hers, and you don’t want her to change anything about herself just because you're a completely different person with a different perspective.

She shuffles her feet, looking a bit unsure, then sits down beside you. “So... where were we?”

You smile at her. “I was saying how amazing you are as a writer.”

Leigh grins, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, right. Please, go on.”

You laugh, and the two of you spend the next hour in the art exhibit, talking about everything and nothing.

At 1pm, you and Leigh head out for a scenic drive to Santa Monica Beach.

A week ago, as soon as she agreed to this date, you booked a table at a beachside lobster joint that’s been trending locally for some time now. It seems like the perfect spot, with great reviews and a beautiful setting by the ocean. The drive is relaxed, the windows rolled down and the salty air filling the car, clearing away any last threads of the tension from earlier at the exhibit.

Leigh is in high spirits, chatting animatedly about books and laughing more freely than she has all day. At one point, you find yourselves discussing The Great Gatsby.

“I just don't get the hype,” you say, shaking your head as you keep your eyes on the road, though you're eager to dive into what promises to be an interesting debate. “I mean, the characters are all so shallow, and the story feels more like a soap opera than a classic.”

Leigh's expression brightens, excited to dispute your claim. “But that’s exactly why it’s a classic,” she counters, turning to face you and resting her head against her arm on the windshield. “Fitzgerald captured the Jazz Age perfectly—the decadence, the disillusionment, the elusive American Dream. It's all critiqued through some really beautiful writing.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “So you think the shallowness is the point?”

“Exactly,” she replies, smirking slightly. “Gatsby's obsession with Daisy, who represents everything he can't have, mirrors the era's obsession with wealth and status. It's tragic and a little ridiculous because it's supposed to be.”

You pretend to mull it over, though you know she has a point. You can feel her gaze on you, and you're starting to relish Leigh's undivided and very welcome attention. You drag out your response, just to see how she reacts. You think you catch her rolling her eyes out of the corner of your eye.

Chuckling, you say, “You’re making it hard to stick to my guns here.”

Her smirk widens into a proud smile. “Good! Maybe it’s time to surrender those guns.”

You flex your arm, showcasing your slim and completely unimpressive biceps. “Speaking of guns, maybe I should keep these instead,” you joke, giving Leigh a playful look.

Leigh makes a face. “Oh, please, keep those guns. They're definitely more persuasive than your take on Fitzgerald!” she teases.

You pout at her sarcastic comment about your physique, but your smile is good-natured. It's been a long time since you've felt this at ease—not just with Leigh, but with anyone else. You haven't enjoyed company like this in a while, not since...

Well, not since Matt.

After a while, you say, “Maybe I need to give it another read. You make it sound like a completely different book.”

Leigh shifts in her seat to face the long, winding road ahead. “We can read it together. Maybe you’ll catch some of the subtleties you missed the first time around,” she suggests.

You sneak a glance at her, catching her eyes just as she looks back at you, your dark brown eyes meeting her green ones. It's a bit ridiculous, but you find yourself wishing this drive would never end. The swelling in your foot stings with every press of the gas pedal, but somehow, it doesn't seem to matter.

“I’d love that.”

When you pull into the quaint parking lot of the restaurant, nestled right against the beach, you're greeted by stunning ocean views that truly live up to the hype. Inside, the nautical decor, complete with nets and life rings adorning the walls, is cliché yet undeniably still charming. The rain has subsided, but the beach remains unusually quiet, lacking the usual crowds that gather when the sun is out.

As you settle into a table with a view of the beach, it feels like the right kind of perfect until you start discussing the menu and Leigh's smile drops a touch.

“I should’ve mentioned—I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Oh,” you manage, a twinge of embarrassment settling in your stomach. You feel a bit foolish for jumping ahead without checking first. It's not the first time this has happened with Leigh, and suddenly, her earlier hesitations about your intentions and feelings make more sense. You realize you've constructed a version of her that feels familiar, yet moments like these remind you that there's still so much about her you have yet to understand.

“We can go somewhere else,” you suggest, even though you don’t have the first clue where else to go.

“Really, it's okay. We don’t have to leave. I'll find something else. This place is too gorgeous to skip just because of that,” she says.

You hastily scan the menu for alternatives, but the options are slim. The only non-shellfish item is a fish and chips plate that looks unappealing at best. Then, tucked at the bottom of the menu, you spot a plain cheeseburger with fries on the side.

“Leigh, we should really head somewhere else,” you say, remembering how she mentioned she was starving just before stepping inside the restaurant. The last thing you want is for her to settle for a less-than-satisfying meal simply because the setting is picturesque.

Leigh gives you a reassuring smile, but you can sense the underlying frustration as she says, “You don't need to make such a big deal out of it.”

“But you said you were hungry.”

“I know you mean well, and I really appreciate it. But honestly, it's just lunch,” Leigh says.

You go quiet, not wanting to argue further, but inside, you’re still kicking yourself for not having a backup plan. Sensing your inner turmoil, Leigh sighs, dropping the menu on the table.

“Hey,” she begins softly, waiting until you meet her eyes before offering a small, apologetic smile. She knows today hasn't gone as smoothly as you hoped—starting with her oversleeping, then arriving late to a gallery you were excited to see, only to find it overcrowded. And on top of that, the incident where she stepped on your foot. You’ve been brushing it off, insisting you’re fine, but she noticed your grimaces every time you pressed the gas pedal during the drive. Clearly, today hasn’t unfolded as you planned.

Leigh’s not trying to downplay the effort you've put into today, but she also doesn't want you to think that a single mishap could turn her away. She hopes you don't set expectations too high just yet, not when you're both still in the early stages of getting to know each other. Beyond the undeniable physical chemistry between you, she's looking forward to discovering how you both handle the less-than-perfect moments just as much as the perfect ones.

Once she has your attention, she continues, “I was married for seven years and had numerous relationships before that.”

Your curiosity prickles—Numerous? How many?—but Leigh keeps talking, pulling you back to the moment.

“I've seen all the grand gestures. They’re fine—they’re romantic, but right now, I just want to do normal stuff with someone I like.”

“Me, too. I—”

“That means not worrying about every little thing on a menu I can’t eat. I don’t need every outing to be perfect.”

You nod, a realization sinking in. Leigh doesn’t want you to treat her as if she’s delicate, like china that could shatter at any moment. She wants you, with all your flawed plans and your corny jokes.

Maybe, you realize, you and Leigh share more than just an intense attraction. You both harbor insecurities about being wanted for something you're not, rather than for who you truly are. Deep down, there's a fear lurking in you that maybe this—whatever this is—could evaporate. You're scared that Leigh might discover something about you that could change her mind, worried that all this might just be a fleeting curiosity or a complicated connection tied to her past.

So you aimed for perfection today—at the expense of not being yourself, perhaps becoming too cautious and too rigid in the process. Leigh's desire for authenticity over perfection makes you rethink your approach.

“Okay,” you finally say, setting the menu down. You signal a waiter and order their bestseller—broiled lobster in butter garlic herb sauce.

Leigh looks up from her menu. “And I'll have the cheeseburger,” she tells him. Then, leaning across the table, she adds in a mock-threatening tone, “But you should know, it’s actually breakfast and dessert where you really can’t go wrong with me.” She exaggerates her expression, widening her eyes for effect.

Perhaps it’s a good lesson to learn that not everything has to be perfect to be right.

At least, not with Leigh Shaw.

After a hearty meal, with you having indulged in the lobster since Leigh couldn't partake, you both feel pleasantly full. Needing to stretch your legs and help settle the big lunch, you suggest a walk along the shore.

You roll up your jeans to your calves, trying to keep them dry, but the relentless little waves have other plans, occasionally splashing over and wetting the fabric. Meanwhile, Leigh, wearing high-waisted cotton shorts, meanders alongside you, unaffected by the water's reach. As the sun dips lower, it paints the horizon in vibrant shades of orange and pink. Endless stretches of beach host a few leisurely strollers, all basking in scenery that seems almost too striking to be real.

Walking side by side, every now and then your fingers brush against each other—a fleeting touch that sends a subtle thrill through you. Despite the advanced nature of your physical relationship, you and Leigh exchange shy smiles, almost as if you're newly acquainted. It's a curious thing that here, in the open expanse of the beach, there are instances where it feels like you haven't crossed those boundaries at all.

You want to reach out and hold her hand, but Leigh is wrapped up in her own thoughts, her arms crossed as she stares out where the horizon swallows ships whole. Respecting her reverie, you shove your hands into the pockets of your jeans instead.

After a while, Leigh turns to you, her face catching the evening light, transforming her into something almost otherworldly. Her expression is open, inviting, and it makes your heart stumble over itself once more.

“So, Y/N,” she says, her voice low and a little unsteady, as if she had second thoughts a moment ago about whether to even say the words. “Tell me about the girls and boys you've loved before.”

Once again, you’re unsuspecting of Leigh’s directness.

You scramble for a moment, trying to buy some time. “Well, what exactly do you want to know about them?” you ask, watching her closely. Ex-lovers are bound to come up soon, and you haven't really thought about your own answer. Truth be told, your track record feels lackluster, but somehow you think that might be a good thing.

Leigh bites her lip, seemingly pondering her next move. She kicks at the small ripples lapping at her ankles, sending water splashing in little arcs. After a moment, she looks up at you coyly. “I don't know, you decide what to tell me,” she says, unapologetically leaving the ball squarely in your court.

Her response puts you at ease a little, turning the pressure of the question into more of a gentle invitation to share what you feel comfortable with.

You take a deep breath, tasting the salt on the breeze. “I didn't actually have a boyfriend until I was twenty-two,” you say, glancing at Leigh to gauge her reaction.

Her eyebrows lift in surprise, an expression that draws a small laugh from you. “Yeah, I was a late bloomer,” you say, a flippant shrug accompanying your words. “I think I was just curious, you know? Everyone around me was pairing off, and I felt like I was missing out.

“It lasted six months. It was more about exploration than anything else. And then, well, it took another two years before I found myself in something serious.”

“With who?” Leigh asks, slowing down a little. The wind picks up, teasing strands of her hair across her face, not bound today in her usual ponytail. She brushes them aside absently, her focus fixed on you.

“Her name was Alex,” you continue, the name rolling off your tongue thoughtfully as bittersweet memories flood your mind. You haven’t thought about her in a long time—she was your first love and your first heartbreak. “She was incredible—taught me what it really means to be with someone, to really be present. We were together for almost three years.”

Leigh suddenly stops and turns to face you. She grabs your hand, guiding you both to a weathered bench a few steps from the lapping waves.

“How did it end?” she asks quietly.

“We moved in together after a year,” you say, trying to keep your tone light even though you’re about to rehash a painful past. “Things were really good, at least that's what I thought. But then, just a month after our third anniversary, I came home early from work and... I found her in bed with someone else.”

“Oh, Y/N…”

“It was her coworker, someone I'd always just thought of as a colleague of hers,” you conclude, managing a tight-lipped smile. Neither of you speak for a while, allowing the susurration of the sea to fill the gap instead.

“I’m sorry,” Leigh finally says.

You shrug, looking out at the horizon where the sun meets the calm waters. “It's a long time ago. From what I've heard through mutual friends, they're still together. Maybe they were meant for each other, and I was just a stop on her journey to finding that out. I mean, I shouldn't feel so bad for not getting in the way of true love.”

Leigh shakes her head, not buying into your attempt to whitewash what Alex did. “She should've ended it with you properly.”

You’ve pondered that moment countless times, wondering if it would have been easier if she had simply been honest about falling out of love. You picture different scenarios where you come home to Alex waiting to tell you there’s someone else, and each time, you arrive at the same painful conclusion.

“I don't know, it probably would have hurt just the same,” you tell her honestly.

Leigh scoots closer, looping her arm around you and resting her head on your shoulder. In a whisper, she concurs, “I think so too.”

Then, Leigh starts sharing her story with Matt. It begins at a college house party, where they first met—just a couple of undergrads who had no idea what the future held. As she talks, you rest your cheek against her head, absorbing every detail. You chuckle at her lighthearted anecdotes, feeling the happiness they brought her. But as she talks about the tougher times, particularly the months leading up to his death, your smile fades, replaced by a tightness in your chest.

Soon enough the telling morphs into a session of self-reflection where it becomes unclear whether Leigh’s speaking to you or to herself. She suggests that she blames herself for his death, feeling as if she had somehow caused his demise. She confesses that when he died, it seemed like all the good parts of her died with him, parts she now thinks existed only because of him.

When she finally breaks down, sobbing into your neck, you pull her closer, wrapping your arms around her as if you could squeeze away all the guilt and pain she’s carrying. Part of you wants to interrupt, to assure her that she’s wrong, that all her good parts were always there, maybe just brightened by her love for him—because isn’t that what love does? It casts everything in a better light. But you resist the urge to speak, understanding that sometimes the best comfort you can offer isn’t words, but simply presence and the quiet acceptance of her sorrow.

It starts to rain again a few minutes into your drive back to the city. As the droplets splatter against the windshield and the wipers slide back and forth, you notice Leigh holding up her phone, talking animatedly into it.

“Hey there, we're on our way back and look at this rain, it's really coming down! Oh, and I've got someone very special I want you to meet—this is Y/N.” She angles the phone toward you. You feel your cheeks warm as you give a small, awkward wave. “Aren’t those eyes incredible? Like deep, rich coffee... absolutely gorgeous.”

“What are you doing?” you ask, still a bit embarrassed.

“Something for my eyes only,” Leigh replies nonchalantly, lowering her phone but keeping that roguish smile.

“You didn't have to stop,” you tell her, still a bit amused by her whole vlogging act.

Leigh turns to face you fully. “I kind of want to look at you now without a screen between us,” she murmurs, her voice low and inviting.

You swallow, feeling a thrill at her directness. Leigh's approach is always bold, and it sends an excited shiver down your spine. You wish you weren't trapped in the driver's seat, confined by the slow crawl of traffic, so you could fully engage with her flirtation. Yet, there's a part of you that suspects Leigh enjoys knowing you're somewhat at her mercy, divided between the road and her teasing.

Trying to distract her from whatever she’s up to, you throw out a playful challenge. “Want to guess where we're headed next?”

It seems to work as Leigh glances out at the relentless downpour. “In this weather?”

“Yup,” you respond simply, a mysterious smile on your lips as you focus on the rain-slicked road ahead, keeping the surprise of your next stop just between the two of you for a little longer.

Leigh has this endearing habit of pressing the back of her fingers against her mouth, her thumb brushing her lower lip as she thinks. You've come to recognize this gesture as a sign she's deep in thought or uncertain about something.

“Bowling?”

You snort in amusement.

“At least give me a clue!”

“It involves a membership card,” you hint.

Leigh scrunches up her nose, clearly appalled at her next guess. “The gym?”

“The library, of course,” you reply with a grin, recalling an earlier conversation. “Remember I mentioned having a membership card?”

Leigh narrows her eyes, and in a skittish huff, slaps your arm lightly. “You're totally messing with me,” she accuses.

“Hey, I'm driving here!” you protest, trying to keep the car steady. Undeterred, she pokes at your ribs, discovering a ticklish spot. You can't help but burst into laughter. “Seriously, Leigh, we're going to crash if you keep this up,” you say between giggles, half-joking, half-pleading for mercy.

She pulls back, her laughter tapering off into a series of chuckles that fade into the rhythmic splatter of hefty raindrops on the car roof. Once it’s comfortably quiet again, she leans back in her seat, her expression turning curious and a little conspiratorial.

“Speaking of books, there's something I almost forgot to tell you,” she says.

“Yeah?” you respond, somewhat distracted as a car swiftly cuts into your lane.

“Matt's comic is going to be published posthumously,” she reveals slowly. “Danny and I have been working together on it.”

You strive to keep your expression blasé at the mention of Danny's name. There's no room for jealousy when it concerns Matt's legacy. If Leigh needs to do this, whether Danny is involved or not, it's her choice and not your place to question.

“That's amazing, Leigh,” you say, trying to sound cheerful and supportive. “Matt would have been thrilled.”

Leigh gives you a curious look. Your focus remains on the road ahead, so you miss the reservation in her green eyes.

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” you respond, nodding. Without much thought, you add, “He used to show me his work, and I was honestly impressed.”

Leigh's expression shifts subtly at your words, and there's a moment of quiet between you. “Matt never showed me his works,” she says softly, almost to herself.

You feel a flush of embarrassment, realizing it might have sounded like you were bragging about being privy to Matt's work—a privilege Leigh, his wife, hadn't shared. You manage only a soft, “Oh,” which hangs awkwardly in the air.

“I found his sketches one day by accident, and he didn't like it—me seeing his work, I mean. He always wanted to keep that part of his life separate.”

You’re still processing this when Leigh speaks again.

“I used to tell him everything, you know? I’d ask for his take on my work, vent about the chaos at mom’s studio, and talk through the tough times we faced as a family when—well, when Jules was dealing with her addiction,” she says, her voice trailing off a bit at the end.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, not knowing what else to say.

Leigh brushes off your sympathy with a gentle flick of her wrist. “No, it's not that he was trying to be secretive. I think... I think I was too critical of him, even about his depression. I thought I knew everything, knew what was best for him.” She sighs, a shadow of regret crossing her face. “I guess I was kind of overbearing, so he stopped sharing things with me. He chose to keep it all to himself instead of having to constantly argue with me.”

You wince slightly, feeling guilty in some way, but Leigh quickly reassures you. “Hey, I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad that he shared things with you. I’m actually glad he did. His work deserves to be out there.”

You nod, taking in Leigh's reflections quietly. Wanting to steer back to a milder topic, you ask, “So, when is it going to be published?”

Leigh's fingers absently toy with the ends of her hair as she thinks. “It's set to come out early next year,” she finally says, her voice surprisingly devoid of excitement. You can't help but wonder why that is.

“And there's going to be a tour right after—it's promoting the comic along with some other new titles from the publisher. I'm... planning to go.”

“That sounds like an incredible experience,” you say, smiling at her.

Leigh makes a sound of agreement. “It's probably starting in late February,” She takes a deep breath before adding, “It'll take me all over the country. We need to attend conventions and such.”

You fall silent, digesting her words. The realization that this isn't just a short trip starts to sink in. “How long will you be gone?” you ask, trying to catch her gaze but Leigh’s eyes are trained forwards.

“I don't have all the details yet, but it could be anywhere from a few weeks to a couple of months,” she says.

“But you'll come back in between, right?” The hope in your question is palpable.

Leigh shakes her head slowly. “I'm not sure. It might be a good time to travel and go away for a while with this opportunity.”

The conversation drifts between you, muffled like the world outside the fogged-up windows of your car. It's becoming clear, maybe too clear, what this all means.

Leigh's gaze stays fixed on the shimmering road ahead. She's quiet, but you can almost hear her thoughts tumbling over each other. You know she's wrestling with the implications of her future plans, just as you are. She knows the reality of the situation, understands that there are only a few ways this could possibly go.

She can't ask you to wait, and it wouldn't be fair to ask you to drop everything and follow her. That leaves the looming possibility of a farewell that could stretch into something indefinite.

Minutes pass—one, then two—before you both lose count. It feels as though an hourglass has been unwillingly flipped. Watching the city lights blur through the rain, you can't help but feel they reflect the uncertainty of your future with Leigh. You're willing to attempt a long-distance relationship, though you know it might not be ideal. The prospect of being apart just as things are beginning to bloom between you feels akin to a preemptive goodbye.

Then, an idea takes hold—a bold, possibly reckless notion, but it clings to your heart with surprising tenacity. Yes, you have a clinic, a business that needs you, but suddenly, those realities seem negotiable, secondary to what feels more pressing—being with Leigh.

“What if I came with you on the tour?”

Leigh turns to look at you, her eyes wide with surprise and something like worry. She knows your life is deeply rooted here, especially with the veterinary clinic you’ve poured your heart—and savings—into.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” she says.

“Why not?” you ask softly.

Your tone is so earnest, almost childlike in your confusion, that Leigh’s lips part and then close as she grapples with how to articulate her feelings about your rash offer.

“You have your clinic, your responsibilities here. It's too much for me to expect you to just walk away from that,” Leigh argues.

“But what if it’s not about what you’re asking me to give up?” you say, your fingers unconsciously tightening their grip on the steering wheel. “What if it’s about what I’m willing to sacrifice?”

Leigh's frustration shows clearly as she pushes back against your idea. “Sacrifices? It's about being realistic. We can't just make decisions on a whim.”

You turn to look at her, making it a point to focus on her for a second longer than you should while driving. “But I don't see it as a whim. I see it as choosing what matters most to me.”

Leigh sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You're not seeing the whole picture. What about your employees? They depend on you.”

“I can arrange things at the clinic. I can find people to cover for me,” you say confidently. But Leigh is just as relentless with her objections.

“And what if you come back and resent me for taking you away from all that?” Leigh counters, her voice rising a little.

“I won’t,” you reply quickly, even though you know it's a hefty promise to make in such a heated moment.

Leigh scoffs, shaking her head vehemently. “You can’t possibly know that.”

Before you can bolster your promise with more reassurances, your phone rings. It’s Sara, calling from the clinic. Leigh watches as you answer, her expression a mix of resignation and pointedness, as if to emphasize her earlier concerns about your responsibilities.

You excuse yourself, grab your phone, and answer the call. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“It's an emergency,” Sara's voice is tense. “Foreman needs you. Can you make it?”

You're just minutes from the city now, and your heart sinks as you realize the timing couldn't be worse. “Yes, I'll be there soon,” you mutter, feeling torn.

After hanging up, you turn to Leigh, who's been quietly observing. “There’s an emergency at the clinic, and Foreman needs my help,” you explain. “Can we stop there? It won't take long, and we can still make it to our next stop.”

Leigh gives a resigned nod, her earlier arguments about your responsibilities underscored by this untimely call. “Sure, whatever,” she says, her voice flat. You want to erase that look on her face, but for now, you’re needed elsewhere.

You spring from the car the moment it's parked, snagging your white coat from the trunk in one fluid motion. Leigh is right on your heels, her footsteps quick and questioning as you both scurry into the clinic.

You burst through the doors and immediately spot Sara at the reception, giving her a quick nod of acknowledgment. Beside you, Leigh’s steps falter slightly at the sight of Sara, her expression one of mild shock at seeing her there—a detail you realize you've failed to mention.

“What’s happening?” you ask Sara, pulling your hair into a tight bun.

“Room two, now,” she replies, gesturing briskly towards the surgery room.

You nod and break into a jog, with Leigh hesitantly trailing behind. When you reach your destination, you stop short and turn to signal Leigh to wait outside.

“I’m so sorry about this,” you say, your voice full of apology.

“Just go,” she whispers softly. You offer her a grateful smile before your expression shifts to calm determination as you slip into the surgery room.

Left in the waiting area, Leigh stands in a stupor, surrounded by unanswered questions and a sudden solitude, her eyes lingering on the closed doors you've just disappeared through.

Leigh has been noticeably quiet since you emerged from the surgery room an hour and a half ago. Right after you came out, she meekly asked for the car keys and walked straight out of the clinic. You didn’t think much of it at the time, busy giving final instructions to Foreman and Sara before heading out to continue your date with her.

Now, as you drive to the bar you planned on taking her to, you can’t seem to come up with a topic that doesn’t seem like you're evading the earlier argument.

“Where are we headed next?”

You breathe a sigh of relief as Leigh breaks the silence. You notice her glance at the watch on her wrist. The small motion feels like a small betrayal—does it signal impatience, or worse, a desire to escape this disjointed evening?

With everything that’s happened, you drop the pretense of surprise. “I had planned for us to catch a live band at a speakeasy downtown,” you say evenly. “But we're running late, and honestly, I'm not even sure it's worth heading there now.”

You risk a glance at Leigh, almost expecting she’d choose this moment to cut the evening short. But she merely hums noncommittally, and just like that, silence settles in once more.

When you arrive, the heavy rain makes the night feel even more somber. A few cars are still scattered around the parking lot, but the place otherwise looks almost deserted. You grab an umbrella from the backseat and offer it to Leigh as you both make your way to the entrance.

As you approach, the doorman stops you from crossing the threshold. “Sorry, folks,” he says, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain. “The performance was canceled, and we're wrapping up early tonight because of the weather.”

Disappointment settles in, heavier now with the official confirmation. You turn to Leigh, trying to salvage what you can of the evening. “Maybe we can have at least one drink?” you suggest, hoping to extend the time you have together.

Leigh pauses, her expression inscrutable for a moment before she shakes her head. “Actually, I think I’d rather not,” she says, throwing you off with her refusal.

The doorman gives you a sympathetic nod as he pulls the heavy doors shut, sealing off the warm glow of the bar from the cold, wet night. Leigh takes the umbrella from you with a gesture that's both resigned and leading, and starts walking back to the car. Her steps are quick, purposeful, but she slows just enough under the umbrella to ensure you're covered and not getting drenched. But you barely notice the rain; your mind is clouded with thoughts of how the evening has unfolded.

As you walk, you replay the last few hours, how what began as an attempt to reassure Leigh of your willingness to go the distance by offering to join her on the tour quickly spiraled into a demonstration of all the practical reasons why it was a bad idea. And the unexpected revelation about Sara working at your clinic surely hadn't helped.

Leigh slides into the passenger seat, handing you the umbrella which you catch as several raindrops escape onto your arm. You settle into the driver’s seat, carefully folding the umbrella and tossing it behind you.

“I guess I should drop you home?” you suggest, more as a formality than a question.

Leigh hums in response, her voice low and temporizing. It’s starting to irk you, this silent treatment. Throughout the drive to her house, the only sounds are the steady swish of the windshield wipers and the occasional splash of tires against puddles. You steal glances at her, trying to decipher her thoughts. Her face is angled towards the window, so that each time you pass under a street lamp, there’s a fleeting moment where her face is illuminated, revealing a tightness around her eyes and a slight downturn at the corners of her mouth.

Just before you turn onto her street, something inside you rebels. You can’t let the night end on this note—defeated, disconnected. You pull over under a massive tree beside an empty lot and shut off the engine.

Turning to her, you find your voice again. “Leigh, talk to me. Please.”

She sighs but remains silent.

“Are you upset because of Sara?”

That gets a reaction from her—an unpleasant one, but a reaction nonetheless.

“Oh, please.” Leigh lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Really, it's not my business who you hire, even if it's an ex. But considering you just told me you love me this morning, don't you think that's something you should have mentioned?”

You hadn’t intentionally kept Sara's hiring from Leigh; it had slipped through the cracks of a busy week. You never even considered Sara an ex-anything, so it was an honest mistake. If only you could convince Leigh that Sara is truly that insignificant to you.

“I'm sorry, Leigh,” you say, hoping to smooth things over. But she isn't having it. “It was an oversight, not a choice. Sara really doesn't mean anything in that way. I just didn't think it was important.”

Instead of pacifying her, your words have the opposite effect.

“Not important?” Leigh’s face sets like concrete. “When you say you love someone, everything becomes important, especially things like this. How am I supposed to trust you?”

Your own frustration flares. You didn’t expect such a harsh judgment over what seemed so trivial in your mind. A thought then strikes you, fueling your anger. “And what about you? You’re heading away for months, and you’ve barely spoken about it. When were you going to tell me all the details? Right before you left?”

Leigh reels as if you've slapped her. “That’s different. I was going to tell you—”

“When? Last minute at the airport?” You cut her off, your voice rising to match hers.

“It’s not the same, and you know it!” Leigh snaps back, her eyes alight with anger and something like hurt.

“You're right, it's not the same,” you snap back. “It’s much worse. Because you said you’d give us a chance. And now, when I’m telling you I’m willing to fight for a chance to be with you, you’re shutting me down.”

“I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep,” Leigh says tightly.

“You don’t need to promise me anything,” you reply, your voice softening. “All I’m asking for is a real shot at this. I know you want that too.”

Leigh’s eyes glisten, and for a moment, you think you’re getting through to her. But then her expression hardens again. “Not like this,” she says.

You feel like you're climbing an ever-growing wall between the two of you, but you refuse to give up on this—on her.

“It won’t be easy,” you acquiesce, changing tactics. “But nothing worth having ever is. We can figure it out together, Leigh. We can make it work if we both want it enough.”

Leigh’s jaw clenches, and she looks away, the rain streaking down the windows like tears. She can’t help but compare this moment to the beginning with Matt. He had been so eager, so willing to give himself to her completely. He had always assured her that he was happy just to be with her, to follow her wherever her dreams led. He had said yes to every plan she made, every crazy idea she had, always with that same smile, always saying, “As long as I’m with you.”

But then, one day, he wasn’t there anymore.

And Leigh doesn’t know if she can survive another abandonment.

You have no idea that all of this is racing through her mind as you keep making your case. “...just take a leap of faith. Don’t push me away before we’ve even had a chance to—”

You’re mid-sentence, almost convincing yourself that you're breaking through her defenses, when Leigh interrupts with a shout, “Maybe this was a mistake!”

Taken aback and hurt by her outburst, you risk calling her bluff, exclaiming, “Maybe it was!”

An impasse is reached. For a moment, all you can do is stare at each other, each of you gasping for breath as if the air itself has slipped from the car in those tense seconds.

Is this it, then?

Is this the end?

But before you can retract any of your words, in a move you never see coming, Leigh reaches out. Her hand clasps the back of your neck, pulling you close. She kisses you fiercely, as if trying to settle the argument with just the pressure of her lips.

But she's not trying to win. Leigh doesn't want to come out on top in this argument. Instead, she wants to forget her usual realism and bury herself in the moment. She wants to give in to your optimism, to let you abandon everything you've worked for to be with her in the coming months.

But she knows that’s selfish.

And she finds herself unable to be selfish when it comes to you.

You're just beginning to melt into the kiss, to lose yourself in the forgiveness it promises, when Leigh abruptly pulls away. She hurls herself back against her seat, her back pressed hard against the door, panting.

“Sorry,” she gasps, her voice thick with both regret and need.

You look at her, eyes half-lidded and lips feeling bruised from the fervor of her kiss. All you can focus on is how she's starting to pull away—but you're determined not to let her go. Not this time.

“No, no, come here. Come back here, damn it.”

Leigh doesn't need to be told twice. She meets you halfway, the space between you disappearing as quickly as it had expanded. Her mouth finds yours once again, lips slotting together in a way that feels right, necessary—like solving a puzzle that neither of you knew how to complete until now.

With all inhibitions cast aside, Leigh grabs the collar of your shirt with surprising strength, yanking you towards her so forcefully that half of your body ends up sprawled across the cramped passenger seat. Your hips press painfully against the gear stick, but any discomfort quickly fades as Leigh's tongue teases yours. Instinctively, you open your mouth wider, a low moan escaping as your tongues intertwine. You support your weight with one arm braced against the windshield behind her, careful not to overwhelm her with your weight. Your other hand rises to cradle her neck, feeling the heat of her skin rising by the second under your touch.

Leigh's hands are anything but idle; they're bold and determined as she reaches for the buttons of your jeans. It's the second time today since this morning, and she's all confidence as she pulls down the zipper, slipping her hand inside your soaked underwear. The moment her fingers trace the length of your slit, brushing against your clit with each pass, you nearly lose your balance.

But as much as you're caught up in the temptation of her touch, there’s something else on your mind—something you've been thinking about all week.

“Backseat,” you say breathlessly, the word more of a command than a suggestion. Without waiting for her response, you clamber toward the backseat of the car. Once there, you quickly turn to help Leigh slide in after you.

You gently push at Leigh's shoulders, and she understands immediately, lying back with a soft thud against the door panel. Her upper back curves awkwardly against the hard surface, but she doesn’t mind, consumed by desire and curiosity about what you’re planning to do next. She lies there, expectant and provocatively inviting, as your fingers hover over the waistband of her shorts.

You lower your voice to a whisper, “May I?”

She nods quickly and you make short work of her shorts and panties, tugging them down her thighs efficiently. With a firm tap, you signal for her to lift her legs. She complies, bending at the knees as you strip the fabric past her ankles and casually toss it to the front seat.

Your eyes widen at the sight of her waxed bare. “God, you're beautiful,” you whisper, pulling her closer until she's practically lying across your lap. Your hands roam over her creamy thighs, kneading the soft flesh there. You take your time, exploring every inch, your touch deliberately skirting the places she aches for you most. You’re teasing her, and her body responds ardently—her breath catches, her hips tilt seeking more.

Leigh’s skin is hot under your fingertips. She’s ready, practically quivering, but you keep the pace maddeningly slow. Your fingers dance closer, then retreat, building her frustration to a fever pitch.

“Patience,” you murmur with a teasing smile, savoring the way her body arches and responds to your touch.

“Don't be cruel,” she whines, her eyes the darkest you've seen them.

You lean in, your lips brushing against her ear. “I promise, it'll be worth it,” you whisper, letting your fingers finally drift to the spot she needs you most. Your fingers play with her, teasing her folds, drawing circles around her clit to get her wetter and wetter, each touch designed to increase her desire, her body responding with eager, heated movements. Her breathing becomes heavier, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she pushes against your fingers, craving more.

Seeing her so turned on, you adjust your position. You scoot backward until your back presses against the other side of the car, then gently maneuver Leigh's legs to drape over your shoulders, positioning her in a bridge. The pose might be demanding, so you look up at her, your hands supporting her weight by firmly grasping her buttocks.

“Is this okay?" you ask as you prepare to bring her closer to your eager mouth.

“Just fuck me, please,” Leigh breathes out impatiently.

That's all the permission you need. You lower your head, your lips finding the delicate, sensitive flesh of her pussy. Her taste is intoxicating, driving you to explore further with your tongue. Her hips rise to meet your mouth, the angle allowing you to take her in deeply. Leigh's response is immediate—her moans fill the car, guttural and unrestrained. The scent of sex begins to saturate the air, mingling with the dampness of the rain outside. You’re thankful for the dark tint of your car windows and the fact that the bad weather has cleared the streets at this hour.

You want to prolong this, to draw out every moment of her pleasure, but you can already feel Leigh tightening around your tongue, telling you she’s close. In a bid to intensify her impending release, you decide to gamble on your strength. With one hand you keep her lifted in the perfect position, while your other hand moves with a different intent.

Pulling your tongue back, you replace it with your lips, sucking her clit into your mouth, letting the slight pressure send ripples through her. Simultaneously, you slide your middle and ring finger deep into her, the slick heat of her welcoming you in. Leigh's response is visceral, a raw, “Oh fuck, fuck, that’s it, don’t stop…!” that she screams out as if it's being torn from her.

Fuelled by her cries, you pump your fingers harder, faster, curling them to stroke that perfect spot inside her. She's loud, unabashedly so, her moans filling the car, steaming up the windows even more, turning this space into your own sordid bubble. She's dripping down your wrist, your chin, but you don’t mind, existing in that moment solely for her pleasure.

“Y/N, I—”

She's right on the edge, her body slick with sweat and shaking from the relentless pleasure you're hammering into her. But as the climax washes over her, her voice breaks into something unexpected. Instead of the anticipated screams or the typical rush of expletives, something deeper bursts forth.

“—I love you!”

You almost lose your rhythm at her declaration.

Her body shakes violently, her screams of ecstasy almost a primal release. You keep going, pushing her through it, savoring every tremble and shudder, tasting every bit of her orgasm, all the while thinking, Leigh loves me.

She fucking loves me.

You’re cautious enough not to hang your entire heart on those three words immediately, but the confession still paints a devilish grin across your face. This wasn’t merely a heat-of-the-moment slip; it felt like Leigh was revealing something she'd been holding back for a while.

Carefully, you ease her legs down from your shoulders, noticing her wince as she adjusts from the stretch. Before you even get the chance to ask if she really meant what she said, Leigh answers by pulling you in close, her hands framing your face. She kisses you, so tenderly, and it’s nothing like the ones you’ve shared before. It’s the kind of kiss that slows time, the one you’ve been dreaming about since you were a little kid, the one you hope to keep until you’re old.

Leigh’s eyes lock onto yours, earnest and clear, “I do love you.”

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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alexiroflife · 5 months ago

Text

‘don’t hate me’

“Across the Earth” Part 2: satoru gojo x reader

part 1 | part 3

Synopsis: satoru struggles with your constant anger at him and ponders if you've ever cared about him the way he cares about you. his temporary solution to his conflict is to force you along with him to his villa

to sum it up: "why can't she love me?"

WC: 8,821

“Wakey, wakey!”

You groan as the blare of the sun irritates your eyes until you open, unsure of whether the voice that sang into your ear moments ago was a hallucination inspired by your sleepy state or not.

You rub your hand over your eyes, stretching your arms out and rolling over to find Satoru leaned over, his face inches away from yours with a dopey smile.

You screech, jumping up and shuffling to the other side of your bed, eyes wide as your vision adjusts to the blue eyed man’s figure standing at the edge of your bed with a to-go bag in hand. He chuckles to himself, looking over you mischievously. “Oops, didn’t mean to scare you.”

You grumble incoherently to yourself, adjusting to your steady regain of consciousness. You turn to look out the window and see that it is still early morning by the way the sun sits in the sky. You sigh and crawl over to your nightstand to reach for your phone, eyes hazy when you catch the time reading 9:05.

“What are you doing?” you exhale tiredly, throwing your legs over the edge of the bed and looking up at Satoru with sleepy eyes as you scratch your head. You miss the way he stumbles over his words slightly and averts his gaze for a second before he’s placing the paper bag he held onto your lap.

“Wishing you a happy morning,” he says. “I got you breakfast.”

You furrow your brows, peering into the bag’s contents to find a lox bagel with cream cheese, something you had loved for years. You blink, reaching in to grab it instantly, your mind fixing solely on hunger that bubbles at the sight of the bagel.

“You would not believe the line I had to wait in to get this thing. New Yorkers are so bossy, pushing each other around and yelling for no reason that early in the morning,” Satoru rambles about his first experience at a bakery in the city. “This one guy almost took off my head because I tried to move around to see the display case. He thought I was cutting the line or something.”

“You went out this morning?” you ask softly, peering up at him as you grasp the large bagel in your hands.

“Yeah, just got back,” he answers casually.

You hum in appreciation. “Thanks, Toru,” you say mindlessly before taking a huge bite.

Satoru’s cheeks warm slightly and he’s waving you off like it’s nothing. “So, what time are we heading out?”

You look at him inquisitively, mouth full. “We?” your muffled voice repeats.

“That’s what I said.”

You don’t have the capacity to ask further right now as you still wake yourself up. “In ‘firty I go,” you tell him, mouth full.

He snickers. “Thirty minutes?”

You nod.

“Alright then, you go get dressed and I’ll wait for you out here,” Satoru makes his way to the doorway leading to the living room. You furrow your brows, swallowing harshly.

“Wait,” you stop him. “What do you mean? Where’s Suguru and Shoko?”

“Out to breakfast.”

“...Why aren’t you with them?”

“Cause I was getting you breakfast.”

“But,” you shake your head. “Why are you waiting for me? You know I have somewhere to go soon.”

“Oh, that’s because I'm coming with you,” he smiles and you straighten up, perplexed.

“What?”

“I wanna see where you’re working.”

You purse your lips. “I don’t think that’s…”

“And I want to visit the museum.”

“...Okay, then can’t you visit later?”

Satoru tilts his head back over his shoulders, casting you a sarcastic gaze. “Why? ‘You pushing me away again already?”

“Um- no?! It’s just not professional for me to pull up to a meeting with my friend hanging around!”

He smiles. “Relax, I’ll be good. It’ll be like I’m not even there.”

“No, Satoru,” you stand, putting your bagel down to rummage through your drawers for an outfit. “I’ll see you after, but you can’t come with me.”

“Come on,” he complains dramatically. “Not even for a little bit?”

“No.”

“What if I just take a peek inside?”

“I said no.”

“Can’t you at least let me drive you there?”

You halt, turning to look at his pleading eyes. “And what about our friends who are out?”

“I can always go pick them up when they’re done,” he persuades. “Come on, come on,” he drawls. “Let me give you a ride, pretty please with a cherry on top?”

You exhale, pressing your lips into a straight line. “Alright, fine!” you begrudgingly accept. “But just one ride, and you don’t go inside. Got it?”

“How about two rides, one and there and back,” he presses.

“I don’t know when I’ll be done or what I’m doing after, Satoru.”

“Sure you do, you’re hanging with us, remember?” he reminds you of last night’s conversation.

“I never agreed to that.”

“That’s too bad, I wasn’t asking,” he grins.

“God, you’re so annoying! Okay, sure, whatever, two rides. But that’s it, you hear me? You’re not going into that museum while I’m meeting there.”

“Ugh, you wound me,” he frowns theatrically. “But I suppose that’s okay.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go away while I get dressed,” you dismiss him. “And take a shower while you’re at it.”

Satoru’s face falls in horror. “Do I stink?!”

You pinch your nose and pucker your lips in fake disgust. “Not yet, but the longer you keep those clothes on from yesterday without bathing, you will.”

“You’re so mean,” he pouts. “At least you don’t hear me saying anything about your morning breath.”

You grit your teeth, picking out a pair of random jeans and chucking them at the white haired man who caught them in his hand with ease. “Get out now!”

He laughs, turning to take your pants with you. “You’re not getting these back,” he sings, pulling the door closed behind him.

The two of you are refreshed and dressed on time for you to make it to the museum with a few minutes to spare. Satoru walks you to his rental car parked on the side of the street a few blocks down, a sleek black convertible with no hood greeting your sight.

You stare at the vehicle in agitated awe as Satoru holds the passenger seat door open for you, lenses of his dark glasses gleaming like the pride in his blue eyes as he watches your expression. “After you,” he says with a goofy tone.

You scoff, stepping into the car cautiously. There are times when Satoru’s wealth, though a constant fact nagging in the back of your head, truly astonishes you. This is the same guy who drops thousands at the mall every other weekend for fun when the group tags along, showering his money into registers like it’s nothing. And of course, there’s the fact that Satoru planned and booked a trip across the world within a day and managed to find a rental car and a villa that suits his expensive tastes. You roll your eyes. He’s so obnoxious with his money at times.

“You’re insane,” you mumble and he giggles, shutting the door behind you and rounding the car to step into the driver’s seat.

Despite Satoru’s privilege, however, he is and always has been a very very poor driver. You are sorely reminded of this fact when he weaves through the already hectic streets of New York, honking impatiently with his arm slung over the side and nearly ramming into bumpers at a stoplight, his driving matching his carefree personality and the chaos of the city rather well. You simply pray that you won’t die in the passenger seat of his car.

As some time passes, you look over and catch a glimpse of his stunning side profile as he drives, loose sweater teasing his collarbone and neck muscles while his veiny hand grips the wheel tight, fingers occasionally running over and thrumming against the leather.

Your eyes then drift down to his exposed forearms, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His muscles tense every now and then with the rotation of the wheel, his head throwing over his shoulder to glimpse behind him before merging sloppily.

He catches your eyes once as you’re staring, and you’re quick to look away, clearing your throat and hardening your eyes. It’s his turn to look at you now, seizing his opportunity when he hits another red light.

His blue eyes roam over your face, studying the curve of your brow and the subtle pout in your plump lips. He breathes in slowly, chest rising as the sight of your face makes his heart skip a beat. You blink a lot, he notices, your lashes fluttering against your soft cheeks, the curve of your cheekbone brightened by the glow of the morning sun.

He sees you turn to face him, round (e/c) eyes reaching his and making his throat run dry. He doesn’t look away, and his hearing is muffled until you nudge his shoulder harshly. Suddenly, the blare of car horns and your urgent voice registers.

“Satoru!” you shout. “The light!”

He looks up and sees that it has turned green and the car in front of him is long gone. He snorts, immediately slamming into the gas and jerking the two of you into motion. “Whoops,” he grins, and you’re flicking his forehead.

“Being in the car with you is a threat to my life, I swear,” you roll your eyes, turning to hide your flushed face.

“Wouldn’t you rather be with me than in a taxi?”

“What do you think?”

Satoru chuckles. “Sucks for you then, because as long as I’m around you’re riding with me.”

“Gee, I’m so lucky,” you quip sarcastically.

“I know right?”

After a grueling fifteen minutes, you finally pull up to the sidewalk by the museum behind a row of cabs. Satoru puts the car in park and leans over you to look up at the building over his glasses. “Wow,” he comments. “You must be losing your shit over this, huh nerd?”

“Insult me all you want,” you say. “I’m having a great time here.”

“I’m sure you are,” he hums. Your eyes scan the steps to the MET swiftly before you spot Aoto to the left while Satoru examines the area curiously.

“Oh! I see Aoto,” you announce, unbuckling your seatbelt and slinging your back over your shoulder.

Satoru’s brows pinch together, his gaze attempting to follow yours to locate your research partner. “Where?”

You point out to the brunette dressed in a light button up and slacks, seemingly waiting for your arrival. “There,” you say. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll text you when I’m done.”

“Hold on,” he stops you, grabbing your arm gently to keep you from leaving just yet. You look at him with a strange expression.

“What is it now?”

“Well, it’d be rude of me not to introduce myself now that I’m here,” he says flatly.

“Why would you need to do that?”

“To be polite.”

“But he doesn’t even know who you are.”

“Exactly, hence introducing myself,” he says, looking at you blankly.

You don’t have the opportunity to stop him before he’s honking his horn, waving into the air aggressively and calling out to Aoto. Your eyes go wide and you turn to grip his extended arm to lower at, hissing at him to shut up, but it’s too late.

The commotion catches Aoto’s attention as well as the attention of many others. You watch the brunette turn into your direction, scrunching his face oddly before releasing it when he sees you next to the odd white haired man calling him over.

You panic when he heads your way, slapping at Satoru’s chest and knee. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” you hiss, and he’s smirking evilly.

Aoto steps down and approaches your passenger door, ducking his head to look into the car. He looks at you first, smiling kindly as Satoru stares, observing intensely with a tight lipped smile. “Morning, (Y/n),” a laugh bubbles lightly in his words as you tighten your face with embarrassment and flash him a nervous smile, ripping your hands from Gojo’s body.

“Hi,” you greet shortly.

“I see you’ve found a better ride today,” he jokes, and Satoru can feel a muscle in his eye twitch at the sound of him being humorous with you a day after meeting. Aoto looks at Satoru, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “How’s it going?”

“Oh just great,” Satoru grins, his one hand still taut on the steering wheel. “You must be uhhh… Apollo?”

You crick your neck when Satoru purposely fumbles the brunette’s name to his face.

Aoto takes it well, chuckling softly. “Uh, close, it’s Aoto,” he smiles. “But people butcher it all the time,” he lies.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Satoru nods slowly.

“(Y/n), this a friend of yours?”

You sigh. “Yeah, he’s just visiting-“

“Satoru Gojo,” your albino friend extends a hand over your lap into Aoto’s direction. Your research partner clasps it firmly, shaking with a friendly grip. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise.” You notice Aoto move to tug his hand away, but Satoru holds on for a second longer, keeping his grip tight before letting him go. “That’s a hell of a handshake you got there.”

“Thank you,” Satoru grins. “So I hear you and (Y/n) are working together?”

“Sure are. We’re actually heading in soon to meet with a historian,” Aoto explains. “Your friend here is a really passionate girl. It’s already a pleasure to get to chat with her about all this stuff,” the older man compliments you, and you laugh bashfully.

Gojo, however, does not find anything funny. His tight smile is frozen on his face as he watches Aoto look at you with what you would call a “friendly” gaze, but what Satoru knows as a look that reveals his hidden desire to have sex with you.

He can feel himself losing his cool, the very thought of you spending all day with this creep making him lose his mind.

You turn to look at Gojo oddly upon detecting a sudden foulness in his mood.

“Funny, you got all that out of her in one day?” Satoru lifts his brows, glossy lips parted as he holds a finger to his chin as though he is completely indulged in what Aoto is saying. You don’t understand why he is all of a sudden behaving so rudely. He has no right, after all, since this is your sanctuary he insisted upon intruding.

“A day is generous. Maybe even less,” Aoto jokes in high spirits, and you try to laugh along with him, but the glare in Satoru’s eyes distracts you as he looks between you and your research partner repeatedly.

“Well, gosh, luckily for me, I’ve known her for three years,” Satoru smiles, turning to look at you. “Isn’t that right?”

You give him a warning glare, to which he blatantly ignores and turns back to face your research partner.

“She gets shy when I put her on the spot, but it’s true.”

“In that case, I’m sure you guys have a great friendship.”

“We really do.”

“Alright,” you jump in to cut the strange sense of strain in the air. “I think it’s about time we head in,” you say to Aoto.

He shrugs with a soft smile. “Sure, let’s go. Hey, nice meeting you Gojo,” he waves to the blue eyed pain in the ass next to you, and the said man grins.

“Take care, buddy.”

You are about to hop out of the vehicle to join Aoto when you pause. “Actually, Aoto, could you give us a minute? I think my chapstick fell out in here somewhere.”

“Oh, yeah, no problem. I’ll just be inside then.”

“Okay.”

You wait until Aoto is far enough to be out of earshot before whipping your head around and punching Satoru square in the shoulder. “Ow!” he yelps, rubbing the sore area, his uncivil facade fading. “That hurt!”

“What the hell was that, huh?” you ask through gritted teeth. “Why were you being so rude?”

“I wasn’t,” he exhales with irritation. “I was just scoping him out, no big deal.”

“It is a big deal, Satoru, because that’s the guy I’m working with! You know, for a real research opportunity?”

“Yeah, so you’ve said a hundred times already,” he remarks sassily. “It wasn’t that serious.”

“Nothing ever is to you, is it?” you growl, anger consuming your mind. Your thoughts of why you stepped away from Satoru in the first place instantly return, face flustering in embarrassment and heart pounding.

Why did he always have to make a scene everywhere he went? Why does he have to constantly be the center of attention with no regard for how his behavior impacts anyone else?

Satoru looks at you with a slightly hurt and befuddled expression. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a child,” you huff, gathering your belongings into your lap with haste. Satoru grabs your arm again before you can leave for the second time.

“Woah, woah, woah, hold on,” he rushes out. “Did I actually piss you off just now?”

“Answer your own questions, Satoru, since you seem to know everything.”

A dent forms in the space between his brows as he peers down at you incredulously. “You’re getting this worked up over me messing with some random guy?”

“My research partner,” you clarify.

“Whatever! Why does it matter?”

“It matters because you don’t think it does! You only give meaning to the things you care about, and you knock everyone else down along the way. It’s exhausting!”

“How was I supposed to know that you’d care so much about what I say to him? You just met him yesterday.”

“You still don’t even get it,” you shake your head. “Why would you?”

“Why are you snapping at me, (Y/n)?” Satoru frowns. “I thought we were good. I thought I didn’t do anything to make you mad at me.”

“That was yesterday, Satoru. This is today.”

“And you’re this angry at me over something so small? Nothing built up to you blowing up on me like this?”

“Maybe I’m just sick of you being an asshole.”

You yank your arm away, throwing open the door and slamming it behind you. Satoru sits back, lips parted in shock, reeling at the rate at which you had grown upset with him. He feels his heart ache, unsure of why you care so much about one interaction he had with a guy neither of you knows.

You’re right. He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand.

He can’t understand how this man gets to spend all of his time with you after you stripped your time away from Satoru forcefully, without even telling him why. You can’t understand why you defend Aoto, grow angry for him, resentful and hurtful. You called Satoru a child, you called him an asshole, you claimed that he didn’t care about how things affected others when all he cares about in this godforsaken world is you, and yet somehow, you’ve antagonized him and left him behind.

Where is your gratitude for the years he spent by your side ensuring that you weren’t lonely? Where is your gratitude for the tears he wiped away, shed for your isolation from an unloving family? Where is your gratitude for remembering all of your favorite foods, your likes, your dislikes, the things you are allergic to, the things you dream about attaining, your favorite animal, your favorite piece of clothing, your best and worst subjects in school, what makes you laugh, what makes you cry, what makes your nose scrunch up in disgust and your eyes shine with enthusiasm?

Why are you so keen on shoving your memory of all he has been for you away? Why is it so easy for you to yell at him, to push you off of him, to glare at him, to dismiss him, to ghost him, when he knows there is no reality in this universe where he would be able to rip his eyes from your beautiful face for longer than one second?

It didn’t take much for you to leave Satoru behind, and he mourns over you. He mourns over your presence and your love that he begins to question was ever there. He mourns your touch, your gaze, your affections, your praises. He mourns the thought of you leaning into him and accepting the lengths to which he would go for you, the planets he would conquer, the oceans he would swim, the beasts he would tame.

Satoru would have given you his entire existence if you asked for it, but he mourns the notion that you would do the same as he realizes that you never will.

Instead, you choose Shoko over him. You choose Suguru over him. You choose an empty phone over him, a new country over him, and an older man over him. When Gojo would pick you in every universe he encounters within his dreams, you would cast him away for the chance of finding something better.

You do not love him, and he understands now.

To you, he’s an asshole, a child, a careless man with no regard for the impact he has on the people he cares for. To you, he is his legacy, his privilege, his wealth, his pride, his family. You are everything to him, the stars, the sun, and the moon, but he is nothing to you but a burden.

That must be why you stopped talking to him, why you were practically mortified to see his face in New York. Suguru had been right though he didn’t want to accept it. You want space away from him, far away, and while chases you, you continue to outrun him, seeking another hand to hold.

Satoru can feel himself growing cold, eyes angry and jaw taut. He doesn’t know why he tries so hard with you, or whether his blatant desire to keep you near has pushed you away further. He doesn’t know why, no matter how many times your voice and body tell him that you don’t want him around, he still follows you. He can’t bring himself to leave you the way you try to leave him, for you hold too much weight within his mind and bring him too much happiness. Christ, you’re one of his best friends, the only woman he has truly cared for beyond himself, and you give him nothing. Even so, he clings to you like you’re his last breath, surviving off of the ropes you throw and pull away as though he has no other option.

And to Satoru, there is no other option. You’re it. You’re everything. He can’t walk away, so why should you be able to?

He pictures you with Aoto, his rugged stubbled face and dark eyes. He pictures you laugh alongside him, fingers brushing his elbow as you steady yourself on your feet. He pictures you watching him with enamored eyes as he drones on about art, about the things you like that Satoru has never comprehended but has learned for you.

He pictures you hugging him, tucking your face against his chest as he pulls you close, his lips brushing your forehead as you thank him for this wonderful opportunity. He pictures you out at a grungy restaurant, sharing a meal in celebration of your remarkable intelligence, clinking glasses as your eyes meet in the haze of the candle lit space.

He pictures you going home with him, falling into him, lips crushing together and hands wandering over bare skin, skin Satoru alone is meant to touch, to kiss, to cherish.

The white haired heir clenches his fists together, rage overcoming him at the tormented images flashing through his brain. You’ll probably leave him for this place one day, for this life, for this guy, throwing him behind as if he held no value to you. You’ll go again without telling him and Satoru will find out through a friend, too late for him to chase you into a new life. He imagines you happy without him, and his heart shatters.

You, on the other hand, are fuming.

Why does Satoru have to be so obnoxious? Why can’t he let you breathe without him hovering over you, tracking you down just to make you angry again?

What right does he have to treat a stranger as if he is beneath him? Someone who you happen to work with? Could he be any more pretentious?

Your blood is boiling as you picture him looking at you, then competing with a man that you hardly even know through the tone of his voice and his unwarranted possession of you. What gives him the right to treat you as though he owns you, grinning smugly at Aoto as though he could never amount to his image?

You recall the nights you stayed up watching stories of Satoru with some random girl on your social media, his pretty face leaning into the camera as he sweet-talks the unassuming woman behind it with no intention of following through. You recall the times Satoru shoved profiles of girls who follow him into your faces, making remarks about how attractive they are before accepting their friend requests. You recall every time you have ended up sobbing in Suguru’s arms after a night of drinking, the dark haired boy himself blaming your emotions on the alcohol when in reality they were sparked by the sight of a girl grinding up against him in a club.

You replay all the instances Gojo has made you and hundreds of other women feel like a fool, and he has the audacity to challenge the poor guy you work with?

It’s unfair, all of it.

You’re supposed to be getting away from him, but instead, he’s here, just like he always forces himself to be. He’s invading your personal space, making judgments about other people, and all the while doing so and expecting not to be reprimanded. How much more inconsiderate could a person get?

You spend your entire day thinking about him, his face appearing in your head as you try to listen to the things the people around you are saying. You try your hardest to rid your mind of Satoru, but the task proves impossible. He’s like a plague, ailing your train of thought every chance he gets.

Why can’t he just leave you alone? It was already enough that he had made you fall in love with him, so why couldn’t he give you space? Why is he always so close to you, lingering in every nook and cranny of your heart and soul?

By the time late afternoon rolls around, you and Aoto are done in the MET and you are given a list of artifacts to organize on a spreadsheet by the end of the day. You had not called Satoru to see where he was, and you almost think he isn’t showing up, but when you descend the museum stairs, you see him parked by the sidewalk with Suguru sitting passenger and Shoko in the back.

You exhale slowly, preparing yourself for what is to come as you approach the car. “Hey, guys,” you greet with a wave, and your friends’ heads are turning except for Satoru, who leans his head back against the headrest and stares forward emptily.

“How was your day?” Shoko asks as you climb into the back with her.

You shrug. “Good. Got some good work to do.” You look forward to finding Gojo’s dull eyes in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t move to greet or look at you, which you find unbearably unusual. “What about you guys?”

“Suguru and I actually saw a huge rat after we finished breakfast,” the young woman beside you snickers. “So he’s not in the greatest mood.”

“I need to get out of this fucking place,” you hear Suguru mutter and you laugh at his tone of dreadful severity as Satoru pulls out and starts driving.

“Hate to break it to you, Sugu, but your friend has other plans for you today,” you say, hardly addressing the man you are speaking about aside from a vague allusion to Suguru.

“Actually,” you hear Satoru speak up, and you look up at him to find his eyes on you through the mirror. He looks slightly perturbed, the usual bubbliness in his tone and playful glitter in his eye replaced by a flat indifference. “There’s been a change of plans.”

You keep his gaze for a moment, eying him skeptically. “Oh?” is all you muster up the energy to say.

“We’re going back now.”

“Back where?”

“To the villa.”

Your shoulders drop as you process his announcement. All of a sudden, he wants to leave?

“Oh…”

“Don’t worry though. You’re coming with.”

You perk up, eyes shooting wide. “Huh?”

“I think you heard me perfectly clear,” he says. “Your stuff’s already all packed and in the front with Suguru. We’re heading straight up there now.”

“How the hell did you get back into my house?”

“I saw the code you put into the keypad when we left.”

You perch yourself up, gripping the back of Geto’s seat and leaning to look over at Satoru’s face. “Are you crazy? I’m not coming up there! It’s too far! I have to stay here.”

“Calm down. Your computer’s packed and I’ll have you back in the city by tomorrow morning.”

You fume. “Satoru, why do you think you can just drag me around wherever you want me to go?”

“I don’t think that. I just think it would be unfair to our friends if we forced them to hang around the city any longer without an extra pair of clothes. I’m thinking ahead for everyone, ‘cause, you know, I try to be aware of how my actions impact others,” he quips with a straight face, refusing to spare you a glance once you’re staring directly at him and leaning over the console.

Your face darkens when those last few words leave his mouth. “Is this really how you’re choosing to react to this morning?”

“Like I told you before, (Y/n), not everything’s about you. I’m doing this for Shoko and Suguru. So just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

He turns the volume knob up on a random station, blasting music he doesn’t even listen to as he drives. You lean back into your seat feeling even more agitated than you had been earlier, crossing your arms.

“He didn’t tell you about this before?” Shoko asks you quietly, the blare of the radio overpowering her voice enough for the boys in the front not to hear. You throw your hands up and into your lap, preparing for a rant.

“No! Literally just this morning he was trying to make you guys stay here longer so we could walk around the city,” you fume, turning to complain to your friend. She shakes her head with an exasperated smile.

“Typical Satoru.”

“I just can’t with him sometimes, honestly,” you huff.

“What did he do this time?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re pissed, he’s pissed, you mentioned something that happened this morning,” she lists as though this is nothing new. “What did he do?”

“Am I really that obvious when I’m mad at him?”

“I mean, yeah, but Satoru even more so when he’s bothered,” she glances up at him. “He never gets upset with you, so it’s weird.”

“Now why the hell would he be upset with me? He’s the one constantly out of line,” you accuse quietly, turning to look at the streets passing you by. “Like- you can’t just take people wherever you want to go. It’s selfish.”

“Tell me what he did, girl,” Shoko repeats for a third time and you exhale.

“It was just this weird thing this morning. He wanted to meet my research partner and he made a whole scene.”

Shoko listens as she pulls out a lighter and a pack of almost finished cigarettes. “What kind of scene?”

“I don’t know how to explain it, he was just acting like a dick… like really… really…” you struggle to find the word.

“Territorial?”

You give Shoko a strange look, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Sort of.”

Ieiri shakes her head, flicking her match open to light the stick in her hand. “Figures.”

“I just wish for once he’d stop being so difficult.”

“I think you’re asking for the impossible,” Shoko cups her hands around the flame to block it from the wind. “Satoru will always be Satoru, and when you’re involved, he’s Satoru on Xanax.”

“Yeah, because he loves to piss me off.”

Shoko doesn’t respond, puffing smoke from her now lit cigarette as she ponders how you still can’t see what is so clearly standing right in front of you.

The car ride is silent for the most part, though not as long as you assumed it would be. After a few stops for gas and snacks, you finally make it to Long Island, the scent of sea breeze drifting through your nostrils and into the wild wind as you lean your head against the door, looking around you and observing the captivating scenery.

You watch the large, expensive houses pass you by until you’re pulling into a secluded villa at the end of a row. You lift your head and look up in awe as Satoru pulls into the driveway. The home is obnoxiously large, trees shading the front porch and sun pouring richly through the overhead leaves. There’s two stories, but the house stretches so wide it looks as though it was built for a family of twelve. The exterior is mostly wood with tall window panes and a glass dome connecting two legs of the house sitting in the center, where the front door resides. Your jaw hangs open as everyone piles out of the car casually, as though a two hundred thousand dollar vacation home isn’t sitting right before their eyes.

Suguru grabs your light overnight bag and tosses it over to you, catching you by surprise once you step out the car and rush to clutch it to your chest. “Welcome to Satoru’s overcompensation,” Suguru smiles at you, and Satoru grumbles at him to shut up as he closes the door behind him.

Shoko skips around you, racing up to the front door. “I call dibs on the big shower!” she claims, disappearing into the house.

Geto sweatdrops, trudging in behind her. “All the showers here are big, Shoko.”

The two leave you and Satoru alone as he rounds his car to grab your bag out of your arms wordlessly. His eyes, yet again, don’t meet yours. “I’ll show you to your room.”

You can feel your heart clench at his coldness, though frustration with him still bubbles, and you follow him into the house silently. Once you step through the glass doors, you see that the majority of the bottom level opens up to the back of the house, where a fresh cut lawn surrounds a crystal blue pool and lawn chairs. You stare baffled. The house is admittedly beautiful, but for Satoru to have splurged this much on a last minute trip is insane.

He leads you upstairs and down a long hallway before nudging open a door to your right that you realize is your bedroom. Satoru lets you walk past him into the room first, and you examine the large space carefully, the window on the left, the small couch in front of the queen bed, the television, and the marble dressers. It’s a nice room, you admit to yourself.

Satoru walks in to put your bag down on your bed, then turns to walk out. “We’re going out at ten,” he says, moving to leave.

“Wait,” you stop him, and he stills. He turns around to face you, an almost pained yet bothered expression on his face. You don’t know what to say now that you have his attention. You only know that you’re confused, though still angry with him for earlier. You’re confused as to why you’re here with him, why he’s all of a sudden mad at you. You can see it written all over his face now that Shoko has brought it to your attention. “What was the point of taking me here?” you choose to ask him, a question simple enough, you think, to not rouse more tension.

But you’re wrong.

“(Y/n),” he exhales. “I don’t know what to tell you if you can’t comprehend the fact that we just want to spend time with you.”

You swallow hard. He is mad. But why? You’re the one who’s supposed to be mad, not him. “Okay, but you’re not understanding where I’m coming from at all. Randomly making me do things without asking first sparks a few questions, don’t you think?”

“Okay then,” he nods. “What would you have said if I asked you?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“Be honest,” he demands sternly, and you look him in the eye when you answer.

“Probably… no, Satoru.”

“Exactly. So why ask if you’re just gonna turn me down again like you have been for weeks?” You feel your heart sink. You don’t like this feeling, though you know it’s partially your fault you’re in this situation.

“Didn’t we already talk about this last night?”

“I don’t think we’ve talked about it enough, but you don’t really wanna explain yourself, so I’m letting it go and making an executive decision for everyone.”

“Everyone?” you repeat.

He stares at you a moment, perturbed. “Yes,” he fibs, and you know he is. “If you have any more complaints about how I approach our relationship, take it up with the others,” he says, turning back around. “I won’t keep putting myself in a position where I have to defend myself caring about you.”

He’s gone within a second after that, swiftly leaving your room as if he was never there. You stand in the door, watching the entrance speechlessly.

You don’t know why Satoru’s behavior toward you is completely throwing you off, for if you’re mad at him, it really shouldn’t matter if he’s mad at you, right? But you have never seen him look at you so tiredly, speak to you with such agitation in his eyes and his tone. With you, he’s normally always bright, playful, loud, and obnoxious but in an endearing way. This tone he’s taking with you now is void of all that glee, and if you’re being completely honest with yourself, it’s making you anxious and, dare you say, hurting your feelings.

You know you’re being unfair because you’re normally always the one upset with Satoru and not the other way around. You know that he’s a human being and has a right to whatever he feels, despite the fact that you were angry with him this morning, but that doesn’t make this feel any less strange, like the world is being thrown off kilter. Despite your initial frustrations with him, you’re beginning to miss his smile, miss the way he follows you, the way he pesters you, the very same things you always claimed drove you insane.

Have you been taking advantage of him all this time, overlooking the life that he has always brought to your own? Are you the selfish one, though you have always accused Satoru of being self-centered?

And those words he had said earlier… I won’t keep putting myself in a position where I have to defend myself caring about you.”

All this time, all the pranks and the harassing, the constant texts and the frequent company, had he been just caring about you instead of trying to make you angry? Instead of trying to get a rise out of you?

You don’t understand. You don’t understand anything anymore.

You’re drowning in your thoughts, head submerging into an ocean of memories replaying constantly in your head. You somehow end up on the second floor balcony, peering straight ahead of you. The awareness of Satoru lounging on a beach chair and Shoko laying in the pool on a float below you remains in the back of your head, but you’re not fully paying attention. You can’t stop thinking about Satoru, about your friendship, about how you thought it would be best to push him away, about how he looked at you with aching eyes at the thought of you turning away from him again.

Had you messed up?

You’re deep in a trance when Suguru stalks up behind you quietly. He saw your figure standing alone on the balcony as he walked by and decided to accompany you. When he comes into your line of sight to stand beside you, you jump, glancing at him then relaxing when you see the dark haired man smiling gently at you. “Hey,” he greets you casually. You notice that his hair is down and damp and his clothes are fresh, likely having just gotten out of the shower.

You exhale slowly. “Hey,” you say, turning back to face forward. Suguru can immediately sense that your mind isn’t all there as he leans against the glass railing and observes your body language. He then glances down below him to find Satoru glaring ahead, eyes shaded by his glasses as he sucks harshly at the straw of his lemonade.

Suguru understands immediately.

“How’re you holding up?” the hazel eyed student asks. “You know, after being dragged here and all.”

“Feeling like I should be working.”

“Why aren’t you?”

You shrug, angling your brows. “I don’t know, I can’t focus,” you say.

“Is it because of the house?” he looks around. “It can be a bit much.”

“Actually, no,” you tell him honestly. “I wish I could, but I don’t hate it here. It’s nice.”

“Uh oh. Satoru’s finally gotten to you,” Suguru chuckles and you look over at him, slightly panicked.

“What makes you say that?”

Geto’s eyes meet yours and he lifts a brow. “The house. He’s got you liking his expensive taste.”

“Oh,” you mutter in relief. “I guess. A nice place is a nice place.”

He hums, looking forward into the direction you had been staring off in. The two of you stand beside each other silently for a moment, watching the sun ease its way behind the trees, when Suguru speaks up once more. “(Y/n)?”

“Hm?”

“I have a question for you.”

You turn and grimace. “Anytime you say that, I get scared.”

Suguru laughs, a refreshing, genuine sound. “How come?”

“You always ask the most intimidating things.”

“Do I?” he tugs his lips in an amused smile. “I guess you won’t like what I have to ask you then.”

“Just get it over with already,” you groan.

“Alright…” he pauses, scanning his eyes over your face as he tries to find the best way to approach. “Why’d you stop talking to Satoru?”

You knew it was coming. How could you not, when you and Satoru are behaving so strangely? You sigh loudly again, hanging your head low. “I knew it.”

“It’s really not that crazy of a question,” he says smugly and you push at his shoulder.

“Please, you know what you’re doing,” you roll your eyes and he chuckles.

“Do I? I’m only asking.”

“Whatever,” you huff, rubbing your temple in exasperation.

“Well?”

You’re mute for a moment, trying to determine what you want to say or how to respond. Suguru has always been very good at detecting when people are lying to him or not, and you know that if you lie to him, you will only be making the situation more painful for yourself. And by the way the dark haired man is looking at you now, you have a feeling he already knows the answer.

“...Why do you think I stopped talking to him?”

“I know what I think, (Y/n), but if I’m wrong, then I’m wrong.”

You look at him, your eyes telling a story that Suguru has read far too many times over. He hums in understanding, looking back down at Satoru.

“Doesn’t seem like I am though,” he says and you slump, burying your face in your hands.

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I just-” you stop, unsure of where your mind is directing the words that are coming out of your mouth. “I just thought that… it would be best if I took some time away.”

“Best for who?”

“For me?” you answer though you aren’t sure. “I don’t know!” you exclaim again. “It was hard enough just having him around and letting him make a fool out of me.”

“Huh?” Suguru makes a baffled face. “Making a fool out of you? How?”

“Look at him,” you hiss. “Look at this place, look at the money he spends, the attention he gets, the life he lives! I’m nothing compared to that and he knows it.”

“Your difference in societal standings is hardly something that Satoru would ever care about.”

“Maybe not, but it’s a blaring difference between our lives and how we approach things,” you explain. “I had to fight to get here. He just snaps his fingers and it’s done, and because of that, he behaves like he can do anything he wants. In some ways he can, but he shouldn’t be able to when it comes to his friends. Not when it comes to me,” you emphasize. “You see what he does, you’re his best friend. He makes things happen the way he wants and pulls everyone along with him, not caring about whether you want to go with him or not.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

His eyes grow intense as he studies you. “Do you want to go with him?”

“I-” you part your lips because you think you can answer easily, but you surprise yourself when you don’t. You frown, suddenly feeling rather pathetic. “Who wouldn’t want to go with Satoru Gojo wherever he takes you? It’s better than him leaving you behind.”

“But, (Y/n),” Suguru begins adamantly. “Satoru has never once left any of us behind. That’s why we’re here. He could’ve hauled his own ass to America, but instead he forced us along with him. And while it can be irritating, it’s kinda nice to know that he wants to share his privilege with the people he cares about.

“Satoru may be a lot of things. He’s impulsive, he’s clingy, he’s dramatic, but he’s not uncaring. You can’t categorize him as that just because he’s different,” Geto says wisely, and another wave of shame washes over you when you realize that he’s right. It’s just easier for you to call Satoru inconsiderate when he can’t see how helplessly in love you are with him. “And I’m sorry if this is blunt, but if we’re talking about leaving people behind… you kinda did that to him.”

“Because I thought it was the right thing to do,” you urged. “I thought that if I stepped away, I wouldn’t have to face my…”

“Your feelings,” Geto concludes, and you flush as your lips and brows curl in discomfort.

“I couldn’t stand it,” you whisper. “I still can’t stand it… watching him, watching the way girls glue themselves to him, watching the way he just tosses them aside without caring… I’m horrified that he’d only do the same to me if he knew, and I can’t stand it.”

“You wanna know why Satoru doesn’t pay any of those girls any mind and leads them on?”

“No,” you tighten your lips.

“Come on, it’s the same reason why he snatched the chance to show his face to your research partner earlier with so much to say. It’s the reason why he can’t help but try to follow you wherever you go, and when he can’t, he finds a way.”

You stare at Geto with hard eyes, eager yet perplexed. “I still don’t get it.”

“You’re hopeless. Both of you are,” Suguru sighs. “Either way, whatever’s going on between you two needs to get fixed. Immediately.”

“But, Suguru, I don’t know how to just be friends with him anymore without getting mad or- or letting these feelings get in the way,” you say desperately. “I don’t know how to be around him anymore.”

“Let me pose it this way. Do you want to be around him?”

“Do you seriously expect me to answer that?”

“Yes.”

You close your eyes, heart pounding hardly in your ears. “Of course I want to be around him…” you admit under your breath in embarrassment. “That was never the problem. It was that it hurt to be around him without him knowing about how I feel.”

“Then tell him.”

“Oh, you’re out of your fucking mind.”

“I’m being serious, (Y/n),” Suguru groans. “You need to tell him.”

“I can’t do that, Suguru, it would ruin everything.”

“That’s what you’re afraid will happen. You don’t know what will actually happen.”

“I know enough,” you cut him off. “I know enough about Satoru to know that if I tell him everything, he’ll use it against me or take it as a joke. I’ve seen it. So many girls confess to him, he’s become numb to it by now.”

“Those are other girls. Not you.”

“What makes me any different?”

“More than you know. Trust me,” he says sternly. “So just tell him. Right now, I'm pretty sure he thinks you hate him. Especially after everything with you coming here after ghosting him, and I’m sure your fight this morning didn’t help.”

“Hold on, how did you even know about that?”

“Satoru’s got a big mouth.” Though you know Gojo didn’t tell Shoko, you don’t know why you’re surprised that he blabbered to his best friend about this morning’s incident. “And a big heart too.”

“...Suguru, I’m scared. If I confessed to Satoru and he…” you trail off, images of Satoru laughing at you, telling you that he’s known all along, that he’s been taking pity on you floods your mind and you're consumed with fear. Fear of his rejection, fear of his indifference, fear of his mocking. You love him too much to endure that if that’s too happen. “I couldn’t handle it.”

“You’ve got it really bad, don’t you?” Suguru observes and you grit your teeth together in reaction to his blunt address of your love, something you don’t want to acknowledge as overpowering enough to be the way Suguru defines bad. “I pray for you.”

“Gee thanks.”

He laughs softly, leaning his head on his palm. “You’ve gotta stop letting fear drive your actions,” he looks at you gently. “Fear didn’t get you to college without the help of your parents, and it didn’t get you here to America. What could fear possibly get you now with Satoru?”

You know that Geto is right, as he always is. You can tell he only has your best interest at heart, his words carrying both friendly endearment and foresight. You always admired that about him, the way he carries such understanding and knowledge in his advice. “I’ll think about it,” you tell him, and that is all he wants to hear.

“Good. Because I’m getting kind of tired of suffering on behalf of you two,” he jokes. “I thought I was losing a friend because you can’t process your emotions.”

You gape at Suguru’s innocent smile. “Can you leave me and my coping mechanisms alone?”

“I don’t think I will,” he decides matter-of-factly. “I’m sure you’ve heard enough of this, but we really have missed you. The past month hasn’t been the same without you around.”

“Are you getting all sappy with me, Suguru?” you tease, and he shrugs.

“Just being honest.”

“When are you not?” you say. “I really didn’t mean to put a wall up in front of you guys. I got kinda swept up in everything I was feeling, I didn’t even notice I was being so isolated until I was already too deep in.”

Suguru leans over to place his hand atop your head consolingly. “It’s okay, (Y/n). Shoko and I understand.”

“I know, but I won’t do that to you guys again. I’ll try to get a handle on things before they can get any worse.”

He smiles down at you again kindly. “We’re here for support when you do.”

Below, Satoru is painfully aware of the two of you talking, standing close beside each other and smiling. The blue eyed man broods, for you treat Suguru with the kindness that you should have been treating him with. He tries to concentrate on something else, anything else, but the lull murmur of your voice and Suguru’s drifts into the air and into his thoughts, taunting him.

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ramp-it-up · 2 years ago

Text

This Thing Of Ours AU Teaser- Carnivores, Vegans, & Boy Scouts, Oh My!

Characters: Mob Boss! Bucky, Mob Boss! Sam, and Mob Boss! Steve

Word Count: 515

Warnings: As always, 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. Mob Bucky, Steve and Sam. A carnivore making fun of Veganism, Steve being ab innocent little Mobster, Sam being a vixen. Talk of a female centered sex club, Bucky being cocksure of his reader but he’s about to get knocked on his ass. No smut, but it’s coming soooon!

A/N: This is a teaser drabble for the next fic, Queen of The Night, and sort of ties the threads together. This is in the This Thing Of Ours AU This occurs about three months before the events of Try a Little Tenderness, and about two weeks after Addicted to You.

I no longer operate a taglist. Follow @rampitupandread to be notified when I post.

I Do NOT consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

“Want some?”

Bucky shoved his lox and bagel in Sam’s face. Sam grimaced and held out his hand to stop him.

“C’maaannnn! I remember when your four food groups were meat, bacon, cheese, and pizza. Now you want to tell me you eat none of ‘em?”

Bucky was busting Sam’s balls.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Veganism is only logical.”

“Stop, you two. We gotta focus. Sam is healthy, and he’s a grown man, Buck. Leave him alone.”

“Leave him aloneee,” Bucky mocked Steve. “I’m only eating this because you’re too scared to ask that sweet thing in the grocery store out. I’d be eating a BLT from Sal’s right now, but we haven’t gone there in a month!”

Bucky jumped at Steve who didn’t flinch, but just grinned back at his friend and watched him finish off the sandwich. Sam chuckled and shook his head, folding The Times and placing it on the table for Steve to snatch.

Bucky shook his head too as he watched Steve devour the paper while he devoured the sandwich.

“Not that this isn’t good, but don’t get it twisted. I’m sacrificing for your lack of game, pal.”

Sam was exasperated. These two fools.

“Yap yap yap, let’s get down to business. What’s up with Three Rivers?”

Bucky chugged his coffee, then chucked it in the trash. His eyes twinkled as he talked about you.

“We knew that the owner had some secret funding source. Found out what it is. She co-owns Queen of Heaven.”

“Holy Shit!” Sam exclaimed and his mouth dropped open.

Bucky raised his eyebrow at him.

“What’s Queen of Heaven?”

Steve had no clue what Bucky and Sam were excited about.

Bucky gave Sam a sideye.

“Sam? Why don’t you tell the boy scout here what Queen of Heaven is?”

Sam cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable.

“It’s a… ummmm. A sex club.”

Now Steve’s mouth dropped open.

“Holy shit.”

Steve looked from Bucky to Sam.

“Wait. How do you know that Sam?”

Sam continued his discomfort and straightened his vest. Bucky filled Steve in.

“It’s not a secret, Steve. It’s just… exclusive. There’s even a website. And the owners are… elusive. One has to be a member and pay thousands of dollars a month membership to even get the address. If you’re not a member, and you step foot in there, you’re disappeared.”

Steve watched Sam sweat a little.

“Have you ever been there, Sam?”

“I’m not a member, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That isn’t what he asked.”

Bucky interjected, then informed Steve some more.

“Men can’t be members, only guests, Steve. And the male guests are screened thoroughly. The club caters to women’s pleasure. The question to ask Sam is if he’s ever been a guest.”

Bucky fell silent to let the information sink into Steve’s skull and allow Sam to sweat.

Same stared at Steve and Steve stared back, a showdown. Then Steve shook his head, laughing.

“So. What are you gonna do with this information, Buck?”

“What I do with everything, Steve.”

Bucky grinned at his friends.

“Try to take over the world.”

#Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes #Sam Wilson #mob boss! avengers #mob boss! sam wilson #mob boss! bucky barnes #mon boss! steve Rogers #x readers #this thing of ours au #Sebastian Stan #chris evans #anthony mackie

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withahappyrefrain · 1 year ago

Note

Venus and Jake are very much a one cat, one dog family. I get the vibe from Venus that she loves all animals, but she just vibes with cats better and Jake is so dog coded. Definitely one to get a pure bred golden retriever or bring home a stray. No in between.

So when he tells Venus "I'm ready for a new addition to our family."

Which of course screws with Venus a bit because she just got used to the idea of being known, and now he just expects her to say 'yes' to having a child???

"I was looking at some dog shelters-"

She definitely has to be the strong one while he's planning a jail break. "Jake, I'm sorry, but we can't take them all."

"V, we can just buy a house on a piece of land, it'll be the dream. They can roam free. Look at their faces..."

And all she sees is his eyes and pure white smile next to a chihuahua that's vibrating into the next dimension. "Don't do that."

"Got you to cave once. I can wear you down again. And I've got some adorable friends this time."

And when he finally does take one to a room so that way they can play with them for a bit, he definitely tells the dog "go to your mama." And venus will never admit to the way it made her feel.

Not a thot, but a th❤(gh)t

I love this th♥️ght!

Venus loves all animals, but is drawn to cats due to how independent and selective they are. She and Jake adopt another kitty and name them Pastrami. Pastrami and Rugelach instantly bond.

Jake grew up on a ranch, so he loves any and all animals. I see him and Bob bonding over that (I headcanon that Bob grew up on a farm in the Midwest).

Oh God, he would ask it that way.

"Jake, that's a huge commitment and we just got married, don't you think we need some time to settle?" Venus asks, trying not to lose her shit.

Jake just nods like it's no big deal, "I get that. But I was looking at some dog shelters-"

Venus doesn't listen to the rest of his sentence because she's just thinking oh thank God he's talking about animals.

More cuteness underneath

"We are starting with one dog Jake. Our townhouse isn't big enough-"

"We can just buy a house," Jake shrugs as he continues to pet the German Shepard who has made their home into Jake's lap.

"You seriously want to buy a house just to have more dogs?"

"Not just more dogs. Eventually," Jake's cheeks begin to turn red, "Kids too."

Venus is doing everything not to appear flustered, "Slow down cowboy. Let's focus on a dog today."

They find this pitbull terrier mix. She had puppies before, and now that her pups have been adopted, the shelter wants her to find her forever home. Her name is Nellie and Jake is already thinking of what Jewish food they can rename her.

"That means she'll be good with other dogs and kids," Jake points out.

They take Nellie/Bagel (Jake's idea) into the playroom. Bagel is very curious about Jake (it's his Golden Retriever energy), whereas Venus is more calm and gives Bagel some space so they don't get overwhelmed.

"Alright Bagel, go to your mama!" Jake points to Venus and all of a sudden, she feels her stomach fluttering and a warm feeling washing over her.

Bagel's eyes perk up and she immediately goes over to Venus, who stretches out an open hand to let her sniff.

They take Bagel home that day.

Six months later, Jake comes home carrying a little black Labrador puppy.

"Jacob Seresin, why do you have a dog?!" Venus asks. Bagel's tail is wagging as she waits at Jake's feet.

"They were running along the highway and I knew a big storm was coming! I couldn't just leave them out there!" Venus can't even get mad because the dog is super cute and Jake's actions are secretly making her melt.

They do take the dog to the shelter but no one comes first the sweet little thing. And after seeing Bagel take such good care of them, Jake and Venus really have no choice but to adopt Lox.

#ask #my writing #jake and venus #jake seresin

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jacksonroseroth · 10 months ago

Text

~The Price~Chapter 8~

Moodboard made by @badwolf-in-the-impala, none of the pictures are ours

Finally, the car came to a stop after it pulled into a half roundabout off the street and the man in the passenger seat quickly got out, opening Taddie’s door. Thatcher nudged her over and they scooted out, Taddie waiting for Thatcher then letting him take her hand and lead her inside. She held a light, polite smile on her face as they walked into the very upscale restaurant. Thatcher walked up to the hostess podium and gave his name, then they were quickly seated. Plants hung overhead, the vines growing down toward the tables, and the walls were covered with shrubbery. Taddie looked around in awe and appreciation as Thatcher helped her out of her coat, draping it over the back of her chair before he held it out for her and scooted it in as she sat down. She gave him a sweet smile as he rounded the table and sat down, picking up her menu.

“Do you know what you want to eat?” Thatcher asked as he scanned the menu, then looked up at her as she wrinkled her nose for a moment before looking up at him with a polite smile. He smirked at her and her facade fell, knowing he had seen her grimace. She let out a soft chuckle and said, “I don’t have fancy taste. I don’t like runny eggs, avocado toast, all that bullshit…Gimmie some scrambled eggs, sausage, maybe some french toast or muffins? I’m good.”

Thatcher chuckled and shook his head at her as he said, “You can get some eggs and sausage. Do you like breakfast sandwiches? They have a lox bagel? It has eggs, sausage-”

“Lox…Isn’t that raw salmon? I love salmon, but I don’t do raw fish.” Taddie said with a chuckle, wrinkling her nose and shaking her head. He chuckled at her and slid his hand over hers as he said, “Well, at least you don’t have expensive taste…Do we need to cover seafood entirely? Sushi, lobster, crab?”

“Yes. No. Yessss. I love crab. And the only sushi I ever eat is a California roll. I’m kind of a picky eater? But I know what I like, so there’s at least that.” She said with a soft giggle, biting her lip as she slipped her fingers into his palm. He curled his fingers around hers, lifting her hand to kiss the back of it. She smiled at him, lifting her thumb to brush it across his jaw before he lowered their hands. “So…You really aren’t going to tell me what else we’re doing today?”

Thatcher pulled his hand back and quickly studied his menu, making Taddie laugh and kick at his foot, lightly, as he smirked. His gaze flickered up to her with a chuckle and said, “You’re not a patient woman, are you?”

“Not when it’s exciting and you take so damn long…You’ve bought me a whole ass outfit and taken me here. I don’t know what to expect and it’s making me a little anxious. Excited, but anxious.” Taddie said, laying her menu down and folding her hands over it with a sweet smile. Thatcher chuckled and shook his head before he said, “Sorry, kitten. It’s a surprise. But we’re going to have fun today. I promise, Taddie.”

As Taddie nodded and leaned closer, across the table to him, Thatcher meeting her for a quick kiss, a man dressed in a pinstripe suit and slicked back hair came up to the table, his hands clasped together. Taddie’s smile quickly fell as she looked up at the man, who was looking at Thatcher with a tight smile. Thatcher lifted a brow as he looked up at the man as he started to say, “My apologies, Mr. Price. But I am going to have to ask you and your friend to leave. We cannot serve you today, sir.”

Taddie blinked and her skin went prickly as she quickly swept her gaze around, seeing the nearby tables turning at the mention of Thatcher’s name. Thatcher furrowed his brow and sat a little straighter as he said, “Excuse me? I made this reservation last week. I gave my name then, why did you take my reservation?”

“I am deeply sorry, sir. The owner checked the reservations just now and is asking that you please leave or we will be forced to call the police.” The man said, not sounding even the least bit sorry. As Thatcher pushed away from the table and stood, Taddie quickly did the same, grabbing her coat and moving between the man and the table, making him take several steps back as she all but shoved him aside as went to Thatcher and she said, “It’s fine. We can go somewhere else.”

Thatcher raised a brow at her, surprised and caught off guard, but took her jacket from her and helped her into it, nonetheless. Taddie gave him a sultry, sweet smile as she turned, slipping each arm into the coat and letting Thatcher fix the front as he reached from behind her, then laid his hands on her hips. Turning from Thatcher to Mr. Snooty Pinstripe, she said, “Now we can go somewhere that I can get some goddamn french toast and sausage.”

Thatcher snickered with a proud smile as she took his hand, still staring the man down before she whipped her head around, spinning on a heel and striding off. He dragged his hand under his chin, flicking it at the man before he turned to follow Taddie out of the restaurant. When she stepped onto the street, she stopped with a light gasp, stunning herself with what she’d done, as Thatcher moved around her, pulling her along with him and making her skip a step to catch up. She giggled softly as he hurried them down the sidewalk then into a hidden alcove and spun her to press her against the wall. Before she could ask him what he was doing, his lips were on hers in a passionate kiss. Taddie kissed him back with a soft moan, gripping the edges of his jacket as she tugged him closer, then wrapped an arm around his neck.

Taddie broke the kiss with a light sigh, pushing her hand to the back of his head and arching against him as he peppered her neck. She giggled softly and nipped at his earlobe, gently before she said, “What-What w-was that for?”

“You have no idea how fucking hot that was, Taddie. God, I would have taken you right there in the middle of the fucking restaurant.” Thatcher growled into her neck, gently biting it before kissing and licking over it, lightly. She shivered and bit her lip as she giggled, then pushed at his shoulders, making him pull back and lift a hand to her cheek, cradling it in his palm. “That’s the spirit I want to see from you, Taddie. What I knew was in you…God, you’re fucking perfect.”

Shaking her head at him, Taddie giggled and let him steal another deep kiss before she pressed her hands to his chest and pushed him back a little more. Thatcher pulled her off the wall as one of his bodyguards appeared and he quickly glanced over his shoulder with a nod before he disappeared again. Turning back to Taddie, Thatcher lightly slid his thumb over her lower lip as she said, “You promised me breakfast.”

“I did. Let’s go, kitten.” Thatcher said with a chuckle before pressing a deep kiss to her lips again before taking her hand and leading her back to the street and to the SUV that had pulled forward and waited for them. Thatcher opened the door for her, helping her in before sliding in after her and closing the door. The car lurched forward as they began to move through traffic and Thatcher turned to her with a smirk and a soft chuckle as he pulled her closer. Taddie chuckled and allowed him one kiss before she pulled back and slid her hand over his cheek, brushing her thumb over his lips with a sweet smile. He kissed her thumb before he kissed her cheek then said, softly, “I’m sorry. I got a little excited…That-That really turned me on seeing you push him back like that, saying what you did…Fuck.”

Thatcher chuckled and wrapped an arm around her, holding her against him and kissing her temple. Taddie smirked and let him give her a tight squeeze as she slid her hand over his chest, then looked up at him as she said, “Well…I-I’m not gonna lie, I was pissed…You said it wouldn’t happen, then-”

“I know. I-I’m so sorry-”

“Thatcher. Shut. The fuck. Up.” Taddie said with a soft giggle. He lifted his brows at her, amused, then chuckled and nodded as she continued, “I was pissed at them. I’m pissed at how you’re treated that gets us kicked out of places before we even order or something can go wrong…And I’m pissed I don’t have my goddamn french toast and sausage!”

Thatcher threw his head back with a loud cackle as Taddie giggled madly and rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him. As his laughter died to chuckles as he brought his head back down to her, gripping her hip with a smirk. “I’ll get you french toast and sausage, kitten. There’s a diner near Central Park--The Caviar Star. It’s a little Swedish place. I know the owner, we’ll be served there.”

“Are you sure? And why didn’t you just bring me there to begin with? You don’t need to be all fancy, all the time. The outfit was enough and now I’m overdressed.” Taddie teased at him. He chuckled at her, calling up to his men in the front seat in Swedish, the man in the passenger seat pulling out his phone and making a quick call. Looking back at her, he said, “Climb into the back and change. No one can see you. I won’t look and neither will they.”

Her smile slowly fell and she chewed her lip, feeling her heart rate quicken at the thought. Thatcher raised a brow at her and slid his hand over her thigh. “What’s wrong? You can go back to the trunk even to block you more? Are you worried about not being buckled, or-?”

“I’ll change later.” Taddie said, quickly, shifting away from Thatcher a little more and pulling her hands back. He quickly did the same, drawing his brows together as she looked away and chewed her lip, crossing her arms over her chest, tightly. He lightly slid his hand over her back and when she didn’t immediately flinch or pull away, he flattened it and rubbed his fingers down over her lower back, then to her hip. She chewed her lip and lowered her gaze to the floor as they bounced around a rough stretch of the New York streets. Thatcher stayed quiet with her, watching her for a while longer before he pressed a light kiss to her temple and nuzzled his nose into her curls.

Slowly, Taddie’s anxiety about her scars faded, coming out of the flashbacks and blinking a few times before she looked up at Thatcher again. His piercing green eyes poured into hers as he drew his brows together in concern. Lifting his hand, he slid his fingers over her jaw, cupping it and brushing his thumb over her cheek. She gave him a light smile, but it quickly dropped and she leaned against him again. He buried his nose and mouth into her curls again as he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug, holding her in it as he felt her take a deep breath and hold it in. He released her when she exhaled and pulled back one arm to rest his hand on her thigh. She tucked her head under his chin, resting on his chest, and slid her fingers over the backs of his, admiring his tattoos across them.

The right hand on her thigh spelled out OMENS, leaving her to assume the other spelled out WRATH, though she wanted to see it for herself and made a note to inspect both hands that night. Taddie’s smile lifted as she traced the letters and asked, softly, “How come you only have one sleeve?”

“I got what I wanted. Deciding on the next one fully before I do it…Do you have any ink? I thought I saw something on your shoulder one night at the bar?” Thatcher asked with a soft chuckle. Taddie let out a light giggle and shifted to look up at him.

“I have a few. I-I just--I don’t like showing my skin off like that. I mean, for the tattoo, yeah. But…” She stopped and bit her lip, lightly, giving a light shrug. He shook his head at her and said, “You don’t need to explain to me, kitten. When you’re ready.”

As her smile grew a little more, Taddie nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, then nuzzled into it. In the front seat, the man who’d made a call tucked his phone away, turning his head toward the back as he said, “It’s set, Mr. Price. Sven’s there today, he’ll seat you personally.”

“Thank you, Oscar. Everything is set for after as well?” Thatcher asked, earning him a raised brow and stern look from Taddie. One he returned with his own smirk and pressing his lips to hers in a quick peck. She giggled and pushed at his chest as Oscar said, “Yes, sir. And then we’re back on the jet by 12, home by 1.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Oscar.” Thatcher said, not taking his gaze from Taddie’s. Under his intense gaze, she began to squirm around and finally took his chin and turned it away with a giggle. Thatcher snickered and moved his face from hers to press a kiss to her cheek as they settled back in their seats as they turned onto a main street, Central Park to their left.

Thatcher, Oscar and the driver stood on the sidewalk outside the car as Taddie changed. When they stopped and Oscar got out to open the door for them, Thatcher ordered the driver, Lucas he called the man, out as well, more of her heart melting at the gesture. It was like it wasn’t even a second thought to him, as if it were something he’d done many times for her before. She was truly touched by the gesture and changed quickly, though she kept the boots on, tucking them under her jeans.

When the door opened, Thatcher quickly turned and went to the SUV to help Taddie down. She gave him a sweet smile as he took her hand, Lucas and Oscar getting back into the car, though they didn’t take off. As the couple approached the door, Taddie recognized the other two men she’d usually seen Thatcher with at the bar step up to the door and opened it for them. One walked in before them, the other held the door open then walked in after them. The two men went to each corner of the restaurant, facing the other, while Thatcher led Taddie up to a tall blonde man that was hunched over a podium, writing on something.

“Sven.” Thatcher called, cherrily and with a smile as they approached. The blonde man, Sven, shot his head up and a wide smile spread across his face as he laughed and moved from behind the podium and clapped hands with Thatcher before the men embraced, clapping each other on the back.

“Thatcher!-” Sven and Thatcher engaged in a focused conversation in Swedish, sounding like to Taddie was going something like ‘It’s been so long./Yes, I know.’ Which then launched into a brief catching up before Sven finally registered Taddie standing behind him. Clasping his hand on Thatcher’s shoulder, Sven talked toward her in Swedish, his tone turning a little more teasing and taunting, making Thatcher blush. It surprised Taddie, not knowing that was even possible for Thatcher, but gave a sweet smile and stepped up beside him as Sven turned to her with a bright smile and a new slew of Swedish as he took a step closer, taking her hand, then reaching for her curls. Taddie tried to suppress her flinch and bit her lip, but Thatcher quickly pressed a hand to Sven’s chest, giving it a pat as he gave a soft chuckle.

“English, Sven. She’s American, ja?” Thatcher said with a chuckle, patting his chest again before stepping back and putting an arm around Taddie, holding her close.

“Ah! Ah, of course. So sorry! My apologies, Miss--Your hair, it is so beautiful. Do you mind-?” Sven asked, lifting his hand again. Taddie shifted on her feet, keeping herself out of his reach as she gave him a polite smile and said, “I do, actually--It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“Of course, of course. I am sorry--Please, follow me. Your table is ready.” Sven said, bowing quickly before sweeping his hand toward the rest of the restaurant, giving them both a wide smile. Thatcher urged Taddie forward as Sven began walking and spoke back to her, saying, “My name is Sven, I am the owner here. This establishment was my father’s dream and I made it come true for him in 1970 when we immigrated to the States. I created the menu myself, with my mother’s recipes that we still use today--Traditional Swedish dishes that the Americans have fallen in love with. Here is your table-”

Sven stepped aside after leading them to the back of the restaurant to a small nook in the window, that actually faced Central Park in a stunning snowy view. Taddie peered out, gazing at the park with a wide smile, and moved around the table to her seat, Sven quickly helping her out of her coat and pulling out her chair for her. Thatcher sat as she did, making her giggle softly, not used to being seated with Thatcher.

“I shall have your coat by the front, Miss-And can I get any drinks started for the both of you?” Sven asked, looking between them with a polite smile. Thatcher nodded at her to go first and Taddie looked up at the blonde Swede, giving him a sweet smile as she asked, “Do you, possibly, have hot cider or something? Tea is fine, if not.”

“Yes, yes. We have a housemade mulled cider. Would you like whipped cream as well, Miss?” Sven asked. Taddie blinked, surprised, exchanging a look with Thatcher as she chuckled and said, “Um, sure. Thank you.”

“Of course. Thatcher?” Sven asked, turning to him.

“Coffee, cream, 3 sugars. Tack, min vän.” Thatcher said, exchanging a knowing look with the man. Sven chuckled and nodded, taking a step back as he said, “I’ll be back with your drinks and your food will be out soon.”

“Thank--What did he say? Our food?” Taddie asked, her head snapping over to Thatcher, raising her brow. He chuckled at her and slid his arms across the table, palms up for hers. She narrowed her gaze at him, though her lips lifted in a small smirk, and slipped her fingers into his palms as he said, “You said french toast, eggs, and sausage. I added a bagel cause, why not? I got you plain cause I didn’t know what you liked?”

Taddie blinked at him, her face falling for a moment in surprise at the gesture, then lifted again as she let out a soft laugh and said, “Um, y-yeah. Yeah, plain is fine. I-I, um, I like plain and egg bagels. Egg bagel with strawberry cream cheese--That was my order at my local bagel shop in California. But, I like everything, too, if I’m in the mood for it.”

“Hmmm-Very picky indeed, aren’t you?” He teased, lifting a hand to kiss the backs of her fingers before he sat back, releasing her hands. Taddie stuck out her tongue at him, then chuckled, folding her arms under her as she leaned on the table.

“So, what are you getting then? Since they already have our order.” She teased back, wrinkling her nose at him with a smirk. Thatcher chuckled and shifted in his seat as he inhaled deeply, trying to see if he could smell it yet.

“Well, of course there’s sausage and eggs…I got porridge and a boiled egg sandwich. Sven makes sure it tastes like it’s being made in Sweden--It’s a very transporting dish. Every time I eat here and get anything, I’m back in Sweden as a kid, Saturday morning sitting by the water with Tommy and my parents.” Thatcher said, fondly, excited for the food. Taddie’s smile grew more genuine as she admired him, seeming to be opening up more to her about his family and his past. She had yet to be so forthcoming, but she was glad he hadn’t pushed her for it.

“Sounds fun. Very cozy, little family.” Taddie said, softly, lifting her arms to slide her hands under her chin, resting, lightly. Thatcher chuckled and nodded, opening his mouth as he looked at her to continue, then stopped as his excitement drained from his face. Taddie drew her brows together, lightly, confused, and Thatcher cleared his throat as he leaned his forearms on the table and nodded again. “What? What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. I’m sorry, kitten.” Thatcher said, giving her a sympathetic smile. She raised a brow at him, still at a loss, as she said, “I-I don’t understand? Sorry for what?...Oh, my-Thatcher…”

Taddie finally connected what he had and dropped her hands as she sat back with an irritated sigh. Thatcher straightened a little more, furrowing his brows in concern as she looked away from him and shook her head. Closing her eyes for a moment, she swung her head back to him and said, “Family isn’t a touchy subject for me. I don’t fucking have one. So what? I’ve come to terms with it and the fact I’ll probably never have one. You don’t need to tip toe

around me-Don’t treat me like I’m fragile.”

“I’m sorry…I wasn’t sure. You had choked up so much--”

“Because I never talk about my parents or what happened. Ever. It-It was just a reaction. Just don’t…Don’t treat me like I’m fragile. Like I’m going to break at the wrong word or the wrong look. I’m a lot stronger than that.”

“I know that. I’m sorry, Taddie.” Thatcher said, reaching a hand across the table for hers. She pushed her hand into his palm and gave it a light squeeze as she smiled, lightly at him. “Forgive me?”

“Only if you tell me what you were going to say about being a kid in Sweden.” She said with a coy smirk. He chuckled at her and said, “I was just going to say that when we were kids, before we moved, me and Tommy would sit on the beach and eat, then go play in the water. We loved being outside and running around the land my father owned.”

“Wish I could have seen it. You two running around--I’m sure one of you was constantly naked being the rebel? I wonder who that could be?” Taddie teased with a smirk. Thatcher chuckled and smirked back at her, shaking his head as he said, “Actually, it was the twins. Moreso, Tristan than Theo, but they both had their phase.”

“Hmm…Too bad.” She mused at him as Sven approached with their drinks. Setting each mug in front of them, Sven said something to Thatcher in Swedish, that sounded far too casual to be something about her or anything that was meant to be hidden, so Taddie paid them no mind, sticking the straw through the whipped cream that sat at the top and carefully sipped. The hot liquid hit her tongue and there was an explosion of flavor. For one, she hadn’t realized that ‘traditional’ meant alcoholic, since the brandy was the first thing she tasted. Next came the brown sugar that melted into the apple and cinnamon taste that came next. Taddie wiggled in her seat and smiled, taking another sip. Her little dance had brought the men’s attention to her, and the corner of Thatcher’s lips lifted as he watched her take a finger, swiping it through the top of the whipped cream, then sticking her finger in her mouth to suck it off.

Taddie held her nail between her teeth as she swirled her straw around the cup, mixing the whipped cream with the hot cider. The silence between the men finally registered and her eyes shot up to Thatcher’s, seeing the arousal in his eyes, and dropped her hand as her lips curved into a sweet smile. Sven chuckled, muttering at Thatcher in Swedish again before he said to Taddie in English, “Do you like the cider, Miss?”

“Yes. It’s, um, it-it’s very strong. I-I wasn’t aware there was alcohol in it.” Taddie said with a soft chuckle. Sven laughed softly and said, “If you’d like a new one? I naturally assumed--Thatcher has taken his coffee with brandy or whiskey since he was 18. My apologies, I assumed his woman was the same.”

Taddie brightened a little, hearing Sven call her Thatcher’s woman, and tried to figure out why she felt such a strange sense of pride at it. Her cheeks turned pink as she shook her head and said, “Not usually this early. If it is, it’s mimosas. Little more socially accepted.”

“Well, if you would like a new one, I shall absolutely make you one. Please let me know. And here is your food.” Sven said as two waiters moved around him to set down two plates as well as a bowl of fruit on the table between them. Taddie’s eyes light up as well as her smile when she saw the four half pieces of french toast, drenched in syrup, powdered sugar, and whipped cream, alongside scrambled eggs and four sausage links. She knew she couldn’t eat it all now, but she had a meal for later on. “Please let me know if you need anything else.”

Sven bowed his head before turning and following the waiters away, back to the front of the restaurant. Thatcher watched Taddie with a smile, as she picked up her fork and began cutting up her toast and sausage, breaking apart her eggs and stabbing at one piece each before taking a bite. Her happy dance was a little more prominent and her body wiggled from side to side as she chewed. Thatcher stifled his snickers as he turned his attention to his plate, picking up the spoon beside his bowl of porridge and stirring it around. Taddie glanced up at him as she pushed her food around, her lips lifting a little more as she swallowed.

“What are you laughing at?” She asked, giving him a look as he glanced up at her with a smirk of his own. He shook his head as he took a quick bite of his porridge, swallowing before he said, “You dance when you’re happy about food. It’s cute.”

“I wiggle when I eat good food, first of all. Thank you very much.” Taddie corrected him before taking another bite and intentionally wiggling a little more dramatically, making them both laugh out loud before continuing to eat their breakfast, swapping conversations between bites.

Let me know what you think! If you want to be added to the taglist for future chapters, send me a message! <3

Taglist: @badwolf-in-the-impala @sweetwombatpizza

#Jolly Fic #Jolly Fan Fic #bad omens #nicholas ruffilo #nick folio #joakim jolly karlsson #noah sebastian #bad omens fan fic #Joakim Jolly Karlsson Fan Fic #Bad Omens Fic #Bad Omens Fan Fic #Bad Omens AU #Bad Omens Mafia AU #Jolly AU #Jolly Mafia AU #Joakim Jolly Karlson AU #Joakim Jolly Karlsson Mafia AU #The Price #Chapter 8 of 47

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restforthe-burdenedsoul · 2 years ago

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3 more days until Christmas

The closer we get, the closer I get to falling apart.

I did not expect to feel this sad and broken.

My parents did actually come over today for a small visit. They did not stay because 1) I’m sick and 2) they didn’t know when M was coming home.

My aunt and uncle are going to their house for Christmas dinner. The only one who would possibly entertain me and M coming to dinner is my aunt and as far as I’m aware, she’s still “on the fence” about our marriage.

My parents did actually get me a gift, I was surprised. A scale! My dad was worried it would be offensive, but my mom knew I’d been wanting a good scale since mine broke and I just…haven’t replaced it. So, I am very happy with the gift.

My mom baked cookies and gave us a bunch and looking at them is making me cry and I don’t want to eat them.

My dad has made it pretty clear that they are not really celebrating this year- the holiday part of Christmas. They are still doing all the church things and celebrating Jesus.

I’m still sick and quite honestly hoping I am too sick for Christmas Eve dinner. It’s turned from a simple meal out with just his mom and grandmom to an actual dinner with them plus his aunt and cousins.

I can’t say I’m even really trying to be happy right now. And I know that’s not helping me any. I just don’t want to accept that this is how things are right now and how they may be for a while, maybe permanently.

Christmas Eve I’m supposed to go to the candle light service with my parents. We’re supposed to have fancy meats and cheeses after and watch a Christmas movie. Then wake up early for Christmas brunch- last year it was at me and M’s. We have bagels with cream cheese and lox. My dad makes gigantic omelettes and pancakes. My mom brings over more cookies after we’ve “eaten them all”. Later on my dad smokes some Cornish hens. My mom bakes an apple pie. My dad opens up the expensive scotch.

I am doing Christmas brunch with just Matt. I asked that Christmas Day just be us and I hope his family respects that for this year.

I feel very hurt this year, torn between two lives it feels like. I could go to my parents’ house Christmas Day, but without M. Just like how we can spend time together and talk, just not about M.

I’m trying to maintain my boundaries. That unless M is welcome, I will not be around for the holidays. That they will see less of me as I am putting effort into the family that accepts all of us.

Either way feels like betrayal. Betrayal to my parents or betrayal to M.

When I first met M, I wrote a journal entry in my actual journal. That I knew this time would come, that I would have to choose him or my family. And I feel like 2023 is going to be an even harder year as everything will be different. I’m going to have to make this choice over and over and hold firm to boundaries. I’m starting a life with M and my parents can come with us or they can stand still in their misguided doctrine.

I’m just not ready to face any of this.

#tw sad thoughts

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channel-swimmer · 10 months ago

Text

I know no one was wondering what the difference was, but the only difference is the lyrics used (barely a difference). I struck through lines that were removed. It's quite long, so the lyrics are under the cut

Midnight Saturday sat in the dark

Watching the ceiling falling apart

The air conditioner's been busted for weeks

So the smell of cooking seeps through the floor

I can't eat no more

They want me to be as light as a feather

So the doctor's wired my jaws together

Now I'm locked in the bedroom away from the food

So I lie on my back in the dark in the nude

I can't eat no more

I got to use a straw

But if the devil dragged me down to the kitchen

I wouldn't put up a fight

I'd gladly sign away my soul

For a T-bone steak tonight

I feel like Kojak sitting in a Cadillac

I got to eat, I got to eat a flapjack

A stack, a rack, a six-pack Jack

Just call me Jack Kerouac

Click-clack open up the hatchback

I could eat a Bubble car or a packamack

Pattacake, pattacake Big Mac

Good God it's a snack attack

Gimme sausage, egg and beans and chips

And milkshakes, clambakes, fondue and dips

And sauces, horses, seventeen courses

Of barbecued beef with asparagus tips

Rashers of bacon, and bagels and lox

And tandoori prawns and a box of chocs

Spaghetti with mussels, Parma hams

And deep frozen waffles with syrup and jams

My willpower's gone I'm down on my knees

Praying to the God of cottage cheese

It's no good trying I'll never beat it

'Cause if it moves I'll eat it

So undo my trousers, let out the slack

Who cares it's a snack attack

It's a snack attack

I feel like Kojak sitting in a Cadillac

I got to eat, I got to eat a flapjack

A stack, a rack, a six-pack Jack

Just call me Jack Kerouac

Click-clack open up the hatchback

I could eat a Bubble car or a packamack

Pattacake, pattacake Big Mac

Good God it's a snack attack

It's a snack attack

My father was a gents outfitter

My mother went crazy, they had to commit her

They used to tell me don't be a quitter

But I know deep down I'm the runt of the litter

I can't eat no more

I gotta use a straw

How do you take an overdose

Or even pretend to do it

When the last straw is the one in your mouth

And you can't suck sleepers through it?

I can't eat no more

I gotta use a straw

Bu-bu-bu-but if the devil took me to Mexico

To taste his guacamole

I'd gladly sign my name in blood

And give him the keys to my soul

Because I can't eat no more

I can't eat no more

I feel like Kojak sitting in a Cadillac

I got to eat, I got to eat a flapjack

A stack, a rack, a six-pack Jack

Just call me Jack Kerouac

Click-clack open up the hatchback

I could eat a Bubble car or a packamack

Pattacake, pattacake Big Mac

Good God it's a snack attack

It's a snack attack

I feel like Kojak sitting in a Cadillac

I got to eat, I got to eat a flapjack

A stack, a rack, a six-pack Jack

Just call me Jack Kerouac

Click-clack open up the hatchback

I could eat a Bubble car or a packamack

Pattacake, pattacake Big Mac

Good God it's a snack attack

It's a snack attack

Midnight Sunday asleep on the floor

Curled up in the corner can't take no more

Armies of food invade my sleep

Led by lasagnas ten inches deep

My head is pounding my heart is beating

Cows are mooing sheep are bleating

I'm being haunted by all the meat I've eaten

And then a burglar alarm goes off in my head

And I wake up screaming am I dead or alive?

And the clock says five

It's only five in the morning

I'm covered in sweat

Am I hungry? You bet!

Cold turkey's what I'm going through

Cold turkey's what I need

But they hung a sign on my appetite

Saying "Danger Do Not Feed"

I can't eat no more

I got to use a straw

I can't eat no more

And they've even taken away

The pictures of food I had on my wall

And my treasured collection of menus

They screwed up into a ball

In front of my face they flicked it

Out of the window into the night

But they'll never unscramble the combination

They'll never get it right

Now if they made a feature film

That featured only food

I'd wallow in the crowd scenes

While the rest of the audience booed

And if I got myself a video

I could satisfy the need

I could check out the action frame by frame

And watch the calories breed

But I can't eat no more

I got to use a straw

I can't eat no more

I got to use a straw

I feel like Kojak sitting in a Cadillac

I got to eat, I got to eat a flapjack

A stack, a rack, a six-pack Jack

Just call me Jack Kerouac

Click-clack open up the hatchback

I could eat a Bubble car or a packamack

Pattacake, pattacake Big Mac

Good God it's a snack attack

I feel like Kojak sitting in a Cadillac

I got to eat, I got to eat a flapjack

A stack, a rack, a six-pack Jack

Just call me Jack Kerouac

Click-clack open up the hatchback

I could eat a Bubble car or a packamack

Pattacake, pattacake Big Mac

Good God it's a snack attack

I feel like Kojak sitting in a Cadillac

I got to eat, I got to eat a flapjack

A stack, a rack, a six-pack Jack

Just call me Jack Kerouac

Click-clack open up the hatchback

I could eat a Bubble car or a packamack

Pattacake, pattacake Big Mac

Good God it's a snack attack

I feel like Kojak sitting in a Cadillac

I got to eat, I got to eat a flapjack

A stack, a rack, a six-pack Jack

Just call me Jack Kerouac

I've never heard the short version of Snack Attack... I must know how it sounds at once !!

#lol creme #kevin godley #godley & creme #godley and creme

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spine-buster · 3 years ago

Text

Patience is a Virtue ft. Matthew Tkachuk | 𝒫𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒

gif credit @czarniks

CONTENT WARNING: this story deals with cults, polygamous cults, escaping cults, strict adherence to religion, gender roles, abuse, miscarriage, and a character with a traumatic past. Please be warned.

Word Count: 2,899

A/N: Was I really going to name the epilogue any thing else?

* * * * *

Effie had been quiet lately. When Matthew said ‘quiet’, what he really meant to say was not all there, and when he said ‘not all there’ what he really meant to say was that she was there, with him physically, but her mind was somewhere else. She had these bouts from time to time. Effie was always going to be a work in progress, and that meant sometimes she’d regress instead. He knew that when he signed up to be with her ten years ago now. He knew that when he raised the idea of buying and building a house together seven years ago, and she said no. He knew that when he raised the idea of buying and building a house together six years ago and she said no. He knew that when he raised the idea of buying and building a house together five years ago and she said no. He knew that when he raised the idea of buying and building a house together four years ago and she said no. He knew thar when he raised the idea of buying and building a house together three years ago and she said yes. He knew that when they moved in to said house two years ago. Some bouts were long, some were short, but he always noticed them.

This was another one.

She usually came around. Well, actually, she almost always came around. She’d ask something or propose an idea and Matthew would learn or realize why she was so withdrawn, why she was so quiet. Sometimes they were simple, and a short bout: “I want to change the menu at the bakery.” Sometimes they were vastly more complex, and a long bout: “I know Chantal’s okay with me not having kids, but what about Keith?” She’d get stuck in her head a lot. And with someone with so much to learn, as someone who was quite literally going through life learning by doing, it was almost a guarantee this would happen, considering what she came from.

But Matthew was there. Always.

As he spooned her in bed, he could feel how distant she was. He could practically feel her mind racing and refusing to slow down despite it being late at night. Matthew placed a small kiss on her shoulder. “D’you want to talk about it?” he offered.

Effie turned around so she was now facing him. He could see the worried look in her eyes and started to worry himself. She took a deep breath. “Would you want to marry me?”

Matthew licked his lips, and without hesitation, he nodded his head. “Yes.”

Effie looked away, almost ashamed. “I had it in my head that you wouldn’t want to because I’ve been married before,” she whispered.

A regress. Inevitable. Effie’s mind was a complex ocean. “You were never married,” he said firmly. “But if you want to get married, I’d love to marry you. We could do it however you wanted.”

“What about our marriage?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’d get married, but what would our marriage be like?”

Bad memories, obviously. The last time she was a “wife” it wasn’t a marriage at all. It was practically a hostage situation. An abusive relationship. “Do you like our relationship how it is now?” Matthew asked.

Effie nodded her head. “I want it to stay like this,” she said.

“Then that’s what our marriage will be like, too,” Matthew assured her.

***

“I don’t know what type of ring I like,” Effie mumbled on the phone to Geneviève as she picked at her lunch, a poppyseed bagel she’d made with a generous spread of lox and cream cheese. Geneviève was in Sweden, like she was every summer, with Jacob and her twins. Though they’d be back in a few weeks for the season, Effie couldn’t hold off talking to her. She never really could.

“Why would that matter?” Geneviève asked.

“Matthew and I talked about getting married.”

There was silence on the other end of the call before Effie heard the dial tone. She thought the call dropped – it did that sometimes, especially when Geneviève was in Sweden – but then her phone was vibrating all over again, and it was a FaceTime request instead of a simple phone call. Effie couldn’t help but smile as she accepted the call.

“You and Matthew WHAT?!” Geneviève shrieked, holding the phone too close to her face.

“Um…yeah,” Effie nodded. “We talked about it a few nights ago in bed. I asked him if he would want to marry me and he said yes.”

“Effie, Matthew’s probably wanted to marry you since he told you how to pronounce tomahawk. What made you think he didn’t?” Geneviève asked.

Effie shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know…” she said. “I just—last time I was married, it wasn’t a good marriage.”

“You were never married,” Geneviève deadpanned. It was good to know she thought the same thing as Matthew. “But besides that—has Matthew been anything like him in these past ten years?”

Effie shook her head. “No way.”

“Then what makes you think he will when you’re married?”

Effie knew Geneviève was trying to make a point – and a good one – but Effie was, for some reason, still apprehensive. “He comes home soon,” she said. “I’m going to talk to him more about it.”

Geneviève nodded in understanding. “Just remember that you deserve happiness, however that comes to you,” she reminded Effie. “And remember, Effie – you can choose happiness, too. You can choose to overcome a fear and make yourself happy.”

***

Effie searched all about engagement rings until she heard the garage door open and Matthew step into the house. He’d been at the gym, and his own lox and cream cheese bagel was waiting for him in the fridge. “Hey,” he called out from the laundry room.

“Hi.”

“Whatcha up to?”

“Uh, looking at engagement rings.”

He was silent. Silent until he rounded the corner and Effie saw him emerge from the hallway that led to the laundry room, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. “Engagement rings, huh?”

“Mhm,” she nodded, adjusting herself in the bar stool. “There’s so many different styles.”

Matthew looked at her skeptically, dropping his gym bag before walking over to her. “There are…” he began. “But you should look at a style or styles you like, and then we can bring it to a jeweler.”

“A jeweler?”

“I’m not gonna get you just any ring, baby. It’s gonna be custom made,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Effie��s research told her that custom made rings were the most expensive types of rings. While there were so many pretty styles online, custom was definitely something to aspire to for many people, even thought it was out of reach. “You’d get me a custom ring?”

Matthew looked at her. Without saying a word, he leaned back into the barstool beside her but grabbed hers and scooted it closer to him. “Will you please talk to me?” he asked softly, but needily. “You know I’d get you a custom ring. You know I’m gonna let you get any dress you want and have whatever kind of wedding you want. You brought up marriage but the questions you’ve been asking me…Effie, it’s as if you think I don’t love you.”

“That’s not—no,” she shook her head, stuttering out her words. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I don’t mean it to be like that. I know you love me.”

“Then what’s with the questions?”

Effie took a deep breath, avoiding eye contact with Matthew until she knew she had to talk. “This is what it was like last time.”

Matthew’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Abraham was nice before he abused me. He promised me so many things. And I know you’re not him—you’re nothing like him—and I’ve—I’ve told you that for ten years but—”

“—Effie, if this is too much for you, we don’t have to get married.”

Effie began shaking her head. And when she began shaking her head, tears started to well up in her eyes, and as they welled up, they fell down her cheeks. She tried wiping them away but Matthew beat her to it; she was so ashamed she couldn’t even look at him. “But everybody gets married. Look at Brady. And Taryn, even.”

“Effie…we’re already in a committed relationship that’s like a marriage anyway. I’m devoted to you, and you’re devoted to me…we—we live together, we act like we’re married anyway. If you don’t want to change that then you don’t have to.”

“Yes I do,” she stressed.

“Why?”

“I do because I want to do something for you. You’ve been doing things for me for ten years and I know you want this. I know you want to get married. So I want to give that to you because you’ve given me so much.”

“You giving me yourself is enough. You know that. You’re enough,” he said.

“I know,” she nodded. “But marriage is a celebration of love. It’s a celebration of love. And I want to celebrate our love. I just have to get it through my thick skull that marriage isn’t a punishment, it’s a celebration.”

Matthew nodded his head, giving her a quick kiss on the nose. “Want me to call Dr. Barlow? We can work on this together.”

Effie nodded.

***

Half a year later, Effie couldn’t stop staring at the rock on her finger. It glimmered in even the shittiest light. She was sure Matthew had something put in it to make it shine so much, but he kept denying it. Geneviève loved it. So did Jenna. So did Annica.

“But do you?” Matthew asked her.

She nodded. The second he slipped it on to her finger, everything became real. Everything. She’d never had an engagement ring before. She never had a testament to her partner’s love for her. And here it was now, on her finger, ready for her to wear for the rest of her life. Matthew gave it to her. Her Matthew. Nobody else but her Matthew.

***

“Oooooooh, Effie,” Chantal’s eyes lit up as Effie walked out of the fitting room of the small bridal boutique in St. Louis they went to on a whim. Taryn’s jaw dropped in quick succession as Effie walked out and stood on the platform in front of them, a three-panel mirror showing her every angle of the dress. She watched Chantal through the mirror. “Oh Effie, this is stunning.”

“Do you think Matthew will like it?” she asked.

“Matthew’s gonna bawl,” Taryn interjected, causing everyone to laugh. “I’m about to bawl!”

Effie looked at herself in the mirror, patting down the fronts of the dress, even though it fit her like a glove. Despite trying on some dresses already while out with Jenna and Geneviève, she didn’t get the same butterflies in her stomach as she did seeing herself in this dress, now, even though this wasn’t planned. It was the first one Effie chose for their consultant to pull but the last one of the three she tried on, and it was the most beautiful. She loved everything about it: the eyelet organza, the corset bodice with exposed boning, the A-line skirt with pockets.

The ivory.

The consultant puffed out the skirt for her, letting it fall behind her dramatically. Effie was quiet as she watched Taryn eye the consultant and say “We need a veil” before the consultant left them alone. Chantal was covering her mouth at the point, admiring the dress but also as a mechanism to stop herself from crying, probably. Effie pat down the front of the dress again, her heart beating in her chest. “Chantal?” her voice was small.

“Yes sweetie?”

“I can wear white, right?”

Chantal nodded automatically. So did Taryn. “Of course you can. You were never married,” Chantal said.

“Even if you had been,” Taryn piped in, “it’s your wedding. You can wear whatever you want.”

***

Matthew held Effie’s hand as they sat on a couch in Dr. Barlow’s office together, talking through Effie’s trepidations of marriage and expectations as a wife. Effie knew that the only reason why she was having trouble with all of this was because of her past experiences; when she thought about it, deep down, she wanted nothing more than to marry Matthew. But her mind was a funny thing – it always was – and that’s why they were here. Matthew had been patient in waiting for her to agree to buy a house and move in together; he’d been even more patient in not asking her to get married but letting her make the decision herself. Now it just all came down to this – the working through the nitty gritty things, the things that still plagued her mind – so she could go into the marriage in the healthiest way possible, just like their relationship was. And she was going to see it that way. It helped her immensely to see it that way. This is just an extension of our relationship. This is a celebration of our love.

“Have you given thought to any popular wedding or marriage traditions that the two of you would want to follow or not follow?” Dr. Barlow asked.

“Like what?” Matthew asked.

“Effie, will you be taking Matthew’s last name?”

Effie looked at Matthew before squeezing his hand quickly and nodding. “Yes,” she said confidently. “I’ll become Effie Tkachuk. I met this woman through hockey – her husband plays for the Toronto Maple Leafs – her name is Bee Rielly. She took her husband’s last name and she said the reason why she took it was because she had no connection to her maiden name, McTavish, because she had no real family and her mom was an alcoholic and it only really reminded her of that. Considering her background, she wanted it gone, and I feel the same way.”

Matthew squeezed her hand back. Dr. Barlow smiled and nodded her head. “It’s great that you’ve met someone like that, that can help you see these kinds of things in that perspective,” she said. “Are you having a church wedding?”

“No,” Matthew took this one. Even though he and his siblings went to Catholic schools, religion wasn’t a huge part of their lives. “Just an officiant. We actually already have her booked.”

Dr. Barlow nodded again. “Effie, how do you feel about the tradition of someone walking you down the aisle? Levi? Matthew’s dad, perhaps?”

Effie shook her head vehemently. “I love them, but no,” she said. “No way. I’m entering into a marriage freely and I’m making the decision. Nobody is giving me away.”

Matthew smiled. “And that’s that on that.”

***

The more that Effie planned, the more she got to experience what normal wedding planning was like. It was stressful, sure, but it wasn’t your-mom-telling-you-that-you-were-going-to-marry-a-55-year-old-when-you-were-fourteen-years-old type of stressful. It wasn’t an I-don’t-know-anything-about-being-a-wife-I’m-only-fourteen-years-old type of fearful. It actually wasn’t fearful at all. The more decisions she made about how she was going to marry Matthew, the more excited she became. Decisions about flowers, about table coverings, about décor, about music, about food. Her favourite was taste-testing cakes samples with Matthew. Every time they tasted something Matthew would always say, “It’s not as good as your cakes” to her.

Every. Single. Time.

***

Between family, friends, and teammates, there were about 130 people at the wedding. Effie wore her dress, tailored to perfection, and the veil – long and regal and cathedral length, because the only day it was socially acceptable to wear a veil that long was on your wedding day, and Effie was going to take full advantage of it. They did a first look and Matthew cried. He cried again when she walked down the aisle by herself.

When Effie stood holding hands with Matthew, reciting vows to each other, she thought about the past ten years. She thought about the person she was when she met him at Noah’s birthday party. She thought about their Starbucks meetings and him teaching her about corn dogs and candy and frappucinos. She thought about how different she was from then till now, and that though the past still affected her, and crept up on her from time to time, she had been strong back then, and was even stronger now, and that made her proud of herself in a way nobody else could understand. Not even Matthew. That she stood here with him, marrying him, making the choice to marry him, spoke volumes of her progression. It spoke volumes of the person she had been, the person she was now, and the person she was becoming. She was always a work in progress.

Matthew was there for it all. There to help her, there to guide her through it. There to help her achieve her dreams and expose to things she never thought possible. Lake Louise. Moraine Lake. The Bahamas. Europe. St. Louis. Confidence. Trust. Love.

“I love you,” he whispered to her when their vows were done, rubbing his thumb over the backs of her hands.

“I love you too,” she whispered back. Freely. Meaningfully. Deeply.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife!” the officiant beamed.

For the first time in her life, Effie was married.

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teiasviago · 3 years ago

Text

Signs

Episode: “Je Souhaite” | Rated M | @today-in-fic | Warning: if any of the symptoms of pregnancy are squicky for you, it would be best to avoid this fic. Also, a reminder that we use Fahrenheit in the U.S., so don’t freak out at the wonky temperature stuff, my Celsius loaves.

Scully feels a little guilty for sending Mulder home last night after teasing him all day about what she was going to do to him in bed, but she blames her upset stomach on being “forced” to skip lunch that day. Scully had waved him off after three hours of on and off vomiting, feeling like she sent the entirety of her pizza and soda into the toilet.

She’d sent him back to his apartment so he’d stop hovering, his incessant chatter only magnifying the headache beginning to build at the base of her skull.

Mulder had called as soon as he got home, leaving a voicemail for her to please not come in tomorrow if she’s still sick. Well, Scully had fortunately felt right as rain when she woke up, aside from the minimal gnawing feeling in her stomach.

She regrets eating two bagels with lox and her real cream cheese now. This must be her punishment for breaking the rule of saving it for the fair amount of bad mornings she encounters. Her stomach’s mutinying again at the smell of Mulder’s black coffee and she can feel another toilet session coming on.

“Oh, God,” Scully whispers, all intent to apologize and press a soft kiss to his lips going out the proverbial door as she sprints out the real one and hauls ass to the bathroom.

She must have a stomach bug, Scully reasons, trying to even out her breathing as she folds some paper towels and wets them before pressing them against her face and neck. She’s suddenly feeling strangely hot, evidence of her sick flushed away.

Mulder knocks three times on the bathroom door. “Scully?”

“Yeah?” she sends back, splashing her face with water. She groans as she feels another gag coming on.

“I brought you some ginger ale and—and some Pepto Bismol. And Tums. I know you don’t like the Pepto but, you know, I figured this called for all the stops.”

She can imagine the look on his face as he hears her vomiting again. Scully checks her watch when it’s over. It’s still only 8:27 in the fucking morning!? How the hell is she supposed to make it through the rest of the workday like this?

The door hinges creak and she looks over at Mulder. “I told you not to come in if you’re still sick, Scully.”

“I wasn’t! I felt fine this morning, and then I walked in the office and smelled your coffee and...”

He leans against the counter and crosses his arms, puckering his lips as part of his exaggerated thinking face. Scully stands up straight and shoots him a look. Mulder shakes his head and puts his hands up. “Look, all I’m saying is that it looks like the same thing happened last night. As soon as we got out the ice cream, you bolted to the bathroom.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “What are you getting at, Mulder?”

“Just that you should go home and at least take a nap or something. If you stay off your feet for a few hours and relax, I’ll be happy. Nibble on some crackers, catch a soap opera...” Mulder shrugs. “You’re clearly sick, Scully. If not for yourself, do it on the chance that it’s contagious.”

Scully places the wet paper towel on the back of her neck, holding it there. “Fine. But only because it might be contagious.”

“I mean—that doesn’t make it better, but thank you nonetheless. Do you want me to drive you? What if there’s a random smell that sets you off on the ride there?”

She rolls her eyes but tells him, “Fine.”

—

Mulder’s assertion that certain smells have been setting off whatever’s going on with her stomach seem to be proven true when she comes back to the office after a few hours of rest and relaxation to the harsh sight of a man whose... whose mouth suddenly disappeared and had to be surgically recreated. Not a twinge from her stomach aside from shock butterflies.

Scully’s relieved that she’s been able to keep down her lunch. To be fair, it was crackers with a little cheese and a full two cups of water to make sure she was hydrated, but any food is good food. She proudly announces to Mulder during their ensuing flight the next day that it seems whatever illness hit is gone.

—

It’s not cold in Creve Coeur, Missouri—certainly not in Spring—but Scully’s feeling every degree of the breeze through the open windows like it’s in the thirties. She’s shivering the entire car ride to the Mark Twain Trailer Park, and noticeably enough for Mulder to glance at her with concern before putting up the windows and turning the heat up.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little cold.”

He frowns at that but lets it go until they hit a red light, when he leans over and presses his hand to her forehead.

Scully quirks her lips in a smile. “What are you doing?”

“Checking your temperature,” he replies. “You don’t seem to have a fever...”

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she insists, leaning into his hand for the few seconds she gets the light turns green.

“Alright, but if you’re still sick, Scully, then you have to promise me that you’ll go back to the motel, okay? I brought the meds just in case, if you need them.”

She smiles softly and places her hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

“It’s what a good boyfriend does.”

—

Her stomach bug really does seem to be gone, which is a relief. However, she’s now insatiably hungry for two things: Mulder, and the bagels from the bagel place two streets over from her apartment. Well, she consoles, one is attainable, at least. And, boy, does she attain it. They’re both breathing heavily by the time Scully’s through with him, and even though they’re sticky with sweat, she curls her body around Mulder’s anyway.

Her breasts are tingly, which has never happened after sex before, but she chalks it up to Mulder’s harsh treatment of her only a minute ago as she nuzzles his chest. She inhales and sighs happily. “I love the way you smell,” she murmurs.

He laughs and she feels it against her cheek. “Coming from the woman who made me start using a different deodorant,” he jokes, squeezing his arm around her shoulders. “Your nipples are darker.”

“What?” Scully props herself up with her forearm to make proper eye contact as her brows furrow.

“Yeah. I don’t know. They’re darker. Feel a little heavier, too. You didn’t notice?”

She shakes her head and laughs. “Unlike you, Mulder, I don’t spend hours studying my boobs.”

He shrugs and rolls them over so he’s hovering over her on his forearms. “Your loss.”

—

“Fuck,” she swears, digging around in her suitcase, fresh from her shower. She’s only got one hand because the other’s holding her towel wrap together.

“What?” Mulder asks around his toothbrush, exiting the bathroom. His tie is slung behind his neck and his suit jacket is waiting for him on the bed.

“I don’t have any panty liners.”

“Do you want me to go out and get some?” he asks, heading back to the bathroom to spit.

“Yeah, that would be great.” Scully walks past him into the still-warm bathroom and lets the towel drop as she uses the one wrapped around her hair to dry the wet strands.

“Alright. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She drops the hair towel when he takes the singular step needed in the tiny motel bathroom to invade her space in favor of pulling him down for a kiss by the ends of his tie. “Mmm, settle down or the plan’ll be botched.”

“I was just thanking you,” Scully says, affecting innocence as she does his tie for him.

“For buying you panty liners? What would happen if I surprised you with some ice cream?”

“I would eat the ice cream.”

“Damn.” Mulder presses a kiss to the top of her head before heading out to put on his suit jacket. “Do you mind me asking why you need panty liners? Also! What brand?”

“Any with wings. And I need them because there’s been an unusual amount of vaginal discharge in my underwear and I don’t want to ruin any more of them.”

“Right.” He steps back in view of the bathroom and takes in her naked body.

Scully raises an eyebrow at him. “What?”

(Their books on pregnancy are buried inside their storage closets from a time best forgotten.)

“Nothing. I just like looking at you.”

She smiles at him, drying her hair again. “Get going, hotshot.”

—

Halfway through the flight home, Scully discovers something that makes her a bit worried. She’s not supposed to get her period until next week, so the blood on the liner she quickly tosses away with shaky hands can’t be because of that. She tries to forget about it as she walks back to her seat next to Mulder, but he must see something on her face that prompts him to ask if she’s okay.

“I’m fine,” she lies, managing to give him a smile. “Just tired.”

He seems to accept that and leaves her be. It’s not even a lie; she feels exhausted after everything that happened over the past few days. Scully makes a mental note to book an emergency appointment with her Ob-Gyn when they land, and closes her eyes.

—

“Dana,” Dr. Namin starts, disrupting her patient’s thumb twiddling.

Scully abruptly stands up as her doctor moves to stand in front of the exam table, computer and several documents in hand. “You don’t look concerned,” she says, following Namin to the exam table.

“Because there’s nothing to be concerned about at this stage except plenty of rest, hydration, and eating at least three good meals a day,” Scully’s doctor replies, opening up her computer and spreading out the documents. “We’ve done all the tests you asked for, but nothing came up. However, based on the symptoms you listed, I performed one more, and that’s where we found the culprit.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re pregnant, Dana. Plain and simple. Congratulations.” Dr. Namin slides one of the documents towards Scully, who takes it. “You’re about three and a half weeks along. You can take all the papers. There’s suggestions for all the prenatal vitamins you’ll need to take and how much water to drink in a day. Resources for managing symptoms, too.”

Scully nods dumbly, tears gathering in her eyes as she stares at the diagnosis. “Um, when should I come back?”

“Don’t worry about that right now, I’ll have someone give you a call with that information. Just relax and enjoy the news. I remember how much you wanted this, Dana. I...I don’t know how this happened, but the baby’s doing well. Minor bleeding is completely normal and you don’t need to worry. If it gets worse or doesn’t stop soon, then come back.”

“Okay,” Scully chokes out, smiling widely as she wipes away her tears and collects the documents on the exam table.

—

She spends a few hours at her apartment trying to figure out how to tell Mulder the good news but gets nowhere. In the middle of pacing around her couch, one arm unconsciously wrapped around her abdomen, her phone starts ringing.

“Scully speaking.”

“Agent Scully,” Skinner starts, and she immediately knows that Mulder’s done something stupid again, “could you check on Agent Mulder? He snuck into my meeting and was yelling at my chair.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Scully hangs up the phone and sighs heavily. Looks like God’s giving her a sign to just get it over with. When she enters the office, however, the woman Mulder keeps insisting is a genie is there, too. She licks her lips nervously and tries to ignore her.

“Skinner called me, Mulder. Is everything alright?”

Sitting at the desk, computer on, she has to wonder what he’s doing. “You don’t remember disappearing off the face of the Earth for an hour this morning?”

She gives her head a small shake as she tells him, “No,” truly starting to get concerned.

Mulder just shrugs with a little smile and gets back to typing with a nonchalant, “Well, I guess everything’s okay.”

Get it out, just say it, she thinks, trying to psych herself up. She sighs. “Mul—” But the woman’s still there in the office. “Could you give us a minute, please?”

“Sure,” the woman—Jenn, Mulder told her on the plane—says with a nod.

Scully steps closer to the desk, butterflies in her stomach. Jenn isn’t moving, and it’s making her annoyed, quite frankly. “Like, today?” she says, turning around, but the black-haired woman is nowhere to be found, not even in the annex. Scully turns back to her partner, extremely confused. “Where the hell’d she go?”

Mulder childishly imitates a genie disappearing and she feels the sudden urge to laugh at the thought that this man is the father of her child. “No...” she says, softening the guffaw trying to escape to a scoff-laugh. “It’s gotta—” She scoffs for real this time. “It’s gotta be hypnotism, or—or mesmerism, or something.”

And thus begins the verbal sparring. As he lists all the things he wants for the world, Scully thinks, again, of how this is the father of her child. Something suspiciously soft is trying to emerge from her heart as she responds, and she’s a coward to boot, so she leaves without telling him. Driving back to her apartment, Scully feels guilty at how little effort she put into trying to break the news to Mulder. She just—she doesn’t know what to make of the news herself, let alone how to explain it to him.

An hour into The Exorcist, hugging a pillow as she wishes Mulder was watching it with her, the phone rings. “Scully, do you wanna come over and watch a movie? I’ve got your favorite popcorn...”

She grins. “Of course. I’ll bring the drinks.”

—

They’ve both changed their clothes for the movie night, and when Mulder opens the door, they’re sporting matching grins. “Oh, zero alcohol content?” he faux complains, taking the case of six drinks into the kitchen. “Is this your punishment for me, Scully?”

She elects not to respond as she follows him and takes out the package of popcorn and a pot. “Can you grab the olive oil, Mulder?”

“Yeah, of course.” He puts four of the drinks in the fridge before reaching into one of the cabinets to grab the oil and put it on the counter next to the stove, which Scully’s turning it on.

“I’ll never understand why you won’t just microwave them. It’s faster.”

“Yeah, but if you do it in the pot, it tastes better,” she shoots back, opening the package and pouring the kernels into the pot.

“That’s just because of the oil.”

“Well, you can continue to eat shitty popcorn for the rest of your life if you want, but I’m going to eat my good popcorn.”

They turn to face each other as the kernels pop and hit the lid, a staring contest beginning. Scully wins when she licks her lips and distracts Mulder enough to get him to blink.

“Ha! I got you! I win!”

“That’s cheating!”

“I won!” she says in a sing-song voice, emptying the finished popcorn into the bowl.

Mulder shakes his head with a smile. “Why don’t you take the drinks and get comfortable. I’ll finish the popcorn.”

Scully nods and does as he suggests, but as she’s crossing into the living room, she pauses and turns around. “No butter, please,” she says, and he turns around with a scoop of butter in a bowl in his right hand, the handle of the microwave in the other.

“No... butter...?” She nods. “We always put butter on the popcorn, Scully.”

“Well, I don’t want butter this time,” she says, and makes her way to the couch, sitting down and placing the drinks on the coffee table. She hears Mulder sigh heavily and put the bowl of butter in the fridge before making his way to the living room, bowl of popcorn in hand.

He shakes his head as he grabs the movie case from the table and inserts it into the player. “Can’t believe you don’t want butter on your popcorn. Eugh. It’s un-American.” He steps around the table and sits down next to Scully.

She takes the case from where he left it and makes a face. “Caddyshack, Mulder?” she questions.

“It’s a classic American movie,” he insists, grabbing his drink and propping his feet up.

“That’s what every guy says.” Scully grabs her own and untwists the cap, tossing it onto the table. Mulder does the same, but his bounces off onto the floor, and she laughs into the bottle. “So, uh... What’s the occasion?” she asks, as if they still take the justifying movie nights thing seriously.

Last week’s was I thought you might need some help feeding your fish.

“I don’t know. Just felt like the thing to do. Cheers.”

Maybe it is time to turn over a new leaf, especially considering the baby growing inside her, cell by cell. They clink their bottles—“Cheers,” she says—and drink. Tell him, tell him, tell hi—

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I, um, never made the world a happier place.”

They nod together and Scully knows that this is the moment to tell him. She takes a deep breath. “Well, I’m fairly happy. That’s something.” A smile slides onto her face and she looks at him, a lot more than fairly happy now. “Actually, I’m ecstatic.” She gives a little laugh and reaches into her pocket for the piece of paper she’d stared at for hours earlier.

“Really? Is there a specific reason, or...?”

Scully pulls the paper out and looks at the blue highlighted text on the portion of the paper that’s not folded back for a moment before handing it to Mulder. “That’s why,” she says, voice trembling a little out of happiness.

She watches his face as the words sink in. He reads it again, murmuring, “Diagnosis: pregnancy (3.5 weeks),” as he does so, a grin spreading across his lips. “Scully...”

“I know,” she says, setting her bottle on the table, and before Mulder can say anything else, she cups his cheeks and kisses him, unwilling to fight the urge.

“Scully, this is wonderful!” He laughs joyously and kisses her again, setting the paper and his drink on the table. “I’m so happy.” He brings her into his embrace and buries his face in her shoulder for a long moment, both of them starting to cry. He suddenly pulls away and puts his hand on her abdomen under her shirt, his other arm still wrapped around Scully.

“I love you,” she tells him.

“I love you, too,” he replies.

#txf #fanfiction #msr #mine #wahhhh!!!!!#i love: them #i had so much fun writing this ksdjhfkjs like an inordinate amount

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lighthouseas · 1 year ago

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HI BEE im so sorry to hear about the shit day🫂🫂 i hope ur weekends better!!!

also. as someone who does not know anything about bagels but Wants To.... what kind of bagel would you recommend?

(ps i read love, mike and im leaving a comment atm but. i am In Your Walls. IN YOUR WALLS!!!! just thought i should let you know)

aaaa liza thabk u 🫂🫂🫂 hugs

OOOO okay. is it weird that i love being asked about bagels? probably. but i do. anyway, some of my personal faves are plain bagels toasted with strawberry cream cheese, everything bagels toasted with chive and onion cream cheese, and bagels with lox!!

bagel sandwiches or open face bagels with cream cheese, smoked salmon (<- lox), cucumber, and capers are literally to die for. cure of all ailments i promise. if you don't like fish, though, which i know some people don't, bagels with just cucumber and cream cheese are great!!!!

also highly recommend cinnamon raisin bagels with cream cheese on one side and peanut butter or almond butter on the other. it's a lovely flavor combination.

sorry that was a lot of bagels ANYWAY omg love, mike is soooo old now lol woah....im so glad u enjoyed it though 😊😊😊 good to know that people like my writing from last year lmao ❤️

#this got very long and that is because i have a bagel obsession. apologies #💌#mutuals 💫#liza !!!#bee.txt

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livesincerely · 3 years ago

Text

inevitability

Part 5 of the Domestic AU (found here)

Also on Ao3

00000

“So, when are you gonna get married?” Tony asks apropos of nothing, looking between him and Davey with keen interest.

Jack barely manages to keep from choking on his cereal. Davey, who’d been in the middle of spreading a bit of lox on a bagel, slowly sets down his knife.

Charlie aims a kick at Tony under the table.

“You’re asking them now?” he hisses. “I thought we were gonna ease them into the idea!”

“There is no easing them into the idea when it comes to Jack and Davey,” Tony says, his expression tight with the exasperation of the long suffering. “You gotta give it to ‘em straight, right from the get go, ‘cause they’ll never figure it out on their own.”

“Hey,” Jack says weakly, but he doesn’t have a leg to stand on and they all know it.

“So, I’m asking,” Tony determinedly continues as if Jack hadn’t said anything. “When are you gettin’ married?”

There’s a long pause where he and Davey just stare at each other, neither of them quite sure how to respond.

He gets this from you, Davey’s expression says, clear as day.

I know he does, Jack says with a commiserating look, holding back a sigh.

“Well?” Tony demands when the silence stretches on for too long.

“It’s a little soon to be thinking about marriage,” Davey eventually says, far more delicately than Jack would’ve managed. “We haven’t talked about it at all yet⁠—”

“Because we only just got together yesterday, Tony,” Jack dryly interjects. “In case you forgot about that little detail.”

“—And we should probably start with the question of if we want to get married before we jump to the when,” Davey concludes.

Tony’s nose scrunches up, obviously dissatisfied with this answer.

“Of course you’re gonna get married,” he says, as if this is plainly obvious. “You’re basically married already, I just wanna know when the wedding’s gonna be.”

“Um.” Davey’s gone faintly pink. “Well, like I said, Jack and I haven’t talked about anything like that yet. We’re comfortable the way we are now, no need to rush into anything⁠—”

“And since we literally only just got together yesterday,” Jack says again, a little more emphatically, just to make sure the point lands, “getting married right off the bat would be all kinds of crazy.”

Tony levels him with the flattest look in all of existence. “You’re crazy if you think you haven’t already been married to Davey for years.”

Jack’s voice catches in his throat, a little blindsided by the frank truth of that statement. Davey’s mouth opens and closes, the rosy flush of his cheeks shading a touch deeper.

“We’re not thinking about gettin’ married just yet,” Jack says once he’s steadied himself, in a tone that brooks no further arguments. “Dave and I will talk about it when the time comes, if⁠,” he stresses clearly, “we decide that’s what we want.”

“But what, exactly, is holding you back?” Tony asks, stubbornly brooking further arguments anyway. “Like, do you have any actual reasons?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s none of your business,” Jack snipes back. “Given that that’ll be a conversation between me and Davey.”

“I just don’t understand what the big deal is,” Tony says, crossing his arms across his chest. “Pretty much nothing would change, except that the next time someone assumes that you two are married, they’d actually be right instead of simply noticing what was so obvious that even complete strangers clue in to it⁠—”

“Tony,” Jack groans.

“—coming to the perfectly reasonable conclusion that you’re together⁠—”

“Tony, that’s enough, we get it,” Jack says.

“—instead of the inexplicable reality of the situation which was that you were, in fact, not together, despite being in love with each other for eight entire years because you’re idiots⁠—”

Jack covers his face with his hands.

“—and given that, like, every aspect of your lives are already tangled together, it’s not really that big of a step for you to just go ahead and make it official.”

Jack sighs so hard he feels it in his bones. “If we promise to talk about this, will you please stop talking about it?”

“Eight years, Jack!” Tony cries, impassioned. “That’s half of my life! That’s more than half of Charlie’s life!”

“Do not bring me into this,” Charlie quickly interjects, “I am a passive witness and nothing more.”

“You’re such a fucking turncoat, Choo-Choo,” Tony mutters with no real heat. “You’re supposed to have my back on this.”

“Maybe if you could ever actually stick to a plan,” Charlie grumbles back.

“We will talk about it,” Jack says loudly, interrupting their bickering before it can gain any ground. “Okay?”

There’s a moment of blessed silence.

Then Tony says, “So, like, right now? Or…?”

“Sure!” Jack says, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Why not? Clearly, I’m not gonna get any fucking peace until this is sorted—

“Finally!” Tony exclaims. “God, was that so hard?”

“—So go away,” Jack finishes.

Tony’s mouth falls open.

“What do you mean, go away?” he protests, looking genuinely shocked. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? I’m not gonna let you sit here and fucking… moderate our conversation, dumbass,” Jack sputters. “Get out!”

“But I really feel like this is the kind of conversation that needs moderating,” Tony disagrees. “It’s not like either of you have a great track record for effective communication⁠—”

“Anthony Ethan Higgins,” Jack warns, nearly at the end of his rope.

Tony rolls his eyes so hard his whole body moves with the motion. “I am literally just trying to help, you don’t gotta get all defensive about it⁠—”

“Jesus Christ, Tony,” Jack says, completely and utterly done. “Will you please just⁠— Just go somewhere that isn’t here.”

“But are you gonna talk about it?” Tony insists, really digging in his heels. “Because if you’re just gonna not talk about it the second I leave then I think I should⁠—”

“Tonio, juro por Dios—”

“Tony, honey,” Davey finally steps back into the fray, far calmer than he has any right to be, and somehow, miraculously, Tony’s mulish expression softens into something a little chagrined. Jack gapes, wrong-footed by the sudden change. “I think you’ve made your point and given Jack more than enough heart attacks for one morning, yeah? So why don’t you go ahead and give us a few minutes, and I promise we’ll talk about it.”

Tony deflates. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you, baby.”

Tony shuffles away, mollified for now. Davey pauses, then says, “Charlie, that means you too.”

“But I didn’t do anything!” Charlie protests. “I’m just sittin’ here, tryin’ to eat.”

He takes an exaggerated bite of his bagel as if to prove his point, eyes extra wide and innocent.

“Charlie.”

“But my food!”

“Take it with you,” Davey suggests, very patiently.

Charlie looks as though that thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Okay,” he says, scooping up his plate and scurrying after his brother. He hesitates in the doorway, then adds, “My vote is for an autumn wedding, if that counts for anything.”

“Charlie.”

“Going!”

Once he’s sure they’re both gone, Jack heaves another massive sigh.

“They’re such a pair of little shits,” he says, to Davey and the world at large. “Fucking hell.”

Davey takes a drink of his coffee, holding out his other hand to Jack in offering. Jack reaches over and laces their fingers together, most of his irritation slipping away in an instant at the simple contact.

“But he is right, you know,” Davey comments.

“I know he’s right,” Jack grumbles, rubbing his thumb gently over Davey’s knuckles. “Don’t mean he ain’t a little shit.”

“Well, naturally,” Davey agrees. “He was raised by you.”

“Oh, please,” Jack says with a snort. “That little spiel of his was all you. ‘The inexplicable reality of the situation,’' he echoes, shaking his head. “It was like hearin’ your voice comin’ outta Tony’s mouth.”

“And it was a well thought-out argument,” Davey says pertly, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a wry little grin. “His timing could use some work, though.”

“Ain’t that the fucking truth,” Jack says, huffing out a breath. “Didn’t even let us finish eating before he pounced.”

“It has been eight years,” Davey says, and he’s definitely holding back a laugh. “Guess he’s afraid of a repeat performance.”

“Well....” Jack trails off with a shrug, because that part’s hard to argue with. More than half of Charlie’s life, Jesus. “Yeah, but he was talkin’ like he expected us to walk down the aisle this afternoon. I mean, we can’t just get married. You don’t just get married.”

“Most people don’t,” Davey says, tilting his head. “But then, we aren’t really most people, are we, darling?”

It takes a moment for this statement to really register for Jack⁠, and when it finally does, it lands with an earth shattering boom.

“Are you sayin’ you’d marry me?” Jack asks, utterly floored, heart pounding an unsteady rhythm in his chest.

“Are you asking me?” Davey asks, calmly sipping his coffee like he isn’t rocking Jack’s world, right here over breakfast, for the second time in not even two days.

“You want to marry me?”

This makes Davey pause.

“Why wouldn’t I want to marry you?” he asks, a confused little furrow forming between his brows.

“Stop answerin’ all of my questions with questions,” Jack demands, a wealth of feelings bubbling furiously in his chest. “Just— You’re serious? Like, you’d really just— Just like that?”

Davey looks at him, his eyes bright blue and utterly sincere.

“Just like that,” he softly agrees. “If you asked.”

“Well, I’m not askin’,” Jack snaps. His face colors immediately: “No, I didn’t mean it like— It’s just, I don’t want to seem, I don’t want’cha ta think—“

Davey reaches up and gently presses two fingers to Jack’s lips, and Jack’s sputtering slows to a halt.

“Breathe, darling,” Davey says, and the tightness in Jack’s throat eases in the face of Davey’s warm, steady gaze. “What’s got you so worked up about this? I get that it wasn’t what we were expecting to have to talk about this morning, but you seem… upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Jack says.

Davey keeps looking at him.

“...Maybe I’m freaking out a little bit,” Jack allows.

“Talk to me,” Davey prompts, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. “What’s wrong?”

Jack licks his lips, then blurts, “You know that I’m, like, wholly and unshakably in love with you, right?”

Davey blushes, a dash of red pooling high in his cheeks and cutting across the bridge of his nose, his fingers curling even tighter around Jack’s own.

“Perhaps not in those exact words,” Davey murmurs, smiling as he stares down at their joined hands. Even his ears have turned red⁠—it’s kind of wonderful. “But I had something of an inkling, yes.”

“And you know that if it was just about commitment, if it was just about wanting to, I’d marry you in a heartbeat,” Jack continues. “We could go down to the courthouse today, if it was just that. I’ve been ready for you⁠—for us⁠—for years, sweetheart. I love you. You get that, don’tcha?”

Now it’s Davey’s turn to go speechless.

“Oh,” he says. “I… that’s…”

“But it’s not just about wanting to,” Jack says. “It’s not about being ready.”

“Then what’s it about, Jackie?”

“It’s about makin’ sure we do this right,” Jack explains. “‘Bout makin’ sure I do this right.”

Davey’s eyes sweep over his face, searching, then his expression turns tender.

“Jack,” he says, his voice full of affection. “You don’t have anything you need to prove to me. Not a single thing.”

“But I do, cielito,” Jack disagrees. “I need you to know that I don’t take you for granted. That you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. That I’d do anything and everything for you. That I love you.”

He lifts Davey hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it.

“When I propose to you, and I am gonna propose to you one day,” Jack says, intently, holding Davey’s gaze, “It’s gonna be special. It’s gonna be sappy. I’m gonna make sure you understand how absolutely, stupidly in love with you I am. I’m going to sweep you off your fucking feet, because you deserve that, Dave. You deserve all of that and more.”

“Jack,” Davey breathes. “Jackie.”

“So I’m not askin’,” Jack finishes. “Not yet. Not today.”

Davey’s smile is a beautiful thing.

“But one day,” he says, leaning in to press their foreheads together,

“One day,” Jack confirms, and he seals the promise with a gentle kiss. “One day.”

00000

Tag List: @yahfancyclamwiththepurlinside @corbinthecowboy @stroopwafeldetective @amillionandonefandoms

#newsies #javid #jack kelly #davey jacobs #racetrack higgins #crutchie morris #the domestic au #*editor's note #*the writing desk #*final cut #thank you for your patience!#💕💕💕😊

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vespectral · 3 years ago

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@dosdeux // plotted starter

after being stonewalled at least ten times - first via being sent straight to voicemail, then via harvey’s secretary taking a message - bruce realized he’d have to resort to some sort of drastic measure. after being ignored for four days, he even considers donning the suit to get harvey’s attention because harvey wouldn’t ignore batman (which is a consideration that lasts all of three seconds, to his own credit) before he decides to show up at harvey’s place with bagels and lox. it’s three o’clock, no one eats meals at this time, but he just woke up an hour ago and he’s starving and barely able to move. it’s not a coincidence he dresses down in a jacket and jeans, five o’clock shadow just barely grown out - he’s going into harvey’s turf, now. he’s long been aware that the wealth disparity between them is a source of contention and he’s startled that he wants harvey to like him so badly that he’s gone to such a length to fashion himself into what harvey wants to see even if the reality doesn’t quite match.

(which reminds him of the party. he wasn’t even drunk, which means he remembers every moment of it all - how mortified harvey had looked when he’d locked eyes on him from across the room, arm around some socialite’s waist while he practically let him lick his tonsils. how goddamn stupid of him - that hadn’t been the reaction he’d been aiming for but how could he expect anything less.)

one of harvey’s neighbors lets him in from the lobby, which is how he makes his way to harvey’s unit. he stands in front of it for what feels like an eternity before knocking. he hears the television and knows harvey’s home - but he doesn’t expect the door to open.

“ - hi,” is awkward. he clears his throat and straightens up to look harvey in the face with a smile as he holds up the brown bag in his hand. “i tried to leave you a voicemail to let you know i was coming, but your inbox was full and i’m persistent. do you want to eat with me?”

#DOSDEUX #DOSDEUX001 #🤧#this is so long i am so sorry

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daydream-believin · 4 years ago

Text

The Never-Ending Roadtrip (kmart’s haunted)

Summary: (part 1) Reader has joined Douxie on the quest for Nari’s safety. He’ll need company. (part 2) - Missouri 1 (part 3)

Warnings: swearing, very light spooky?

Word Count: 2245

A/N: so we’ve established that Doux wasn’t the one who burnt the bookstore, but they don’t know that. look, have you been in a Kmart recently? its apocalyptic. also, you know that post about people repeating their default work greetings by accident? yeah

“Do you want me to split the bill or?” The waitress asked, not sure if the group at the table was a young couple and their child or just three college kids hanging out. It was kind of hard to tell. On one hand, that one kid was so small, wearing a little deer costume, and had been helped to order. The other two radiated the energy of an old married couple and talked mainly to each other. But on the other hand, college kids are just like that sometimes.

“Nah, I got it.”

“What? No. I’m paying for us.” Douxie insisted.

“I have the cash, Doux.” (Name) turned to the waitress. She put some honey in her voice. “Just bring us one bill, please.” The waitress nodded nervously before heading off.

“No. I don’t want you paying for too many things while we’re traveling. You’re unemployed.”

“And who’s fault is that Mr. Mephits-Are-Vulnerable-To-Fire? You fucking burned down the store and put us both out of work here.” Nari was squirming at the negative vibes going on. It helped that she didn’t exactly understand what was going on.

“It was magic fire!” Douxie interjected in outrage. He looked so cute when he got defensive.

“Yeah, okay, sure.” (Name) shook her head, looking up to the ceiling. She let out a huff, “look, I invited myself onto this trip, Douxie. I want to pull my own weight. You’re going to have to let me pay for something eventually.”

“We’ll see about that, Love,” he said as he grabbed the ticket from the waitress’s hands as quick as lightning, tucked his card in and gave it right back before (Name) could further protest.

“Ugh! FINE! Then I’m getting the tip.” She pulled out a tenner and slapped it onto the table. She glared right back into Douxie’s hazel eyes. He glared right back into hers with a matched intensity. Nari looked back and forth between the two and whimpered. (Name) broke the standoff to assure Nari that they weren’t actually angry at each other so she shouldn’t be worried. That seemed to ease the forest child a bit but not by too much. She could still feel the weird aura they were putting off.

“Okay! So here’s your check back and here’s that lox bagel you ordered to go.” The waitress handed (Name) a doggy bag.

(Name) took the bag gingerly. A big fake smile spread across her face as she was momentarily possessed by that good spirit of customer service. “Thank you! I hope your experience was spellbinding! Have a magical day!” (Name) said on autopilot in that high-pitched voice and winked exaggeratedly. It was like she was an NPC and her talk button had been accidentally pushed. The waitress laughed forcibly and scurried away to the kitchen. Douxie cracked up.

“You do know that when I told you to say all that stuff after ringing people up, I was hazing you, right?”

“Oh yes, I am completely aware, Doux. Did you think I’d not pick up on how ridiculous that sounds? But I still say it to spite you.”

He shook his head. “Of course.”

***

Archie scarfed down his bagel sandwich with almost disturbing speed. It was like watching the void consume, well, a bagel sandwich. It just disappeared. Down his furry maw and out of existence. Being a dragon works up an appetite, after all. (Name) was a bit baffled and asked him if she should go get him another bagel. He assured her that the one was just fine and said something about trying to catch some birds later. She leaned back on her elbows against the boat’s railing, trying and failing to not think about the details of that.

Douxie cleared his throat. “So,” He folded his hands together for emphasis, “Since the subject of money came up earlier, I think we should also discuss the topic of our accommodations.”

“Well, you two obviously cannot afford lodging every night.” Archie snarked, flicking his tail.

“Thank you, for that, Arch. No, I was thinking more along the lines of a tent.”

“A tent?” the cat asked incredulously.

“Oh, that could work.” (Name) pointed at Douxie animatedly, “keep us close to nature for Nari. And also could keep our possible property damage bills down. Good idea, Doux.”

“Thank you,” Douxie puffed up, “see Arch? Someone appreciates my ideas-”

“Wait. That’ll be a short-term solution. We’re just barely into September. It’s going to be much, much colder in about a month. By October it’ll be too cold to bear. Even if we all huddle together like penguins.”

Doux looked away to hide his blush at the suggestion. “That is a problem. Okay, um-”

“Maybe we could just cross that bridge when we get there? Who knows what could happen between now and then. We could find so temp work in a little town somewhere.” (Name) shrugged, smirking at Doux. She didn’t want to admit that ‘we could be dead by then’ was also definitely a possibility on the table, so she tried to further distract from that thought. “Maybe we’ll find a creepy abandoned cabin in the woods we can squat in. Maybe some nice trolls will take us in as novelty pets. Maybe my rich Aunty Josie could just suddenly die under some ‘mysterious circumstances’ and leave her lavish fortune to her beloved niece,” she smirked at Doux, “I dunno, just spit ballin’ here.”

“I’m electing to ignore that you just suggested we ice your aunt because you were onto something there.”

“I was?” Her tone was a mixture of sarcasm and disbelief.

“Yes! New Jersey!

“New Jersey?” The wheels turned. “Oh! New Jersey!”

Nari looked confused. “What is special about this ‘New Jersey’?” she asked

Both Douxie and (Name) turned to her, “Trolls.” They said in sync.

***

(Name) stood there with her hands in her pockets. Somehow this Kmart was still standing, out here in The-Middle-Of-Fucking-Nowhere, Missouri. She was standing here, in a Kmart. It might as well have been 1986. There was barely anything on the shelves. Half the shelves themselves were missing. The floor had a layer of grime to it, in spite of the wet floor sign along with the shiny patches that said that it had clearly been mopped recently. The air smelled like something (Name) couldn’t quite place, but it was nostalgic. A strange scent that took her back to her childhood. Or at least she thought it was her childhood. It had to have been. Taking deep breaths, she couldn’t quite get enough of it.

Continuing that vibe, a muzak 80’s tune played over the speakers. Funny enough, despite (Name)’s brain seeming to recognize that it was playing a song from the 80’s, she just couldn’t quite put her finger on it as to which. Every time she thought she’d figured it out, she’d hear a few notes that would somehow change her mind. It was a pop song at least, to narrow it down. It’d been going on for about six minutes now. Must be one of those extended tracks.

She’d ask Douxie what he thought the song was. She turned her attention to him and noticed he was still just staring at that same shelf like he had been for, what, ten minutes now? Even though this fucking Kmart barely had any shelving in it, by some miracle it not only had exactly what they were looking for but an entire aisle of them. How lucky was that.

Douxie was taking very careful consideration into this tent purchase. This was going to be their new home, after all. He just couldn’t decide which one was best. They all had fancy camping terms on the packages that meant nothing to him. He’d been trying to decipher the code. The secret outdoorsman code. Nari shifted uncomfortably in the basket.

“Hisirdoux, you should maybe, hurry this along?” She sounded strained.

But she was right. He should just pick one already. It’s all a gamble anyway. He decided on a dark green one that boasted a water-proof material. Good natural color, not easily spotted, and it wouldn’t soak through with rain. That should work well enough, he figured.

“I’ve hurried along. Sorry Nari.” He casually tossed the box into the cart next to her. She sniffed the box and nodded to him.

Now that they had their goal item, the quest party started for the checkouts. Douxie could have sworn that it had been on the side of the store they were in. They had passed it when they came in. Now it was completely across by the other door. Did he get turned around? Or maybe they did come in from that side of the store. He actually couldn’t remember.

As they walked, a few things caught (Name)’s eye. They passed a display of dark leafy plants in oddly shaped pots, a table stacked high with various books and a clearance sign, a knife case that had been left open, a candle display with a few that had already been lit and were dripping wax, a bargain bin of CDs, and lastly a sad box of no-longer-in-season pool noodles. There was a sale on bloodmeal apparently. Perfect for perking up those roses after the summer heat.

They arrived at the checkout after what felt like an endless journey. (Name) hadn’t noticed any other customers the entire time they had been there, and yet the line for the only check open had seven people in it. She grabbed a couple bags of red licorice from the impulse shelf to add to their cart while waiting.

Nari was really interested in that checker. (Name) took her in. The teen was taller than most and had very, very long blonde hair that cascaded down her back like a shiny golden waterfall. Her cheeks were slightly sunken in. Must be going through a diet phase. Poor girl.

The young woman was obviously not one for small talk. Name couldn’t blame her. Retail sucks. Her perfect red fingernails clicked against the keys of the register in a practiced beat. She turned around and told them their total in a bored monotone. As Douxie fiddled with his wallet and payed, (Name) found herself staring right into the cashier’s eyes. They were such a light icy blue, they were almost white. It was striking. (Name) was almost in a trance. It was broken as the cashier turned around swiftly to rip off the receipt off the machine, and, in an uncharacteristically cheery voice, told them to have a nice night. Night?

They returned the cart back to the stack, grabbing their one singular shopping bag and helping Nari out. Of course Nari could easily just jump out herself, but that wouldn’t be something a human child could do. They didn’t need to draw any unnecessary attention to themselves here. They made their way to the automatic sliding doors that lagged so that they didn’t open until you were standing right in front of them. This allowed Douxie time to catch a glimpse of the reflection in the glass. The reflection of the store was completely devoid of people. Not even the checker was at her station. He sucked in a breath. After walking through those first doors, he stopped. He took a moment to turn back. There she was, right where she should be, checking out another customer with three more in the line.

Douxie hurried along the doorway to catch up to (Name) and Nari. It was darker outside than he expected, and he was taken aback. He found them right outside the store, waiting for him. In one hand, (Name) was holding Nari’s, in the other, the plastic shopping bag. Her head was tipped up to the sky, transfixed by the moon. He came over, grabbing her shoulder as he pulled her along, in an attempt to urge her away from this place. She looked back at him, eyes wide with distress. He tried to convey that he understood with his eyes. All three of them instinctually knew not to say anything more why they were still in this parking lot.

It had barely been half past noon when they had started this little Kmart side quest. It was now at least seven by the looks of it. They had spent six and a half hours in a Kmart? How had they spent six and a half hours in a Kmart. There went their entire travel day. But no time to dwell on this, they needed to get back to Archie and the boat as soon as possible.

As they walked back towards the ship, (Name) and Douxie both took one of Nari’s hands so that she was in the middle, like how those couples walk with their children. The streetlights glared up at them in the slick pavement. Apparently, it had rained while they were in shopping limbo. Poor Arch. (Name) let out a puff of air.

“Well. That sure was something.”

Douxie nervously chuckled, “If we had stayed in there any longer, I think we might have died.” (Name) mirrored that nervous chuckle.

“Oh, no, dying would be much simpler than what would have happened to us.” Nari said sweetly, like what she was saying was somehow better. Nari liked being helpful. (Name) put on her best fake smile.

“Thank you, Nari.” She tried her best to sound as sincere as possible to spare the veggie lady’s feelings.

#douxie x reader #hisirdoux casperan x reader #douxie imagine #hisirdoux x reader #hisirdoux casperan #hisirdoux casperan imagine #douxie #toa douxie #toa wizards #my writing #the never ending roadtrip

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thatesqcrush · 4 years ago

Text

Neighbors, Pt. 3

Rafael Barba x Reader. CW: angst, pining, language. Episode references: Nationwide Manhunt (SVU) & The Song of Gregory William Yates (CPD). WC: 1892

AN: A non-smut chapter? Who am I? Forgive me for typos.

The next morning you woke up startled. You rubbed your eyes and tried to make sense of your surroundings: you had fallen asleep on your couch, the TV screen black (with the flashing reminder to turn off your TV if not watching). Your alarm was screeching from the bedroom and there was pounding on your door. You reached for the remote and turned off the TV before going to answer the door. You stood and paused, groaning as your head began to throb.

You undid the deadbolt but left the security chain on and cracked the door open. “Oh, Raf – it’s you.” You replied with a sigh of relief. “Hold on.” You closed the door and undid the chain and then re-opened the door. You both stood there in the doorway, staring at each other, nothing being said. Finally, Rafael opened his mouth, taking the first step.

Can I come in?” Rafael looked fashionably sensitive, in his dark tapered jeans and oxford shirt, with his sleeves rolled up. You cocked your head and wondered if the Harvard lawyer truly knew how handsome he was.

“Sure.” You replied, opening the door wider to let him in. “I have to turn off my alarm, give me a second.” You walked down the hall to your room. “Look about last night…” You called out as you turned it off.

Rafael gave you a shrug. “Don’t worry about it, detective.”

You gave him a look that was half-bemused and half annoyance. “I have a name. What did I tell you about that?”

Rafael crossed his arms and grumbled an expletive in Spanish, which made the corner of your lips twitch slightly, knowing that you could get under his skin a little. “Y/N.” He replied, his voice clipped.

You let out a small laugh. “I am just teasing.” Your smile faded quickly. “Seriously, though, I’m really sorry.”

Rafael eyed your unkempt appearance and gave you a small smile before shaking his head. “You were hurting and drunk.” He pulled you into a tight hug, squeeze and you took a deep inhalation of his cologne which comforted you. Reluctantly, you broke the hug.

“I think we should keep things professional from now on.” Rafael announced quietly. He shifted his footing and shoved his hands into his pockets. He didn’t miss the hurt that flashed across your face.

You straightened and took a deep breath. “Duly noted.” After a beat, you continued. “And I think that’s best.”

Rafael nodded slowly, taken a bit by your quick agreeance. “So…” Tension quickly filled the room and the pounding in your head intensified.

“Want to get some breakfast before work?” Rafael suggested. “Just as colleagues.” He added for good measure.

“If you don’t mind waiting…” You waved your arm over your haphazard appearance.

“Not at all.”

You started walking backwards towards your bedroom. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be out in a bit.”

Under the hot steam of your shower, you wondered when everything got so fucked up and longed for the days when things were so simple. When you emerged back into the living room, you paused as you slipped on your watch. Rafael was sitting on the couch, watching CNN. There was something so domestic about it. Your heart skipped a beat.

‘No. Focus.’ You thought to yourself. You plastered a smile on your face and put the kibosh on any feelings that were forming. “Ready?”

Rafael turned off your TV and stood, turning to face you. “Absolutely.”

As you walked by, Rafael grabbed your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. “Hey – are we okay?” He pointed his finger at you, then at himself. You winked.

“Of course. Now, lets get some food. I’m starved.” The waft of your lavender shampoo made its way to Rafael’s olfactory sensors and he felt his stomach twist painfully as he followed you out the door.

You both settled at a diner near One Hogan Place. You ordered an egg scramble and whole wheat toast and Rafael ordered an everything bagel with lox. Copious amounts of coffee were had. You were grateful for easy, though at times stilted, conversation. As Rafael settled the bill – which he insisted on doing – a breaking news alert on the overhead TV caught your eye.

You flagged down a waitress. “Excuse me, can you raise that?” The waitress nodded and raised the volume. The reporter’s words shook you to your core. Rafael watched as the color drained from your face.

Breaking news: two inmates from Green Haven Correctional have escaped. Both Yates and Rudnick were serving life sentences for multiple counts of rape and murder. They should be considered extremely dangerous. Officials are cautioning that anyone who sees them or has information on either of the two men should not attempt to interact with them. We will keep you updated as this story continues.

You stormed into the bullpen with Rafael following at your heels. “Liv! What the hell are we going to do?”

Olivia cocked her brow at your outburst. “Y/N, I take it that you heard the news.” She took off her glasses and sat on the corner of Amanda’s desk.

“We’re going to run this by the book. We’re headed up to Green Haven. Hank and I spoke, the 21st is going to meet us there. Y/N, you’re staying here.”

“Like hell I am!” You snarled.

“Y/N, it’s best if you stay here. We are keeping you safe.” Liv replied softly. “Yate��s baiting you.”

“After using me to talk to him, you decide now to bench me? If he wanted me, he would have had me already.” You replied angrily. You slammed your hand on your desk. Rafael put a hand on your shoulder and you shoved his hand off.

“If I'm bait, let me be bait. I can draw him in. Let me do my job.”

“You are too personally invested. You need to stand down.” Olivia replied sternly.

“No. I need to come up. Just… I can help from behind the scenes. I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Famous last words.” You whipped around and stared at Amanda who gave you a knowing look. “Look Y/N, I know how Yates works too. I can put myself out there – use me.” Amanda replied.

“All due respect, but no.” You retorted. At that moment, your phone buzzed. You pulled out your phone and looked at the text. “It’s Erin; I have to take this.” Rafael didn’t miss how your face crumbled as you walked out to take the call.

State troopers, FBI, ATF, SVU and CPD all converged at a local church in Stormville, just 90 minutes outside of Manhattan to begin the search for Yates and Rudnick.

“NYPD's Special Victims Unit and Chicago Intelligence are here to give specifics about the fugitives.” Warden Lucille Fenton announced.

“These guys are intelligent. They're motivated. They're charming, and they are without conscience.” Olivia began. She listed their heinous acts on her fingers. “Their crimes include rape, kidnapping, torture, and murder.”

“Now, Yates is definitely capable of hot-wiring cars. He's adept at identity theft, and he is highly manipulative. Especially when preying on young women.” You continued.

“Rudnick can blend in easily. We know that he assumes disguises, usually of an older female.” Sonny finished.

“We've already begun house-to-house searches and roadblocks. Air support with heat sensors and infrared will be in the air within the half hour.” Major Bowman with the State Troopers announced.

“Search every inch of this county. My staff has pulled security cameras, visitors' logs, and personnel files.” Lucille turned to Olivia.

“Okay, my team can help with the interviews.” Olivia agreed, before going over to you.

Rafael watched as you and Olivia spoke from the other side of the room. “Hey, how bad are these guys?” Lucille asked Rafael quietly.

Rafael swallowed hard. “Think Robert Durst and Ted Bundy on the run together.”

After an exhaustive search that came up empty, Olivia advised that a local hotel was putting up everyone for the time being. “Those who can keep going, we appreciate it. Those who need to rest… rest and come back.”

“Y/N, why don’t you get some sleep.” Rafael suggested, taking in your worn appearance. “It’s been a long and hard day.”

“I’ll rest when we have Yates and Rudnick.” You replied, pouring another coffee. As you reached for the sugar, you knocked over your coffee, spilling it all over on a table that had been set up at the church. You swore and scrambled for napkins to clean up. As Rafael helped you, your ex-fiancé, Adam approached.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Adam questioned. “Need help?”

“I got it!” You snapped. You took a deep breath. “Sorry. Just on edge.”

Adam walked around and reached for your arm, stopping you. You looked at Adam and Rafael watched as Adam pulled you into a tight hug, his arms wrapped around you. Rafael could see the appeal of Adam with his rugged looks. You melded into Adam’s embrace. You opened your eyes and met Rafael’s. You tried to read his face, but he appeared stoic and impassive.

“I think I am going to head to the hotel a bit and get some rest.” You replied breaking the hug. You grabbed the soiled napkins and shoving them into the now empty coffee cup. Your hands were sticky and smelled like coffee, to which you crinkled your nose in disgust.

“I am too.” Rafael replied, shaking himself back to present. “Want to ride together?”

“I’ll drive.” Adam offered. “Come on.” Rafael followed behind slowly as Adam and you walked ahead, Adam’s arm wrapped around you.

Rafael felt something in his guts churn that felt an awful like jealousy. Rafael let out a huff and you turned your attention to Rafael. Rafael didn’t say anything and you felt more puzzled than before.

The next morning, Rafael knocked on your hotel door, hoping to check in on you. You opened the door, clad in nothing but an oversized t-shirt, that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs. Rafael swallowed hard.

“Hey – “ Rafael began. His voice trailed as he looked past your shoulder, watching Adam walk in the background.

“What’s up? I told Liv I’d be down in 20. Has there been an update?”

“Um, yeah – overnight Carisi and Rollins apprehended Rudnick. He was discovered hiding in a docked boat by Caroga Lake. Rudnick suffered multiple injuries.” Rafael replied. Adam joined from behind, tugging on his shirt. Rafael ignored him, focusing on you.

“I'm not shedding any tears.” You replied, as you crossed your arms, leaning against the door frame.

“Yates hobbled him - broke both his knees, his ankles, pierced his eardrum. Just left him to die.” Rafael continued.

“Should have let him. Is he talking yet?”

“Only to Carisi, and he's in and out of consciousness. He did indicate the plan was to cross the border at the Saint Lawrence River.”

You turned, pushing past Adam and grabbed your jeans, which were laying on a heap on the floor. “Come on – lets go.”

“What are you going to do?” Rafael asked.

You holstered your gun into your waistband. “What I should have done a long time ago.”

“Olivia…”

“Olivia nothing. Now, Rafael – just get out of my way.”

Rafael looked at Adam. “You’re going to let her just go after a serial killer?” Adam scoffed. “No. I’ll go with her. We’ll see you at the church.”

TBC.

Tags: @madpanda75 @ @mgarner1227 @beardedmccoy @tropes-and-tales @prurientpuddlejumper @youreverycolor @neely1177 @the-baby-bookworm @mrsrafaelbarba @skittle479 @ottosuricato @delia26 @sass-and-suspenders @mommakat32 @dreila03 @beccabarba @garturbo @lovebennycolon @imjustreallynosy @sweetsummertime99 @whyissvuruiningmylovelife @annabelleb49 @scarletsoldierrr @cesarofangirl78 @redlipstickandplaid @redlipstickandblacktea @zoeykaytesmom @differentshadesofgray @misssirenlove @esparza-army @bananas-pajamas @mishaissocoolike @thefanficfaerie @theenchantedgalleryofstories @catnip987 @choppedgalaxynerd @pieceofshittytitty @ktiz90 @evee87 @itsjustmyfantasyroom @blk0912 @detective-giggles @rampantmuses @jazzyjoi @caked-crusader @rachelxwayne

#rafael barba x reader #rafael barba imagine #chicago pd x svu imagine

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flowerfan2 · 4 years ago

Text

Ok friends, I’m cracking up sitting here right now, because I just took a quick trip to get bagels, came inside with the bag of bagels in my hand, and then sat down to post today’s chapter before allowing myself the reward of eating breakfast... and this is how the first line of today’s chapter begin:

David comes into the house with a bag of bagels in one hand and a tray of hot beverages in the other...

I got iced coffee instead of hot, but still, I guess it was meant to be! Hope you enjoy Chapter 15. @perryavenue is going to recognize where I got my inspiration for this one...

David x Patrick, A03, 3k this chapter, 48k so far.

Chapter 15

David comes into the house with a bag of bagels in one hand and a tray of hot beverages in the other, listening to see if Patrick is awake yet. He was hoping to surprise him with breakfast in bed. Unfortunately, sunny Saturday mornings mean long lines at the bagel place, and it all took a lot longer than he had hoped.

David deposits the bagels on the counter, spotting Patrick sitting outside on the lanai. Drinks in hand, he joins him at the table and leans over to give him a quick kiss.

“Successful trip?” Patrick asks, taking the lid off his tea and inhaling appreciatively.

“Mmm, yes. I checked several of the bagels on the way home. The French toast flavor is overrated, but they do an excellent marble rye.”

“Leave any for me?”

“Even I can’t eat a dozen bagels in half an hour. Three, maybe, although that would still be a mistake. There are plenty left for you to choose from.”

Patrick grins at him and leans back, putting his bare feet up on David’s lap. David frowns.

“What, are foot rubs before coffee incorrect?”

David mock-glares at Patrick, even though he loves these silly call-backs to their history together. “Bare feet outdoors is incorrect.”

“But there’s a swimming pool.”

“The pool is over there,” David waves his hand. “You are here, sitting at a table, eating breakfast. Not swimming.”

“Technically I was reading the news on my phone. Not eating breakfast.”

“Keep antagonizing me and there won’t be any breakfast in your future, either.”

Patrick grins at him, then removes his feet from David’s lap and goes inside to retrieve the bagels, along with plates, cream cheese and lox. Ordinarily David would insist on toasting his bagel, but these are so fresh and warm that they demand to be eaten immediately. They busy themselves with their food for a few minutes, David moaning in appreciation, mostly just to watch Patrick react.

“So, I had an idea for what we could do today.”

“Is eating a pile of bagels and then taking a nap not good enough for you?”

Patrick chuckles. “I was actually thinking of going kayaking.”

David nearly chokes on his food, and Patrick pats his back good-naturedly. “Kayaking?” He doesn’t screech, but it is a near thing. “What about me, exactly, suggests that I would want to go kayaking?”

“Come on, David. We’ve been sitting around here for weeks. I did just get the all clear from the doctor. It’ll be fun.”

David does not think for a minute that it will be fun, as kayaking will undoubtedly involve bugs, unstable vehicles, and the threat of drowning. But Patrick has been beached, so to speak, ever since his injury, and David knows it has been weighing on him.

“I don’t suppose we could go on a nice, safe hike instead?”

Patrick laughs. “We can do that another day. I called a place about a half hour from here, they have two boats available this afternoon. Just give it a try. If you hate it, we won’t stay out long.”

Much to his surprise, David does not hate it.

They show up at the launching area in their swim trunks and shirts, David with his long-sleeved swim shirt on, and Patrick with some kind of sports related jersey. Their guide makes them wear ugly life preservers, which ruin David’s look but do give him a bit of relief when it comes to his drowning concern. After a short lesson, during which Patrick asks lots of excited questions and David tries valiantly to follow along, they each get into a kayak and are pushed out into the water.

The sun is shining rather enthusiastically, and David is glad that he has sunglasses on – he even made them stop along the way to buy a cheap pair, in case they wind up in the water. Patrick bought a ridiculous strap that holds his on his head, and he’s got a ball cap on as well, so there’s not much to see of him except his lovely pale arms which David very much enjoyed slathering in sunscreen.

David pulls his attention away from Patrick and focuses on stroking his paddle through the water, trying to put the guide’s instructions into action. Patrick stays near him, offering quiet corrections, and soon they both fall into a comfortable rhythm.

David knows that he’s in better shape now than he’s been in for most of his life. Although running doesn’t do much for his upper body, at least he’s got stamina. He tries to relax and enjoy it. If he paddles just right, the kayak cuts through the water without very much effort on his part. It’s kind of neat. Soothing, even, almost like the way it feels when he gets into a groove on a run.

They aren’t out on the Gulf, as ocean kayaking is far beyond their skill level. Instead, they are making their way down an inlet of some kind, a broad waterway with docks and houses on both sides. Soon they are out in the bay, and Patrick directs them past a piling with an egret’s nest on top, over to a bristly bunch of trees at the water’s edge.

“These are mangroves,” Patrick says, indicating the dense tangle of scrubby looking trees with visible roots. “They’ve adapted to living in salt water, extracting the fresh water they need. Some of them push the salt out onto their leaves. The leaves even taste salty.”

David doesn’t ask how Patrick knows this. He’d just wind up watching him lick a leaf.

They paddle closer, and David can see into the clusters of plants, the roots and branches weaving together.

“Want to go through?”

David has no idea what Patrick is talking about, but he follows him as he kayaks around the edge of a cluster. There’s an overhang, and what looks like a tunnel into the middle of the clump of mangroves.

“Are you serious?” David asks under his breath, but Patrick is already nearing the entrance.

“Go slow,” Patrick says over his shoulder. “Try not to point into them, and if you do get stuck, just grab on carefully and lever yourself off. Remember not to overbalance.”

It’s a recipe for disaster, but David gently eases himself into the tunnel. It’s cooler and dim inside, with branches and green leaves all around him. It smells like low tide, musty and brackish. The nose of his kayak gets hung up briefly as he turns too hard in one direction and for a brief moment it lists dangerously sideways, but he takes a breath and then uses his paddle to back up a bit and set himself on a straighter path.

He catches Patrick looking back at him, having executed some kind of fancy twisting maneuver so that he can see David. “Nice paddling, David.”

They rest for a minute there, Patrick showing David how to move his paddle to make his kayak go sideways (“it’s like a figure eight”) with limited success. Then Patrick spends some time pointing out to David the difference between the red, white, and black mangroves, which doesn’t make any sense because they are all clearly green.

David doesn’t argue with him. It’s far too nice here, hidden among the curving branches with Patrick who is so clearly, uncomplicatedly happy. David will wear an ugly life jacket and take his chances with the alligators anytime if it makes Patrick smile.

After they extract themselves from the mangroves, Patrick makes them paddle into the wind in order to reach a spot where they can pull up on to the beach. It’s less pleasant than drifting in the trees, but it’s worth it when their kayaks land on a sandy shore. Patrick jumps out of his boat first, pulling the bright orange monstrosity up out of the water, and then returns to help David get out of his without tumbling over, which David very much appreciates.

They sit down and stretch their legs, Patrick continuing to chatter about the birds they saw on the way over, how he’s never seen so many of the pink ones (roseate spoonbills, they’re called, but Patrick likes to correct David, so he pretends he doesn’t remember), how they’re fortunate to see so many birds of some kind or another this time of year.

After a while David just pulls Patrick against him, and Patrick shuts up, kissing David with the taste of salt on his tongue. They make out for a while, alone on the shore, their kayaks shifting slightly as the water laps against their sterns. Patrick lies back on the sand and David hovers close, his elbow braced against the ground as his other hand slides Patrick’s sunglasses off so that he has more skin to kiss.

They can’t go too far, for obvious reasons, but it feels wonderful to kiss and cuddle in the sun.

Finally they sit up, a little shy, and Patrick takes David’s hand in his and squeezes it.

“Thanks for doing this today,” Patrick says, and David’s heart swells. It’s not such a big deal, participating in an activity just because your partner asked you to. And it really wasn’t a hardship.

“It’s fun,” he concedes.

“I didn’t think you’d agree to come.” Patrick looks away, out across the water.

David puts a hand on Patrick’s chin and turns his face towards him, until his brown eyes are locked onto his own. “You asked.” There’s very little he wouldn’t do for Patrick. He can’t quite say that out loud, but he doesn’t have to. He thinks Patrick hears it anyway.

That night David’s putting away the remains of their take-out (Thai food, purchased on the way back from their kayaking adventure) when Patrick dances over to him and presents him with a package.

“What’s this? Aside from an already opened and poorly resealed cardboard box?”

“Open it and find out.”

Inside under the blue tissue paper is a menorah, a pretty silver-plated one with a leaf and branch design. It can’t have been cheap.

“Patrick, you didn’t have to-”

“I always imagined getting you a nice menorah, when we finally had a place together. I had seen this one online, and when I realized it was Hanukkah, well. Here it is.”

David just stares at it for a moment, tongue-tied.

“Do you like it?”

He wraps his arms around Patrick and kisses him soundly. “I love it.”

It’s actually the end of Hanukkah already, so they load up the menorah with the appropriate number of candles and David mumbles what he remembers of the blessings. It’s a rather lovely moment on top of a particularly lovely day, and David has to take a minute to keep it from overwhelming him.

Patrick notices, of course, and wraps his arms around him from behind, his chin on David’s shoulder, and they breathe together for a while. When David relaxes Patrick nuzzles his ear. “Want to go to bed?”

David turns in Patrick’s arms, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at the eager look on Patrick’s face. “Someone’s having a good day.”

Patrick captures David’s lips in a kiss, hot and insistent, and when he pulls back David is breathing hard. “Tell me you’re not.”

He shakes his head, happiness bubbling out of him. “Can’t do it.”

They make it back to the bedroom just before clothes start to come off, and soon they are naked and wrapped around each other, hands skimming over heated skin. Patrick seems to have a plan, he’s wound up and raring to go, and David loves it.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks as Patrick straddles him, holding his head in his hands and nipping along David’s jaw.

“I want you to fuck me,” Patrick says into the shell of David’s ear. “Open me up like this, and then fuck me.”

A thrum of arousal pulses through David at Patrick’s words. They’ve had a lot of sex over the past week, but Patrick hasn’t asked for this yet.

Their initial attempts at penetrative sex hadn’t gone particularly smoothly, back when they first got together. After a few mishaps they had ignored it for a while, content to turn each other on and get each other off in a variety of easier ways. David was happy to introduce Patrick to the pleasures of a really excellent blow job, and Patrick was, as always, a quick study, finding that he loved to bring David to the edge and then tease him until he was reduced to a writhing, begging mess.

And David was always quick to reassure Patrick that penetrative sex wasn’t the only way to have sex, that no matter what he thought in the past, they could make each other happy in any way they were comfortable with.

But Patrick was nothing if not determined, and so eventually they made their way back to it, first Patrick tentatively pushing into David, and later, when Patrick was in just the right mood, Patrick asking for David to do the same for him.

“You don’t have to like it,” David remembers saying to Patrick, one night when Patrick was feeling some combination of bad and nervous and embarrassed about the whole issue. “It’s okay if you don’t want to do it. It really is.”

At some point, though, something happened that changed Patrick’s mind. David’s pretty sure it had to do more with Patrick’s headspace than anything else, his gradual letting go of heteronormativity and becoming more comfortable with his view of himself as queer, but his prostrate probably factored into it as well. Afterwards Patrick clung to David like an octopus, both of them sweaty and blissed out.

“How do people not do this all the time?” Patrick asked, pressing his face into David’s neck. “How can it feel so good? Why didn’t you tell me?”

David had laughed and hugged Patrick tight, too caught up in his fiancé’s astonished joy to wonder how he was going to keep the attention of such an amazing man. It had been a very good night.

Tonight was shaping up to be even better.

Patrick holds himself over David while David finds the lube, and lets out a low moan when David reaches down and starts to press at his hole. David takes his time, circling gently, then increasing the pressure, all while Patrick moans and sways above him.

Patrick leans down to kiss him, his mouth open and trailing wetly down David’s jaw, catching on the stubble. He’s got a hand on David’s chest, and then Patrick shifts so his mouth can continue its journey, finding one of David’s nipples and sucking hard.

“God, Patrick,” David whines, just holding on to Patrick’s hips while Patrick bites at one nipple and then the other, sending sparks of electricity through his body. “Come here, let me-” David gets his fingers back where he wants them, and then he’s pressing inside, Patrick fucking his fingers.

“Ah – David – oh god, yes, there, oh-” Patrick pushes back against David’s fingers, rocking back and forth, hands grasping at David’s arm and his chest and then valiantly pulling at David’s cock, although his attention is understandably elsewhere. “Ohhhh, David, now, please, fuck me now.”

“Like this, or…?”

Patrick slides off David’s fingers and stretches out on the bed, pulling David on top of him. “Like this. Please. Now. Come on.”

David’s helpless to resist, Patrick’s big eyes pleading with him, his hands running up and down David’s arms, grabbing at his ass, squirming underneath him like he can’t wait a moment more.

“Okay, baby, okay. I’ve got you.” And he does, lubing himself up with a few quick strokes, and then positioning himself carefully between Patrick’s quivering thighs, one hand bracing himself on the bed as he slides into Patrick’s tight heat.

“David,” Patrick moans, “oh, fuck, yes.” He’s reaching for David, trying to pull him into a kiss, and it’s messy and breaks David’s rhythm and he doesn’t care, it’s so good, Patrick wanting him like this. David’s heart is slamming against his chest in time with his thrusts, and Patrick is writhing underneath him. The slick slide of their bodies feels so good, David doesn’t know how he can hold it all inside.

“Patrick, baby, I love you, I love you,” David pants out, heat pooling inside him, a familiar tightness building.

“Come on, David, oh god, come on,” Patrick pleads roughly.

David’s hips are moving frantically now, his muscles burning. He’s shaking, dripping sweat everywhere, and he’s close, he just needs to keep going a little longer, for Patrick, he can do it.

“David, I’m so close, oh god, you can, David-” Patrick gets a hand on his own cock and pulls, and David feels him, feels him quaking and shivering.

David comes with a rush of sensation, light exploding behind his eyes. Patrick is almost there too, and David gets a hand on him, both of their hands on Patrick’s cock, twisting together, over and over. Suddenly Patrick’s back arches and his whole body convulses as he comes, head thrown back in ecstasy, a long whine falling from his open mouth.

David collapses next to Patrick on the bed, turning his head to press his face against Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick drapes himself over David’s side, arm sliding over his back, nose digging into his collarbone. They lie there until the aftershocks subside, and then some, not wanting to move.

“Gonna have to change the sheets,” David finally says.

“That’s the first thing you think about, at a time like this?” Patrick teases, a shaky hand brushing David’s hair out of his face and onto his forehead.

“No, it’s not,” David says. “But it’s the first thing I can say without blushing, and I don’t have the energy for that.”

“David,” Patrick says, pressing a kiss to David’s lips, then pulling back before David has a chance to enjoy it. “Are you feeling things tonight?”

David snorts. “I’m feeling quite a lot. Seemed like you were, too.”

Patrick starts to hum <i>“Feeling Groovy”</i> and David can tell it’s coming, he can tell before Patrick even gets a whole phrase out, and he slaps a hand over Patrick’s mouth.

“For once could we finish up our lovemaking without a concert?”

Patrick is laughing against David’s hand, and he bites gently at the ball of his thumb. “Do you really want me to stop?” he asks, his breath warm against David’s skin.

“No,” David confesses, too open to argue even about this, about Patrick’s awful love songs whispered in his ears at highly inappropriate times. “I don’t want you to stop. Don’t stop any of it.”

“Deal,” Patrick says, easing David’s hand away from his mouth and wrapping him in his arms. David settles in, not caring anymore about sticky sheets and sweaty skin. All of that can wait for tomorrow. For now, he’s just going to focus on how wonderful it feels to drift off to sleep with the love of his life holding him close.

#schitt's creek #schitt's creek fic #David Rose #Patrick Brewer #kayaking #David x Patrick #sexytimes

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