#sometimes i look at sprig and man i love him

[sidetongue]

covered in mud

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door ~ Part 1

A Constantine x Reader fic based on this imagine.

Summary: John Constantine has a crush on you. He wasn’t going to do anything about it though, until you strong arm him into coming over for dinner. Little do you know, this paints a target on your back for the local vampire coven… (I had to write something sweet for my mental health y'all 😆) Rating: Explicit, NSFW, but no dead doves...😮

You are the very archetype of The Girl Next Door. Well, literally. John Constantine lives in 202, and you in 204. You share a wall, and occasionally, he sort of smiles at you when you meet in the hall.

Like tonight, as your arms are full of groceries, returning home after work. You don’t know what he does exactly, but you assume it’s the same for him, though he is only clutching a brown bag that very poorly disguises a bottle of scotch.

“Hi, John,” you say brightly over a proud sprig of celery sticking out of your bag. It’s almost a running joke between the two of you, your sunny brightness aimed at him like a weapon.

There’s a long pause, like always, before he finally answers reluctantly in his deep monotone, “Hi, y/n. Bye, y/n.”

Before you can engage him any further he disappears into his apartment, closing the door hard behind him, the slam in the air like an exclamation point. You stare for a moment at the space where he’d just been, tall, handsome, his suit rumpled, that tie half undone around his neck. He looked like he’d had a rough day, whatever he does.

He dresses like a professional something, but imagining that man as a door to door salesman with his attitude is laughable, and so is the thought of him working amicably in an office setting.

You go inside and put away your groceries, then spread out what you need to make dinner. It’s Friday night, and you’ve had a long week too. You are making comfort food—it’s kind of a shame to eat it alone.

Half an hour later, while the sauce simmers, you find you just can’t stop thinking about that man next door. He seems lonely, every time you see him. There is something about him that just makes you want to wrap him up in a hug.

He’d probably push you off if you tried, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t need a hug.

The thing is…you have this thing. He pretends like you annoy him, but sometimes in the hall, or down in the lobby when you’re collecting your mail, you catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not looking. And the look on his face is never exactly lecherous, like you’re used to with most men who eye-fuck you on the street. His look is more…just…lost, and it tugs at your heartstrings.

You’re sure he’ll say no, but your feet seem to carry you of their own accord, when you find yourself at his door, knocking loudly.

Some time passes and you hear him grumbling on the other side before he jerks open the portal just a crack. “Yeah?”

“I’m making my Nonna’s meatballs and marinara for dinner.”

“Good for you?”

“From scratch.”

“Sounds time consuming.”

“Want to join me?”

There is a very long pause, in which he just looks at you. You can tell he’s at least one drink in already; you smell the fumes on his breath. And maybe it’s stupid, and you’re asking for trouble you don’t need, but the thought that that will be this man’s only dinner squeezes your heart.

Finally, he answers with a question. “Why?”

“Why not?”

This, amusingly, seems to actually flummox him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. In the end he narrows his eyes at you, (those lovely brown eyes, you can’t help but notice), like you’re trying to trick him into something truly heinous.

It’s…kind of funny, truth be told, and you can’t stop yourself from grinning. “Come on. I know you can smell it.” Your door is wide open.

“Maybe I don’t like Italian food.”

“Everyone likes Italian food.”

“Maybe you’re a terrible cook.”

“Only one way to find out.”

He actually growls a little, which for some reason gives you a thrill to the base of your spine.  

You really need to get back to stir the sauce. You didn’t anticipate getting this far in the conversation (argument?) with him, honestly.

“Well, door’s open,” you tell him, turning to go. You throw one last little come-hither look over your shoulder, to find he is definitely staring at your ass. Or, glaring, more like.

Maybe you have a screw loose, but you find this adorable.

You go back to your sauce, and lose yourself in the preparation of the other ingredients, watching the pasta to make sure it doesn’t boil over, checking that the meatballs aren’t burning. (Your oven is a dinosaur from the 1970s, and sometimes the temp spikes for no reason).

You are about to drain the pasta, when you find a tall, rumpled man standing beside your rickety thrift store table, looking a bit confused as to how he’d ended up there. He looks so big in your shoebox of an apartment, and if you’re being honest, maybe there’s a little bit of lust tied up with your desire to mother this man.

You offer him a welcoming smile, and for a moment, you swear he looks like he’s drowning.

“Glad you could make it,” you say somewhat teasingly.

“Can I…help?” He says the last word like it’s a completely alien thing to him.

“I’ve pretty much got it under control…” you say, which is mostly true. You peruse the sparse offerings of your 3 slot wine rack, picking a $6 bottle of Chilean red blend. “Want to open this?” The face he makes looking down at the decidedly weaker-than-whiskey beverage is almost comical, but he takes the corkscrew from you as you transfer the meal to serving bowls and put glasses of water on the table.

He removes his suit jacket at the table, rolling his sleeves up over muscular forearms that are, if you’re being honest, totally distracting. After you sit down you fill your plates, and the first few minutes of the meal goes by in semi-awkward silence.

Surprisingly, it’s John who speaks first. “This is really good,” he admits begrudgingly, and you utterly fail to damper your I-told-you-so smile.

“Thanks.”

You make halting small talk. You get the feeling he doesn’t chat much with anyone, of his own free will. When you ask him how his week was, his simple answer is, “Hell.”

You have no idea he’s being literal.

You ask him what he does, and he tells you he’s a sort of private detective, and he can’t really talk about it. He asks what you do, more to get the conversation off of him than anything. You let it go, for now, telling him that you’re a receptionist at an office building for a mega corporation downtown.

“Fitting,” he grumbles, you think because of your innate cheerfulness.

You feel the urge to tell him that half the time it’s just a thing you wear like armor—but you don’t know each other that well yet.

As you loosen up a little with food and more wine, he slowly asks more questions about you, where you’re from, what do you do in your free time, and maybe it’s stupid, but you feel like he’s actually kind of interested in your answers.

You enlist him to help you with the dishes, and as you stand together at the sink you bump him playfully with your hip. He peers down at you, his dark hair in his eyes. He is so tall, and there is a hint of a smile on his lips now. For him, it’s like a full-on toothy grin, and it doesn’t fail to quicken your heart in your chest.

Constantine can’t help but feel…puzzled, by you. Yes, you’re his cute neighbor, who teasingly likes to hail him in the hallway. And maybe he does look forward to the way your eyes sparkle, when he begrudgingly acknowledges you before retreating to the safety of the quiet solitude of his apartment. But you are so…nice. He can just tell, and he has no idea what a girl like you might want with a degenerate demon hunter like him. There are enough assholes in L.A. who would be happy to take you out. Why would you waste your time chasing him down?

And there is that smaller nagging voice in the back of his head. You are damned, and you don’t deserve her.

Fuck if it doesn’t make him want to touch you even more.

Later, he will look back on this as a moment of weakness. You, looking up at him with your big eyes, like you're old friends. You made him feel, for a fleeting moment, like he wasn't some doomed asshole with nothing to live for. Like he was an actual person. A man who could matter, to someone. Maybe even to you.

When you splash him with a flick of dishwater after he insults your favorite TV show he narrows his eyes down at you, and you get the fluttery feeling that he might like to eat you a moment before he cups your cheek in his big hand and catches your lips in a kiss. It’s everything you’d hoped for, even if you never actually expected it to really happen. Maybe the wine helped? Or maybe…he likes you? Luckily you get over your surprise, standing on tiptoe to meet him, looping your arms around his neck.

You yip with surprise when suddenly he lifts you to sit on the sink, pulling you close as the kiss deepens. “Was getting a crick in my neck…”

Your answering laugh is shaky at best. “Sorry.”

“Is this why you invited me over?”

“Sort of?”

He lifts an eyebrow at that, waiting for further explanation. You reach up to toy with his collar, tracing the line of his loosened tie, totally distracted by the shape of his collarbone and what’s bared of his neck. This man has a jawline that looks like it was sculpted from stone. There’s no shortage of beautiful people in L.A., of course, but you’ve never met anyone quite like him. He doesn’t seem vain, an oddity in this town, but underneath his rumpled suit this man definitely has the physique of a movie star. You try not to dwell on how odd it is, that he would choose to spend his Friday night with you.

“I mean, I’m definitely not complaining,” you offer with a sly little smile.

However, his answering expression is nothing less than stern.

“I’m warning you now, sweetheart. I’m not boyfriend material, and I’m not going to be your project.”

Even if both of those things may have crossed your mind, your thoughts are too hazy with lust from his lips on yours. Maybe he’s a grouch…but he’s a great kisser.

“Okay.”

“Good.”

He kisses you again, and you melt even more under his exacting touch. Those mitts for hands make you feel small, and you arch against him as they travel the ladder of your ribcage to your spine.

The wine was good, but you know you are mostly drunk on him.

Then he is lifting you again, like you weigh nothing, carrying you to the couch. You settle down into the worn vintage cushions and make-out like teenagers, all lips and teeth and pawing hands.

You’re the one who actually initiates something further, pulling off your shirt, and John blinks as he takes in the swathes of your bare skin. He glares at your lacy bra like it owes him money, and you can’t help but laugh breathily. You haven’t felt thishappy in a long time, truth be told.

“Something funny?” he asks, nipping at your neck. With a flick of his fingers your bra falls away, and your breasts are in his hands, and you forget how to speak intelligibly. With his lips on your nipples you manage to loosen his tie without strangling him, unbuttoning his shirt with an increasing desperation. You sigh when at last the bare skin of your torsos is pressed together, his weight pressing you down into the couch.

It occurs to you, how small your couch is, and this man is definitely over six feet tall. “Would you prefer…the bed?” you ask between kisses.

“Up to you.”

You nod, but find you can’t really stop kissing him long enough to move. You can feel the impressive length of him through his pants and yours, aligned with your center and you dry grind, thinking even that is wonderful. He, however, lets out a frustrated growl, and pulls you to your feet again.

Dizzy with desire, you lead him by the hand to your bedroom, and you make it there eventually between kisses and shedding the rest of your clothing. His thick fingers between your legs are a marvel. “So fucking wet for me,” he groans, and it’s too embarrassing to admit, but sometimes after seeing him in the hallway you’ve fantasized about something like this going down, and it always leaves you soaked.

“I…like you,” you admit, moaning as a second finger finds its way inside you, his thumb circling your clit.

“I still don’t get that,” he admits, but kisses you hard before you really have a chance to answer. It would be a little too crazy, to tell him right now that you’ve always just felt pulled towards him, like the Universe was giving you a nudge any time you saw him. He’d laugh at you, or he’d leave, and either of those at this point would be unbearable.

You are close already under his masterful touch, and you whine even as you flex your hips, all your muscles tightening in anticipation.

“Don’t make me cum yet,” you beg. “I want you.”

He groans in response to that, desperately pawing through the pockets of his pants on the floor for a condom. You watch with stars in your eyes, propped on your elbows as he rips open the packet and rolls it on that impressive length, your lip between your teeth. You feel empty while looking at him like this, longing to be filled to the brim.

There is a moment of raw eye contact between you that sears your soul, as he pulls you to the edge of the bed with those large hands on your thighs. For a fleeting second he looks almost vulnerable. It’s there and gone like a ripple in a pool, then his thick tip is at your entrance, and he is slowly pushing himself inside you.

It’s better than you ever dreamed, and you arch against him, moaning as he works inside.

“Fuck you are tight,” he pants in your ear, your walls clenching around him, seeming to fight him even as they crave the relief of his big cock stretching you out. You breathe deeply, easing him in. When at last he bottoms out inside you, your head rocks back behind your shoulders, blissed out.

“God, you feel good.”

This man actually snorts at the comment, though his voice is pure gravel, rough with need. “He wouldn't appreciate you saying it about me.”

Your laugh is half moan. 

“What, are you on a first name basis?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

You're not sure what to make of that, and you're too cock drunk to even begin to reason it out.

He can tell you're a nice girl. Or at least, that's his perception of you. So he doesn’t bend you at impossible angles or whisper filthy things in your ear. Really, there's no time for it. Just pure vanilla missionary in your sweet little snatch is more than enough to slake his need tonight. He fucks you on your back, his thumb on your clit as he glides in and out of your tight little pussy, your legs wrapped around his narrow hips.

Your pleasure builds in the cradle of your hips, wound so tight you feel like you'll either die, or fly. Usually...alright, it's never like this for you the first time with someone. There's always fumbling, and awkwardness, and half the time, if you're honest, a faked orgasm because you're too shy or too embarrassed to ask for what you really need from a new partner, afraid he’ll think you’re too much trouble. 

Well, that is not what is happening tonight. Tonight, John is taking care of you, and you can hardly believe your luck. 

“You gonna cum for me, baby?”

“Yeah.” Your reply is breathy, and you almost laugh just for the pure, unexpected joy you feel in that moment. “Oh, John...” Your ability to say real words escapes you as your body erupts with scintillating pleasure spreading through your loins. You actually scream, and the fierce clench of your cunt around him brings him too. He loses himself with a groan, his face buried in the curve of your shoulder as he shudders against you.

Afterwards, you are laying against his broad chest, his heartbeat a steady drum in your ear. You don't know it, but this is not something John Constantine usually does. Snuggling. But you are sweet and soft in his arms, and he can't quite bring himself to vacate the premises just yet. In fact, he's so comfortable that he dozes, and you follow close behind him.

In the middle of the night you wake to kisses on your neck and caresses down your curvy side. You sigh, arching into him. You feel his manhood at the seam of your buttocks, his thick head kissing your hole.

“Fuck. Sorry,” he whispers with a shuddering sigh, rolling over to reach for his pants again. How many condoms did he bring? The fact that he's not careless with you, even in the sleepy haze of the early morning second round, is incredibly endearing to you. How many times have you had to insist, and been made to feel like an uncool bitch for not wanting to risk pregnancy or disease in the heat of the moment?

Maybe it's utterly insane, but you're half in love already as he hauls you on top of him, his cock freshly capped with a new Trojan Magnum.

You are still drenched from earlier, and it's no problem to impale yourself upon him.

In the blue dark of early morning your eyes meet his, and again you sense that fleeting vulnerability before he distracts you with that clever fucking thumb finding your sensitive bud. He works you just right as you ride his beautiful dick with your back arched taut as a bow, his other hand toying with your nipple. It makes you cum in record time, so quickly it's almost embarrassing, though he doesn’t seem to mind. Within a minute he's followed along with you, his big hands digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he reaches his own release. Your name on his lips raises gooseflesh all over your body, as though your lovemaking has invoked something powerful, something binding.

You collapse against his chest, and the both of you nearly fall asleep again, with him still inside you. 

“Let me get this thing off,” he requests gently, and with a plaintive little groan you roll off of him, curling in at his side. He knots the condom before throwing it in the general direction of the bin. You are both too tired to care if it actually hit home. 

Again, you snuggle close and the two of you doze tangled together until morning light streams through the window. 

You wake to kisses on your forehead this time. It's a miracle you rouse. You're a heavy sleeper—and he worked you out. 

“I have to go, honey.” 

“Want breakfast?” you murmur, half asleep.

“Yeah, but I can’t. Rain check?”

“Okay.”

Through half lidded eyes you watch as he gets dressed, half way, at least. A good portion of his clothes are still strewn around the living room.

My god, what a beautiful specimen of manhood you bagged last night. Nonna would be proud. She was an appreciator of male beauty, and if you told her that her special recipe had gotten you the best sex of your life with the handsome boy next door she would have cackled with delight.

“See you soon?” you dare ask as he buttons his pants. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, after a pause, bending down to kiss you one more time, with tongue this round. 

“Careful mister, or you'll start round three.”

“Jesus, woman,” he teases with that heartbreaking almost-smile. “You've drained me dry.” 

You look him over appraisingly.

“Doubt it.” 

He huffs with laughter, shaking his head. 

“Bye, y/n.”

You sigh. 

“Bye, John.”

With a surprisingly heavy heart, you watch the best lay of your life slip out the door. You really hope you'll get to do this again, and not just go back to awkward acknowledgements in the hallway.

***

Maybe John Constantine had told you he’s not boyfriend material.

But earlier that day, while he was having a smoke out on the sidewalk, he found himself looking over at the wares of a flower vendor and wondering if you would like them. He didn’t buy any, of course.

He wasn’t a total sap.

But it’s possible as he scales the stairs to his apartment, there’s a lightness in his heart as he thinks of you, and the possibility of seeing you in the hallway.

That's when he finds your door ajar, and your apartment ransacked, and a note in red ink on the table addressed to him.

If you want to see your girlfriend alive again, come to this address.

It’s a place in L.A. that’s deep in vampire territory, and something black and heavy weighs like a stone in the pit of John’s stomach. He’d deported a few big players of the local coven not too long ago, and he’d figured the Master would want revenge, but this?

Fucking diabolical—and just their style.

Goddamn vampires.

Without a moment to lose, he goes to his apartment to get his kit, praying he’s not too late to save you.  

[foursaints]

ive been thinking about domestic rosekiller lately and omg im gonna go feral.

scientist!ev coming home from work to see barty passed out on the couch, a sandwich in the fridge for when ev got home 😭 little shit like that makes me want to cry

call me basic but the thought of house husband barty legit makes me want to start eating drywall (in a positive sense)…. i KNOW that man can michelin-level cook when he wants to…

the sandwich he leaves in the fridge for evan is casually garnished with a single tasteful sprig of fresh dill. it features a homemade aioli. and sometimes evan looks between the effortlessly fancy sandwich in his fridge & the messy man passed out on the couch in his ratty misfits t-shirt that has gaping holes in it with his laptop still propped open on his stomach playing like Eraserhead Baby 24Hr ASMR. and evan feels a wave of love so powerful he wants to collapse but instead he just nudges barty’s nasty boot off his nice coffee table and sits down to quietly munch on his sandwich beside him

[omg-just-peachy]

some rhodeytony fic i love a lot

because the mcu is dead to me and they love each other a lot and know each other too well for any recent events to make any sense <3

ripped at every edge by desitonystark

Tony’s at MIT when he finds out.

(Or: the days after Tony finds out his parents are dead)

someone will come running to take you home by superhusbands4ever (Potterwatch97)

Missing scene from Iron Man (2008): It's Tony's first night back in his own house in Malibu and he's not coping as well as he'd like everyone to think.

Courtship (caught in the rain) by Cards_Slash

9 vignettes of a relationship in progress

or -

Rhodey had a plan and it went like this: wake up, leave, find something that Tony wouldn’t find ridiculous, sentimental or overtly romantic that he didn’t already own to give to him for their anniversary, come back, eat something, give the present to Tony, endure his comments, have a lot of sex, and go back to sleep.

Oh Lazarus Have You Risen Again? by SuperstringSymphony

“Tony.” He murmurs against the slight curls at Tony's temple. “Do you really think after I spent three months looking for you, that I'd leave you over some new body jewelry? Is that why you've been depriving me of my favorite show?” He hugs Tony a little more tightly, pressing his palms in to the small of his back.

Tony comes back from Afghanistan with more than a little baggage, but James Rhodes will not be deterred.

simply the best by Mizzy

After Tony's heart inexplicably fails in the tower, and Thor electrocutes him back to life, Pepper promptly dumps him. Rhodey is there to cuddle him back to happiness.

Stay-cation by Not Applicable (not_applicable)

Rhodey has the flu, and his boyfriend is a superhero, after all.

You Just Don't See It by BlossomsintheMist

Set during the plane scene in the first Iron Man movie, Tony and Rhodey get a little caught up in each other.

There'll be much mistletoeing and hearts will be glowing by frostysunflowers

In the run up to Christmas, a sprig of mistletoe in the elevator has a rather amorous effect on the occupants of Stark Tower, much to Tony's frustration.

It Almost Seems Like Yesterday by ceealaina

When Tony gets hit with an amnesia spell that leaves him unable to remember anything past 1990, Rhodey's right there to help him through it. (Now if only Rhodey could remember how the hell he's managed to hide his feelings for Tony all these years.)

i let you carve your name all over my insides by deathsweetqueen

A warm, hot, heavy palm lands on the curve of his hip and Tony groans into his pillow, clutching at it like a lifeline.

A laugh falls in his ears, tickling the hair on the nape of his neck.

...and two self-recs

without you i'll never be home

Tony melts, a little, and the words leave his mouth before he can stop them. “I like you,” he says, and it’s much too serious and far too earnest, but here they are, alone in Rhodey’s room, the one that’s come to feel like Tony’s, too, and Rhodey’s looking at him, like...

Tony goes home with Rhodey for Thanksgiving break.

a moment in between

Those few blissful seconds right before he regains complete consciousness sometimes feel like all he has left. Then, of course, the realization hits, and Rhodey feels the loss all over again, hears the words anew every time. Complete paralysis. 

Tonight is one of those nights. 

Or, Rhodey wakes from a nightmare and Tony does what he can.

[ghostwise]

“seeing an object and thinking of them” for hamal & zev pleeeaaase 🫶🏽

They live out of their packs, carrying only what they need to survive: rations, basic supplies, weapons, and precious few comforts. Of these, there is the boar bristle hairbrush Zevran has allowed himself to keep. The oils Hamal uses for his skin. Sunscreen and elfroot extract. Zevran's boots, which he imagines they rescued from their cold exile in Haven. Keeper Mahariel's necklace. Their wedding rings.

Eventually, however, they need to go shopping.

And as Hamal finds himself ill-suited to the bustle of a typical Antivan marketplace, Zevran is happy for the chance to wander alone and stock up on sweet smelling soap, coffee, beeswax, spices...

There is one other thing he has in mind.

Hamal's shirt is long past mending. It is patched and thinning in several places, though the man would never admit this; after all, he'd spent the last month of the Blight wearing a shirt that was more repair than fabric.

Which is precisely why Zevran has taken the decision into his own hands.

Hamal deserves something fresh and comfortable, not the worn tunic he's carried for years. Zevran rather suspects it's a bit small in the shoulders for him as well. He's filled out a bit, now that he's on a proper sleep schedule and enjoying the far superior food Antiva has to offer. Health and happiness look lovely on him.

So, it is time for a change. This is not a whim, it's a necessity. Zevran ventures to several clothing shops, seeking the right shirt for his husband.

It should be linen, or percale… something apt for the heat. It should be slim in the arms--billowing sleeves, while quite fetching on Hamal, would get in the way of his bow. Definitely no buttons… they'd gape. Actually, that might be a plus. Perhaps something with laces?

When Zevran finally makes his way back to camp, his pack is cheerfully filled with all his day's purchases. He walks right up to Hamal, trades his welcome back vhenan with a kiss, and immediately tugs at his shirt.

"Take it off," he says.

He need not say it twice. Hamal laughs and tugs the garment over his head.

"Alright, now, put this on!"

Zevran takes the old shirt, shoving the new into his arms.

Hamal blinks at him. His eyes trail down to the shirt, a snow-white percale cotton with dainty sprigs of lavender embroidered on the fabric.

"You tricked me," he says lightly.

"Do you like it?"

Hamal hums thoughtfully as he puts the shirt on. Zevran notes with some relief that it fits him well, and the low neckline is suitable, too.

"These little leaves are pretty," Hamal says, tracing the embroidery along the collar and sleeves.

"It reminded me of you," Zevran said softly, hoping to convince him. "And the color matches your eyes. I bought ribbons for your hair, too. A few different colors to match."

Hamal laughs at that. "Ribbons! I love you, truly!" he says. "Ma serannas. I do like it."

"Thank the Maker," Zevran sighs.

Not that he was worried, but Hamal is slow to such changes sometimes. No doubt he'll want to keep the old one.

It's like clockwork.

"The old one isn't that bad!"

"It's bad," Zevran says with a smile, and he smooths a hand over his shoulder, picking lint off the fabric. "Amor, it's practically falling apart."

"Not at all. It has a few years left!"

"As my pillowcase," Zevran agrees with a laugh.

Hamal considers it. "Alright," he says, charmed by the idea. "Deal."

[thescarletfang]

The Sweetest Kind of Trouble

Well, here it is! My fluffier-than-fluff Tommy Miller fic. Seriously, this is so soft, y’all. I just didn’t have the mental capacity to go dark for this one. Sometimes it be like that! I just really wanted to write a very tender Tommy Miller fic without the looming threat of the end of the world. 

Word count: ~8.3k (my longest fic lol who am I what is happening)

Summary: You meet Tommy when he comes in looking for flowers for a first date. He’s trouble from the start.

Tommy Miller x f!reader, AU, no outbreak. 

Warnings: Some spice at the end! I think that’s it?? Let me know if I missed anything but I mean...this is SO FLUFFY. 

I hope you enjoy. I just want to give Tommy Miller all of the love he deserves!!

He came in looking for flowers. 

You noticed him immediately - his tall, broad frame adorned in faded Levi’s, his gray, collared shirt open and unbuttoned with a white tank top underneath, a cowboy hat on his head and dark shades hiding his eyes. You could tell he was beautiful immediately, even with his sunglasses on. The way his black locks curled under the hat made your fingers itch, the desire to run your hands through them a little shocking since you’d only laid eyes on him thirty seconds ago. His boots were as study as his large hands that ran along the cracked, wooden gate that led into where you stood behind the register. 

You liked working at Daisywood Farms, especially in the springtime. The Texas sky was usually a vibrant shade of blue, the steady buzz and hum of insects the perfect background melody. You liked the way the heat made you sweat. You were a summer baby after all, coming alive in the warmer weather, so it never bothered you none when Austin got real warm. You felt yourself bloom under the sun. 

You really liked working in the marketplace at Daisywood Farms. It was open and bustling and there was everything from blackberry jam to mason jars of moonshine to apple and rhubarb pie - and flowers. So many flowers, black-and-yellow bees dancing through the outdoor marketplace, floating from daisies to sunflowers to carnations and sprigs of baby’s breath. You reveled in the different scents; rejoiced in the way your sundress moved with the humid breeze and your hair frizzed around the crown of your head. 

You’d decided at thirty to go back to school and earn your master’s degree in English Literature, and working at Daisywood Farms from the springtime through autumn was a nice respite amidst your studies. You worked part-time, it paid for your apartment and books, and it allowed you to get out of your head. You found yourself content for the first time in a long time - you had a routine. You had friends - good ones, too. You had your own place, a little two bedroom with hardwood floors and natural light and a windowsill for your flowers and space for all of your books. You were - for all intents and purposes - happy. 

You did not expect Tommy Miller. 

After you initially noticed him, you went back to work, ringing up an older woman for an entire case of moonshine, having to bite your lip from laughing when she told you it was because her husband was getting on her last nerve. You packed away her jars and sent her on her way, and your eyes crinkled from smiling as you watched her leave. 

A few minutes later, you looked up from wiping down the counter when you heard a throat clear. It was the guy with the hat and the boots and the hair and the–

“Um, miss, I don’t wanna be a bother, but I could sure use your help.”

You immediately thought that his voice didn’t have to be that deep and that raspy. Did this man walk out of one of those trashy romance novels you’d read on the beach last summer? You felt flustered as he took off his sunglasses and you were met with puppy-dog brown eyes. At the distance he stood from you now, you could see a smattering of freckles along his cheeks, and he was grinning. You’d never been smitten with a stranger this quickly before, but this man was simply beautiful. You couldn’t stop yourself from admiring him. Your eyes flickered over his face despite your best attempts to remain unafflicted. 

He looked at you expectantly, and you came back to your senses. You cleared your throat. Your face was hot. 

You found your voice. “What can I help you with?”

His grin was very distracting, you noted. He tapped his fingertips on the counter and you felt your lips quirking up in the corner, despite yourself. Whoever this man was, he made you want to smile, and that was alright by you.

“Got me a first date tonight,” he said. “And my niece says bums like me should bring flowers to a first date.”

You laughed, despite the twinge of disappointment at the fact that this man had a date lined up. That’s what you get for being flustered with a stranger. 

“Your niece sounds very smart.”

His eyes glittered as he nodded, hanging his sunglasses on the collar of his white undershirt. He rapped his knuckles twice on the counter. 

“Smartest person I know, that’s for damn sure,” he said. You nodded, pulling up the wooden barrier on the side of the cash register counter, coming out from around the corner to stand in this man’s space. You thought for a second his eyes flicked over your body, taking you in, but you were sure you’d imagined it. 

“Well, we have lots of options for a first date,” you told him, the two of you walking toward the rows and rows of flowers that Daisywood Farms was known for. “What’s this girl like?”

The man chuckled lowly, reaching up and taking the cowboy hat off his head, holding it close to his chest. You tried not to stare at the disheveled curls, tried to not to marvel at how beautiful his head of hair was.

Dear god, woman. Get it together!

“I don’t really know,” the man admitted. “I asked for her number at the bar the other night and well, now here we are.”

You paused in front of a sprig of lavender and pulled it out of its place, holding it up to your nose. You breathed in deeply, the familiar scent warming you down to your toes. You looked up to find the man staring at you. 

“Hmm.” Your fingers traced against the sprigs in your hand. “You honestly can’t go wrong with lavender, maybe mixed with a few wildflowers in there.” 

He kept looking at you and you felt rooted to the spot. “That your favorite? Lavender?”

You nodded. “I’d say so. I like to always have some on my breakfast table. Brightens up my morning while I have my coffee and do some reading.” Am I talking too much? It felt like you were talking too much. 

He watched you for a moment, not saying anything. It almost felt as if he was studying you. And then he reached over, picking up a bunch of daffodils.

“I think these’ll do.” His eyes flickered back to you. “She don’t seem like a lavender girl.” 

You pursed your lips, putting back your lavender bunch, trying to decide if that stung or not. She must be really different than me. 

“I don’t think you needed much of my help.” You led him away from the flowers and he put his hat back on. As you lifted the wooden barrier to situate yourself behind the register, you heard him chuckle. When you turned around to face him, hand outstretched for the daffodils, he was grinning.

“Sure I did. How else I’d know that lavender brighten up a morning while you do some reading?”

You bit your lip, trying to put a clamp on your smile but it felt a little futile. You thought maybe he picked up on it because as you rang up his total, his eyes sparkled with something like mischief. 

“I’m Tommy Miller.” Your eyes shot up to meet his, momentarily pausing in punching in the price in the ancient register. You liked the way he said his full, government name to you. It made you want to laugh. He’s so damn cute.

“Are you, now?” You couldn’t help but tease him a little and he breathed out a chuckle, the sound low and rich, like a dark roast coffee. You smirked as he looked away for a minute, his smile crooked. When his eyes flicked back to you, you couldn’t help but suck in a breath. 

Ugh. What is wrong with me? He’s just a guy, getting some flowers for his girl. 

Maybe you were lonelier than you thought you were. Maybe it was time to take up Vanessa - your best friend - on her offer to set you up with one of her coworkers. She had mentioned a guy named Jake had thought you were cute when you’d joined them for happy hour drinks a few weeks back. You can barely remember what he looked like, but a vague picture of a dude floated in your head. You remember thinking he was nice.

“Can I ask your name?” You were brought back to the present and to the man - Tommy - in front of you. He sounded hopeful and friendly and not at all like some of the more aggressive men you’d encountered out in Texas nightlife. This Tommy Miller - he felt open. He felt safe. 

Maybe you were an idiot for thinking that after a few minutes of interaction, but you prided yourself on your instincts. 

Which was why you told him your name. He repeated it back to you, the grin permanent on his face. You had to look down or else you were worried you’d completely melt. You wrapped his flowers up as you told him the total. As he fished his wallet out of his back pocket, you cut a piece of twine, wrapping it around the bundle of daffodils. 

You gave him the flowers as he handed you cash. He held them up to his nose, smelling for a moment, before looking at you. He was looking at you through his dark, too-long-to-be-good-for-him lashes, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. 

You gestured with your hand toward the bouquet.“She’s gonna love them. Daffodils are a perfect first-date flower.”

“Alright then.” He nodded. “Now if this date goes badly and she hates them, I may have you to blame, yeah?”

You laughed. “Well I did suggest lavendar, so…”

Tommy stood there and you thought for a moment maybe he wanted to say something. But he didn’t and you filled the silence for him.

“Well…enjoy your date, Tommy.” 

“You work here often?” The words tumbled out of his mouth quickly, as if he couldn’t contain them much longer. Your eyebrows rose almost to your hairline. 

“I do. Part-time.” He looked at you and his expression was so open that you felt yourself offering more. “I’m back in school, getting my master’s degree, so I work here through autumn when I don’t have class.”

Tommy let out a low whistle, his eyes widening. He looked impressed and you tried not to preen. 

“So you one a’ those smart ones?” 

You titled your head at him, pursing your lips playfully. “You one a’ those dumb ones?” 

Tommy’s eyes lit up and you felt little butterflies in your belly. His eyes glittered in the afternoon sun, and you felt like everyone else milling about the Daisywood marketplace faded into the background, blurred and frayed around the edges. As if there was a glow on just the two of you, the warmth radiating into your pulse, down into your very bones. 

“You’re trouble,” he told you, motioning with the bouquet in your direction. You felt like you’d just won something, but you weren’t sure what it was. 

“It was nice to meet you, Tommy Miller,” you told him and he grinned again, one of those wide ones that crinkled the edges of his eyes. 

“You too.” 

* * * 

Tommy had wanted to ask for your number, but he had enough sense in his head that he realized asking a woman for her number while buying flowers for another woman was not the right move. He was an idiot about most things, but he knew that much.

But damn, you’d been a fiery thing. And as he stood in the parking lot of the restaurant, his hands in his pockets, watching his date walk back to her car, he cursed himself. Because the girl he’d taken out tonight - she’d been sweet, but clearly the sparks had peaked under the dim light of a bar and the fuel of alcohol. When she said tonight had been fun but maybe that’s where it stopped - a friendly, platonic smile on her face - he couldn’t have agreed faster. He only realized as she walked away that she’d left her flowers in the restaurant. 

He kicked a rock in the parking lot, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his pack of cigarettes. He lit one as he walked to his truck, the nicotine immediately calming him. He exhaled through his nose as he climbed into the driver’s seat. 

Tommy knew his history with women. He knew he’d never been the serious type, much more interested in hook-ups and and flirtations than actual relationships. But he’d be lying if he said that now -  in the latter half of his thirties - the uncertainty felt a little tired. It’s not like he was ready to settle down, get married and pop out some kids - hell no. Sarah was enough for him and he loved being her uncle more than almost anything in the world.

Naw, he wasn’t trying to skip all the steps and get tied down right away. But…it would be kind of nice to come home to someone after a long day of working in the sun, blistered hands and aching bones. Would be nice to not have to try with anyone, to just have someone who knew him. Someone he could wrap up in his arms, that he could feel like himself with. Someone to bring over to Joel and Sarah’s for Sunday night dinner. ‘Cuz that drive home is starting to feel a little lonely. And so is my house. 

He took another puff from his cigarette as he passed the local grocery store. He realized he was out of coffee and tomorrow was a big job with Joel - he knew he’d need the fuel in the morning. Pulling into the nearly-empty parking lot at this hour, Tommy flicked his cigarette out of the driver’s window as he pulled into an empty spot. 

As he walked into the grocery store, he stuck his hands in his faded jean jacket and headed straight for the coffee aisle. He could feel the long day settle into his bones and he was looking forward to flopping face-first down into his bed the second he got home. 

He found the dark roast he liked and snatched it from the shelf before he turned toward the end of the aisle, where he promptly found himself rooted to the spot.

Because there you were. Pretty little thing from the farm, your name floating into his brain as he looked at you for a moment as you held a basket in your arm, examining a bag of sugar. Your hair was pulled out of your face, different than how you’d worn it this afternoon, and you looked a little tired. 

But still as cute as ever.

“Hey, Trouble.”

You looked up at his voice and it took a moment, but when you recognized him your face broke into the brightest smile he’d seen all day. It made his stomach swoop a little and he walked toward you, returning your grin. 

“Tommy Miller.” You put the bag of sugar in your already-full basket, shifting your weight to accommodate the bulkiness. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He said your name then and you laughed. And then he stupidly asked, “What are you doin’ here?”

He felt himself flush as you got a teasing look in your eye, seemingly delighted that he would ask such an obvious question. Your eyes flicked down to your basket, then back up to his gaze.

“Why, believe it or not, I’m grocery shopping.”

He chuckled, a little embarrassed, the hand not holding his coffee coming up to rub at the back of his neck. You seemed to take pity on him because you looked up at him with a friendly wink, letting him know you were just messing with him. 

Tommy nodded. “Ain’t that somethin’.” 

Suddenly, your eyes went wide, as if you’d only just remembered something. “How’d your date go?!” 

You seemed genuinely excited for him, like you really cared about his answer to the question.  

“It was fine.” He watched as your eyebrows rose. You looked - well - if Tommy didn’t know any better, he’d say you looked a little relieved at his lackluster response but maybe that was just him being hopeful. 

“Oh no.” You once again shifted the heavy basket and Tommy had an itch to reach out and take it for you. Would that be too forward? I don’t wanna come on too strong. “‘Fine’ is not how you want to describe a first date.” A pause, and then, “It was the daffodils, wasn’t it?”

Tommy barked out a laugh and you grinned playfully at him. “I think it was more to do with our personalities not bein’ compatible, but I will tell you - she left the daffodils in the restaurant.”

You clutched a dramatic hand to your heart, scrunching your eyes up in mock pain. “Noooooo!” 

“It’s true. Right there on the table between our empty plates.”

You groaned, the sound turning into a laugh when your eyes landed back on his. “That’s so brutal, I’m sorry. For the record - those were really nice flowers! Her loss.”

Tommy stuck his free hand into his pocket to keep from just taking that damn heavy basket out of your arms. “They were nice flowers. As pretty and as nice as the gal who sold them to me.”

You squinted your eyes at him, pursing your lips - it looked like you were trying to hide a smile.

“You using a line on me after your failed date?” Damn, you liked calling him out, didn’t you?

“It ain’t a line!” He watched as you turned on your heel, scoffing. He thought for a moment he’d blown it, that you really did think he was a dog, but when you realized he wasn’t next to you, you looked over your shoulder and raised an eyebrow at him. 

“You just gonna stand there or you gonna walk with me?” 

She–oh…damn.

“Yes ma’am.” Tommy’s long legs got him to where you stood in just a few strides, and the two of you meandered down the aisle, toward the front of the store. 

“I really am sorry your date didn’t go as well as you’d hoped.” He looked to his left, down at you. Your gaze was focused ahead of you, your arms gripping the basket. 

Fuck it. 

“Here, gimme that.” He motioned to your basket and you looked up at him, your face full of surprise. 

“Oh, you don’t have to, Tommy–”

“I know that, but I want to.”

You hesitated for another moment before you let him take the basket out of your arms. He held it in his right hand, his left hand clutching his coffee. He glanced at your ingredients, noticed a few common threads. Made him think of the time he took Sarah to get things to surprise Joel on a Christmas morning a few years ago. They’d made cinnamon buns together, Sarah bossing him around while Joel slept in. That was a good day. 

“You into baking?” You looked up at his question. 

“It’s my best friend’s birthday next weekend. Gonna make her a cake. Icing and all.”

He let you walk in front of him as you both reached the checkout line and he resisted the urge to put his hand on your lower back. You turned to him and he held out your basket as you started to put your items onto the conveyor built. 

He caught your eye as you set down a container of sprinkles. “Lucky best friend.” 

The two of you didn’t talk much as you both checked out, but you did reward him with another bright smile as he effortlessly took hold of your bagged groceries, insisting he help carry them to your car.

You led him over to where you were parked and opened the passenger door for him to set your bag down. When you nudged the door closed with your hip, you turned to face him. He held his single bag of coffee in his hand, looking at you. 

“Thanks for the totally unnecessary chivalry.” You played with the strap of your purse, one foot kicked behind you, resting on your car door. “I really do appreciate it, Tommy.”

“I was raised right.” Tommy didn’t want to stop talking to you, but it was getting late and he had to be up early - and he could see the tiredness in your shoulders, the way sleep was probably beckoning you too. 

He rubbed the back of his neck again. If Joel had been there, he’d tease him for it, Tommy’s consistent tell that he was nervous. He’d done it since he was a little kid - before he was up to bat at a baseball game, before a doctor’s appointment, the day Joel told him he was going to be an uncle. 

“It was real nice runnin’ into you, Trouble, and I’d very much like to do it again.” He heard your small intake of breath, the surprised little gasp as your eyes widened just a bit. 

“You would?” There was no teasing in your question and Tommy was taken aback by the earnestness of it. Like you actually couldn’t believe he’d want to see you again, like you weren’t lovely and kind. He’d be an idiot to not at least try.

“Yes ma’am. You got a number you’d feel okay giving me?” 

Your initial reaction was to smile, and he marveled at how it took up your whole face. Then a second later you sighed, biting your lip, your eyes flitting away from him and he started to feel a little nervous. Maybe he was being too forward. He’d only just met you this morning. You might have a boyfriend or a husband or a girlfriend for all he knew–

“I’ll be honest, Tommy.” You were back to playing with the strap of your purse, and Tommy clocked it as a nervous tick. “I’m not much in the habit of giving strangers - especially men - my number.” 

He studied you for a moment, your hesitation. Did some idiot burn you before? Some creep abuse the privilege of having your number in his possession? He wanted to say he wouldn’t be like that, that he was different -  but currently the odds were stacked against him. He’d just been at dinner with a different woman an hour ago. Maybe you thought he was a creep. 

“How ‘bout this? I give you my number, so if you never wanna see me again, you don’t have to.” Your eyes lit up at his suggestion, your shoulders relaxing. “And I ain’t askin’ for anything. Just would like to talk to you some more.” 

You studied him for a long beat, debating something in that pretty head of yours. “How about as friends? You’d..be okay with that?”

The Tommy Miller from a few years ago - hell, even last year - would’ve honestly deflated at that, said sure and then put you out of his mind, moving on to someone who’d likely sleep with him. He wasn’t always proud of his history with women, and while he never meant to mistreat anyone, he had certainly ghosted a girl or two. Or three or four. 

But you’d been kind to him this morning and you were being kind to him now. He felt comfortable in your presence. And truthfully? He’d be lying if he said he had a lot of friends. Besides Joel and a few veteran buddies, he didn’t have time for a lot of friends. And if he was being brutally, terribly honest with himself?

Fuck, Tommy Miller was a little lonely.

Which is why he nodded, giving you a genuine grin. “Friends sounds pretty damn great to me.”

* * * 

You waited two days to reach out to Tommy. 

You had been a little surprised at your reaction to him asking for your number. You’d mooned over him that morning, your stomach had swooped when you’d ran into him again later that night at the grocery store, and yet when he actually asked for your number, you’d balked. 

Because you’d seen it clearly then. A man as gorgeous as Tommy could not possibly be looking for something more than just physical. And certainly not with you. It just…it didn’t track, based on your history with men like him. And you didn’t think that way to talk down on yourself - in fact, you were very happy with yourself. You knew your worth, knew that you would be a good partner to whoever would want to give that a go with you. 

But Tommy was absurdly handsome. Flirtatious. Easy to joke with and talk to and you saw, in that second when he’d asked for your number, exactly how this would all play out. He’d take you out, you’d get swept up in that smile, you’d find yourself in bed with him because duh, and then you’d never hear from him again. 

It was a tale as old as time. It’d happened to you plenty. 

And maybe that was a little unfair of you, judging him before really knowing him. Your therapist did say you had a habit of self-sabotage when it came to dating. But you couldn’t help it; you were not up to getting hurt at this point in your life. And you knew yourself: you knew if you slept with this man, you’d get attached. You just knew it, a few minutes into conversation with him. 

So you’d been taken aback when he’d agreed to a friendship. You were sure he’d blow you off at your suggestion, or a least pretend to entertain it and then never hear from him again. And you certainly didn’t expect him to answer the text you sent him.

You sent a pretty standard message -  telling him just who was texting him and asking how his day was going. Then you’d thrown your phone on the other end of your couch, snuggling under the throw blanket around your shoulders, trying to put Tommy out of your mind and calm your racing heart because it’s not like he was going to text back anyway. 

Your phone started buzzing and you glanced over, mouth dropping open because Tommy was calling you. Your stomach immediately tied together in nerves and you leaned over, grabbing for your phone and just staring at his name as it continued to ring.

Fuck it.

“Hello?”

“Hi you.” His voice on the other end sounded deeper than in person and you snuggled further into your couch, trying not to physically squeal like you were fifteen-years-old, sneaking on the landline late at night to talk to the boy from school you had a crush on. 

“Hope it’s alright m’calling you.” He sounded soft on the other end. “I’ll admit I’m not much of a texting guy.”

Your smile stretched ear-to-ear because that made perfect sense. He didn’t seem like a texting guy, and hearing his voice over the phone was better than reading a few sentences over a message.

“It’s very alright,” you replied. “I hope it’s alright I texted. I didn’t know if you were working or something–”

“Got home a little bit ago.” Talking with Tommy felt light. You immediately relaxed, imagining him on the other end, wherever he was in his home.

He cleared his throat, asked, “What you up to?” and you fell into an easy conversation. He told you about his day - he worked construction jobs with his older brother named Joel, his only sibling and the father of his niece. You could hear the affection in Tommy’s voice that the man had for his older brother, and it delighted you. He told you about a funny thing his niece - Sarah - had said that morning as Tommy had picked up his brother from his house, on the way to the job. You laughed until your cheeks hurt and realized Tommy had a gift for storytelling.

He asked you about your class that day and seemed genuinely interested in your thesis. He asked what your favorite books were, admitted he hadn’t read one in god knows how long, and asked about your family. You talked and talked and talked, and it wasn’t until you yawned that you glanced over at your end table, eyes widening when you realized it was after midnight. 

You bid each other goodnight and he asked if he could call you tomorrow. You were grateful he couldn’t see your dorky, giant grin on your face when you replied yes. 

That night you dreamt of black curls and freckles and a grin as warm as the Texas sun.

* * * 

Within several weeks, Tommy Miller became your friend. 

You talked to him on the phone whenever you could at night, when your work and research was completed or he wasn’t too passed-out exhausted from work. You even got to see his house - a modest, two-bedroom rancher, with typical Ikea furniture and Texas sports team paraphernalia. The natural light was lovely and his hardwood floors looked beautiful. When you commented on them, he had beamed - and told you that he and Joel had installed the floor themselves. You were sufficiently impressed.

It was lovely and painfully obvious a man lived there alone, especially when you realized the most expensive thing in the entire place was his grill on the back deck. You’d teased him, but the steak he’d made you on it was so good that it’d effectively shut you up. 

And that was how you started to spend time with Tommy Miller. Movie nights at his house, phone calls in the evening, showing him your book collection and grabbing a late night burger after he got off a job. Vanessa even met him once, the man meeting you for a happy hour drink. She didn’t stop teasing you about him for a week after that, calling him your “non-boyfriend boyfriend” and telling you you were an idiot. You brushed her off, told her that right now, you were just friends and that was good enough.

“So let me give my coworker Jake your number,” she’d said, her eyes bright, teasing you. You’d pursed your lips, shrugging.

“Fine.” Your voice sounded unconvincing even to your own ears and Vanessa had scoffed at you. She’d shook her head, taking a sip of her wine. 

“You’re unbelievable,” she’d said and you’d rolled your eyes at her. 

Your newfound friendship with Tommy was nice. He was nice. You didn’t need to complicate it and get your hopes up, thinking that the man wanted more than he was giving. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d made a new friend - you’d been so settled into your life and your routine, you hadn’t had much of change in a little bit. 

Tommy was something new. Something special and sweet and you didn’t really want to complicate it very much. He was probably dating anyway - it wasn’t like you knew every single thing the man did. He owed you nothing, so if he was going out with women on the days you didn’t see him, that was fine by you. 

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. 

And you were in complete and utter denial the more time you spent with him.

* * *

“What’s so funny?”

Tommy looked up from his phone to find Joel staring at him with narrowed eyes, his beer bottle paused before his lips. Sarah snorted as she took a bite of her burger, a knowing look in her eye. 

Tommy set his phone down on Joel’s kitchen table, leaning back in his seat. “Huh?” 

Joel took a swig of beer and looked at Tommy suspiciously. “You got the biggest dumbass grin on your face as you looked at your phone. What is it?”

Tommy tried to not give himself away and took a drink from his own beer. Because the truth was he’d been laughing at a meme you’d sent him, something stupid in response to a debate about the greatest action movie franchise. You were arguing that Aliens was better than Terminator 2, and Tommy had pointed out it was the same director, then you’d teased him for “mansplaining” and it’d gone back and forth until you’d sent some ridiculous reaction picture. 

“Dad, he’s obviously texting a girl.”

Tommy flicked a homemade french fry at Sarah’s face and she batted it away, snickering. 

“You mind your business,” he told his niece, trying to play it cool. But Joel - the son of a bitch - looked way too interested to let it slide. 

“Who is it? Do I know her? You datin’ her or just textin’?” Joel’s rapid fire questions made Tommy roll his eyes at his big brother. 

“She’s my friend, dipshit.”

Joel snorted and then it was Sarah’s turn to flick a fry, but this time she aimed it at her dad’s head. The fry hit him directly in the center of the forehead, and Tommy and Sarah burst into laughter.

“Hey!” Joel swiped his napkin over his forehead, glaring at Sarah playfully. 

“Uncle Tommy can have friends that are girls.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Oh, can he now?” He leveled a look at his little brother. “You just friends with this girl?”

“Don’t be a dick.” Tommy shoved the last bit of his burger into his mouth. “And yeah, I am, and I really dig her, man. She’s cool. And smart. And funny.”

Joel grinned genuinely at his little brother and Tommy felt the tops of his ears get hot. He knew that look that Joel was giving him. He knew he sounded like a complete dork but he didn’t care. He was grateful for you. For your ridiculous memes and your conversations and for letting him into your life, even if it never got further than what it was. 

Which he was absolutely fine with. Really. 

Sarah’s eyes lit up. “Bring her to my soccer game on Saturday! I wanna meet her!”

“Yeah, Tommy!” Joel’s such a little shit. “Bring her, we wanna meet her.”

Tommy shook his head, looking between his older brother and his niece. They looked at him with expectant expressions, and Tommy finally relented. He knew he wouldn’t win this argument and a part of him didn’t want to. The thought of you joining them for one of Sarah’s games - the thought of introducing you to his people - made his stomach swoop in a way it hadn’t in a long time.

Tommy’s phone buzzed and your name came up with a text that said, Anyway, hope you’re having a nice night. :) 

He didn’t try to hide the smile that time. 

“Yeah, maybe I will bring ‘er.” 

* * * 

The sun beat down on the back of your neck and you were grateful for your choice to wear your hair pulled up and out of your face. The Texas almost-summer-but-still-technically-spring weather was brutal, and it was hot on the soccer field today as you sat beside Tommy and his brother, watching tweens run around and play like their life depended on it. 

When Tommy had invited you to his niece’s soccer game, you had been floored. You’d heard a lot about Joel and Sarah, and you didn’t admit it to him, but you’d been wanting to meet them for awhile. Once you immediately said absolutely to attending the game, your nerves set in. Would Joel grill you about your relationship to his brother? Would he question why you weren’t dating? Would you have to deflect questions in order to stay away from the true reason why you were afraid to admit to your feelings: you didn’t want to get hurt.

But the second Tommy picked you up in his truck with a big smile on his face, the second you both walked across the parking lot and to the field, the second you met Joel Miller and his sweet, bright-eyed daughter, all of those nerves and that fear melted away. You were shocked at how right it all felt. You wished Sarah good luck before she jogged onto the field, and the smile she gave you immediately made you feel welcome. 

You scrunched your nose, too-big sunglasses sliding down your face. Tommy’d given you his to wear, noticing you squinting in the harsh sun. He looked over at you now, smirking. 

“Don’t you dare make fun of me,” you said to him, pushing the sunglasses up your nose. He barked out a laugh and put his hands up in mock defense. 

“I ain’t sayin’ a word.” 

Joel - who was sitting on the other side of Tommy - held his water bottle up to his lips. “If my little brother makes fun of you, he’s walking home.”

“I drove her here!” Tommy’s indignant pout made him sound like he was twelve. Your smile was embarrassingly big. 

“Doesn’t mean she can’t drive your truck without you in it.” Joel threw you a smirk, conspiratory in nature, like the both of you were in on a joke together. It made you feel included and you were grateful for it, lodging the feeling away beneath your ribcage. 

“You know, that’s a good idea, Joel.” You turned to to angle your body toward Tommy, your hands resting on the arms of the fold-out chair he’d brought for you. You reached up, lowering the sunglasses and peered at him dramatically, over the lenses. “I always wanted a truck of my own. Yours will do nicely.”

Tommy’s eyes fixed on you, his gaze warmer than the sunshine. 

“I wasn’t gonna make fun’a you.” He cleared his throat, his eyes traveling over your face. His voice was low, so only you could hear. “Was just gonna say you look good in my stuff.” 

Your mouth dropped open and you found no words came to you. Tommy had a self-satisfied smirk on his face, before he stood up, declaring he needed another water bottle and sauntered away toward the snack bar, a hand in his jeans pocket. The very way he carried himself told you he knew exactly how hard you heart was beating. 

You were flustered, but you managed to get it together when Joel said your name. Your attention flicked over to him. 

“It’s nice to finally meet the girl that’s been the reason for my brother’s good mood for the last few months.”

Your face heated and you smiled. “I don’t know about all that. Tommy’s always in a good mood.”

Joel studied you for a moment, an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Yeah, but it’s been different. He likes you. A lot.”

Your fingers played with the hem of your sundress, falling to the middle of your thigh. “Well now you’re just getting my hopes up, Joel. He likes me as good as he likes any of his friends.”

Joel deadpanned a knowing look at you and then took a breath. His eyes traveled back to the field, watching as Sarah joined her team for a time-out huddle. When he spoke, his eyes remained on the field, but you felt like his entire attention was on you.

“My brother’s spent his entire life tryin’ to prove he’s good enough. Good enough for our parents, good enough for me, good enough for the fuckin’ United States army.” Joel took a breath, and you got the sense that what he was saying to you was really important. “I would put money on the fact that he sure as hell don’t feel good enough for you.”

You swallowed, your stomach full of butterflies. “I–I don’t–”

Finally, Joel looked at you, and his gaze was as warm as Tommy’s. You could see the similarity in their faces, their brown puppy-dog eyes and their uncanny ability to make you feel like you were the only person in the entire place. 

“I’m tellin’ you this because I can see how y’all are around each other and I’ve spent - what - an hour around you two?” He shook his head. “And I would fuckin’ hate for you to walk away from this because my brother is too up his own damn ass to realize he does deserve the best. And I think I’m right in assuming he makes you happy.” 

You couldn’t deny it even if you wanted to. “He makes me so happy.”

Joel gave you a genuine smile. He nodded. “He’s the best man I know.”

Your heart beat a tender rhythm, the love radiating off of Joel. You were amazed by it, nearly consumed by it. These Miller brothers are good men. I know that. I can feel it. 

Your conversation didn’t continue because Tommy was back, plopping down in his seat between you and Joel. He handed you a water. 

“Figured you could use one too,” he told you. Over his shoulder, your saw Joel’s knowing look, his eyebrows raised,  and you tried not to blush. 

You took the water bottle from his hand, your smile stretching across your face. “Thanks, Tommy.” He grinned at you, his bronzed skin glistening in the sunshine, his freckles scattered across his nose like tiny constellations. I’m down bad for this man. 

The rest of the game passed in a pleasant hour. You made easy conversation with Joel and Tommy, and when Sarah’s team brought home the victory, you were on your feet with the rest of the parents and families, cheering and yelling through cupped hands. 

Joel explained it was tradition to get ice cream after the games - win or lose. Sarah - with her big, Miller eyes - told you matter-of-factly you simply had to join for this post-game tradition. You told her you’ve never turned down an opportunity for ice cream once in your life.

As you sat at an outdoor table at the ice-cream parlor, licking the strawberry cone Tommy insisted on buying for you, you realized you were happier than you ever remembered being. The sun was starting to settle low in the sky, and the soundtrack of Joel and Tommy’s laughter, of Sarah’s snarky comments - it all created a calmness in you. 

I could get used to this. Tommy caught your eye, mid-conversation with Joel. He grinned at you without ever breaking conversation, a silent communication to you saying I’m glad you’re here.

You smiled down into your ice cream.

I’m glad I am too, Tommy. I’m right where I’m meant to be.

* * * 

It happened on a random Tuesday in late May. 

Tommy knew you’d been having a shitty day. You’d overslept for your meeting with your advisor,  a citation source for your thesis hadn’t worked out, and you’d gotten a flat tire on your way home. When you had texted Tommy a picture of the flat with an angry face, he immediately asked if he needed to pick you up. You told him Triple A was on their way, then made a joke about how you’d run over the nail just a few minutes from his house. He said it was fate then, since he was planning on asking you to come over and have dinner with him.

You’d agreed to head to his house after Triple A replaced your wheel. After double checking that you were safe, off the road, and okay to wait for them, Tommy had started on dinner. 

It was golden hour when you arrived to his house, bursting through his front door like a shot of espresso. 

“Honey, I’m hooooooome!” You bellowed the cheesy line, throwing your bag on the couch. Tommy laughed and paused in his work - chopping a red bell pepper for the skewers he was going to toss on the grill. He looked over his shoulder at you, a giant smile on his face, and his heart thudded as it always did when you were around.

You just looked so perfect with your messy hair from a long day, your sparkling eyes, standing in his doorway, lighting up like a Texas firefly. 

I want this. I want this with you. Forever.

You started to make your way into the kitchen, but your eyes flickered over to his dining table. He followed your eye-line and where it came to rest: on the vase of lavender in the center. Your eyes widened slightly as you took in the flowers. You got a soft look in your eye as you walked toward the table, and when you reached it, your fingers reached out to graze the petals.

“Lavendar?”

Tommy cleared his throat, turning around so he could lean against the counter. He took the dish towel from where it rested on his shoulder and wiped his hands. He felt nervous, suddenly. Like you’d opened up his heart, looked right in and saw it all. 

“I hear they’re good for when you’re havin’ your mornin’ coffee. Brightens things up.” 

You met his gaze, a smile taking over your face as you took him in. “When’d you get these?”

Tommy put the towel down on the counter, resting his hands behind him on either side, the cool surface grounding him. 

“The other day.” Fuck it. “I saw them and I wanted them. They always remind me of you.”

He could hear the audible gasp you made, the sharp intake of breath. Your eyes were wet but you didn’t look sad - you looked amazed. Tommy felt himself teetering on the edge and he made a decision then. A decision that was months in the making, a decision that honestly had been in motion since the first time he’d laid eyes on you. 

He pushed off the counter, standing to his full height. Because when a man bared his soul, he did it with dignity.

“I love you.” The words fell out of his mouth effortlessly, danced between the two of you. “I’m in love with you, and – and if all you want with me is friendship, I respect that but I just–I had to tell you, ‘cuz–”

“Tommy.” 

“Cuz I can’t keep it in anymore–”

“Tommy.”

He stopped his rambling and he realized his chest was rising and falling faster than it was a minute ago. You were smiling at him, a tear traveling lazily down your cheek. 

You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.

You took a breath, your hands skating down the front of your dress. 

“I need you to come over here, put your hands on my hips, and kiss me.” 

He felt a flame lick up his spine. Your stare was heavy, and the way you licked your lips made him want to groan. 

And then when you suddenly got bashful, tacking on a, “If you want” — he broke. 

His legs carried him over to you in a few strides. His left hand landed on your hip, his right hand went into your hair, and right before his lips met yours, he rasped, “I want.”

Tommy bent down as you lifted up and when your lips finally connected, he felt like it’d taken forever and no time at all to get here. His hand flexed against your hip and you made a little whimpering noise as you parted your lips. He didn’t waste any second - his tongue tracing your bottom lip before he licked into your mouth. Your hands made their way to his curls and you pulled, causing Tommy to moan deep in his throat.

You pulled away and he chased your lips and you were panting, gasping for air. 

“I love you, Tommy Miller,” you breathed in the space between your mouths. “I love you so much.” 

Tommy couldn’t stop himself from grinning - it spread wide across his face, his hand in your hair moving to cup your jaw. His thumb grazed against your cheek. 

“That makes me a very lucky man,” he told you. You pressed yourself against him, your hands sliding down around his neck. You pulled him by his flannel, connecting your mouths again and if Tommy thought the first kiss with you was good, this was something else. 

You kissed with your entire body. He could feel your curves against him, and his hand on your hip moved to your ass. He grabbed a handful and you moaned, spreading your pretty legs. You broke apart, both breathing hard, and Tommy looked down between you, his forehead resting against yours. He moved his knee in between your legs, pressing it against your core and you gasped. 

“Oh,” you breathed, grinding against his denim-covered knee. The sounds you were making were enough to make him come, make him pant, make him beg. He’d allowed his mind to go here before, imagine what it’d be like to make you come apart with his fingers and his tongue, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to experience the real thing. It was worth the wait.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he rasped as you leaned your head back, breath coming quickly from your mouth. His lips found the pulse point at your neck and your breathless yes, like that made him strain against his jeans.

I want you I want you I want you.

He moved his hands under your ass, lifting and placing you on the edge of the table. You wasted no time wrapping your legs around his hips, drawing him even closer. He leaned his right palm flat on the table behind you, crowding you, his left hand coming up cradle your jaw. You opened your eyes and the love and tenderness in them almost made him buckle. 

“I’m so glad you came in to get flowers that day,” you told him, your eyes wet again. Tommy lost his breath for a moment and then leaned down, pressing his lips against yours before pulling back. 

“Does that mean you’ll be my girl?”

Your legs squeezed around him and Tommy grunted, his hands landing on your thighs, pushing your dress up around your waist. 

You’re everything. How’d I fuckin’ get so lucky?

You looked up at him through your lashes, your hands coming up to hold his face in your hands. 

“I already am.”

* * * 

[raging-violets]

I don’t know if you rb’d it caus it was funny or for prompts, but i would be interested in seeing what you do with Instead of fake dating, everyone is convinced that you aren’t actually dating + dealers choice if you want!

A/N: My first thought was to do this Reverse Trope Writing Prompt for Cisco and Averey, but I felt like everyone thought it made sense that they were dating. So, I decided to go with The Artful Dodger. This was a plot point I had thinking for season 2, should it ever be made – or if I have to make it up myself. So, we’ll see how this idea goes!

-

The Artful Dodger: Just Don't Tell Me That | SneedxOC 

Authored by: Rhuben

Original Character: Molly Atwood

-

“You and Rainsford?”

Both Fanny and Belle asked the same question in response to Molly’s subtle announcement: Fanny with a high squeak of excitement that cut over Belle’s flat, disbelieving tone, which was just heard over the snap of the carrot she was snacking on.

Molly laughed quietly to herself.

Sometimes it was funny just how different the Fox sisters were. One who accepted her role in Port Victory’s society wholeheartedly, and the other whose wanted out since before she’s left the shores of London. One who loved love and one who didn’t understand it. At least for a while, she didn’t.

“No,” Belle said, emphasizing her word with another loud crunch-bite of a carrot. “No. I scarce believe what I am hearing. No. No!”

“Well, I suppose if it couldn’t be me,” Fanny commented, (ignoring Belle’s “Or me, thankfully”) clasping her fingers together, a broad grin crossing her face, “there’s no better choice. This is so exciting, isn’t it, Belle?”

“Bizarre,” Belle said over top her sister. “This is not exciting. This is…this is absurd is what it is.” She shook her head back and forth, sprigs of her honey-blonde hair swinging from side to side. “You’ve not actually fallen for Rainsford Sneed. There’s no way. No way.” Her eyebrows lifted when Molly merely pressed her lips together. “Molly?”

“Lady Belle you are quite intelligent,” Molly commented, removing flour from her fingers with a damp rag. She rest her palms on the table, leaning towards her friend. “You understand those medical texts. I don’t suppose those are easier to understand than this?” Belle sniffed. “Yes, I have, indeed fallen for Rainsford Sneed.”

Fanny twisted her mouth to the side, a sparkle coming to her eye. “I think our Molly may have fancied him for a while, Belle,” she said. “And I suppose not just the idea of him.”

“Of course not just the idea of him,” Molly replied, returning Fanny’s smile with one of her own.

“I think the heat in here may have done something you, Molly,” Belle said, dotting the air with her fingertip. “Because I can’t believe…Rainsford of all people.” She sighed. “Well, you’ve at least managed to say more to the man than announcing your love of soup. I suppose that’s a small point in your favor for the type of woman Sneed would want.”

Fanny’s lips made a buzzing sound as she let out a loud, long, sigh.

“Don’t listen to her,” Molly said, giving Belle an annoyed look. Molly had become friends with the Fox sisters since her employment in the Governor’s House upon her arrival in Port Victory. She and Belle were the same; wanting more from their lives than what society deemed to be the only acceptable roles for them.  And why not?”

“Because he’s arrogant—"

“Intelligent.”

“Old fashioned with medicine—"

“A skilled surgeon.”

“And only wants to advance in life.”

“Don’t we all?” Molly asked dryly. Belle opened and closed her mouth before falling silent, alternating between blinking rapidly and scoffing. “Fanny, you understand this, yes?”

“Oh, don’t ask her,” Belle said before Fanny could say a word. “He nearly had me killed!”

“And equally recognized that Jack Dawkins did, in fact, save your life and is the best surgeon in the colony,” Molly explained. “Which, might I add, won him over to the Governor and Lady Jane.”

“You do not want to be part of this,” Lady Belle said with a shake of her head, “these dinners where the men pat themselves on the back for existing, where we have no voice, where…where…”

“Where I get to spend time with my best friends on even footing for once?” Molly asked, looking around the kitchen. “Instead of being reminded how I’m only a house maid? And being treated as thus?” She knew Lady Jane wouldn’t be happy with either of her daughters interacting with the house servant. Molly’s job was to tend to the family and not be seen as much as possible. “Believe me, I am aware just how this would look to the colony. Which is why we haven’t told anyone.” She lifted a carrot and pointed it in Belle’s direction. “You, Lady Belle, are not the only woman in the colony that wants more in her life.” She emphasized her point with a loud snap of her own.

Belle gave Molly a smile that was half a smirk. A silent “Ok, I see your point.”

“Has he given you a ring?” Fanny asked, ignoring her sister.

“I suppose if he’s suddenly performed alchemy?” Belle asked with a laugh. “Has he learned how to turn nutmeg into gold?”

“Some of us like the smell of nutmeg, m’lady,” Molly said with a laugh of her own.

“Are you using nutmeg?” Jack walked into the Governor’s home, sniffing the air. He frowned. “I don’t smell any. Are you making your soup? You always use nutmeg in your soups.” He pointed a finger at the mound of dough before taking a carrot for himself. “Bread for the soup?”

Molly shook her head. All these people in her kitchen. How was she going to get anything done? “There will be no soup if you keep eating all my carrots,” she said, planting her hands on her hips.

“I don’t suppose you have any extra nutmeg seeds?” Jack asked. “I could use them.”

“You would have to ask Rainsford, I suppose,” Belle said.

Jack snorted. “Why would I ask Sneed for nutmeg?”

“Because his brother has given him 10% of his nutmeg trade.”

“So?” Jack crunched on another piece of carrot.

“So Rainsford and Molly are in a courtship,” Fanny said with an excited squeal, lifting up onto the balls of her feet.

“You and Rainsford,” Jack said around his loud crunching, and a laugh. “That’s funny.”

“Oh, no,” Belle contradicted him, “no, she’s being serious.”

“Oh.” Jack’s eyebrows lifted upwards, the corners of his lips turning downwards as he contemplated Belle’s words. “Oh well, that’s—” He looked over his shoulder at Belle who silently stared back at him. He faced forward again. “That’s interesting news.” He then squinted at Molly, tilting his head to the side. “You are aware that he thinks very highly of himself?”

“Yes, a trait most men in the colony share I’ve come to find,” Molly replied with a charming smile.

Jack made a humming sound of surprise, turning to look at Belle again, this time in amusement. “Maybe this will be of some interest to me,” he said with some finality. Turning back towards Molly he started to laugh. “Something to brighten the day a bit from time to time. After all, I have been known to enjoy a match of wits time and again. Though, I suppose, speaking with Sneed that would be easy for any man here.”

Molly lifted an eyebrow.

“Or woman.” Belle made a noise in the back of her throat. “Yes, definitely a woman.” He sucked in a breath of air, looking around. Trying to find something he could change the subject to. “So…are you going to be making any soup?” His eyes widened when he realized all the women were staring at him. “It’s…good soup.”

Silence filled the kitchen until Fanny took in a breath and asked, "What did you think of kissing a man with a mustache?"

Molly blinked rapidly at her question. "I'm sorry?" she asked over Jack's loud groan of disgust.

"Well, I've only done it the once, and it kind of felt like a fuzzy caterpillar on my lips, but I suppose after some time, I'd come to enjoy it."

"Don't answer that," Belle said, her upper lip curling.

[blushblush-readerinsertsnthings]

Can we get Nimh aka rabbit softie x reader who gardens?👀

YESSSS SOFT BOI SUPREME!!!!

ahem that is to say... you sure can! I did some headcanons to kick things off!

definitely send in more requests, I loooove <3 <3 <3

NIMH

Oh!! Oh, he does that, too! He has a whole garden at home. It’s mainly butterfly-attracting flowers with a few vegetables, it isn’t very big… but it’s definitely something he enjoys having. It makes him happy to take care of. (He’s still quite pouty that his bunny instincts drove him to dig it up before he got changed back. As much as he likes gardening, it’s always discouraging to have to replant and regrow things that were just fine before they got dug up, thank you!!!)

Oh, man. The way he asks, “So… do you… do you maybe want to, um… g-get plants together?!”, you might mistake the question for something much more serious. To him it’s the equivalent of getting a pet together or moving in. Even if you’re already living together or have a pet together… he gets a little nervous about asking. Hobbies like this can be intensely personal, and what if your gardening is your ‘alone time’? He doesn’t want to intrude on that, of course. So if you want to keep your gardens separate, he totally understands.

However… if you do want to have a little garden that both of you are growing together, he’ll be over the moon. More so if you decide you want to combine gardens and either replant your plants in his yard or have him replant his in yours! It’s like a symbolic gesture that you do want to be with him for the long haul. Particularly if either of you have plants that take a while to grow or that return every year, he looks at it with the mindset of, You… really want to be with me long enough to see this bloom or come back? Wow…

… No lilies near him, if you can handle that? That’s one of the few flowers he’s super allergic to. Honestly, if it weren’t for his heart condition, he might brave the discomfort! But, well… that condition of his means that he could potentially run into problems if he sneezes too many times in a row. Annnnd with lilies, sneezing fits like that aren’t so much an ‘if’ as a ‘when’. Still, just like with roller coaster rides, he doesn’t want to disappoint you… if you’ve got your heart set on it, he could maybe handle one or two lilies (one of the lower-pollen varieties) in a shared garden!

If you don’t live together, when he visits you, he loves lying in your garden. Is that okay with you?? Is that weird? Does he care??? Especially if you’re doing it with him, there’s a not-zero chance he’ll fall asleep among the grass and flowers. Brace yourself when he wakes up; you might mistake him for a Disney princess.

Flower crowns? Oh, yes, flower crowns! As many as you’d like to give him, please! And, of course, he’ll make them for you too. His hands just keep weaving as the two of you are talking whilst sitting in the garden. Something about it relaxes him, and it’s nice to have something to do with his hands other than fidget with anxiety or just not know where to put his hands sometimes. The bonus is now he has something cute to put on your head! (Even though he thinks you’re perfect anyway.)

Is forever trading gardening tips with you. He’ll come to you for advice if a certain plant of his is not doing well, and he’ll provide advice for the same. If he sees you doing something he’s found a more efficient way to do, he’ll offer it as a suggestion. Though, he always delivers it in a way that makes it very clear that how you do things is how you do, and you’re welcome to disregard what he says; he knows you always take it into consideration even if you don’t end up using it! And he’s always incredibly grateful if some piece of advice you give him works. Kisses and nuzzles all around!

… Does he cook for you? Absolutely. Does he use ingredients from your and his gardens? Also yes! He thinks things taste a lot better when he uses something one of you grew yourselves, even if it’s something as small as a sprig of mint on dessert.

[enarmor]

Doorways: Decorating each doorway is a sprig of fresh mistletoe. Rumor has it that it's a Chalphy tradition for two people to share a kiss if they are caught under it together. You wouldn't deny the tradition of your hosts, would you?

"Are you aware mistletoe is poisonous?" It was an honest question, their voice lacking the sardonic bite that would edge their words if they were any less than earnest. "I am going to assume you either do not, or attempting to play that rumour into your favour is worth the risk."

They stood a few paces from the doorway, out of the sprig's reach and the behaviour that was invited by it's mere presence.

"Though there is no need to concern. As long as you don't go digesting it." Really, he had no reason to do such a thing so this was little more than an amusing little exchange. At least for Arval it was.

The tradition for the plant was not quite a situation they had much understanding and consequently little desire for, but they saw no reason why they couldn't twist the tradition to suit the pairs more usual topic of botany.

"Mistletoe is parasitic, you know. As well the infestation can trigger Witches Broom in their unfortunate hosts. Nasty little plant when it is not decorating the doorways." Their lips curled, amusement found blatant in the nature of the plant. "I am unsure where the tradition started exactly, but a little ironic the plant that, heh, brings people together is a parasite."

"Then it is just like love, my dear Arval. Just like love."

Sain snaps back with gusto abound, confident he knows his way around this doorway. And you'd think he would, by how much time he's spent by it tonight. He tries to play things off as having an unbroken spirit in the face of so many rejections,

But really, he's just glad to see Arval.

"Does a rose not have its thorn? Does the dazzling daffodil not scorn the hand at its bulb?" His lips spin in turn, corkscrewing in a grin he'd find uncontrollable until it matches that of the Lily's. A symbiotic gesture, it proudly displays how fond he is of their flowery discussions.

"Poison is a vital part of love," he is all too ready to point out, "it comes with all the slaps and rejections a knight must endure!" Of which he has endured many. To say they haven't made him the man he is today would be to deny that the sea does not shape the land around it.

"You say the mistletoe is parasitic? Then let it be a reminder: our affections, too, are parasites. When we are cursed to loneliness, we don't just want another... We need them. Sometimes that need drives us to madness." His voice rings with a vast wealth of experience, again in being both lonely and too engorged for his own good. Sain has had his ups and downs. He's experienced flings, let his heart soar above the clouds, said things he never meant. He knows both the good and the bad of the heart, in spite of his recent inability to attract the pulse of someone else's.

He holds the spring beneath his fingers, allowing torchlight to glisten against the skin of its berries. They look like red gems--each worth more than their weight in gold--but his friend's knowledge hasn't been lost on him. They are a plague to humankind, like beauty as human sin.

"But still... Love finds a way. Just you wait, my friend! I'll be licking the venom from a lady's lips by the end of the night! And if I'm not, I'll have you to speak with, right? Right?"

[parfumieren]

Aria di Capri (Carthusia)

Years ago, when Facebook still had me in its sinister clutches (I have long since banished it to the shadow whence it came), a friend DM'ed me a tale of grief over a long-lost love. A relative of hers had visited Italy and brought back a bottle of perfume-- an extravagant floral, pure springtime in a bottle, the most beautiful thing she'd ever smelled. Its name was... Flora Capria? Flowers di Capri? She despaired of ever finding this mystery scent again...

A quick search of Perfumed Court's database turned up a "Fiori di Capri" by Carthusia-- a name familiar to me from Perfumes: The A-Z Guide. Therein, Luca Turin waxes eloquent about another Carthusia fragrance called Aria di Capri. He described it as an astringent "iced amaro" scent suggestive of "a delicious drink of Italian bitters called a lavorato, which I had over ice with a view of the Duomo in Milan", and spoke of its ability to bestow the "invigorating sensation of increased clarity". Worded thus, how could it not appeal? Onto the wishlist it went, to remain forgotten until my pal told her sad story.

I found and emailed an image of the Carthusia label to her. Did it look at all familiar? She replied almost instantly with palpable excitement: It did! Now we had a dual mission: to reunite this lady with her long-lost favorite perfume and (I hoped) to gain a new favorite of my own. I duly ordered decants-- Aria for myself, a small sample; for her, a larger-sized spray bottle of Fiori. Done and done.

While waiting for our scent-soulmates to arrive, I read up on Carthusia's history. It was founded within a religious cloister (the Monastery of San Giacomo) on Capri a full two hundred years before Florence's Santa Maria Novella. Its exclusive line of perfumes incorporated essences derived from island-grown rosemary and carnations, resulting in a true local product. According to official apocrypha, production had slacked off over time until even the original formulas were misplaced. After World War II, the monks "rediscovered" the formulas and applied for a papal dispensation to have them analyzed by a chemist. Their cooperative efforts resulted in the relaunch of the Carthusia fragrance line-- five hundred years after its inception.

Alas, sometimes things die for a reason.

Aria di Capri started off crisp, clear, and cool, a benevolent floral-creamsicle accord that turned warm and vanillic as it developed on my skin. I could have forgiven it for being nothing like the promised licorice-bitters accord if only it had stopped there-- but no. Odd things started to occur, the first being a sudden twitch of the steering wheel that sent Aria di Capri into braunschweiger territory.

You heard me: my wrists suddenly smelled like liverwurst.

Lest I be accused of making this up, please know that my husband was offered a sniff of both the opening notes and this latter phase, and his verdict was the same as mine. And while our shared experience with Breath of God's smoked-meat phase proved amusing and edifying, there was nothing here to tempt us into thinking we were having a good time. For no woman wants to smell like the dourest of all lunch meats-- and no man, however enamored of a good sandwich, wants his woman to smell like it either.

But I'm not done. When the liverwurst accord (what IS it? what combination of scent elements is to blame?) was over, a dill accord kicked in. (Pickle with your sandwich?)

Now, I like the scent of dill as much as anyone else, and no one liked it better at that time than our cat. He was a veritable hog for fresh dill. We bought it by the bunch, and the beast positively trembled with desire whenever we cut off a sprig to feed him as a treat. So when he woke out of a sound midday nap and looked at me expectantly, I knew I wasn't dreaming that smell up. It lasted just long enough for me to decide for posterity that dill does not belong anywhere near perfume.

Period.

By the time Aria di Capri reverted back to something presentable on skin (the original floral accord, only wan and unenthusiastic), I'd had about enough. Clearly, whatever Luca Turin was drinking, it was more pickle juice than lavorato. And that wasn't the Duomo in his line of sight-- it was a delicatessen.

Later, I received an email from my friend, to whom I had sent Fiori di Capri via mail. In words of simple dignity, she thanked me for the perfume, even though it was nothing like she remembered. I understood then that no matter how let down I felt by Aria di Capri, at least I had not known it as any other scent than it was when it came to me. She'd known a better Fiori di Capri, once-- and never would again.

Et in Carthusia ego....

Scent Elements: Mimosa, iris, jasmine, laurel, licorice

[lovemeian]

here’s a suggestion;; imagine going to the love locks bridge with oikawa, atsumu, suna and sakusa 🥺 they’d be so smitten mmm ❤️❤️

ahhh! this is so cute my heart went oomph! ngl, love locks bridge is a superior cheesy end-of-date scenario that anyone deserves at one point. even if you both think its cheesy together, its still cute.

characters ! oikawa tōru, miya atsumu, suna rintarō, and sakusa kiyoomi x gn!reader

fluff! + i don’t usually do back to back popular characters, but this one’s cute so it’ll pass hehe + also since there’s four & i immediately thought of doing each drabble by different season + none of the tenses are the same, why? idek !

OIKAWA TŌRU,

mans a highkey simp, you can’t tell me he’s not the one who insisted/begged/bargained you to go. spring is here, in its most bountiful form; sprigs of wildflowers and carefully cultivated street plants litter the way to the bridge; and your man has not stopped swinging your hands together excitedly, humming his own tune in his own little world, sometimes bringing you in his rose-coloured gaze by shooting you such warm, adoring looks, kissing the back of your shared hand, and continuously alternating between complimenting you on the most mundane things— “i like how you did your hair today, y/n-chan!” — to talking about anything that captures his eyes— “ooh, look that restaurant looks nice, should we check it later?”

it’s been only a few days since he had been back from argetina, but he was like he was tourist, pointing out new things to ask you and old things that he remembered.

he’s positively buzzing with excitement, and even you can’t fight off the overwhelming pollination of love and adoration he was spewing. after you guys spend a total of twenty minutes picking a lock design & thinking hard on what to write on it in permanent marker, tooru pouting, “it has to be really good since it’ll be there forever!”

“what if they choose to clean it out after a year?”

gasps so loud, heads had turned. he looked like you just said you wanted to kick all the puppies in the world. “no! why would you say that? they wouldn’t, wouldn’t they? MA’AM!” you had to pull his hair back and had to be reassured, numerous times by you and the store employee who sells the locks, that no, they don’t clean it out every year, and yes, it’ll be there forever.

mans a little teary eyed, the drama queen.

but as soon as his ass is calm, you both lock it together, fingers finding each other right after the click, and the shared smile you both glimmer is so much love that spectators almost hurt to see. he sweeps you in his arms and he tightens it.

“i love you, y/n-chan,” he says softly to your hair, as if he’s tacking the lock, to the skies, one last promise to go with it. “i want to love you for as long as i exist.”

“simp.” you grinned, eyes shining.

he makes an unintelligible grumble, but kissing your crown regardless. “only for you. in the city i live in in buenos airies, they also have a love lock bridge there. we should visit every single one in any of our travels so we can say we’ve locked ourselves for each other in every other city.”

you raised your eyebrows, sifting through his hair to let some cherry blossoms that had been dancing in the wind and sitting pretty on him fall. “does that mean we’re not together in california right now? isn’t haji back there for a—”

he pressed his lips against yours with a little petulant glare as you simpered laughter in between insistent kisses. “you’re so mean, y/n-chan. but you’re my little meanie, okay? not even haji can have you.”

“what about—”

“shut up.” he slotted his lips against yours, drowning in your laughter and the hanami around you.

MIYA ATSUMU,

why either of you chose the deadset heatwave of the summer to do this, who knows. well actually you do. the beach is always the best idea to quench the heat, and the boardwalk, someone had set up a locks gift shop and at the end of the dock was a love locks set up.

you and atsumu had given each other a look, smiled and shrugged.

“a little cheesy, but why not? it seems cute.”

he kissed the top of your forehead, tasting a little sunscreen. “anythin’ for you, baby.” don’t believe him, he liked the idea so much he’s trying to simper his uncontrollable grin, the dork.

before you reach the gift shop, your eyes finds an ice cream stall and tug. you had been craving it all day under the sun. “i’ll buy us some first, why don’t you pick?”

“okay, but don’t take too long.” his eyes glimmer with mischief. “am not wearing a shirt, baby, might get picked up by someone else.”

your eyes narrowed. though it was too true that your boyfriend had never looked more delicious than just wearing some official msby boards shorts merch with his number on the side, citing the fact that he wanted at least his top half to tan evenly, so his abs and muscles are on full display for anyone who enjoyed the anatomy of the human male to gawk at. but in his neck you also know was a chain with your initials on it, something he never took off and proudly displayed.

“well i hope you know how to communicate with sharks, cos i’ll sink your ass if you do.”

as he guffawed, leaving you to buy ice cream cones, he giddly got to the shop and got a little overwhelmed by the choices. colours, shapes, even ones that sing when pressed? inhaling once, he chose to go classic— a medium sized bright red and wrote: your initials, his, and drew so many hearts with his tongue pushed against his cheek, balancing it with slippery sunscreen fingers.

“ya done?” you asked as you approached, finding him adorably bent as he wrote down on the lock. a gaggle of girls had been eyeing him and giggling, and you felt a flushed of pleasure as you stand next to him and his smile brightens, his love pouring off its hilt.

“yup!” as you offered his cone, you approached the queue of love locks, all brightly coloured and locked with so much hope and love, and as he grinned at you, he locked it, promptly tossing the key in the ocean as far back as his lean arm can do

“hey dummy, i don’t think you’re supposed to do that!”

he smirked. “this way, only fish people can attempt to break us apart.”

“tsumu,” you deadpanned. “you never know what might come crawling outta there.”

he went pale so fast, you actually snorted some ice cream. “aye, angel don’t say that! ya know i still wanted to swim!” as he pouted, completely glomping on you with his body despite your complaints that it was too hot. you now have a human keychain stuck to you, good luck.

SUNA RINTARŌ,

it wasn’t cold enough to completely pull out the heavy jackets, but autumn swept with promises of chilled cheeks and fingers; needing to bundle for warmth and seeking the nearest person.

“this is stupid,” suna complains for the umpteenth time, whiny and pouty as you haul him off to the love lock bridge that recently had been wrapped in fairylights.

“you didn’t want to go a while ago,” you retorted back, taking his gloved hands, peeling them off, and started warming them up. rin’s hands have always been beautiful— long fingers, nicely cut nails, and ridges and bones that felt like a comfortable puzzle underneath your own hands. you were always so surprised at how clean and pretty they are, and despite his pouty sentiments, he lets you play and warm up his hands because he knows how much you love them.

“that’s because there were so many people a while ago,” he said, puffing out an exhale as he checked the watch on your arm. almost 12am. he huffed. “it doesn’t mean i wanted to go at the crack of midnight.”

“it’s not the crack of midnight.” you smirked at him, kissing the corner of his lips. “it’s still 11:45.”

“that’s not very bright of you.”

“oh, stop being baby, we’re almost there. ooh, i’m so glad i bought a lock this afternoon. all gift shops are closed.”

“because it’s the crack of midnight.”

you rolled your eyes. “yeah, yeah, ya crack obsessed. c’mon, i see it! oh, rinnie, look how fuckin pretty it is!”

“don’t— hey!” he took after you, grumbling at your clumsy legs, and if you fall and hurt yourself, i’m going to kill you, as right after you squealed, you had gone barrelling straight for the twinkly bridge. from his cursory view a while ago that was mostly filled with people and decidedly did not want to go there, he didn’t notice that the bridge, in fact, was not a solid, straight cap metal bridge.

it was one of those moving, creaky wood ones hung by thick ropes. and at your excited sprint, it started swaying. he slowed down just as your eyes popped excitedly, jumping on the damn thing.

“rinnie, look!”

“stop moving, goddamnit, what if it breaks, crazy!”

“it won’t— whoa!”

as soon as you swayed, rin was cursing gods and all as he dashed after you, taking you in his arms and holding onto the thick rope for dear life. “stupid!” he held on so tight, his knuckles started turning white. but then the bridge slowed and he started hearing giggles. from you.

you looked up at him with mischief and snorts. “i was just kidding.” his entire face just deadpanned as he suddenly jolted it, jumping as you yelp. “rin!”

“i hate you.”

“no you don’t.” you pouted. you never liked it when he said it, even if he didn’t mean it.

“no i don’t.” he sighed. god, he was a simp. “c’mon, let’s finish this and go home.”

“okay.” as you started moving, the bridge started swaying.

“be careful, fuck, who builds shit like this?” as he held on your waist in one arm, the other tightly on the rope, you finish putting your initials, the date, and a ‘love always’ for good measures, and locking it, turning to him to kiss him. “i love you too,” he muttered. only you could drag him out in the middle of a cold to do this. only you.

SAKUSA KIYOOMI,

there has been a fight, spurred on from a disagreement, snowballing into an argument, and to the worst and pettiest way of letting both of your anger spur it further— bringing up old shit that should’ve been buried. omi was a man who build routines and walls for his personal comfort, everything new takes time to shift and change his entire space. you had been one of his greatest efforts; he had loved you so much, he was willing to rework his walls, adjust his routines, to accommodate you.

but even if he has his limits, and you, who knew about it, and was always so happy when he tried, had maybe cross a line you didn’t think was a line in the first place.

it’s been two days, and life in the same space has been quiet. a little awkward. the anger has dissipated entirely, but neither ones are able to approach and apologise. you both think you are in the right, and you were, in some way. but both of you are stubborn and too awkward to approach the subject in fear of inciting a new one.

“you are both stupid,” one of your friends says as you poured in what had happened and how awful and awkward you do feel around the house with him.

“wow, thanks for the support. always knew i can lean on you for the hardest times.”

“do something, anything,” your friend insisted. “someone has to swallow their pride to move forward. open a conversation.”

“but how?”

“you know him better than i do— oh, oh! there’s a love lock bridge! it’s fairly new and usually empty during like, night. but it has the prettiest lights.”

“it’s the dead of winter, i’m not going to give us hypothermia.”

they wiggled their eyebrows. “and that’s when you know they still love you, you know.”

it was a stupid idea. but you still bought a love lock regardless. after work, you had headed straight for the gift shop, completely bundled up as snow started to fall; not harsh, but delicately steady. soon, it’d be too perilous to go. as you were in line, it makes you think of what to do if a blizzard happens and if the fridge has enough stock when you hear your name, rumbled by a familiar voice.

you turn, and there he was, sakusa kiyoomi with bright red nose and cheeks, squished in woollen mufflers, beanie with his stray curls pultruding out, and the thick scarf you had made him last christmas.

“oh, hi, love.” the endearment is natural in your tongue, and kiyoomi had missed it. at the pang in his heart, he had missed it so much he inhaled some snowflakes. “what’re you doing here?”

but your eyes are quick, noting that in his hand, he had bought a love lock too. in your favourite colour. at your gaze, he burned a brighter red.

“i—” he cleared his throat. “i was going to surprise you.”

you smiled, pulling out the love lock you just bought, a mirror to his but in his favourite colour. “me too. hold on, did you talk to f/n?”

he blinked. “oh. yes, i did. i— i’m sorry.”

“me too, love. i missed you too.” you took his hand and through thick mittens, tighten your hold on him as he pulled you in deeper into an embrace.

“i love you too, missed you so much,” he mumbled. truly, there was still so much to talk about, the actual conversation merely postponed. but as long as you remind each other you still love each other, still want to choose one another at the end of the day— you were both going to be ok.

“say, what if we lock these in together and go home fast?”

he smiled, cold lips kissing your cold forehead. “i’d say let’s go.”

locking it with mittens and slowly dropping temperatures is an entire ordeal, but both of you bundled into each other as you giggled your way home, more than assured that you were going to come out of this one stronger. 

made by lavi for nonnie <3

taglist: @kenmaslov3r @encrytpta @jadasz @asaitashi @wuyaiscrow

[simplysimpingsimp]

How would the main 3 and giyuu deal with a crush who is not very good at expressing themselves through communication, has zero facial expressions, just looks bored, nothing seems to get a reaction out of them, but they’re amazing at expressing it artistically which they willingly give to other people: Poems, fashion, flower arranging, drawing and baking? They have a lot to express in their head of different things that they just can’t verbally communicate. They’ll be like, one random day: “This is for you *poem about how great they think the person is and that crush hopes they succeed in life and fuck anybody who gets in their way*”.

Hi hi again nesting-dreams!! Thank you for sending in a second request <3 and again I’m super sorry for taking a bit to get to you TT ahhh I really like your idea TT it’s so sweet and cute to think of the different ways love can be expressed!! So thank you for sending this one my way <3 as always, I’m super sorry for any mistakes ! Please let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to fix or change, I will gladly do so <3

🌼—————————————————————🌼

🌼 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙲𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝙷𝚌𝚜

🌼 𝙺𝙽𝚈 𝚅𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚡 𝙶𝚗!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

🌼 𝙵𝚝. 𝚃𝚊𝚗𝚓𝚒𝚛𝚘, 𝚉𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚞, 𝙸𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚔𝚎, 𝙶𝚒𝚢𝚞

🌼 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜: 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢/𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖

🌼 𝚃𝚆/𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚎!

🌼—————————————————————🌼

🌿—————————————————————🌿

𝑻𝒂𝒏𝒋𝒊𝒓𝒐

He always cherished the few times he’d ever seen a smile from them

Regardless of the expressionless face, he still thought they were adorable

Tanjiro would often try to do silly things to make them laugh or even crack a faint smile, yet it wouldn’t work that doesn’t mean he will give up though!

He always admired their artistry when it came to botany and floral arrangements

Out of the blue, they would give him something that he could interpret with his enhanced smell

Floral language was something they knew best due to their upbringing in a family of were botanists, herbalists and floralists

Beautifully arranged, they would have a bouquet of white camellia (adoration), small stems of pale blue forget me nots (love), pale purple heather sprigs (admiration), a yellow tulip (sunshine), and a single red rose (love) in the middle of all the flowers

Quietly they approached Tanjiro with the bouquet in their hands

“Who’s that for?” Tanjiro would question curiously before they gently handed it to him

“For you…” they spoke quietly, “They all have meaning that I hope you can understand through scent,” their voice gentle and loving as they looked him in the eye

A soft blush would be on his face as he sniffed each flower, a loving feeling in his heart as he slowly processed and interpreted the significance of each flower beautifully arranged flower

He stopped at the red rose for a moment, immediately knowing what it meant but was completely enamored by the sweet perfume of it

He held onto the other flowers before gently handing Y/n the red rose with a bright smile, “I feel the same way!” He’d say happily before giving them a hug and a kiss on their forehead

🌿—————————————————————🌿

🌻—————————————————————🌻

𝒁𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒖

Zenitsu at first thought they were kinda scary but really cute despite the menacing aura they sometimes had because of the monotone expression and voice

He would do his best to make them laugh but nothing ever worked

He loved the few moments he’d ever seen them smile, would constantly fangirl at the recalling of those memories

Zenitsu would cling to them when he was scared and he would hear in the deadest voice, “I’ll protect you.”

It was scary but he felt safe TT

They would give him something he could interpret with his enhanced hearing — Came from a family of musicians and entertainers

Zenitsu would be guided by Tanjiro to enter a room where Y/n had asked him to tell him to go

He opened the sliding door and saw them all dressed up in a beautiful kimono and gentle makeup

Mans practically passed out and yelled with heart eyes and a deep blush on his face “N/N IS EVEN CUTER TODAY”

He would notice the shakuhachi beside them and their unphased expression as he sat down in front of them

“I wrote this for you, please listen closely,” their voice gentle as they took in a deep breath and held the wooden flute in their hands

The melody would start soft and slow, with low tones in the beginning and slowly rising as if telling a story with the tune becoming mellow and sweet towards the end

Zenitsu listened closely in absolute silence, hearing every little sound they produced as though they were singing

Honey toned eyes glittered with happiness and tears as he realized the song was a love confession

After they finished he tackled them in an embrace

“WAAAAAAH N/N I DIDNT KNOW YOU FELT THE SAME” he’d cry in their arms and pepper kisses all over their face

They would laugh softly making him cry even more

“AHHH YOU LAUGHED DO IT AGAIN BLESS MY EARS WITH YOUR CUTE LAUGH AGAIN” he’d yell as he would nuzzle his cheek into them

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🌲—————————————————————🌲

𝑰𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒖𝒌𝒆

Inosuke would take it as a challenge to make them smile/laugh/anything before any of the other two could

It was a challenge he wanted to beat and complete aside from the curiosity of witnessing their smile or any sort of response

He would definitely take their food to make them mad but they would just look at him and hand him other things, “If you’re really that hungry, you can have it.”

Most of the time it was them cooking all their meals because of the team vote and they just all loved Y/n’s cooking

Would definitely give him food as their confession after all they came from a prominent family name in cuisine

Baking was always their go to for gifting or if they wanted to say anything

Silently they would create a small cake in the flavor Inosuke loved most but there was more love put into it

Gently whispering to themselves that their heart and feelings were in the cake as they prayed that he would get the feeling

Inosuke watched giddily as they approached him when they were done baking the cake

“This is for you, please tell me what you think,” their voice gently as they handed it to him

As he took a bite of it, he almost seemed to freeze in place as if processing everything he tasted

His cheeks became dusted in a gentle pink hue as his chest became giddy and his heart fluttered with excitement

“OHH THIS IS AMAZING!” He’d yell as he ate all of it once

For a moment they lost hope as they watched him eat, feeling their heart become heavy

Until he gripped their shoulders and looked them in the eye with a giddy grin, “I think you were trying to tell me something! Right?!”

They nodded gently with a light blush on their cheeks

“You love me!” He’d tease but would ruffle their hair, “I love you too!! Thank you for the cake!” He would say happily as he carried them away to the kitchen

🌲—————————————————————🌲

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𝑮𝒊𝒚𝒖

They are his tsugoku so he eventually grew closer to them and wanted to know more and more about them

He did his best to encourage them to smile but how could he when he himself was often monotone

Giyu would try doing the things Shinobu would do to him but it doesn’t work

“What are you doing Tomioka-San?” They would question when they felt him poke their arm and face

“Just Giyu is fine,” he would say in hopes of getting closer to them, though it would take a while for them to just call him Giyu

He would feel his heart flutter when he would hear their soft voice say his name or when they would ask him for instruction

Giyu would feel fortunate in a way to have someone who was a listener and would understand his silence and serious expressions

They would write a poem for him as a form of confession as their family was known for intricately written poetry and literature

“This is for you, please let me know what you think when you’re done reading,” they would hand him the parchment with a gentle blush on their cheeks

The poem would read something like “Long have I awaited for a blossom to bloom / to dance in the wind like a floating plume / embracing the sweet air of love and to understand the warmth I feel when you are near / it’s more than clear / that I wish to dance with you in an everlasting spring”

Giyu would probably take a few minutes to understand that it was a love confession

But when he realized he would pull them into a tight embrace with a light blush on his cheeks

They would have a soft smile on their lips for once making him smile as well

“I feel the same way,” he would say quietly as he placed a kiss on their forehead

ᴇɴᴅ

💧—————————————————————💧

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴏʀ ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛɪɴɢ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴏʀ

ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ!! ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ғᴇᴇʟ ғʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ sᴇɴᴅ ɪɴ ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛs/

ᴀsᴋs/ɪᴅᴇᴀs/ǫᴜᴇsᴛɪᴏɴs/ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛs/ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ!

sᴇᴇ ʏᴀʟʟ sᴏᴏɴ <3

ᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛs: 19

[muffinlance]

So my friends and i came up with a sort of AU where people sprout flowers in their hair when they feel any sort of love. So anyways, ahklut crew teases Zuko about how many blue family flowers have been growing in his hair the longer he stays on the ship.

This puts his Season One hair into a whole new perspective.

---

Uncle's hair has dried flowers: his wife's panda lily, Lu Ten's dragon ivy. Everyone knows that dead flowers aren't as fragile as they seem, but he has the crewmen carry an umbrella over him when it rains, anyway. Carefully, he combs around them every morning. Leaves from the vine, Zuko hears him crooning sometimes, even though Lu Ten won't ever lose his leaves. He won't grow any new ones, either.

(Tucked away under his greying strands, still too close to the scalp to be easily seen, a bud has been growing for years. Iroh does not pressure it to bloom, but he does look forward to the occasion.)

(And then a storm, and the Dragon of the West realizes there is no way to tell a dead bloom from a live one without prying its petals open, and this he cannot do. A dead bloom can never heal.)

The Akhlut's crew find the Fire Prince's shaved head profane. When he's caught stealing razors, they crack down. Stubble grows around the black ponytail. Flowers don't.

(At thirteen, the Fire Lord set a hand on Zuko's face, and burned Ursa's sheltering rose bramble away. It would have grown back if she was alive.)

("It would have grown back if she still loved you," Azula corrects him, and he's never sure if it was a fever dream that placed her next to his sick bed, or if she really was there, her precise flames as good as any garden shears as she burned his fire lily from above her ear.)

"Whose is that?" Toklo asks, delighted and too loud, when he catches sight of the little sprig of blue flowers that are only visible when the Fire Prince lets his hair down to wash.

"No one," Zuko says, loudly. "My little sister," he says, more quietly.

Uncle's white jade flower is too large, too showy, it sticks out as it curls above his head. He snips it off between his fingers each morning, but it never stops trying to come back.

The crewmen, their own heads in ruckus and unashamed bloom, watch his daily pruning with distaste. No one ever catches what the Fire Lord's flower looks like; they can never catch him pruning it.

(They assume it's there to be pruned.)

(Zuko would like to know what his father's love looks like, too.)

His outrage at Toklo's snowdrops peaking their way through his black fuzz is as hilarious as it is worrying.

("Don't get attached, Toklo," they warn.

"But warm water," says their youngest crewmember, who has never seen a reason to be stingy with his love.)

The Fire Prince shouts and steams. The snowdrops shake quite merrily in his rage. He doesn't pluck them.

He doesn't pluck Kustaa's grudging little cloudberry flowers, either.

"Are you loving me to spite me?" the Fire Prince accuses.

"Yes," says Kustaa, who parted his hair specifically to show off the new little bud trying so hard to hide.

They don't give the boy to the Earth Kingdom. They forget to scowl while they teach him how to do new things. They stop threatening him, mostly. That shouldn't be all it takes for those little buds to start spreading among the crew.

(The Wani's crew had them, too. Back when the prince was a shouty little thirteen year old monster, they'd taken it as a sign that things would soon get better. Things did not get better. Most of them forgot about those under-developed buds, except on the odd occasion when their combs would jar against them.)

Then they fight a Fire Navy ship, and find the prince curled up as far as he can get from the man he's killed. Kustaa holds him as he shakes, a fire lily in full bloom on his head. It would look ridiculous, if it didn't look so much like blood.

He's not the prince for long after that.

His hair isn't so barren of flowers for long after that, either. Eventually, he even lets his real uncle's bloom find its place among the rest. It doesn't look so overbearing, when it's not so alone.

"I miss him," The boy admits, as they sit on the main mast (as one does).

Somewhere far, but not too far, a tired old man passes his mirror, and catches the impossible flash of something new. A red fire lily, finally unfurled into bloom.

"Zuko," he says.

This neatly accelerates his plans for active treason.

[marvel-and-mischief]

A Very Merry Christmas

This is my Secret Santa fic for the lovely @hopeamarsu ! Merry Christmas and I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Pero Tovar x F!Reader Summary: there's a mix up with the last available room, but you and Pero can learn to share, can't you? Warnings: only one bed trope! Food, meat, alcohol consumption, grumpy Pero but he cheers up when he gets drunk, fluffy at the end because it's Christmas Words: 2000

Fic Masterlist

Pero was used to traveling by foot. He quickly became accustomed to the squelch of mud that had poured through the holes in his old boots and the wisp of icy wind that whipped at the uncovered skin at his shoulder. The hunch of his back and the aches in his legs were familiar as he trudged through yet another unwelcoming village that wouldn’t take him in for the night. His last hope of a good nights rest was a town that he was pointed in the direction of, which he could see as he crested over the hill. The sun had set long ago but the town emanated its own light. A bright star amongst the blackened landscape, Pero was almost excited to see what was on offer. Lights meant people, which usually meant revelry which sometimes afforded to generosity.

Pero wasn’t one for celebrating tradition but he couldn’t help the small quirk of his lip at the sight of dancing and singing in the town square. Young women were being spun around to the rhythm of drums, flute players were skipping around one another whilst poets made up lyrics on the spot. However, Pero was more interested in the feast on display along the courtyard walls; platters of juicy fruits from around the world, vegetables cooked in a variety of ways, sauces thickened with chunks of bread, a whole boars head was the centerpiece on one side of the courtyard, a swan roasted in its feathers the centrepiece on the other side. There were barrels of wine and mead scattered everywhere, some thrown on the raging fire in the middle once they were empty.

Any other time of year Pero would have turned back the way he came from, the whole scene looking like something straight out of a Bible verse warning about what to expect at the gates of hell. Instead, Pero allowed himself to relax and enjoy the merriment. This would be a good place to spend the night. He just had to find somewhere to stay.

Usually, at times like these, the inns would be full but on asking a few of the more sober locals, Pero found that the Lord had opened up his manor to travelers this holiday season and Pero was hoping to be one of the lucky few to take him up on the offer.

On arrival the door was already open, welcoming everyone in to indulge in the Lord and Lady’s generosity. The fireplace was decorated with a wreath of mistletoe and sprigs of holly. The room was warm despite the lack of people and Pero wondered if he had arrived at the wrong manor.

“Have you come to rest, young man?” An elderly gentleman clad in a shroud of blue cloth descended the staircase towards Pero. On realizing he was being spoken to, Pero lowered his head in respect and cleared his throat.

“I am, Sir. I was told you may have rooms available. I can pay,” Pero shook the pouch of coins at his hip but the Lord waved off the offer.

“It is Christmas, there will be no such payment necessary,” the Lord smiled kindly and pointed to the stairs as he stepped off them, “we have one room left on the third floor at the end of the corridor. It’s at the back of the house, so no fire but there are plenty of blankets.”

Pero couldn’t believe his luck. He smiled gratefully and before he could remember his place he took the Lord’s hand and shook it, hoping to express in that one action how thankful he was to have a warm bed to sleep in this night.

-

You had traveled for the holidays this year, with nothing but your bag on your back you had eventually found yourself in a small town along the river you’d been following for the past two days. You had always had a lust for adventure, your parents had tried to steer you away from a life on the road but hadn’t been successful. You believed there was so much more to life than being forced to settle down and be someone’s wife until you died. So, going against everyone’s expectations, you saved up enough coin to leave the village you’d grown up in to pave your own way in life.

You found a room to stay in for a couple of nights, given by the kind Lady of the manor who plied you with handfuls of blankets and made you promise to let her know if she could do anything else for you. You shivered as you unloaded the blankets onto the bed in the corner, immediately taking out your journal from your bag. You would need to write home and let your mother know you were safe. But before you could do that a strange man was barging into your room, muttering under his breath about a ‘warm bed’ and ‘feasting for days’.

“Excuse me,” you announced your presence, jumping from the bed where he nearly collided with you. He jumped back in surprise, face twisting into wide-eyed confusion and then anger as he regarded you suspiciously.

“Who are you?” he demanded rather than asked, looking you up and down as if he could determine exactly who you were by the clothes you were wearing.

“Who are you?” you shot back, increasingly alarmed that he wasn’t leaving you in peace. He looked back towards the door he came through before grunting his disapproval at you.

“This is the room at the end of the corridor?” He phrased it as a question but there was no mistake, this was the only room at the back of the third floor, it was the one the Lady had directed you to.

“Yes. I was given this room by the Lady of the manor,” you kept your emotions in check, despite wanting to shrink under the man’s gaze. He had a fiery look in his eyes, no longer directed at you but at the predicament he had found himself in.

“The Lord told me it was free,” he muttered, hands flexing and un-flexing at his side. It reminded you of the nervous gesture your mother would make when she was working out a problem, except this problem had only one solution: it was your room first, and you weren’t going to give it up so easily.

“Well, I was here first, so…” you shrugged, breathing slowly through your nose as he shot you a thunderous glare.

“Clearly, idiota,” he pulled his bag higher up his shoulder and spun on his heels, leaving the room with nothing but a slam of the door behind him. You huffed out a breath of relief before collapsing on the bed. Hopefully, there would be no more surprises this night.

-

You couldn’t get him out of your mind. He was brisk and rude but you couldn’t help feeling bad for the man that simply wanted a room to rest his head for the night. It had you pacing across the bedroom, hands sore from where you’d absentmindedly scratched them in thought. You eventually paused in front of the large square window that overlooked the narrow path alongside the house where stragglers from the festivities in town were leaning heavily against tree trunks, uneasy on their feet after a day of drinking. That was when a particularly scruffy man caught your eye, sat atop an upturned bucket, a flagon of wine never far from his lips and a permanent scowl on his face.

You pried open the window with a small creak and offered a “psst” as though trying to catch the attention of an easily startled cat. He took another large swig from his drink but didn’t look up.

“Hey, you,” you whisper-shouted, suddenly aware that you didn’t know his name and trying not to catch the attention of anyone else. You side-eyed the drunks but they were unaware of your presence. It was on your fifth attempt that your stranger looked up at you with a murderous glare.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

You held back a gasp and swallowed your nerves. You were trying to be nice and you weren’t going to let him break your reserve.

“I’m sorry I took your room,” you began, and you think you saw his frown straighten but it was difficult to tell in the lack of sunlight.

“I am unbothered. I have spent many a night under the stars,” he grumbled. He stood, making to walk away before your urgent cry stopped him in his tracks.

“No, don’t leave. I feel bad and if you are willing, you can come up and sleep on the floor,” you closed your eyes as you spoke, not daring to see his reaction to your invitation. You heard nothing for a while, no answer but no footsteps running away either. You dared to peak through one eye to see him staring with a look of amusement. At least he isn’t angry, you thought.

“You are strange and possibly stupid…”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling your heart thudding faster in hope. “But you accept?”

He grunted something about inviting strangers into your room but you couldn’t quite hear, too busy watching on in confused shock as he took a run up to the house.

“What are you doing?” you leaned half your body through the window to see him pulling himself up by the vines that grew along the wall. As soon as he got within reaching distance you grabbed his hand and pulled him into the room, the two of you landing hard on the wooden floor.

You took a moment to catch your breaths. When you realized what he had done you poked him harshly in the ribs where he lay next to you.

“There are stairs you could have climbed,” you scolded.

“If anybody finds me in here with you there will be trouble,” he breathed, opening the flagon he’d secured to his hip and taking a messy swig. In that moment you realized what you’d done. Allowing an unruly, bad-mannered stranger into the room you were staying in. And you didn’t even know his name. You offered yours in the hopes he would tell you his.

“Pero,” he replied, offering you a drink which you accepted without hesitating. You would need it if you were going to get through this night.

It wasn’t long before the wine left you both loose-lipped and relaxed. You’d moved to the bed, sat cross legged and close to each other as you exchanged stories of your travels, of the troubles you had gotten yourselves in, of the close calls with authority that had you muffling your giggles into the blankets wrapped around you.

Pero surprisingly warmed up to you when he was full of drink. There was less scowling and muttering insults, and more of a twinkle in his eye. He offered stories that had you disbelieving, told tales of long lost friends, of family he wished to see again. You weren’t sure if any of it were true, or if he was simply finding solace in a harmless stranger. Whatever the case may be, you were entertained and felt the happiest you had been in your travels so far.

Before long you were growing tired, head becoming heavy from a long day on foot and an even longer evening drinking with Pero. He could see your eyes beginning to close and moved to leave you to the comfort of the bed. But the distance didn’t feel right and you refused to let go of the hold you had on his arm.

“Stay,” you demanded, voice slow and groggy. Pero wondered if you knew what you were saying, or if he interpreted your comment correctly, but he was too tired and lonely to deny you your request. He shifted on the bed until he was lying down and pulled you half on top of him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, his arm secured around your waist to keep you at his side.

The sun was peaking over the hill, welcoming in a new day when you both fell asleep to the distant sounds of festive revelry, and Pero’s last thought was that he hoped you wouldn’t be gone when he woke up.

[yardsards]

so i have never watched a single episode of amphibia but i hear a lot about it on tumblr bc the owl show and frog show fandoms overlap a ton

anyway i have decided to write out what i THINK the plot is from secondhand info. for my frog show mutuals’ entertainment and also to probably look back at and laugh if/when i end up succumbing to peer pressure and watching it

frog show fans pls tell me how far off my understanding is

-anne, marcy, and sasha are besties. it’s kinda codependent and unhealthy and sasha is kinda crappy to them sometimes.

-anne is the only one with anything resembling a healthy home life. honestly i don’t know much abt her personality except she’s like a general kindhearted and cheerful protagonist.

-marcy is clumsy and into fantasy nerd stuff. she is also perfect and wholesome and must be protected at all costs.

-sasha is like. a vriska, or a catra.

-they are definitely gay and polyamorous but michael mouse wont allow that to happen

-sasha peer pressures anne into stealing a box (i think it called the calamity box) from a thrift shop. they open it and get isekaied to frog world

-they all end up in different parts of frog world. i think the box explodes or something.

-anne is taken in by hoppop (old frog) and sprig (young frog) and polly (VERY young frog)

-idk if the frogs are blood relatives or not. i think hoppop is not their dad cuz i think sprig is an orphan. is he their grandpa? just some random old man? are sprig and polly sibllings or just two separate frog children? who knows.

-either way they’re just a wholesome little frog family living in a podunk town in frog world.

-anne wants to find her friends and go home but in the meantime she is just having happy wholesome frog adventures with her frog family

-gee, anne, how come the writers let you have TWO wholesome families?

-meanwhile, marcy gets taken in my a newt(?) called king andrias. he seems nice at first but is Not

-meanwhile meanwhile sasha gets taken in by a toad named grimes

-grimes is kinda evil. but is nice to sasha. and like not too ridiculously evil just like kinda sketch. not really workin for anyone just causing trouble to get whatever tf he wants. he is like that wreck it ralph meme “just because you are a bag guy doesnt mean you’re a bad *guy*”

-the three girls need to find each other and all the pieces of the box so they can go home

-grimes is doing some unspecified Evil and sasha helps him. i think during this, marcy and anne get reunited with sasha? or maybe it’s not at the same time. idk.

-sasha pushes anne off a cliff and stabs marcy. maybe because they’re getting in the way of her and grime’s Evil Plan. or maybe because she doesn’t WANT to go home but they want to and she just wants to keep doing crimes with her new crime dad

-idk how this gets resolved

-anne ends up going home tho. and takes her new frog family with her. her parents are very nice. maybe she just needed the box to go home and she got the box pieces from the other 2?

-surprise! grimes isnt the most evilest. king andrias is secretly Very Very Evil. marcy doesnt know this yet

-i think he heals marcy’s stab wound by putting her in a pickle jar. but oh no! he wasn’t just being nice to her, he just needed her alive so he could Use Her for Evil

-he made a pact with a axolotl demon for Power. he lets the demon possess marcy

-enter olivia and yunan. they’ve got an early-series marceline and princess bubblegum kinda vibe going on. like the censors wont let it be canon confirmed but they are DEF ex gfs who are still in love

-they worked with andrias. they thought he was a chill dude but then they saw him hurt marcy and were like aw heck no, not in MY rodeo.

-they decide to be marcy’s moms now. they wanna do some cool traitor moves and save marcy but they don’t really know how bc she is like possessed now and also the king is super powerful. they gotta be Sneaky

-anne, home now, is like yay im home but aw geez i gotta go back to frog world to help my (girl)friends. but she doesnt know how and doesnt know what she’d even do once she got there

-idk what sasha and toad dad are doing now. probably some kind of Criminal Activity against the king. they have selfish intentions but anything that screws the king over is probably a net good

[jackrrabbit]

cuffing season /// Ushijima x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: [Shiratorizawa fanweek day 5—Firsts] You convince your boyfriend to try something new in the bedroom, but as it turns out, old habits die hard.

A/N: Heard it was Shiratorizawa week 👀 technically I did originally post this on day 5, but I had to repost bc of tag issues, whoops :P Let’s pray it works this time!! edit: apparently it’s still not listed in the tags :<

The song that I mention is Bruno Major’s Old Fashioned (although it doesn’t fit the tone of this fic in the least).

Tags/warnings: mild bondage, size kink, rough sex!!!, marking (bruises/hickeys/etc.), power play/power exchange, reader tries & fails to dom Mr. Ushijima 😳, all characters are adults

Look, Ushijima’s a great boyfriend. Perfect, almost. Sure, he may not be the most expressive guy, but you’ve been dating him long enough that you’re able to pick up on the little gestures that tell you that he cares about you—the way he presses his face into your hair when you hug him after you’ve been apart for a while; his hands stroking circles into your skin when you fall asleep in bed next to him; all of it. He’s everything you could possibly look for in a man, except for one not-so-little issue:

The sex.

Because Ushijima, your sweet, wonderful boyfriend, who kisses you so gently it’s like he thinks you’ll fall apart if he’s not infinitely careful with you, is for some reason incapable of exercising the same degree of restraint (or any restraint at all) when you’re in bed together. When it comes to sex, your boyfriend is a fucking animal. And you’re not really sure how much more you can handle.

Maybe your concerns would seem petty from an outsider’s perspective. It’s not like Ushijima doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and it’s not like you don’t want to have sex. You’re attracted to him, of course you are! Almost 76 inches and 190 pounds of pure muscle, a body that looks like Michelangelo could have carved it from marble, and that beautifully solemn expression that had you salivating over him from the stands before you even knew his name? You want to have sex with him, you’re just fairly certain you can’t, not when it always ends up with you completely and utterly wrecked, so spent you don’t even have the strength to lift your hips off the mattress so he can wipe his cum off your thighs.

Look, anyone in your position would feel the same way. It’s awful and you’ll never admit it to him, but you almost broke up with him after the first time you two fucked. You knew going in that it wouldn’t be easy—the man radiates big dick energy and boy did he deliver—but it was just too much.

That first time had started off so innocuously, with you inviting him to your place for a nightcap after your sixth date. You’d set candles and put on your romantic sex playlist for a nice backdrop to let him hold you in his lap and make out—how the hell had you gone from that to having him rut you into the mattress, your belly pressed into the sheets and ass arched up so he could pound into you so forcefully that your rickety bed smacked into the wall hard enough to rattle the furniture with every movement, and you couldn’t even hear it over the sound of your own moaning? You hadn’t changed the playlist, and it felt downright obscene to listen to Bruno Major croon about love and courtship while Ushijima fucked into you like he was trying to carve the shape of his cock into your pussy.

You’d had to call in sick the next day because you could barely walk. The bruises from where he held your hips had taken weeks to fade, and by that time he’d already given you new ones. To his credit, Ushijima felt bad when he saw the evidence of how rough he’d been and he promised to take it easy on you next time…but after a few more rounds of mind-numbingly savage sex you learned that the man apparently doesn’t know what ‘take it easy’ means.

To be fair, at least some of it is your fault. You really shouldn’t have offered to go on the pill as a three-month anniversary present to him. At least before, he had to give you a break while he changed condoms after he came; now he has no reason to hesitate, instead going for round two (and sometimes round three) without pulling out. You never thought you’d see superhuman stamina as a bad thing, but…

“You don’t get it! It’s like getting fucked by a stallion. I need to plan to have three days to recover whenever I take him home with me,” you whined to your friends over cocktails when they told you you shouldn’t complain about a good thing—after all, Ushijima is just as committed to your pleasure as he is to his own, and there’s never been an occasion where he didn’t get you off before fucking you himself (probably at least a little because there’s no way in hell you’d be relaxed enough to take him otherwise).

“Can’t you just tell him to go slower?” one of your friends asked. “If he doesn’t listen to you, then that’s fucked up and you need to dump him.”

“It’s not that he doesn’t listen. If I tell him to stop, he stops,” you sighed, stirring your drink with the straw and watching the decorative sprig of mint fall under the surface to be overtaken by a chip of ice. “It’s like he can’t go slower. He’s not adjustable—it’s either crazy brutal or nothing, and then neither of us get what we want. Like a vibrator you can’t turn off the highest level. I don’t even think he realizes in the moment how intense it is for me.”

“Aren’t you ever on top? You can set the pace.”

“I’ve tried, but Ushi just—“ you made a gripping motion with your hands and mimicked raising something up and setting it down vigorously— “like, bounces me.”

One of them raised an eyebrow and then her eyes widened. She turned to your other friend and the two of them whispered to each other for a bit, then shifted back to you. “Tie him up,” she said with the air of an elder imparting sage knowledge, and your other friend nodded.

“Oh, come on.” You rolled your eyes.

“I’m serious. Guys usually love it when girls are in control, you just need to take the initiative. Get him tied down and then you can show him exactly how you like it. Let him feel like he’s at your mercy for once.”

The idea had seemed unthinkable at the time, but you hadn’t been able to forget it—which is why after weeks of contemplation, hours of research, and a single extremely awkward trip to a sex shop, you’re now crouching over Ushijima’s naked chest, wrapping a leather cuff around one of his wrists.

“Are you sure that this is something you want to do?” Ushijima asks in that weighty baritone that makes you shiver with need. He doesn’t pull away, but he eyes your actions warily as you thread the chain of the cuffs around a rung in the center of your headboard and reach over to do the other side.

“…Yes,” you tell him, a little less firmly than you would have liked, and you lick your lips to try to make up for how suddenly dry your mouth is. “Anyway, isn’t that my line? We don’t have to do the cuffs if you don’t want to. I won’t force you.”

“It’s alright. You and I both know you couldn’t force me, (Y/N).” Dark eyes pin you down and it’s incredibly unfair how much power he has over you even when he’s the one chained to the bed.

Ushijima’s right, obviously—if he didn’t want to be exactly where he is right now, he wouldn’t be. You’re sure as hell not strong enough to force him to do anything he doesn’t want to, but he didn’t have to say it like that.

“Okay then…good,” you reply, adjusting the straps of the cuffs to accommodate for how stupidly thick his wrists are. When you’re satisfied that they won’t chafe but he can’t get out of them without your help, you sit back next to his chest and admire your handiwork. Ushijima lays on his back, naked, relaxed, even with his arms stretched up to your headboard and cuffed there. He looks good, mouthwateringly good, and you’re ready to get your hands on him when you remember there’s something you need to get straight first. “Wait, before we—before I do anything, remember— what do you say if you want me to stop?”

“…Vanilla,” Ushijima says, reciting the safeword you decided on when you were hammering out details, although the look in his half-lidded eyes is telling you very clearly that he has no intention of needing to use it.

Privately you agree, but everything you’ve read on the kink blogs you’ve been trolling for research tells you that a responsible adult doesn’t put cuffs on their partner without deciding on a safeword first, and you’re determined to do this by the book. “Good boy,” you say, and the diminutive feels awkward in your mouth until you see Ushijima’s reaction—the flash in his eyes, a minuscule hitch in his breathing next to you, and the scrape of metal against wood as he gives a light pull at the cuffs.

With everything safe and accounted for, you give a final tug to the chain to ensure it’s secure, then inch back and swing one leg over the broad expanse of his chest so you’re straddling his abdomen (and he’s so damn big that there’s a twinge of soreness in your thighs just from sitting on top of him). Fuck, he looks good like this, all spread out and pinned underneath you, so masculine and bulky that you’re feeling your pussy get wet just from watching him watching you.

It’s not often you get to appreciate him like this—usually you’re too focused on not losing your mind from how deeply he’s fucking you—so you savor it, massaging his shoulders and sliding your fingers down his sides, tracing the smooth skin with a feather-light touch and then dipping to kiss under his jaw. Feeling more than a little devious, you let your teeth graze over the thin skin at the base of his neck and with your chest pressed into his, it’s not hard to feel his sharp intake of breath.

“The marks...my teammates will notice.”

“Maybe I should stop, then,” you murmur against his skin, lifting up just enough to brush over his nipples. He stiffens, and once again you hear him tugging at the cuffs.

“…Don’t. I want them to see,” Ushijima says, and once you have his permission you don’t waste any time in latching your mouth to his skin and sucking. It’s been ages since you’ve given anyone a hickey. Usually you’re the one marked up like a teenager after Ushijima has his way with you, so this is a nice change of pace, especially when you can feel him flexing underneath you.

Well, kissing is nice…but you’re getting impatient and you know he is too. Once you’re satisfied that your hickeys are going to show up nice and bright red around his neck like a collar, you sit back, walking your hands back on his chest, stroking over his abdomen and giving a little roll of your ass on top of him. Ushijima’s hips twitch—unconsciously, you wonder?—and he glares at you in a way that tells you in no uncertain terms to hurry up and let him fuck you.

And damn it, something about that look has you feeling weak. Needy. Obedient. But this time you’re supposed to be in charge, so you smirk and lift your hips, pulling your body back so his cock is nestled between your legs, not quite touching your pussy. He’s already hard—no surprises there, considering how intently he’s watching you as you mess with him—but you only take a second to stroke his cock up and down before shifting up so he can see you slick your fingers up in your own pussy.

“(Y/N)…” Ushijima’s voice is low, annoyed, and he looks hungry. But you’re so amazed at how wet you are under your own fingers that you don’t bother to pay attention to him shifting his position under you to try to get stimulation. Your juices are literally slicking up your own thighs, just from chaining up your boyfriend and teasing him a little? You should have done this a long time ago.

You push two fingers into your pussy and pump them a few times, making sure to angle your hips so Ushijima can see them go in and out. The stretch is almost uncomfortable for a second and you wince a little before schooling your expression, knowing you’re about to have something a lot bigger than two fingers stretching you open. Ushijima catches it though, and he frowns, trying to sit up before remembering the cuffs that are holding him back. “Let me—let me do it for you—“

“No, stay down,” you say quickly, using your other hand to push him back into the mattress while you continue to touch yourself. Ushijima lets you (and there’s no doubt in your mind that he is letting you), but his eyes narrow as he zeroes in on the way your fingers are glistening with your own pussy juices.

God, you’re—you’re supposed to be in control, aren’t you? So then you shouldn’t be feeling like this, eyes drifting closed as you fuck yourself on your fingers, letting your lower knuckles rub against your clit while you try to curl them to rub against your g-spot. Ushijima’s been spoiling you…you can’t remember the last time you’ve had to do this yourself, and as you feel the tension building up slowly you catch yourself wishing it were him fingering you instead.

His fingers are just so thick. And long, and so rough. You bite your lip thinking about the way he does it when he preps you to take his cock, mashing his palm into your clit, petting along inside you and scissoring his fingers and… “Mmh,” you hum, holding back a real moan for Ushijima’s sake.

There’s another click of the chain sliding over the headboard wood and it reminds you that he’s right there, you could just uncuff him and he could touch you and fill you up with those thick fingers, make you cum, make you cry. But the urge to seek your own pleasure is outweighed by the image he’s making as he looks at you, his expression almost angry in its intensity now that he’s watching you do this to yourself and he has no way to get his hands on you.

“Ahh—“ you whine, letting a real whimper out at the thought of what you’re doing to him. “Ushi, Ushi, do you wanna touch? Wanna touch me?”

His head ducks into a hasty nod and his jaw clenches at the strain of having to ask for what he wants instead of just taking it like usual.

The longer you touch yourself, the closer you’re getting…but you don’t want to cum, not just yet. You draw your fingers out of your dripping cunt and open them up in a V, showing off the juices that connect them, the evidence of how wet you are for him. “Mmm, I don’t think so. I think there’s something else I want in me instead.”

And then you’re reaching to the side for the lube, squeezing a healthy dollop into your palm and then wrapping your hand around Ushiijma’s cock. And—fuck, he’s big. Sure, you’ve had sex with him plenty, but no matter how often you take him, you never stop feeling absolutely torn up after. A tingle of trepidation races up your spine at the thought of riding him like this—can you even put it in by yourself?

Even just looking at it is intimidating. He’s painfully hard, cock flushed red and bobbing up against his lower stomach every time you let it go, and, Jesus, how is it even possible that this thing would fit inside you? When you wrap your hand around him your fingers don’t touch; he must be thicker around than your own wrist.

Halfway. That’ll going to be your goal tonight, to take him halfway. And even that…is going to be a stretch.

The anxiety must show on your face because once again you’ve got Ushijima straining at the cuffs. “(Y/N)—“ he spits as you stroke him up, nudging your palm against the tip. “(Y/N), you need to finish first. Let me make you cum.”

“No, this time I want to—I’m gonna cum on your cock,” you say, adjusting your position so you’re kneeling above him, the head of his cock sliding between your lips. “Gonna cum on your big cock, Ushi, okay?”

His cock jumps in your hand at the provocation. He’s glaring at you, but he’s also leaking precum, the sticky fluid mixing with the lubricant. You give Ushijima a moment to say the safeword if he really doesn’t want you to, and when he stays quiet you raise yourself up a little more and line the head of his cock up with your weeping slit. You hold your pussy lips open with your fingers, easing your thighs down and pressing the head into you and—

“Oh—oh—oh, fuck, oh fuck, Ushi—“ you stutter out helplessly.

It’s been almost two weeks since he last fucked you. One week, six days and about three hours, and at the moment this measure of time seems unreasonably important because it’s been almost two weeks since you last let Ushijima split you in half with his ridiculously huge cock.

You’re not ready, should’ve prepped more, should’ve let him make you cum like he said—fuck, it feels like you’re losing your virginity—and the mixture of dismay and relief that spills over you when the thick swell of his head pushes past that tight ring of muscle is almost nauseating.

The tip? Seriously, just the fucking tip, and you’re already delirious, shaking, your thighs quivering on either side of his. It’s taking all of your strength to keep from going slack—but you know if you do, his whole cock is going to slide up into you and even thinking about that has your cunt clenching and unclenching around what you’re able to fit inside.

“Do you need help?” Despite the strain in Ushijima’s voice at being teased like this, there’s an undercurrent of amusement. He clearly doesn’t have faith in your ability to take him deeper by yourself.

It’s this—this quiet arrogance, this belief that he knows what’s best for you and he’s the only one who can give it to you—that gives you the guts to convince yourself to lower yourself down onto his his cock until you’re literally gasping for air. It fucking hurts, but you’re not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing you say it; instead, you brace your hands against the stiff muscle of his chest and try to focus on the way his cockhead is pressing into your g-spot.

Halfway…he’s gotta be at least halfway in, right? You sneak a glance up at him and bite back a curse at the look on his face, serious as ever, so focused on the place where your pussy is reluctantly eating up his cock that you feel your insides tense up around him again.

You don’t even know how it’s possible for you to get tighter around him but somehow you must be able to, because you hear Ushijima grunt underneath you, and his muscles contract under your palms as he tries again to sit up. When he can’t, he hisses in frustration. “Move…now. Or I won’t be able to control myself.”

Funny, aren’t you supposed to be the one controlling him? But it sure as hell doesn’t feel that way when you’re barely able to stay upright just from trying to ride his cock. You nod desperately, chin jutting up and down like a bobblehead, and lift your hips up off his cock until just the tip is left inside. When you push yourself back down you can’t help whimpering at the feeling of him stretching you, sliding up into you, that stiff, wet cockhead dragging over your g-spot.

By now the pain has faded into an uncomfortable stretch, like leaning too heavily into a foreign pose in yoga, enough that you’re able to feel the arousal building in the pit of your belly and hold onto it as you rock your hips up and down him. The pace is slow—almost too slow; you marvel at yourself for wanting it faster—and there’s a fair amount of Ushijima’s cock that you’re not able to take, but this is really all you can handle.

“Mmm, Ushi, fuck, you’re so big, so big and hard inside me, feels so good on your cock—“ you moan, knowing you sound less like the dominant partner in this position and more like you’re teasing him, pushing his limits.

Ushijima’s breathing is heavy. Labored. He’s trying to hold himself back. “(Y/N), deeper—take me deeper, now.”

Part of your brain vaguely recognizes that he isn’t supposed to be giving the orders here, but you’re too drunk on the feeling of fucking yourself on his cock to complain, so you lower your hips and try, but it feels like you’re just too weak to do it yourself. “Ushi please, it’s too much, too big, I can’t, please—“

And your pleading must sound like an invitation, because his eyes flash and you feel him shifting the position of his legs behind you—and then he bucks his hips up and his cock sinks into your cunt, pushing up into your gooey insides until the head is pressing into the tight opening of your cervix.

“Ahn—?” you squeal, startled. What? He—what? Fuck, it’s deep, it’s so deep, you can’t hold yourself up so you flop downward, holding onto his shoulders for dear life, “ohhh Ushi pleasepleaseplease” and you barely hear yourself over the lubed-up slap of his pelvis against your skin.

Fuck, it feels like he’s knocking the breath out of you. Feels like you can’t fucking breathe like his cock isn’t just pushing against your stomach but your lungs too, can’t breathe so you bear down on his shoulders try to hold yourself up try to let yourself adjust but—

Ushijima’s in control now.

Not that he ever wasn’t, you’d think if you were capable of thinking except you’re not because as you try to situate yourself make yourself relax around that monster cock filling you up, he’s not giving you a moment to catch your breath, instead thrusting up into you at his usual breakneck pace. Apparently he doesn’t need to use his hands to make you bounce—you’re not even moving yourself now, just trying to hold still as his hips slam his cock inside you again and again and again, and again, rubbing up against that sweet spot in your pussy so quickly that you think you might go crazy from it.

“Nngh, so tight,” he growls, and you can tell from the way the words are choked out that he’s gritting his teeth. You almost want to roll your eyes—of course you’re tight, anyone would feel tight around him—but it feels like if you do your eyes might roll back in your head so you don’t.

Jesus fuck, you can’t even understand how long it’s been but you do know that it’s absurd for you to want to cum already, only the thick mass of his cock pushing into you is somehow hitting all the right buttons, just like it always does. Even if it’s rough you want more. By now you’re trying to meet his thrusts, rolling your hips in time with him fucking you open, doing your best to participate but really it’s all you can do to even stay still with how roughly he’s fucking you. “Ushi, fuck, so deep, wanna cum I wanna cum please let me cum—“

“Touch yourself,” he commands breathlessly because he’s still tied to the headboard and he can’t do it, and you barely have the strength to pick one of your hands up off of where you’re scratching into his shoulder and pull it down to rub at your clit.

It’s not enough and you whimper desperately, you don’t want your own fingers, you want Ushijima’s, you want him to touch you. You’re probably saying it out loud by now, begging him to put his hands on you—his eyes widen and then the sound of the metal cuff chain grating over wood reaches you—you can see the skin of his wrists get lighter from lack of blood flow, he’s pulling at the cuffs, pulling too hard, he’s going to hurt himself, you have to stop him—and then you hear a snap.

Aw, shit. The bed.

The thought comes in a singular moment of clarity as you watch the rung Ushijima’s chained to separate itself from the rest of the headboard, splintering, the nail that held it in place looking pathetically flimsy next to the veins bulging in his arms as he slides the chain away from it. He flexes his hands, forming fists and then unclenching them to restore the interrupted blood flow, and then you’ve only got a second to prepare yourself before he’s upright, dragging your hips up to meet his.

“Ushi, Ushi, Ushi, I want, please, I want you,” you beg, but you didn’t really have to because you’re pretty sure there’s no force on Earth that could stop him from holding you up so he can fuck down into you with a ferocity that could be mistaken for anger if you weren’t certain it was really lust.

The entire bed is creaking and rocking against the force of his movement, but you don’t really have the headspace to worry about more property damage considering he’s got you supporting yourself on the mattress on your back and shoulders, your spine curled up so he can kneel and still have your hips aligned with his, your legs dangling bonelessly on either side of him.

Fuck. Holy fuck. You open your mouth but words don’t come out, only a choked whimper, but if you could speak you’d be saying yesyesyesyesyes, touch me.

Despite your inability to speak, Ushijima picks up on what you need and then along with his cock carving its way in and out of you you’re getting the feeling of his fingers padding over your clit. Rough and callused, not gentle, nothing like the way you touched yourself earlier, but you’re starting to realize you don’t mind the aggression. In fact, it’s good, it’s so good, so good you’re gonna cum.

You’re gonna cum.

A long, drawn-out whine is spilling out of your lips before you can stop it; you wrap your hand over your own mouth out of shame or maybe courtesy to your neighbors (although by now they’ve probably invested in earplugs after listening to you squeal like a pig on Ushijima’s cock dozens of times in the past). Still, as your climax rocks through you shove your thumb between your teeth to bite down on it, but the sharp pain is nothing compared to the pleasure.

“Ushiiiii—“ you sob around your own fingers. Your spine arches—or rather, you try to arch your back but you can’t, not with Ushijima’s full body weight pressing into you and keeping you pinned to the mattress.

It hurts, it feels good, you’re seeing stars, you’re hearing Ushijima snarl as your pussy tightens up and convulses on his cock. His one-handed grip on your ass gets painfully tight as he abandons whatever pretense of restraint he had left and pumps his cock into you so hard and fast you’re pretty sure the headboard isn’t going to be the only thing broken, but you don’t fucking care because you’re cumming, you’re cumming, you’re cumming so hard you think you black out for a second, holy fuck.

It’s only when you hear Ushijima’s panting breath and feel him pulling your hand away from your mouth that you regain your grip on reality. “You’re bleeding,” he says, holding your hand up and inspecting the shallow indentations your teeth made on your thumb.

“…You broke my bed,” you reply tiredly once you’ve gotten in a lungful of air, what feels like the first full breath you’ve been able to take since he put his cock inside you.

“I’m sorry,” Ushijima tells you, although he doesn’t look particularly sorry.

You roll your eyes. “Did you cum?”

“Yes. When you did.” Without him holding you up there’s nothing to prevent you from sliding down off his softening (but still unfairly impressive) cock. You’re certainly not strong enough to keep yourself in position.

Even if he hadn’t confirmed it, you’d still be able to feel the familiar heat of his semen plastering your insides, and once your still-sensitive pussy is exposed to the cool air your inner muscles squeeze involuntarily but hard enough to force some of his cum out—you sense it, hot and thick, dripping out of your pussy to smear against your thighs. “Can we take a bath?” you ask, knowing you’ll barely be able to walk over to the bathroom, much less stand under the shower unassisted.

Ushijima nods and moves off the bed. “I can carry you,” he adds when you try to stand up and your knees almost give out before you flop back onto the mattress.

At this angle, with you sitting and him standing in front, it’s difficult not to see that despite cumming literally less than two minutes ago, he’s already getting stiff again. Jesus, is he even human? After how hard you just came, the thought of letting him fuck you again is giving you something stronger than butterflies, but you look up at him and offer anyway. “Wait, do you…um, want to go for another round?”

Ushijima’s gaze meets yours and then travels over your body underneath him. You must look like a mess—sweaty, hair all fucked up and tangled, body still shaking with the aftershocks of your climax and barely able to sit comfortably on your aching pussy—and you guess he sees how jittery (nervous?) you feel because for the first time since your relationship started, he shakes his head to turn down an offer of sex. “No, I’ll take care of it. Let’s clean up first.”

“Okay,” you sigh, releasing a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and raising your arms to let him pick you up.

“(Y/N).”

When Ushijima doesn’t move to carry you, you frown. “Hm?”

“The cuffs.”

Oh, right. The black leather is wrapped around both of his wrists, chain still intact. Apparently these cuffs are stronger than your headboard. Good quality. Too bad they’re going in the trash. You make quick work of the release and then undo the straps carefully, massaging over the light pink marks on your boyfriend’s wrists once they’re free.

“Sorry, did it hurt you? I didn’t mean to—I mean, I just wanted…” You trail off, feeling infinitely embarrassed that despite all your claims of dominating him, he still ended up with the upper hand, cuffs or no cuffs. And you liked submitting to him. There’s no denying that.

“It didn’t. And…I enjoyed having you on top,” Ushijima tells you, lifting you effortlessly into a princess-carry now that his arms are free.

“Yeah right. We’re never using those again,” you scoff, tucking your head into his chest as he carries you to the bathroom. “My boss is going to get mad that I keep taking sick days every time I have sex with you. I’m just going to throw the cuffs out.”

From your position, so close to him, you can barely see the upward quirk of his mouth that would be as good as laughter for anyone else. “Don’t get rid of them. I think…next time, I would like to have you wearing them, (Y/N).”

Well, fuck.