#tenor fly

[medullam]

Feat. Tenor Fly

We Rock Hard [1998]

[monotonous-minutia]

Nicklausse's Olympia impression gets him a standing ovation from his audience of 1

[steakout-05]

this is officially the dumbest thing i ever made

[nekokabuuuri]

source

[nereidprinc3ss]

strange perfections

in which spencer reid and fem!reader meet by accident at a coffee shop. and then they keep meeting there. they've really got to stop meeting like this. (no, seriously. hotch is pissed.) / do you believe me now? bonus chapter!

series masterlist

fluff! warnings/tags: meet cute:) some dark humor, romantically inexperienced reader, spencer reid graduated from caltech, mit, and the derek morgan school of rizz a/n: this can absolutely be read as a standalone BUT it was written as a prologue for my series do you believe me now? to explain how spencer and r met! completely optional, if you're only here for the smut no worries! reading this bonus chapter might make the next chapter better though as it contains discussions of how they met:) anyway, I LOVE YOU!! let me know if you like this silly little random thing! kisses

The café door opens again. A blustery wind raises goosebumps on your arms and makes your bones ache again. You look up at the latest intruder—a hobbling elderly man in a newsboy cap and a knit red scarf. 

Stupid scarf, you think. 

Stupid door. 

Stupid wind. 

Your mug is empty, and the table you’re sitting at is sort of sticky and rickety, and there are so many papers in front of you that you wonder why the hell you thought it’d be a good idea to print the PDF out and annotate it that way instead of just doing it on your laptop like a normal person in the 21st century. Nothing is going right today. It’s the third café you’ve tried in the past few weeks as you attempt to find some place that feels homey, lucky, but this one just feels… inconvenient. 

You look at the stack of papers and sigh. 

Stupid Lord Byron. 

Stupid cafe. 

Usually, cafés are relatively quiet and peaceful—a refuge for the overworked to bask in the luxury of quiet jazz and the smell of dark roast as they continue to overwork themselves. This particular establishment, however, today hosts a group of teenagers—presumably playing hooky—who have commandeered a big booth in the back and keep walking right past your table because apparently they couldn’t have just ordered their drinks at once and they all have to do it separately and loudly. 

One of them has an incredibly irritating, gratingly pubescent laugh, and they think everything is hilarious. This whole situation is unbearable. 

Just as you’re gearing up to go, of course the fucking door opens again. This time, it’s accompanied by a particularly strong gust. 

Strong enough that Lord Byron doesn’t stand a chance. 

Your printed copy of his works blows off the table, at first page by painstakingly annotated page and then before you can even process it, all at once. 

Yeah. This is definitely not your lucky café. 

As you curse and go to stand up, you run into one of those dumb kids. His huge ceramic mug goes flying, careening against the edge of your table and completely splattering you and all your stuff in 16 liquid ounces of scalding espresso and milk. 

It’s silent for a second, save for a few drips from the puddle on your table to the floor, before the kid is apologizing profusely and turning red as a tomato. You can’t even respond—you look down at your ruined favorite sweater, and then around at the pages of Byron littered with color-coded sticky notes, overflowing with angry and purposeful red ink that you spent so much time on, scattered all over the floor. 

Eventually the boy catches on that you’re not going to forgive him and he skitters away, back to his friends, who whisper and giggle profusely. Only a few of them get up to start gathering the fallen pages with you. Several other patrons end up helping as well, so the sheets of paper are gathered and returned into your sticky hands fairly quickly. You thank each person without looking up as they hand you their respective stack. All you want is to get out of here. 

“Here—I’m really sorry about this,” someone says—a tenor-ish male voice, distinctly sympathetic as he holds out a rather larger stack of papers than anyone else had bothered to pick up. 

“I’ll live,” you sigh, straightening up. “But thank… you.”

The man standing in front of you is the kind of man who makes you want to untuck your hair from its usual spot behind your ears, and to stand up straighter, and to try and not stare even though you want his attention. He’s gloriously beautiful in a way that repels and attracts you. He’s the type of man who wouldn’t have given you the time of day in high school and probably wouldn’t now. Instantly you feel both insecure and reduced to a former version of you who would simper and fawn over boys who wanted nothing to do with her. You feel like going to the other side of the café and sitting in the best light and staring out the window poetically and hoping he’s looking at you. 

“On the one hand, I feel bad for being the person who opened the door and let the wind in. On the other… I feel compelled to say at least they’re not covered in coffee like the rest of your table is?”

You laugh vacantly, a second too late, positively coveting the awkward smile on his angular face. Then you make eye contact, and his eyes are so the opposite of angular—they’re huge and inviting and the warmest golden-brown you’ve ever seen, and they’re looking right back at you—and you have to look down. Fuck. You hate when you do that. 

Think of something normal to say!

“Yeah, true. Now I just have to reorder 264 pages. That… that don’t have page numbers.”

You shuffle through the papers. They are hopelessly scrambled. Your heart sinks just a bit.

“Um… I might actually be able to help with that, if you want?”

You frown, glancing up. What kind of sex trafficking ploy is this?

“That’s okay. Might be easier with just one person.”

He laughs—it’s similarly awkward, similarly endearing. 

“Do you mind letting me just… try? It’ll only take a minute.”

Only take a minute? Is this beautiful man deranged? Why are the hot ones always crazy?

But, perhaps because you’re a pushover who can’t stand up to people, much less beautiful people, much less beautiful men who are paying you undue attention, you find yourself giving in. You hold the stack out. 

“Sure. Give it your best shot. I’ll be impressed if you can even figure out what page one is.”

He’s already flipping through the papers with a drawn brow, walking away with them, and barely looking over his shoulder as he mutters, “I have Byron memorized. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

You follow him, because hello, he has all your annotations. He’s definitely insane, you think, as he sits down at a table and starts rapidly sorting the sheets into separate piles. 

All you can do is stand awkwardly behind him as he stacks papers seemingly at random, barely glancing at them before deciding where they go. 

Maybe a minute, maybe a few go by, each of which have you progressively more flabbergasted, before he’s tapping the edges of a stack of paper on the table and standing, handing them to you with his lips pressed into a thin pleasant line. There’s almost a glow about him—like he couldn’t be more in his comfort zone. 

“There you go. Should be in order now.” You sport a frown bordering on a grimace as you take the stack and flip through it a bit. Sure enough, it seems that everything is in order. You keep looking between the man in front of you and the papers, incredulous as you wait for something to be in the wrong spot. 

“How did you do that?” 

His cheeks turn slightly pink. 

“I know Byron really well. I know how each passage ends and begins so I put them together like puzzle pieces.”

“How did you read that fast?”

“Uh. I’m a speed-reader?”

You scoff, taking another look through the stack. 

“I think that may be underselling it.” A thought occurs to you as you’re grazing over one of your longer annotations—full of expletives and strong opinions. “Oh, god. You didn’t… you didn’t read my notes?”

The man’s eyebrows raise as if he was waiting for you to mention that and he smiles like he doesn’t quite know how to break it to you gently. 

“Maybe a few,” he eventually decides, laughing under his breath. “I appreciated the commentary on his relationship with Augusta. It was… colorful.”

Heat rises in your cheeks as you mumble. 

“Yeah, I had a hard time appreciating the romantic poems. They’re less cute when there’s like a fifty percent chance he’s writing about his sister.”

“Half sister,” he corrects. You give him a look. 

“Does that make it better?”

“… no,” he realizes. “Not even a little bit.”

You laugh, relieved that his face looks as warm as yours feels. 

“Well… thank you, for the help,” you say after a silent second. 

“Of course. Sorry, again. I, um—I hope your day gets better?”

“Yeah, well. I feel like statistically it has to, right? It’s kind of a low bar.”

He smiles, a perfect, perfect smile, and gives you a little wave as he leaves. Without coffee. Checking the clock on the wall, you realize it’s approaching one in the afternoon. If he’d been here on his lunch break, he sacrificed it to organize your stupid Byron texts. You smile to yourself. 

He was totally in love with me. 

And he can’t prove me wrong because I’ll probably never see him again. 

All things considered—this coffee shop does seem pretty lucky. Maybe you’ll stick with it for a while. 

The next time you see the mysterious sexy speed reader is four days later—though you’ve been here every day since. He catches your eye right as he walks in, and his brows jump in pleasant recognition. You smile. He smiles back, before going up to the counter and ordering a coffee with a ludicrous amount of sugar in it. 

I should take note for when I make him his coffee in the mornings, you think to yourself, and then you snort at your own delusions, shaking your head at your book. Obviously you’re not that divorced from reality, but you’ll entertain the fantasy forever until one of you stops showing up to this café. 

What you’re absolutely not expecting is for him to walk up to your table with his to-go cup. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi!”

Jesus. Tone it down, girl scout. 

He gestures to your stack of papers: now secured in a three ring binder. The cup says Spencer. 

Spencer. Spencer. 

It feels important. 

“I see you’ve upgraded.”

“Yes! Yes, I did,” you laugh self-consciously, still struggling to meet his eyes. “Thank you for the help the other day. I would still be sorting through all of this if it weren’t for that, so… yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course! I’m glad I could be of use.”

“Spence!” Someone calls from the cafe door. You both look up to see a stunning blonde beckoning him away. 

Ah. Naturally. The girlfriend who is one trillion times prettier than you. 

Spence. 

Reality sets in. 

“Coming!” He replies, with all the eager compliance of a child, before turning back to you. “Um… well… I’ll see you?”

It’s an awkward way to say goodbye to a stranger, but you suddenly don’t care enough to dwell. Instead you nod once, less enthusiastic now that you know he has a 10 waiting for him on the sidewalk. 

“I am a creature of habit.”

Another wave as he walks away. 

The two disappear from the doorway, but the perpetual breeze seems to carry a snatched bit of conversation your way. 

“Who was that?” 

“Uh… I don’t actually know.”

Yeah. Reality definitely sets in. 

Over the next few days, you break your café streak. Life is busy. There’s not always time to artfully ponder Romantic poetry and drink a six dollar coffee while waiting around for certain people to show up. 

Okay, so… maybe it has more to do with him than you’re letting on. But you’re not going to do that thing you do again, where you become limerently obsessed with a man you don’t know and who is way out of your league just because you can’t form an actual attachment to anyone to save your life. Besides, you remind yourself; we probably wouldn’t be compatible anyway. He’s probably a huge loser. Or secretly a douche. Or chews with his mouth open. Obviously nobody that attractive can also have a good personality. 

Not to mention he has a girlfriend. That should put you off, too.

But you hadn’t been lying when you’d proclaimed to be a creature of habit—you return to the café once you feel sufficiently detached from this Spencer character. 

He’s there. Of course he’s there. Why had you been expecting for him to not be there? It’s not like he was a figment of your imagination. 

This time he’s accompanied by a different blonde woman—a bespectacled blonde with a big floral headband and a patterned dress and a red cardigan and tights and heels that look self-injurious. She’s quite eye-catching; you want to keep looking at her, but you seem to draw her attention, too. Her big eyes widen minutely and briefly you wonder if you’re supposed to know her, but certainly you’d remember meeting a person like that. She doesn’t seem easily forgettable. Both of you look to Spencer at the same time, who’s looking between you with an almost panicked expression. 

“Oh! Th—” the woman whispers, cutting herself off when she realizes how loud she’s being in the otherwise silent establishment. “Ah! Okay, right. Never mind.”

 Spencer sighs. You want to laugh, but you’re baffled by the whole thing. So you go back to reading. 

Ten minutes later, they draw your attention once more. 

“Go, go ahead! It’s more problematic for you to be late than me. I’ll be like, thirty seconds tops.”

You don’t look up as Spencer leaves the café—but are you supposed to gather that these two eccentric individuals are coworkers? And what of the first blonde woman, who you’d presumed to be his girlfriend? Where is she?

While you’re wondering all of this, the new blonde teeters her way over to your table. 

“Hi!” She says pleasantly, waving a purple-tipped hand and wearing the biggest grin. 

“Uh… hi?”

“I’m Penelope. You’ve met my friend Spencer. He just left.”

“Oh—sort of,” you smile weakly, closing your book. “Not formally. I didn’t know his name.”

That’s a lie, but maybe feigning non-chalance will make it real. 

“Well, I just wanted to come over and say I love your bag. And your jewelry and your coat. I love your whole look. I bet you’re a really cool person.”

“Um—thank you!” You perk up, smiling genuinely now. The compliment warms you—you didn’t think your look was all that interesting today. “You too. I love your outfit.”

“Great! You’re—you’re great. This is good information. Um… just out of, like, sheer curiosity, could I get your name, age, and occupation? Oh—and your zodiac sign?”

What kind of convoluted sex trafficking ploy—

“Garcia!”

Spencer is at the doorway again, looking adorably miffed. 

Adorable? Get a grip. 

“Wh—I’m just making a new friend! Is friendship illegal, now?”

“This is the kind of friend-making that gets you a restraining order,” he urges. 

You look up at Penelope Garcia, enamored by their whole dynamic. They clearly care for each other, despite the squabbling. What kind of job do they have where they talk to each other like this?

“It’s fine,” you smile, introducing yourself to her.

“That is such a good name!” She says, and you’re getting the sense she’s kind of always this enthusiastic. “So now we know each other’s names—we should probably definitely be friends, right?”

“Yeah! Um, definitely!”

“Yes? Oh my god! I love this! Okay, um—we work at Quantico, so, we’re like, 10 minutes away—but this is better than the coffee shop that’s closest to the building, so we come here all the time. Usually it’s just us and five grouchy old men, which makes this is really exciting.”

“Quantico… that’s the FBI academy, right?”

“Other stuff, too,” she nods, still smiley. 

Oh! Cool. So they’re FBI agents. 

So that’s cool. 

You’re cool with that. 

Her phone starts ringing—she locks eyes with Spencer. 

“Hotch?”

“Ooh, we are in trouble,” Penelope sing-songs, leaning down to write her number on your notebook without asking. Not that you mind, of course. She adds a little heart and a smiley face next to her name before capping your pen and toddling away. “Bye, new friend!” She calls over her shoulder, waving goodbye with just her fingers. 

“Bye,” you manage, though it’s probably too quiet. 

Spencer flattens his mouth into an approximation of a smile and waves again. 

You accidentally find yourself mirroring his goodbye, facial expression and all. Fuck. You hope he doesn’t notice. You hope he doesn’t read into it. 

Nah. Boys are dumb. 

You text Penelope later that afternoon—a simple greeting so that she can save your number—and then you forget about it. 

It’s not until five days go by without sign of any of them—the two blondes, Spencer, this mysterious and foreboding Hotch figure—that you start to seriously question your sanity. Did they drop off the face of the planet, or what?

But of course, just as you’re sitting at your usual table, Spencer walks in. Alone. 

He sees you immediately, but instead of the wave you’d come to expect, he immediately flushes, looks down at his shoes and hurries into the small lunch-rush line. 

Weird.

You corner him at the coffee bar, where he’s adding more sugar to his coffee. How are his teeth so nice if he does this to himself every single day?

“Hey,” you say, affecting casual confidence as you bus your empty mug. “… Spencer, right?”

It’s comical how you’re pretending you haven’t turned that name over and looked at it from every angle hundreds of times since the first time you heard it. 

He nods, only glancing up at you as he stirs. To your surprise, he knows your name, too. When you give him an odd look, he smiles almost apologetically, finally looking at your face for longer than half a second. 

“I heard you introducing yourself to Penelope. Sorry if that’s…”

“No, no! Is she around, today? I texted her last week, but she never responded...”

“Today is operating system update day, so I don’t even really have a way of knowing if she’s alive in her office.” It’s funny to him, but you just smile, baffled. He notices your silence and catches on, scrambling to explain himself. “She’s our tech analyst. There are 243 computers in our building and she has to update them all remotely, which requires getting every agent to agree to not touch their computer at the same time for an hour or so.”

“Oh… does the FBI not have, like… an IT guy, or something?”

He laughs again—the way his eyes crinkle when he does it makes you a little breathless. 

“You should say that to her. I think you would become her favorite person.”

It’s hard not to smile when he’s smiling because of you—however indirectly that may be. Quickly you realize you’ve both been standing in front of the coffee bar for too long. 

“Alright, well… tell her good luck, for me?”

“I would, but I’ve been kicked out for an hour while she does the updates.”

Your brow furrows and you laugh. 

“From the whole building? You just can’t keep your hands off your computer for an hour?”

“Not if I want to do my job, no. And I am kind of obsessive about my job. I’ve been the reason she had to start the whole process over again before and I’d rather not be that person again.”

You say it before you can think too hard. 

“Well, if you have an hour to kill… there’s an open seat at my table? No pressure, obviously.”

And that was the first of thousands of hours you would come to spend with Spencer Reid. 

After that, it sort of becomes a regular thing. He comes almost every day—except for occasional week or so long stretches, which you have discovered are a part of his absolutely fucking insane job—and sits with you, sometimes with Penelope, once with the other blonde, JJ, who you’ve since deduced is not his girlfriend, most often alone. Usually he can’t spare more than ten minutes, but he begins pushing it, little by little, until thirty minutes go by and you think surely his boss (the great and all-powerful Hotchner) must be beginning to notice. 

One day, during your usual lunchtime rendezvous, his phone rings. He talks right on through it, like it’s not happening.

It ceases. And then it starts again. 

Your head drops to your shoulder, something like pity or regret softening your features. He catches your eye and melts slightly, mid-sentence—like he knows you’re about to tell him to be responsible. 

“Do you think you should…”

His hands drop from where they’d been enthusiastically positioned mid-air. 

“They’ll be fine if I’m late from lunch one time. I’m usually more punctual than any of them.”

You roll your lip between your teeth—it’s not that you want to tell him to go; in fact, those delusions you’ve been harboring about your future life together are only getting worse with each inexplicable minute he entertains your company. 

But his job is important. 

“What if you have a case?”

“Then I would have gotten more calls from more people by now.”

Your head tips back as you laugh lightly at his unwavering insistence.   

“I’m flattered that you so enjoy my company that much. But I can’t with good conscience keep taking up your work hours like this.”

As the laughter fades, he just… watches you, lips slightly parted, eyes intense but not entirely present. 

“You’re probably right,” he finally breathes. “Maybe… you should start taking up my other hours, instead?”

Spencer Reid, you unexpected charmer. 

You balk.

“Like… we would hang out? At a different time of day? Not here?”

“Those are the basic premises, yes,” he chuckles, nodding affably. “I’ve never actually seen you anywhere else. For all I know you could be a ghost eternally tethered to this building.”

“Where would this hanging out take place?”

Fuck, you’re totally being weird. His brow knits. 

“I don’t know. Where else do people hang out?”

He’s not genuinely asking you, he’s gently turning you in the right direction. You charge forward blindly. 

“Restaurants.”

There’s that pretty smile of his again, the one that makes all the thoughts drain from your head like cold bathwater. Though, there’s a sort of mischievous edge to it now that you haven't seen before.

“That’s certainly an option. If I asked you to hang out with me at a restaurant... would you say yes?”

You look down. God, your face feels warm. 

“Would you be asking me out on a date? In this hypothetical scenario that we’ve constructed, I mean.”

Spencer seems to think about it for a moment, which fills you with unexpected panic. When you look back up anxiously, he has the same smile on his face, but his eyes are a little softer now. 

“I would.” 

More panic sets in—just a bit. But you don’t let what is undoubtedly a tidal wave of anxiety break through the emotional guard-dam. Keep it together. This is a good thing. This is what you wanted. 

Unfortunately, you are perhaps more transparent than you’d realized. Spencer begins to look slightly worried, leaning forward in his chair. 

“You don’t have to say yes. I know we don’t know each other very well, I just—”

“No!” You find yourself assuring him, though you curse yourself because you kind of want to know what he was going to say. “I would say yes. I’ve just, um—god,” you laugh gustily, self-consciously. “Sorry I’m being so weird. I’m out of my depth. Nobody’s asked me on a date before. I don’t really know the etiquette.”

Spencer chuckles. 

“You’re doing great. Don’t worry about it.”

Not, what?

Not, you’ve never been on a date before?

Not, that’s crazy, or that’s weird, or how have you gone your whole life without being asked out?

With the implication being, you’re odd. Different. Maybe not in a good way. 

He says none of that. 

“But I should probably actually ask you, huh?” His cheeks turn pink as his laughter is redirected inwards. 

“Sounds like a good first step.”

Spencer is still smiling as he says your name and it sounds so good from his mouth. It makes you sound so real. 

“Will you go on a date with me?”

Butterflies in your stomach doesn't begin to brush what you're experiencing—your entire abdominal cavity is like a Monarch sanctuary.

“I’d love to.”

He seems genuinely relieved as he beams, slumping back in his chair. 

“Oh, thank god. I was so nervous you’d say no. I never do that. Thank you for not saying no. Not that you couldn’t have said no—it would have been completely fine and obviously within your rights to—”

His phone rings again. Both of you are relieved that he was interrupted—but admittedly you thought his rambling was super cute. 

“I should—”

“You definitely need to go.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with a still-breathless smile. “Um—what’s your number?”

You look around fruitlessly for pen and paper. 

“I don’t—”

“Just tell me. I’ll remember.”

He’s so weird. 

A breeze hits your skin as he opens the door. You’re already writing your wedding vows in the back of your mind as you watch him go. 

-

part four

[buckets-and-trees]

Devour: HEAT (4/4)

Collection: DEVOUR Characters/Pairings: Mob Boss!James Buchanan Barnes x Chef Female!Reader Word Count: 7k Summary: James returns from business in another city with the intention of spending the morning with you, more than a few surprises up his sleeve, whether you're ready for them or not.

Content & Warnings: EXPLICIT SMUT - somnophilia, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, vibrating dildo, anal plug, brief masturbation, unprotected vaginal intercourse, double penetration, creampie. Feelings, so many feelings.

Logistical Notes: Salt, fat, acid, and now heat - this is the long-awaited final chapter of their series. Happy Mob Boss Monday!

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You were vaguely aware of feeling much cooler than you should as you registered your hip being nudged so you were lying flat against the mattress. You were still clinging to slumber, not fully roused to the world of the waking, so you didn’t move when you felt the flat edge of a knife slipped between your skin and the silk of your panties, and you didn’t react to the snick of the clean cut of fabric over your right hip and then the left. You weren’t interested as someone peeled away the exquisite and expensive piece of underwear.

Though your legs were slightly open after being shifted from your side to your back, there was another gentle push against your leg to open your thighs a little more. Distantly something stirred in you as fingers gently caressed up your thigh and to your pussy laid bare to the morning sun. Those fingers began to gently play with your folds, eliciting wetness at your entrance. One finger gave a whisper of a press into your vaginal opening a few times, drawing a soft, short, breathy moan from you, and you subconsciously parted your legs further.

For all of that you were drowsy and docile.

The warm fingers left you for a moment, and then there was a cool pressure against your cunt, the sudden temperature change prompting a small sleepy, “Oh,” from you. More of the cool, firm pressure was applied, and then the sudden vibration of the cool object against your clit jolted you awake, eyes flying open and torso contracting suddenly upwards from the bed.

That dark, deep chuckle that always flooded you with heat poured into your ears, and a strong, now-familiar, calloused hand smoothed over your stomach and forced you gently but firmly back onto the mattress.

“James,” you keened.

“I’m disappointed,” he tutted, then pressed a kiss just above your knee.

“What?”

You racked your brain – not an easy feat when you were only just coming into consciousness for the day and being accosted with teasing pleasure at your core – but you couldn’t think of anything he could be disappointed in. Not with that tone, not with you, but he seemed genuinely disappointed. You detected even a tenor of anger in his tone.

“You’ve left some of my gifts entirely untouched,” he explained, pressing the vibrator insistently against your clit.

You groaned, and the heat of embarrassment surged rampantly through your body along with the pleasure. Your hands flew to your face, and you tried to close your legs, but he held them firmly open to his ministrations.

You knew immediately what he was talking about and what exactly was between your legs.

A sleek, black dildo that you’d only looked at for a few seconds before slamming the box shut again – long enough to register that it was a size you’d bet dimes to dollars was close in size to the cock of the man who sent it to you. Were you having copious amount of sex with notorious mob boss James Buchanan Barnes? Yes. Were you wearing the high-end bras and underwear he spoiled you with, a constant reminder of the intimate place he was establishing in your life? Yes. But using the sex toys he had selected and sent to you was the line you’d drawn at too intimate.

And now instead of using it solo, the man had the audacity to torture you with it himself.

And the torture was exquisite.

Six weeks of this man, and your body knew when to yield and drip for him. He had prepared your pussy, coaxed enough wetness, to take the dildo with ease even through the intrusion of its size, lacing the discomfort with pleasure. You moaned as he finished driving it in to the hilt. He played with the angle, pushing it up and back, teasing you with different points of pressure that made you pant and cant your hips.

“Feel good?” He asked in a smug tone.

“Yes,” you huffed, knowing he knew how you felt and only wanted you to admit it out loud for his own satisfaction. But if you didn’t, he’d delay your satisfaction, and audacious bastard though he might be, you craved him now, and delighted in the indulgence of him. “More, James, more.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want, Chef.”

And he did. Immediately.

He twisted the dildo, then pulled it halfway out before pushing it back into your slick channel. You closed your eyes, but you knew he watched your face closely for what made you feel good, adjusting his pace until your breath hitched and you clutched the sheets. Then he kept that pace and only applied a bit of additional force in the thrusts.

He drove you on and on until he finally pushed you over the edge, and you gave a sharp cry of ecstasy.

He worked the toy in your cunt just a bit more, making you twitch in response, and then he crawled up your body and you pulled him in for a few heated kisses.

“What are you doing here, James Buchanan Barnes?”

Though you had spent increasingly more time with him, this was the first time he’d been to your apartment. It was small and modest, and you were in no way ashamed (since he had also started to regularly send either a housekeeper or cleaning staff of some kind to take care of you place, you also weren’t worried about any mess), but you were surprised.

“I know it’s your day off.”

You chewed lightly on your bottom lip.

“And I know that look,” he continued with a smirk. “You’re not quite happy with me. I’ve shown up unannounced when I know you have plans and certainly have intentions for your unplanned time, but I wanted to see you this morning. Give me breakfast and then I promise to let you send me away as soon as you want.”

He kissed you again.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“Mmm, missed you, too.” You wrapped your arms around him, pleased that he’d stripped down to his boxer briefs before joining you in your bed. “Breakfast would be nice.”

He grinned and then continued the kiss. You encouraged him, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck and chest. You hitched a leg up around his hip, and then groaned when he pressed his bulge into your core as it pushed against the dildo still lodged inside of you.

He chuckled again, then reached down and drew out the black silicone in one slow pull. There was no ignoring the sound it made, the shlick as it came out of your messy cunt.

Then he drew it up to your mouth.

“Lick it,” he said.

Eyes locked with his, you stuck out your tongue and he slid it slowly over it. Then he set it aside and resumed kissing you, purposely circling his tongue around yours, sharing the taste of your arousal in your mouth. He groaned his approval and plundered your mouth for long enough that both of your chests were heaving against each other when he pulled away. James slowly pressed hot kisses over your face – softly on each of your closed eyes, your cheeks, your nose, you chin, your forehead, then back down to your lips. You pressed your forehead to his and sighed in sleepy contentment. You twined your fingers with his at your hip. He rutted his hard cock insistently against your core, watching your face. And he kept at it until you were all but begging for him.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Yes!”

“Good, I’m ready to fill you up.”

But you whimpered as his actions immediately indicated the opposite as he abruptly rolled off you and slid out of bed.

“What? What are you-“

“Breakfast.” He smirked down at you, already pulling on a pair of lounge pants. “Going to fill you up with breakfast. What did you think I meant?”

You groaned at the blatant mischief in his eyes and hurled a pillow at him. He caught it with ease, laughed, and tossed it back to your bed as he left your bedroom. “See you in the kitchen,” he called back.

“Handsome bastard,” you grumbled as you rolled out of bed and padded along after him. You grabbed the silk robe hanging off the back of your door on your way, knotting and trying it off around your waist.

The incredible smell of some kind of warm bread hit you as you stepped out of your room. You inhaled deeply and moved more quickly, drawn by the heavenly scent, but you paused on seeing him in the kitchen. You had expected to see him at most plating up something that he’d brought or had delivered.

That was not the case.

Instead, he stood behind the counter next to your stove, handling ingredients that had come from a small crate like he was on a Food Network show.

He glanced up. “Yes, I’m cooking for you. Sit and relax,” he said, gesturing at the stool on the other side of the counter.

“James Buchanan Barnes, did you actually bake something?”

You tried to sidle into the actual kitchen, but he quickly blocked you off with his broad body.

“I. Am. Cooking. For. You.” He paused between each word, his tone serious.

“Are you really barring me from my own kitchen?”

You tilted your head up and fixed him with a look half amusement, half incredulity.

He leaned in, cupped your face in both of his hands, and kissed you soundly until you melted against his chest. When he pulled back, your lips chased his.

“Let me take care of you,” his words were gentle but firm, spoken tenderly against your lips.

One last indulgent kiss, and then he turned you around by your shoulders, and you finally did as you were told and took the seat across the counter from him.

James reached for an English muffin out of a small basket on the counter, split it open easily with a knife, and then buttered it. The butter melted immediately, and you grinned.

“You made English muffins from scratch?”

“You never dreamed I could cook on top of everything else – too good to be true?” He winked and you rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Try it,” he said and slid you a small plate with half the muffin on it, taking a bite out of the half he kept back.

You lifted the bread to your lips and gingerly took a bite. It was soft, warm, and beyond the smooth tang of the melted butter that bled through the crumb, the taste far surpassed any English muffin that you could buy at the store. You let out a content hum, and your shoulders relaxed, the delight from the simplicity of the rich flavors in your mouth flooding your body with serotonin.

James smiled, just a hint of his cocky confidence lacing it, and then he got to work, filling a saucepan with water and setting it on the stove to bring it up to a simmer. He pulled more supplies from his box as you watched. Butter, lemon, eggs.

Given that your life was devoted to food and cooking, this was a bold gesture - and one no one you had ever been involved with had attempted. They were either too lazy or too intimidated or too dim to realize that even though you could cook, someone taking care of you in this way was a beautiful and indulgent gift.

“When did you get back?” you asked. He’d been gone for three days, but you hadn’t expected him back in the city until tomorrow.

He looked over at the clock on the wall. “Two hours ago.”

You blinked.

“You come straight here?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed in the affirmative without looking up from the frying pan as he slapped a healthy amount of butter onto its surface and set that on the stove as well.

Your heart soared, beating happily, and you folded your arms and rested them on the counter, leaning forward on your stool. The corners of your mouth unable to do anything but smile. You saw his mouth had relaxed into a soft smile as well.

While the butter melted, he separated yolks from egg whites, and beat them together in a glass bowl. When the pot of water was steaming, he took the glass bowl with the egg yolks and set it over top of the saucepan and continued to whisk them.

Now you knew what he was making.

“Eggs Benedict?” you asked.

“It’s one of your favorites.”

“How did you know?”

“I know more about you than you give me credit for.”

You didn’t want to touch that yet, but perhaps later, you thought.

“You’ve ordered it a few times when we’ve been out for brunch. It’s also one of my specialties.”

“Homemade English muffins, whipping up a hollandaise without much effort… you can actually cook,” you remarked.

He kept his focus on incorporating the butter into the yolks properly, but still responded. “You somehow continue to underestimate me in many areas, Chef.”

That assertion nudged your conscience a little, but his tone was teasing, so you kept the level of banter going. “You still have to successfully poach the eggs and make sure your hollandaise doesn’t split. But if you manage to pull it off, I might have to take you back to bed after breakfast.”

He chuckled, and your core rumbled a little.

You sat with rapt attention and watched. You didn’t scrutinize, but it crossed your mind that there were probably very few men who would have had the self-assurance to cook in front of you without worrying or getting irritated, even though you knew you weren’t judging, only interested in observing someone else at your craft.

And as you sat, you did turn over his comment in your head – that you were underestimating him.

It had been seven weeks since everything started with this mob boss. He had insinuated himself into many aspects of your life, but as you navigated whatever it was that was developing between you two, most of the time his intrusions were welcome, if somewhat hesitantly by you at first - like fully exchanging your intimates, or hiring a housekeeper for your apartment (you had yet to see them, and you had to confess it felt nice to have some work eliminated from your plate). He had been incredibly aggressive about folding himself into many aspects in your life. Some of the evolution of this relationship had been thrilling, had you giddy, or quite simply stunned over the moments of softness or seeming adoration. Through any of the challenges, James had been open to any wants and needs you expressed when you brought them to his attention. What’s more, there hadn’t been many things to address with him – the time he spent with you wasn’t merely additional hours clocked, but as you looked back you had to confess it was time he spent truly getting to know you.  

You craved him almost constantly, and in so many ways, but had you gotten caught up in trying to preserve yourself?

The morning after the first night you’d slept together and stayed the night at his penthouse, you had been able to dress out of the closet he had already stocked for you. While a little shocking, it had not ultimately been surprising. It had bordered on overwhelming. The novelty and spoiling had been fun and flattering. That he had been able to stock a closet so well-suited to your taste and needs had been the part that edged toward the overwhelming side, but you ignored the more serious parts of the grand gesture, classified it as yet another audacious choice, not a sign of his knowing you or the clear signal that he was ready to have you seriously embedded in his life – in his home. He hadn’t said anything or even insinuated that you should move in, he just let that closet of clothes exist for you. It was a statement, but not a demand.

Aside from the housekeeper he’d started to send around to your place, he also had enlisted some kind of laundry service to take care of more of your needs, and last week before he left for his business trip he personally slipped a black card into your wallet.

“There,” your mob boss declared, spinning the two plated masterpieces toward you. “These would certainly be approved for service, would they not, Chef?”

You were impressed. “They look stunning. Final judgement at the table.”

You started to reach for one of the plates, but James tutted at you and carried them both over to the table, seating you at the corner next to each other where place settings had already been laid out. He was thorough, including going back to the fridge to retrieve a carafe of juice.

“And did you press this by hand?” you asked as he poured a glass for each of you.

He laughed. “No, I didn’t have time to grow and harvest the fruit myself, so it felt like cheating. This is the one my home chef keeps on hand for me.”

“I do like your chef. Do you think I could steal them for my restaurant?” you teased.

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he took his seat next to you. “Enough. Eat.”

You took up your knife and fork and made the first, signature cut into the egg draped with its silky hollandaise sauce. The yolk oozed, slow and gorgeous. “That’s a top tier poach,” you shot the praise truthfully.

James smiled and watched as you lifted the first bite to your mouth.

“Mmm,” you hummed, your eyes closing momentarily. “Nothing beats a beautiful benedict.”

“Success,” he crooned, finally digging into his own dish. He didn’t ask if for further accolades, didn’t ply you for more praise, again speaking to his nature – confident, perhaps too confident at times, but sure of himself.

After your second bite, you still reaffirmed your assessment. “Really, James, the sauce is the perfect consistency, and that English muffin could have carried the whole dish on its own if the rest had been just okay.”

He squeezed your thigh under the table. “Thank you.”

The two of you eat in silence for a few moments before James spoke again. “Where’s your lovely head this morning? You went somewhere while I was cooking.”

You looked at him, tilting your head while you chewed. His blue eyes, strong, piercing, warm, captivating, looked directly into yours. He really did see you in more ways than you had been giving him credit for.

Being with this man for the past seven weeks had changed something in you. Over the years you had learned to be direct and go after what you want, but not in romantic endeavors. When you were younger, you didn’t have the skills, experience, or confidence. Over the past few years, you had been clear and direct in the rare forays into talking or dates, but there had been nothing long or meaningful enough to require directness and vulnerability from you. You had been able to be direct with James, but you had skirted around being exposed to some of the moments of vulnerability.

But there was not much more skirting that you could do.

James had shown he was willing to show up.

It was time for you to do the same.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said – that I’ve been underestimating you. I think… You might be right.”

James leaned forward, reached for your hand, and brought it to his lips. He murmured your name softly against the palm of your hand and then pressed a long kiss there. You took a breath to calm your suddenly racing heart. “I know who I am. I don’t blame you having certain ideas of who that is or putting on your own armor to keep yourself safe.”

He let your hands fall to the table but kept a tight hold on your fingers.

“I ate at Devour for the first time a few months ago. The food was immaculate. I was looking to invest in new ventures and diversify my portfolio, so I started looking into buying the restaurant. It had a good track record, its reputation had been steadily growing, the location was prime, the service impeccable. The only point of debate that came back in my team’s assessment of whether to buy the establishment was our discovery the head chef was retiring.

“You were the heir apparent and confirmed successor, so we researched you, too. Clean background, solid career building; I saw that you were pretty, but that was immaterial – merely a PR bonus if we wanted to generate more buzz for the restaurant at any point. We ordered out and dined in many times the month leading up to your takeover so that we could have a solid handle on the standard we expected and could gage if there would be any significant changes night one.

“A third of the dining room that night was filled with my people. You introduced a few new dishes to the menu, bit it was conclusive all around that the quality had been maintained, and nothing had fundamentally changed. I walked in that night planning to make my purchase as long as I was satisfied, and I was.

“The last thing I wanted was to see the new head chef face to face before making the deal so I could get a sense of who you were off the page and beyond your plates.”

“I remember being summoned to a table rather inconveniently on the biggest night of my career,” you interjected.

He chuckled. “And I could see that fire in your demeanor. It confirmed my purchasing decision, but it also made me want to devour you.”

And he had. He had temporarily dismissed your staff, told you he was tripling your salary, and then roughly sexed you up according to his pleasure – giving you some of the best sex you’d had, but not because you wanted it that night, only because he had.

“New business acquisition, new girl,” you teased. But it was defensive.

He grunted and shook his head. “No. You’ve invested so much of yourself into your career and the restaurant that you assume they’d be tied together, but they’re not. To me there was the restaurant and then there was you. I only played my hand to my advantage to keep you there. If you’d walked after that night, I would’ve gone looking for you.”

You frowned at him, but he continued before you could argue.

“You weren’t easy. There are so few people in my life who don’t bow or bend to me, I wanted more of that.”

“You wanted the challenge?”

“No, more than the challenge, I wanted you for your strength. I was the mob boss you thought I was that night, but then you turned me into a man – demanded I be a version of myself who was worthy of you if I wanted more, and I did want more of you. You stopped making time for men because they kept disappearing or disappointing, didn’t you?”

You sighed.

He raised his eyebrows in question.

“Yes,” you admitted.

“Neither of us are content with easy. You wanted someone to romance and adore you, but you also needed someone who would challenge you, meet you stride for stride.”

“Don’t be smug,” you said.

“I told you the first night we slept together, I’m not smug about you. After things started unfolding between us, you drew me in. I wanted more than just sex. I knew I could get that.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he shook his head and put a finger to your lips. “We were both eager for it – those first encounters, and especially the first night together, now let me finish.”

You huffed, but you knew he wasn’t wrong. The sex had been heated and irresistible every time.

“I think you’ve worried more than you needed to over whether I want you, or if I knew what I was getting into.”

It was like he was reading pages of your most private thoughts. His eyes were impossibly intense now, and it made your chest ache.

“This has never been about someone to warm my bed. I’m too busy, and my life was just fine before. I want you, and, yes, glorious amounts of sex with you, but it’s your passion and your spirit I crave. You’ve seen me for more than who you thought I was in the beginning.”

“You’re remarkable, I couldn’t help being drawn to you,” you confessed. You’d called him audacious so many times, but that was only one facet of James Buchanan Barnes. He was passionate, intelligent, bold, calculating, and decisive. 

“You’ve let down some of your guards around and let me in, and because you do, I let you see pieces no one else knows. We’re swimming in deeper waters with each other all the time.”

You brought your hand up to his cheek and kissed him fiercely but briefly, needing to feel his lips on yours for a moment. You wanted so much more, but you knew he wasn’t finished, so you drew back.

He drew both your hands into his, resting them on the table between you two.

“I knew that if I ever married, I wanted a partner, not another yes person. The more time I’m with you, the more my soul hungers for you to be that part of my life. I want your company, your opinions, your soft snores, your teasing, your ideas. I’m insatiable for you, in every way. The first night I knew I wanted you, but that second night I saw in you my wife.”

“Your wife?” you gasped, your jaw going slack with surprise. But you didn’t make another sound or even a movement as his words swirled every thought in your head.

He waited, eyes still locked on yours. It was more than a full minute of silence before he finally spoke again. “Eventually, yes. Does that scare you?”

“No,” you said, without hesitation.

His words had brought you back and seemingly brought your frenzied thoughts into alignment. The only potential barrier your brain identified was time. But he wasn’t asking you to marry him right now, he was only asking if you were scared of potentially being his wife.

And that didn’t scare you.

Truthfully you would have cut things off if there had been any moment you didn’t see a long way down the road with him – you’d done it plenty of times with men before. Like him, you were too busy to trifle with men just to be coupled. You’d fought not only to make something of yourself in your career, but to make something of yourself in your life so that you didn’t need to be in a relationship to be happy.

“It doesn’t scare me either,” he said.

Then he swept his napkin from his lap, laid it on the table, and, in no rush, pushed back his chair and stood up from the table. He tugged on your hand gently, invitingly, nodding toward the hall and back to your bedroom.

Your head and your heart were full – clear but full – so you let James take the lead.

His hands moved deftly and delicately as they untied the knot of your silk tie of your robe, then pushed it down off your shoulders, letting his fingers skim enticingly over your skin, and turned to hang it on the back of your bedroom door. Next his hand found the hem of your silk chemise and pulled it up you’re your hips, and you lifted your arms so he could sweep it clean up off your body. He set it gently on the end of your dresser before turning back to you. Then he stepped closer than he had been before, cupped your jaw in both hands, and lowered his face to capture your lips in another kiss. Slow, warmth and fire behind it, but still no rush. You slanted your mouth against his and darted your tongue out to tempt entrance, which he granted, licking into your mouth in kind.

From the very beginning, whether they were slow or frenzied, his kisses have always been so passionate they were intoxicating, and you never wanted that to end between the two of you.

You craved him almost constantly, and in so many ways. He had seeped into your bones and your veins and so many of your waking thoughts, like the thrumming undercurrent of your heartbeat.

James eased you back slowly until the backs of your knees hit the bed, and he gently urged you back. “Get up there for me,” his voice husky and his pupils taking over his blue irises.

You scooted as smoothly as you could manage until you were most of the way up the bed, not wanting to put distance between you, but knowing it wouldn’t last long. You leaned back on your elbows, a slight shiver running down your spine as your eyes met James’ gaze, drinking in the full form of your naked body – far from the first time he’s seen it over the past few weeks, but the intensity still affected you, there was still vulnerability of newness in this relationship.

James pulled the soft t-shirt up and off his torso. Then, not looking away from you, he pushed down his lounge pants and stepped out of them. The sight of his thick, hard cock made your breath hitch, eager to feel the way he stretched and filled you up, but he remained rooted to his spot and began slowly pumping one hand up and down his length while he looked at you.

“Spread your legs for me, love,” he said.

You gasped because it was the first time either of you had vocalized the word to each other.

“I do,” he confirmed, “I love you.”

“James…”

He smiled. “Now, show me that pretty cunt, my love.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you let your legs drop open like a butterfly.

He moaned appreciatively and continued to slowly stroke his cock as he stepped forward. “Pretty and wet and mine.”

He joined you on the bed, quickly slotting his large form in the cradle of your thighs. He pressed heated kisses along your collarbone, but you guided his head up to yours.

“I love you, too,” you murmured fervently against his lips.

His eyes flared with happiness and satisfaction - a look you had grown familiar with, and one you relished in knowing you caused.

As he kissed you again, he propped himself up on one arm by your head, but his other hand landed on your puffy and dripping folds to lavish languid attention, not designed to drive you to orgasm, but only to dole out pleasure while his expert fingers played with your body. As ever, you were simultaneously eager for more but ready to relish the experience.

While James had you pinned down with the weight of his body, eventually you began to squirm and rock your hips, seeking more. Soft mewls tumbled out of you, and you scratched your nails down his broad back.

“Need,” you gasped when he broke off the kiss.

He pecked your lips to cut you off. “I know what you need.”

He pushed himself up, grabbed a pillow, placed it down next to your hip. You hummed as he and rolled you over and onto the pillow, propping your hips up for him. Spreading your knees with his, he knelt behind you. You stretched your right arm up above your head, grasping at the sheets to steady yourself for whatever he had in store for you next, and reached your left hand back, silently seeking his hand to twine with your, which he complied with, settling your entwined fingers together at your hip. Meanwhile, his free hand passed soothingly up and down the length of your right side, from knee to ribs, down and up and down again. He planted kisses from the base of your spine up to your neck, and it was so soft and intimate your eyes welled with tears, nearly overwhelmed with just how adored this unhurried worshipful moment made you feel. You blinked back the moisture in your eyes and focused on breathing.

His kisses continued up the side of your neck, and when he suddenly nipped at your ear, you laughed and swatted playfully at him.

He rolled away from you, and a whine of protest escaped your throat.

James chuckled.

“Just a moment,” he reassured you as he reached for something on the bedside table. You heard a small click you couldn’t place, then some other soft sounds of movement. When he rolled back to face you, you looked down to see what he’d retrieved.

You gasped and then looked back up to his face immediately, heat rising in your neck and cheeks.

But it wasn’t embarrassment that you felt, it was the rush of trepidatious arousal, hesitant because this was an area you’d never ventured in the sexual realm.

In his hand was the smallest from a set of platinum anal plugs set with sapphires, and it was prepared with lube.

“Oh,” the soft syllable fell from your lips.

“Trust me?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded.

He squeezed your hand, and you squeezed back. Then he released your hand and settled back to his kneeling position between your splayed thighs again. He caressed the swell of your ass, first one cheek, then the other. His thumbs spread your crack open, and gently nudged at the tight ring of muscle at your entrance a few times before he placed the rounded metal end of the plug at the puckering.

“Relax, let me feel you breathe,” he said. You took a deep breath in. Out. And with your next breath in, he pushed the plug softly in. You held your breath as he slowly finished slotting it inside of you. Then he was up near your cheek, nuzzling you softly. “How does that feel?”

You took a beat to think before answering. “Full.” You breathed in and out again. “Good.”

You felt him grin against your skin. “Good.”

His thumb lightly tapped against the jeweled end, and your breath hitched slightly. He waited a moment, tapped again, and again your breath hitched. He chuckled. “So responsive, love.”

You huffed and burrowed your face into the sheets.

“But still good?” he checked in.

“Yes,” you groaned. The feeling of your tight hole being full was unbelievably intense because it was so foreign, so insistent, so much. The plug provided an ever-present push, and the more moments that passed, the more your body latched onto it the rush. It laced every thought. His light taps on the plug had jolted that pleasure, giving it sharp, blissful pulses.

Another laugh at your reluctant acknowledgement. “I’ll stop teasing,” he promised. “For now,” he added.

He lined up the tip of his cock at the entrance to your weeping channel, hunched down over your back, and then slowly, deliciously, pushed his thick length inside of you. You moaned openly through every second of it, then took a deep breath when he settled in at the hilt.

James waited there, chest pressed against your back, letting you adjust to the sensation of being filled in both places at once. He peppered kisses along your shoulder.

“Mmm, ready for you to move,” you drawled through your haze.

One hand held the top of your hip, and he planted his arm at your side so he could get the right leverage to begin thrusting in and out of your cunt. He took a slow approach, but it still engulfed you immediately. His cock moving within your cunt while you were plugged, immovable fullness in one hole and a shifting fullness in the other, was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. The presence of the plug dialed up every other sensation you were experiencing as James started to speed up his thrusts.  

You fought to acclimate to the overwhelming fullness, as he gradually increased the pace of his thrusting, but your orgasm crashed over you earlier than either of you expected. Your body seized up and then shook as you cried out in ecstasy beneath him. He groaned as you milked his cock, then growled as he sped up even more.

His hand circled your hip to dive beneath your pelvis, in search of your clit.

You keened when his expert fingers found your swollen bud.

“Have to give me another, need you to cum with me,” he demanded, chest rumbling against your back.

His fingers dealt out exquisite torture as he circled your clit.

Your second orgasm built and crested, drawn out in longer bliss this time, and as your walls clenched this time, they triggered the release of your mob boss as well. He gave a shout, muffled into your neck as he pumped you full of his cum. You could feel the heat of it as he emptied himself fully inside you, and you relished in it, arching your back and stretching your arms out satisfyingly in the bursts of pleasure that rolled through your body in the aftershocks.

You turned your head to kiss your lover, full and satiated. He indulged and returned the kiss in kind but broke it off much too soon for your liking, also withdrawing his cock from your well-used cunt. You gave a little moan of protest, but he kissed your forehead.

“I’ll be right back, my love,” he assured you.

Too blissed out and loathe to move yet, you stayed exactly where you were, listening to James’s footsteps moving away to the bathroom. The running tap signaled a quick clean up, and when he returned, he had a warm washcloth to tend to you as well. He carefully removed the plug, and murmured, “You did so good for me.”

A little something fluttered ever so slightly at his soft praise. After he wiped away the mess of your combined spend, he tossed the washcloth to your laundry hamper, removed the pillow from beneath your hips, then settled down on his side on your mattress and collected your boneless body in his arms. You sighed in contentment.

“You ready to send me away yet?” he asked.

“No, you’ve earned at least a few more minutes.”

“Good, because I have one more thing for you.”

You laughed. “I might need a little more recovery time, muscles don’t want to move.”

He reached over to your bedside table, opened the drawer, and pulled something out, but your eyes were drifting closed. You thought maybe he would relent and leave you be for at least a short amount of recovery time if you fell into a light doze.

But of course, he would not.

No.

James Buchanan Barnes, endearing but audacious bastard that he was, couldn’t let you rest.

He withdrew your hand from his chest and deposited something into your palm, wrapping your fingers around it, before he kissed your knuckles.

As your fingers registered the size and shape of the object in your hands – small and square, smooth surfaces, but tied with a satin bow – you stopped breathing, and your eyes flew open.

His face held the softest smile you had ever seen on his features. His thumb brushed smooth, reassuring circles, over the inside of your wrist. “Marry me.”

Your eyes flickered between his piercing blue gaze and the Tiffany blue box in your hands, mouth agape. You had resumed breathing, but you were speechless – happiness tinged with hesitancy. Your eyes went back to him, searching his face, and you knew he was searching your again. “In the other room, you said eventually.”

“Marry me tomorrow, or marry me in five years, but I know what I want,” his tone underscoring his evident resolve. “I told you, I’ve known since very early on, and every moment only solidifies how certain I am I can’t see a future I want more than one that involves you.”

You leaned in to kiss him. He was clever, your mob boss. Strategic. But you also believed he was sincere.

You broke the kiss this time. “I won’t marry you tomorrow, but I don’t want to wait five years, either.”

“We can set the timeline later, but now I want to see my ring on your finger, Chef.”

He reached to start tugging the white bow loose, but you tsked at him and went to work, untying the satin. You opened the blue box, then let your fingers run over the smooth velvet of the smaller box within. Neither of you spoke, the moment charged with anticipation. You tilted back the top half of the ring box.

“Oh, James,” you marveled.

The ring he’d selected could not have been more perfect. The setting of the stones was stunning.

You let him withdraw the ring from its cushion and slip it onto your finger.

Already having proven his track record when it came to knowing things about you, you didn’t question how he had managed to get the perfect sizing for your engagement ring.

Hours later, after hours of kissing and numerous post-engagement orgasms, you did ask how long that ring box had been in your top drawer, but he laughed and assured you only that morning.

You were reasonably sure that was the case, but with him, there was no telling for sure.

And now you knew this mischievous man and mob boss would continue to surprise and challenge you for a lifetime.   

THIS CONCLUDES THE ARC OF THEIR SERIES! I hope it provides a satisfying ending that you were able to devour! I have already written a few pieces for them that take place after this, and I imagine there will be drabbles here and there (there were two things I cut from this chapter already because of how things ended up flowing, and one of them I do at least still see as a conversation they will have in the midst of some smut), but we have at least gotten them from the beginning of their journey to where I wanted them to land in the original four parts I sketched out over a year ago.

Let me know what you think, now that you know how their story has been told! I can't believe we made it!

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[himegureisu]

calls

Summary: At the beginning of your relationship, both of you promised to call the other whenever you had time to spare.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

------------------——— 🔎--------------------------

“Did you catch them?”

Your voice was a balm for his weary soul. His team was away for a case though it has been three long grueling days it seemed longer. They’d been on a roll for their unsubs profile and were on their way back to the airport after a successful and fairly uneventful arrest.

“Yeah, we did,” he sighed, sinking into the plush seat of the jet, and observed the team on the ground, “Are you home?”

“No, not yet, will you make it home for dinner?” you asked, from your office packing the files you’d bring home, “Are you hurt? Do I need to get bandages?”

“No, you don’t need to. Just bruised,” his exhaustion evident by the tone of his voice, “Make it a late dinner?”

“Okay, that’ll give me time to finish work. Do you want anything in particular?” you closed up your office, as silence prevailed on the other line, “Hotch?”

“I miss you,” he whispered.

“I know. I miss you too,” your heart ached with longing, as you glanced at the gradient colors of sundown, “But look on the bright side you’re on your way home. Just a couple more hours until then.”

“I’m counting the minutes,”

“Okay, fly safe. I love you,”

“I love you too,”

At the tail end of the call, the BAU boarded the plane and a couple of curious looks went his way but he ignored them. None dared to ask a question.

------------------——— 🔎--------------------------

“Can I take you out for lunch?”

His sudden invitation was a pleasant surprise given that they rarely could get out of the office, so every time an opportunity came up, he takes it and leaves. That’s why he hoped you were free and could answer before another person knocked on his door.

“Yes, of course, you can take me out for lunch,” you laughed, placed the documents aside for later, and signaled your assistant, “What time can I expect you?”

“In fifteen,” in a rush, he walked out and silently hoped no one would intercept him on the way. On his phone, he doesn’t notice the team stares from the bullpen as he enters the elevator. “I’m on my way,”

“Okay, I can hear your breathing, don't rush and drive safe,” you answered, knowing smiles blooming on both your lips, as he arrived at the parking, “I love you,”

“I love you too. I’ll see you soon,”

------------------——— 🔎--------------------------

“Did I wake you?”

His deep tenor echoed from the speakers and immediately your anger, from your disrupted slumber, was abated. On the soft mattress of your bed, you rolled over and clutched his pillow closer as you put the phone on speaker.

“Yes, you did but it’s okay,” you murmured, the scent of his shirt on you comforting but not enough, “If it were anyone else, I’d hung up by now,”

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he breathed out,

From across the country, Hotch looked around to see his team canvassing information from witnesses. He knew he needed to be there but he also needed this breather.

“I also love hearing from you,” you admitted, staring at a photo of you two on the nightstand. His smile wide and dimples out for everybody to see as you held a giant stuffed bear in victory, “Even if it’s gory details of the cases and unsubs you arrest,”

“Were you dreaming of me?”

“Was on my way there,” you answered, the smiles forming on both your lips. “This is so much better but you need me to talk so what do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything. Everything,” he pressed on something for you to be transferred to his earpiece, and went back to his team, “Just talk, please?”

“Okay, so today I was called for an alleged case of corporate espionage…”

------------------——— 🔎--------------------------

There was something wrong.

At the beginning of your relationship, you and Hotch made an agreement about constant communication whenever you could. That’s why you often called, and he’d answer but you’d gone radio silent.

His calls were being directed to your voicemail and as far as he knew, you weren’t on for jury duty until a few more weeks and there were no special events other than settling a case in court for the day.

This is Y/N L/N. I’m sorry I can’t get to the phone but please leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

“I’m worried, baby,” he whispered, as he ran his hand through his hair, from the corner of his eye he could see JJ stand up and walk to his office, “I love you, please call me back soon,”

His phone buzzed on the table as JJ entered and announced a new case but the text he received from you has him up and shaved off ten years of his life.

Code Silver. Supreme Court VA is on lockdown. Check the news. I’m fine, I promise but stop calling or you’ll give us away. I love you. I’ll contact you when it’s clear.

Oh no, this was where he drew the line between work and personal life. He couldn’t solve any murder knowing that you were on lockdown at the courthouse just an hour away.

“You can fend for yourselves without me,” he answered, rushing out of the office, “I’m sorry, JJ, I need to go it’s an emergency,”

“Hotch?” JJ called, as he rushed out of the office, “Hotch!”

calls pt.2 >

[aznisure]

idol au where light chokes on a fly on live television and L is the cameraman who films every second of it. also they keep crossing paths on music shows for some reason

day 7 / au ! some au details under cut

- L doesnt actually go out of his way to film light during this miserable ordeal.he simply doesnt care about light’s reputation enough to stop rolling and forgets about it the next day. a week later light sees him at mcountdown

- yes lights stage name is kira

- light presents as the perfect idol: single, kind, hardworking, rags to riches story, humble yet confident, just gay enough to queerbait but not face homophobic backlash, passionate, creative etc., when the cameras are off hes basically canon light minus the murder

- light is an all rounder and tenor. he also plays tennis in his free time. he is japanese and has been scouted off the streets. he is a kpop idol and the au takes place in korea. he is a solo idol and has never been in a group before. l is still british and misa is still japanese.

- he writes his own songs. his ego doesnt let him indulge in ghostwriters

-manager ryuk owns a ridiculous amount of chrome hearts simply impossible to buy on a managers salary. light is deeply suspicious and mildly wary of him at all times. ryuk also knows lights real personality and finds it amusing. he takes joy in a gigantic pr scandal which light will inevitably become one day

- rem dreses the way she does without looking misplaced because its in line with misas gothic/harajuku brand. ryuk looks wildly out of place next to light but noone seems to make him change. light tried, very persistently. but even light yagami has to admit defeat sometimes

- light debuted at 17 and is now 22. L is 29

- L works at all things live television and sometimes variety shows. he mainly works for idols. the media company hes signed under works with lights company. light doesnt know this until he violently cyber stalks L after the fly debacle

- they have actually been working together for 3 years without knowing each other and L has filmed light quite often due to him being the companys most popular male idol. light of course never noticed and only sort of recalls now

- L has always found light fascinating because the persona he wears is accepted to be very genuine by the general public. L always thought it was total bullshit, a masterful imitation of a real person.

- light never yells at anyone in public ever. not to misa even though he wants to rip her from his side on the thousand talk shows they go on. not to ryuk when he critiques every aspect of every bit of lights stages. not to his previous managers even though they were wildly incompetent and pissed light off daily. his reputation is everything to him. so when he yells at L in the middle of everyone at the backstage of mcountdown its a bit of a spectacle. thats the first crack L sees in lights shell and he wants to see more

- afterwards is a public apology and bullshit story about grief and a dead relative and misdirection of feelings and the game begins. L gets himself booked on as many as Lights jobs as possible with only one aim. to capture a crack in koreas sweethearts perfect persona on camera

- L doesnt do it because hes a truth chaser or whatever he simply enjoys watching light crack. and to have him crack on love tv would be to Win. light catches onto the game very quickly

[artbyblastweave]

i only learned recently from a friend's who much more comic literate than I that magneto's backstory as an Auschwitz survivor wasnt planned from the start, which surprised me since it seemed to me a really integral part of his character. anyway, twofold question: how common is it to see capes with backstories tied to very specific historical events, and, as time inevitably passes and real world survivors of those events pass, how do they justify having their characters still alive and kicking? (stay safe on your mountaintop friend)

Depending on how wide you cast the net, this is a pretty big list! There are a lot of comics who's characters cutting-edge ripped-from-the-headlines origin later became a very specific historical event, or at least Of A Specific Moment, in a way the writers had no reason to anticipate the franchise would run long enough to have happen. But to shed pedantry and hone in on some specific ones;

The big one, of course, is Captain America. Superficially Cap's contemporary origin comes with a baked-in means of him making it to the present day- he gets stuck in the ice and then gets unthawed. The fly in the ointment, though, is when he unthaws. When they first brought him back into rotation in 1964, his stint in the ice was only around 20 years; long enough for there to be a significant culture shock, but not long enough that his entire social circle was dead or even culturally sidelined. Nick Fury is still around and kicking ass as a zeitgeist-appropriate 60s superspy. But the further the sliding timeline hauls forward his implicit date of release, the more it changes the tone and tenor of the resulting story. Losing twenty years is different from losing fifty years (as was the case in The Ultimates, where he very explicitly comes back during the Bush years as part of the book's commentary on The War On Terror) and those will both be way different from when we inevitably hit the point where he's lost 100 years and he's the cultural equivalent of a Civil War Vet or something. There's strength to all of those stories but they're undeniably different.

Iron Man's origin was originally explicitly tied to the Vietnam war; he was captured by a detachment of "Red Guerillas" while consulting for the US military and the South Vietnamese government. Unfortunately U.S. foreign policy to this day has prevented this from ever becoming an unresolvable storytelling issue.

The Fantastic Four are a case where their origin was intimately tied to the space race; their untested, cutcorner spaceflight was expressly an attempt to show up the Russians. The extremely specific political context of their test flight is something that sort of gets brushed off; the Ultimate incarnation (written by Warren Ellis) threaded this needle deftly by having the accident be a dimensional expedition instead, circa the early 2000s. I'm not actually sure how the urgency of their test flight is currently contextualized in 616 continuity. Anyone got their finger on that pulse?

The Punisher was also originally a Vietnam vet- but through the jaded cynical lens of the 1980s rather than the straightforwardly peppy and jingoistic lens that defined Iron Man's debut in the 60s. Current continuities I believe have mostly bitten the bullet and updated his origin to the invasion of Afghanistan. However, an interesting decision in the Garth Ennis-spearheaded Punisher MAX continuity of the early 2000s- where Punisher is literally the only costumed vigilante- is that they bit the bullet and posited a version of Frank Castle who really has been killing criminals nonstop since shortly after his return from Vietnam in the 70s, a man well into his 60s who's survivability and efficacy at killing are edging up against the boundaries of magical realism.

Hulk I feel sort of deserves a mention here- he's in a sort of twilight zone on this issue, as there was, uh, a pretty goddamn specific political context in which the Army was having him make them a new kind of bomb, but you can haul that forward in the timeline without complete destruction of suspension of disbelief. Pretty soon it'll be downright topical again.

To circle back around to The X-Men, Claremont introduced a lot of historical specificity with the ANAD lineup. Off the top of my head, Colossus was explicitly a USSR partisan (updated to a gangster forced into crime to survive in the mismanaged chaos of the USSR's collapse in the Ultimate Universe) and Storm was orphaned by a French bombing during the Suez War. More to the point, the timing was such that Magneto, in his upper-middle age, had a pretty strongly defined timeline vis a vis his ideological development vs Xavier; child during the holocaust, Nazi hunter who eventually rifts with Xavier during the mid-to-late 60s, and then the two of them spend their years marshalling their respective resources before coming to blows during the quote-unquote "Age of Heroes," whatever the timeline looked like for that in the 80s. And it was a timeline that held together pretty damn well in the 80s, but it's gotten increasingly awkward as time's gone on. The Fox films completely gave up on having it make sense, near as I can tell. In the comics they've had all sorts of de-aging chicanery occur that very pointedly ignores what an odd timeline that implies for everyone else in the X-books besides Magneto. The Cullen Bunn Magneto standalone from 2014-15 I remember actually leaned into playing up the idea that he's just old as shit and dependent on so many superscience treatments to remain functional that he's basically pickled, which was a take I liked; the comic ended when he died of exertion trying to stop two planets from crashing into each other, right before a brand-wide universal reset. When the MCU was at it's peak and people were wargaming how to integrate the X-Men (lol) you occasionally saw people float "fixes" for the issue, such as making Magneto a survivor of the Bosnian Genocide, or making him black and a survivor of the Rwandan genocide; I remember that this consistently drew a lot of ire from people who (reasonably) thought that his Judaism and connection to the holocaust were deeply important to his character, continuity be damned. But yeah, he's a character dogged by specificity in a way only Cap even slightly approaches. If this is a tractable problem I'm not going to be the one to tract it.

Interestingly, I'm genuinely having a lot of trouble coming up with stuff that's analogous to this at DC comics- almost universally the core roster updates into any given time period much more smoothly. Furthermore, DC stuff has always been much more willing to eschew Marvel's World-Outside-Your-Window philosophy in favor of deliberately obfuscating the time period via the Dark-Deco aesthetic of BTAS's Gotham or the retrofuturism of STAS's Metropolis.

The closest you get to this kind of friction is The Justice Society, who, pre-crisis, were siloed off in a universe where superheroes had existed since the 40s and there was no comic book time, so they were all in their upper-middle-age to old age now, with their kids and grandkids as legacy capes. Post crisis they were (and are) kind of an awkward fit in DC continuity; in the scant few JSA comics from the 90s and early oughts that I read, surviving members of the WW2-era lineup like Alan Scott and Jay Garrick were absolutely written as dependent on their metahuman physiques to have endured up to the present day. I think they're still doing stuff with those guys. I don't know how. I do understand the impulse, though. I also never throw anything out.

[sorizaza05]

whatever.. fly my Johns....

search "john doe malevolent" on tenor and share him to all of your heart's content! I put so many malev references into these xD

art made by me

[asunflowerana]

what if... haikyuu!! boys were in a kpop group?

a/n: heavily inspired on seventeen (i had fun with this)

∷ group name: FLY  (meaning fly like youth)

∷ debut year: 2012 (3rd generation)

∷ debut song: Fly High

∷ managers: sawamura daichi and reader

⊛ 13 members, divided in three units: performance unit, vocal unit and hiphop unit.

∷ — perfomance unit

Miya Atsumu. Reason: just look at this sassy, self confident boy. he gives me so much dancer vibes.

Suna Rintarou. Reason: same reason above, a heartwrecker with a lot of groove.

Kageyama Tobio. Reason: I know it might be confusing, but hear me out. Tobio is the best in what he puts his mind on. And, since he cares a lot 'bout his body, and being the setter is being the maestro of movement... dance! (If you're not convinced, there's Ni-ki and Park Jisung to prove my point)

Kuroo Tetsurou (unit leader/group leader). Reason: do I have to explain why?? A great leader, and a great charismatic man with a lot of swag (and a beautiful tenor).

∷ — vocal unit

Hinata Shoyou. Reason: i love hinata's voice, it's so cheery and full of hope, i'm sure he'll pass that through singing.

Akaashi Keiji. Reason: aaaah akaashi gives me so much main vocal vibes, and he has a soothing tone that makes him perfect for the job.

Oikawa Toru. Reason: I mean, not only being the diva he is, but he's also so talented and charismatic. yup, he's a fan favorite.

Hirugami Sachirou. Reason: my heart flutters when I think about this amazing human being right here. He's the perfect balance of gentleman, and his voice is wonderful just the same.

Sugawara Koushi (unit leader). Reason: c'mon! Koshi is totally an idol, and an awesome leader. He has this sweet voice that makes everyone swoon with love. And yes, high notes right here, with Oikawa and Hirugami.

∷ — hiphop unit

Miya Osamu. Reason: I really don't know how to explain... but he gives me such vibes, like, rapping on shower or while jogging. Samu reminds me of S.Coups.

Bokuto Koutaro. Reason: I mean, our cute owl has such a big energy and personality, and he loves to speak so, I think it suits him. Ps: he and Bobby from IKON are so much alike, pls.

Kenma Kozume. Reason: If you think about it, kenma and rap are not that odd. He likes to express his opinion naturally, and he's so smart, I think he can come up with really genious lyrics.

Tsukishima Kei (unit leader). Reason: It's very similiar with Kenma's situation, but Kei has a special point: he enjoys music. He's probably the one the writes more song in the group, and he likes to express himself through it. And trust me, he gives a true master class when he's perfoming.

n/a: want to see more of FLY? please let me know if you like it! (this au made me excited for more hehe)

© asunflowerana 2024 — all rights reserved.

[girddlepatchilles]

So imagine you're Balerion the Black Dread.

The last time you had a rider, he was cruel and nothing like the rider who came before him. You are old, but not so old that you could not take to the skies again. They bring you to the place you have had to call home for over a century, although it has never felt like home.

Then one morning, before the sun is truly up, you feel young hands begin to climb you, hear a young voice speak the words you last heard in a masculine tenor. You remember the girl who over a century ago and... you think she's come to take you home.

So you fly to the place of your birth.

To Valyria.

It's.... different.

Gone are the open spaces where you first landed after she took you on your first flight. Gone are the rocky outcrops you would land on and climb to. Gone are the volcanic dens where you would curl with your fellow dragons. The buildings that used to be points you could land on or jump off are gone. You think you recognise some things but others are completely different. Something has changed the home you once knew. The girl shouts at you and screams, you do not feel her hitting your back and you do not feel when she eventually slides off.

You continue to explore what used to be your home. Sometimes you fly, other times you walk and climb, but you explore all of the ruins. There are creatures that roam the ruins. Most are too small to be a danger to you... but there are some with sharp claws.

There are fights.

Most you win.

Others you don't.

You realise it is time to leave when one of the creatures scratches you along your side. It is long, deep and so very sharp with pain. In your core you know you will not survive the next attack and you know that the home you knew has changed beyond repair.

You now know the girl who rides you isn't the one who claimed you all those years ago. She would not have taken you back to such an evil place.

So you take your little rider back to where she can be helped. You sense her desire and you land in castle you last rider called home.

You live the rest of your life in a false cavern, dreaming of the home she brought you to all those years ago.

[illarian-rambling]

As requested...

Wip Intro:

The Final Voyage of the R.S. Starbreaker

✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️🛥✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

Illaros, a world of magic and monsters, stands upon the cusp of space travel. Unlike our world, this one, with its runic technology and arcane traditions, takes its rudimentary steps into space quite differently. The goal put forth by the Kesh-Abas Department of Exploration is to map the outer planets, as well as passing beyond the odd starry curtain they've observed at the edge of their solar wheel. However, space suits are a bit beyond their technology. Instead, they've asked a priest to call upon the gods in request of a crew of willing souls to complete this mission. After all, what's already dead cannot die to the vacuum of space.

The gods of Illaros are willing, as they have an alternate motive for seeing this mission succeed. For eons, they have battled their sworn enemy, End, the primordial incarnation of destruction. Yet, after so long spent fighting, the gods are tired and flagging. They hope that if this crew can pass beyond what the humans call the 'starry curtain,' aka End's body, they can perhaps find allies to aid this eternal fight. It's a dangerous gamble, but a small crew will be harder for the ancient terror to notice.

Five souls are chosen - not the greatest, but perhaps the most desperate for success. Their number includes a voidskiff captain who lost everything to vice, a long-dead astronomer from a famed warrior lineage, a selkie scholar dedicated to mapping the world and now the cosmos, a fae musician learning to understand empathy, and, perhaps the most important piece, an ancient and cursed soul who might be the only person in the world who understands the threat End poses.

But let's take a closer look at this pack of freaks!

Captain Faalgun Falani 🐉

Description: A Flying City native of mixed Hal'lan, Daramakti, and Illari blood, he stands at about 3'5" and generally appears as a bipedal, draconic-looking fellow. His scales are a light blue and a ruff of white fur cascades down his back and into a tuft at the end of his tail. His horns are crystalline. He wears a ragged, torn uniform, looking exactly as it did at his moment of death. As such, his neck is also clearly broken.

Personality: Faalgun is everything one would expect from a Flying City captain. He's professional, honorable, a bit strict, but ultimately looking out for his crew. Outside of work, he's more of an introvert and is slow to make close bonds. However, the closer you look, discrepancies start to pop up. Faalgun is always the last to leave a brawl, and only in the most dangerous of moments does a look of true joy find his face. He's cagey about his past and, despite his obvious experience, refuses to be officially named captain.

Fun facts:

Faalgun is aroace

He was raised in an orphanage, though he was well-loved there and saw it as a great place to grow up

He has a wonderful tenor singing voice and often sings when no one else is on-deck

Nyda Burningrock 🔭

Description: Nyda is an elf of Nabafyrian descent. She has coppery brown skin and green hair shaved into a (rather disheveled) mohawk. Her pointy face and ears are covered in piercings, with the most notable being a chain running from her nose to her ear. Some faded tattoos of thorny patterns cover her arms along with some old scars. She wears a cropped vest and baggy shorts. Under the vest can be seen the spear wound that killed her.

Personality: Your typical punk, Nyda hates authority and being told what to do. She's loud, brash, crude, and easily amused. This devil-may-care attitude somewhat hides her true brilliance as an astronomer. Though, it's not like she does really care about that. Nabafyrians are a renowned warrior culture and Nyda is... not that. She tends to invalidate her own efforts through lack of care - not taking notes or recording methods and the like. It almost seems like she wants to be anyone else than who she is.

Fun facts:

Nyda is a transwoman and a flaming butch lesbian

She can play the accordion

She is incapable of getting through a whole sentence without swearing

Kaulakri Ondohuroata 🗺

Description: Kaulakri is one of the halawemavish, or ocean selkies. In her land form, she is a plump woman with lightly furred, spotted gray skin, sleek dark gray hair, liquid dark eyes. Her ears are a triangular shape and she wears practical traveling gear. Her sclera are bloodshot and her face clammy even in death, hinting at the disease that took her life. She wears a sealskin cloak as well, which allows her to shift into the form of a leopard seal-like mermaid.

Personality: Highly meticulous and spatially minded, Kaulakri is a peerless cartographer. She has the determination and love of her (oft thought of as boring) job to leave no stone unturned and no island or planet unmapped. Mapping the Janazi Isles used to be her life's work - now mapping the planets is her death's work and she couldn't be happier. Indeed, she's far better with maps than people. Kaulakri can often come off as blunt or stuffy, or occasionally irrational when she lets her temper boil over (usually when Nyda is involved). Deep down, though, she has the greatest appreciation for the massive scientific leap this mission really is and will do anything to keep it going swimmingly.

Fun facts:

Kaulakri is a demiromantic lesbian

She's also autistic and likes to stim by nodding her head (historical maps are her special interest currently)

She grew up in a tiny selkie enclave and was the first of her people to attend a college, and attain a PhD. no less

Pashananath 🪕

Description: At first appearing to be a teenager, his smokey voice brings doubt as to how old the fae man actually is. Pash is from the Exumbra Hive. He was created with music as his Contribution, so he was quite literally built by the Gloaming Queen to be good at that. His fingers are dexterous and his voice is heavenly. Standing at about 6'2", Pash is a lanky fellow with a thick head of black hair that grows into fur on his elbows, pointy ears, and the tuft of his tail. His skin is pale, and both his pupilless eyes and pointed teeth are solid red. A gash can be seen across his throat.

Personality: Pash exudes laid-back energy. He's generally relaxed with whatever path the group takes and is a great listener when it comes to conversation. However, his fae upbringing has instilled him with some... odd values. Pash believes that pleasure is the ultimate pursuit, and that you should do anything to achieve it. He himself was murdered for singing an unpopular song, and he really does believe this was fully justified. His only regret was not being fast enough to kill the other guy first. Because of this, he can be exceedingly selfish, however, this only makes his moments of kindness shine all the brighter.

Fun facts:

No one really knows how old he is or how long ago he died

Despite his music being the literal reason he was created, Pash has a passion for travel

His favorite instrument is the erhu

Anarac Fifth-Blood 🌠

Description: Anarac is a man in his early thirties, with berry-red skin, shoulder-length blonde hair, and deep-set brown eyes with heavy dark circles. His ears are slightly pointed. He stands at about 6'0", though he usually keeps his head bowed. He wears a homespun tunic and light armor of an ancient make. His expression is usually quite vacant. A cut circles his entire throat, implying he died by decapitation.

Personality: Maybe once Anarac was outgoing or witty, but after spending seven thousand years as a part of End, much of that has been scraped away. He's a shell of a man, terrified of the stars, other people, and anything that might remind him of his past. All he seeks is a chance to make an apology, and to do so, he must find the lost afterlife of his extinct people. Despite how deeply traumatized he is, Anarac is highly observant and frequently curious about the world. He wants to keep his companions safe and happy. That's just a little difficult when he dissociates at the mere glimpse of starlight.

Fun facts:

He used to be a chef, and his secondary quest is to find out if he can still eat food as a ghost

In life, he was a divorced teen dad

He's fully aware that he comes across as a crazy guy hiding in the corner, but his dignity is too long gone to care

Here's a group portrait :)

Please let me know if you have any questions and I hope you enjoy!

@amandacanwrite @elsie-writes @riveriafalll @kosmic-kore @kaylinalexanderbooks

@bard-coded @carrotsinnovember @patternwelded-quill @somethingclevermahogony @whatwewrotepodcast

@the-angriest-author @mk-writes-stuff @frostedlemonwriter @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @watermeezer

@leahnardo-da-veggie @mr-orion @televisionjester @ray-writes-n-shit @evilgabe29

@trippingpossum @tragedycoded @halfbakedspuds @ominous-feychild @cain-e-brookman

@wyked-ao3 @thecomfywriter @mysticstarlightduck @rumeysawrites @sableglass

@cowboybrunch

[melmac78]

OK… read this prompt by @call-me-casual and decided to give John a break for a bit before the USS Lexington story continued.

Hope you enjoy.

••••••••

Scott groaned as he came to his senses.

He wasn't sure where he was or what was going on...

"Wasn't I on a mission?" he thought groggily.

As he became more conscious, he realized that it wasn't the sound of birds and gentle ocean waves at home.

It was the roar of Thunderbird One.

That woke him up... but at the same time... he felt like he couldn't move.

There was a bitter licorice aftertaste to his mouth, his head felt like cotton.

It was only the faint memory of this occurring before in Thunderbird Four that he realized what happened.

He had been drugged... by the ship using its Omicron protocol.

Scott opened his eyes, head still bowed though.

A light was flashing on the console… in Morse code his still fuzzy mind recognized.

"TB1 - taken - over - by - AI - STOP - Put - on - helmet - STOP - Will - explain - in - helmet."

Well, if that wasn't an alert, Scott mused.

He then heard a voice, not unlike John's permeate his ears.

"Alert - enemy is conscious. Omicron protocol activated."

That wasn’t calm assurance, and something said “do it this time.”

Scott didn't hesitate at that internal order - especially as a hiss shortly followed.

He held his breath and grabbed the emergency air mask underneath his seat.

Putting it on, he quickly unbuckled and went for his helmet.

Thunderbird One didn't like that, and tried to shake him.

Scott crashed into multiple walls, including the one with an intake that looked like a lemon squeezer. "Definitely a squeeze," he mused internally as he picked up his helmet.

Putting it on, he turned on the radio to a frequency even EOS didn't know how to reach - herself at least. "Thunderbird One to anyone." He said in a not quite calm tone as he worked to get back to his chair.

Sitting in it, and buckling tight, he looked at the controls. "That can't be right," he said looking at the coordinates.

He last remembered being in Crook County, Wyoming finishing up aiding a trapped hiker rescue at the top of a fiery Devil's Tower.

Readouts said he was flying over Almaty, Kazakhstan.

A tenor voice pestered his voice. "Scott... Scott do you read?" said John.

The eldest narrowed his eyes. "How do I know you're John?" he said.

There was a sigh - probably with rolled eyes, as the middle brother spoke. "Tuesday Alan and Gordon decided to send me up a burger that was nothing but pickles in my from home gift... along with two dozen of Grandma's Sweet Onion cookies - that I said were good because she managed to keep them soft," he said.

Scott paused, then nodded. "You're ... you,” he said relieved, “A moment ago you tried to render me unconscious.”

A uncommonly heard cat like growl from John filtered his ears. "I didn't - it was One," he said and continued after Scott's puzzled grunt. "You were on your way home from the rescue when EOS reported you lost consciousness. I did a scan and found Omicron had been administered."

"Wouldn't that mean she goes back to GDF or home?" he said, remembering the protocol. "I just passed Almaty."

"For the fourth time,”John said and heard Scott's grunt of confusion. “You were unconscious for about an hour.”

“An hour?”

“The AI kept using the protocol if you started coming around. It just didn’t catch it now - thankfully.”

Scott groaned, knowing he’d have a headache eventually. “WHY is it doing that though?”

The space brother then coughed, which Scott knew he'd not like hearing this. "The AI Brains created for One thinks you are the hiker who kicked her... snuck aboard TB1, and sedated - maybe harmed or worse - ‘Scott’ after a fight.”

"That explains Omicron," said Scott, who did a double take. "Wait... it was the reverse - I sedated him after he tried punching me. He went with the authorities…”

“… I know. The facial ID glitched and - as the hiker has a similar look to you, it got confused.”

There was a shudder by One as two thumps sounded from the front. "What was that Five?”

John didn’t miss the - fair enough - panic in the tone, "Thunderbirds Three and Two just lassoed One. We're trying to get her to slow down before she runs out of fuel,” he said.

"Right..." Scott tried to play it cool. but was indeed panicked.

Based on fuel load, One could circle the globe 6 times, so they had two rotations to stop her before...

Then a baritone voice, similar to Virgil's dwarfed the conversation in the helmet.

“Please do not be alarmed. You have 30 minutes of air left in Scott's air tank before you will crash and die," it said. "It would be easier on you if you were unconscious for it. A mercy given you hurt Scott.”

The real Virgil's voice however filtered in Scott's helmet. "Hey, I'd *never* tell someone to deal with that skunky stuff," he said, much to Scott's mild amusement.

The engineering brother continued. "John and EOS are trying to get the AI to listen to us, and Brains is working on a failsafe code to fix the face scanner,” he said. “Alan and I have securely lassoed One just in case she tries to crash herself."

"As if I didn't need anything else," muttered Scott, facepalming over the mask. "What can I do?"

"Sit as calm as you can - I know... I know ... too difficult, but try," said Virgil. "If you can, talk to it. It seems to like to be our voices."

"FAB," said Scott and leaned back. "So... why are you doing this?"

"I must protect Scott," “Virgil” said.

"By rendering Scott unconscious?" said the pilot. When it chirped in confusion, he continued. "Check my face again - I'm Scott."

"No. You are the hiker who harmed him," the voice, now sounding like Alan said.

"No - again I’m Scott..." he said, deciding the next thing he did would be worth the ironic lecture from John.

“I'm going to take off my helmet and hold my breath... Please use the scanner again - twice if necessary - to see that it's me,” he said, ignoring the others’ protests.

The man took a deep breath and pulled his helmet off. The AI scanned him, and based on how much his lungs were begging him to take a breath of anesthetic gas and oxygen, twice.

Fortunately, the AI recognized it was Scott.

"You're Scott," it said in Virgil's voice as Scott quickly put the helmet back on, gasping for air. “Where is the person who sedated you?"

"The hiker who kicked you in spite is with the authorities - not here," said Scott said, trying to placate the AI.

"But it still tried to kill you and me... it hit sensitive components," "John" responded. "It's since escaped and had two ships try to bind me. I will destroy them if they do not let go."

Scott winced as the AI spun One, which would affect Two more than Three.

When it stopped, Scott contacted the other two 'Birds. Alan said he was all right as his cockpit was designed to take spins, while Virgil admitted he was a little dizzy but he and TB2 were unharmed.

Scott then looked around his ship, hoping it wasn't going to be a tomb. "Listen, they’re not with the creep. These two are trying to bind you because they want to protect me too," he said.

"Protect you?" said AI, now choosing to be in Gordon's voice. "I protect you."

"Yes, like you do... and I do you every rescue," he said, then took a deep breath. "But those two ships? They're Thunderbirds Two and Three. They're trying to slow us down because you're doing loops around earth. If you keep doing it, you'll run out of fuel and crash."

The AI hummed a bit in John's vocals and commented. "But - won't people such as the hiker go and hurt you again?" it said.

Scott pursed his lips, thinking how to respond. He didn't want to give the honest answer, as he was afraid she'd just crash One into a city, causing countless deaths in injuries.

But he couldn't lie either.

So he chose the straightforward route. "One - I can't say they will or won't. You know we're in a rescue business. There's always the chance there will be a distraught person or criminal who will attack me for many reasons," he said.

“And me?”

“Yes, you too because you’re a very special ship,” he said, then sighed. "The point is - I know that when I go on rescues, when my brothers go on rescues, you - Two, Three, Four and Five - do your absolute best to protect us."

He just read the coordinates for Almaty again... he hoped this last part would hit home.

"Just - please - Brains is working on a way to help you better discern an annoyed rescuee versus someone who really wants to harm or kill us, such as the Hood," he said, and heard Gordon's ironic grumble in response as it pondered.

Scott continued pleading. "Just please protect me, Alan, Virgil and countless others by slowing down before we all get hurt?"

There was a pause - making Scott feel as though he was probably going to have to decide if he just accepted being drugged again so he felt nothing - including guilt - when One elected to crash.

Instead... he felt the ship slow down, and a chirp from the AI.

"Understood. I am letting Two and Three assist me back to the Island," said "John's" voice as the real John and other brothers cheered in relief in Scott's helmet. "Omicron protocol disengaged."

Scott however smiled as he felt the craft turn around. "Thank you One. Can you tell me when the gas will disperse," he said.

"In about 20 minutes, but you will be home before then," said "John." "Recommend you wear the helmet until you arrive, and any family who may come near the ship to wear gas masks.

Scott nodded and leaned back, knowing that his brothers would safely fly his 'Bird - and him - home safely.

Besides - he needed a bit of a snooze.

Then the AI chirped. "Um... Scott, one question."

"Name it."

"Can I change my voice to something other than your brothers?" it said. "I do not like any of them."

The pilot chuckled. "You can try any voice you want - for as long as you want," he said, yawning slightly from the last vestiges of the gas. "As long as you remember my voice and double check to make sure I'm all right first before enacting protocols again."

"FAB - rest easy - my colleagues and I will get you home safely - as always."

[bradshawsbitch]

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎↠ 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 - ⅳ ↞

⁘ bradley bradshaw, the notoriously ill mannered head chef at the small franchise pub down the street, is quite content with his fast paced job. no commitments or obligations outside of his kingdom of sharp knives, pots, pans, prep work and a shot of jäger after a double. that is until a new waitress is hired, and suddenly his strict and rigid rules of no obligations or commitments starts to waver. . .

› pairing; bradley bradshaw x f!reader

word count; ~ 2.1K

× chapter warnings; swearing, flirting, somewhat forced close proximity

disclaimer; I am basing most of the chefs/waitresses on people I have worked with/encountered. Most of their traits will be as realistic as possible.

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“Can you work pastry today?”

A deep, raspy voice echoed from far away. The morning light had barely made it into your apartment windows, and you were just sitting up on the edge of the bed to start your morning. You’d answered without checking your caller ID - you’d just figured it was your mother.

But the deep tenor that sounded after your swift ‘hello?’ had a shiver running down your spine. Inhaling deeply with surprise from the realization, the phone escaped its spot against your ear. Fumbling fingers tried to save it, only making it fly more erratically through the air, before it inevitably landed with a final thud on your carpet.

“Shit, shit, shit!” scrambling to your knees, you reached for the phone before putting it back against your awaiting ear.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” the reply was slightly breathless, from the slight heart attack and scramble to save your phone. On the other end of the line, someone cleared their throat before speaking again.

“We’re kind of in the shit in the kitchens today. Mickey’s down with a stomach bug, Jake’s out of town, and Nathaniel, who would be my next bet, is visiting his sick mother.” Bradley sounded like he was battling a headache, and you could almost see the way he rubbed his furrowed brows so clearly in your mind's eye it made you smile softly.  

“Alright, and you want me on pastry? Wouldn’t it be better to grab John, or Angie?” you weren’t exactly afraid to voice your opinions to Bradley, even if he’d ignored you mostly ever since the night you’d been crying in his office. He’d speak to you if you asked him anything work-related, but his answers were always short. 

“I’ll be honest, that was my first thought. But there’s that large booking tonight, and they’re both needed. The restaurant owner said they were important people or whatever, so he wanted them served by his best - no offense." He added the last part on the fly, it seemed. 

“None taken.” you let out a soft laugh, now he wanted to offer you no offense? 

“So, I figured if I’m there, manning the grill and you manage the cold shit, we could make it work. I’ll prep most of it before you arrive, and then I’ll show you how to work it before service starts. Besides that large booking, it looks like it’ll be a slow day.” 

Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you nodded to yourself before telling Bradley you’d do it. He sounded relieved when he told you when to arrive and where to find chef’s robes. By now anxious butterflies were swirling in your stomach, and you cursed yourself as you braided your hair into two neat plaits to keep it out of your face as you made your way out of your flat and into your small car. 

Arriving at work, you trekked up the stairs to the changing rooms. You remembered Bradley had told you the chef’s robes were at the racks by the men’s changing rooms, and you slowly made your way there. The door was wide open, as it usually was seeing as it wasn’t a room you generally passed if you weren’t looking for a new uniform.

As you approached, you saw Bradley’s chef’s robe completely open as he fumbled while buttoning his trousers. Eyes widening, you swiftly grabbed the first top and bottom you could find, letting out a small squeak as you booked it to the women's changing rooms. 

Collapsing onto the closed door of your locker, you mouth out ‘oh my god’ as the visual of Bradley’s bare abs circulated wildly within your mind's eye. Taking a shaky breath, you swiftly got dressed in too large robes as you made your way downstairs. 

Fiddling with your too long sleeves, you stumbled into the kitchen where Bradley was finishing up the prep work for your station, his was already fixed. At the sound of your footfalls, Bradley’s beautiful brown eyes snapped to look at you, a peculiar emotion swirling in them.

“Hi chef!” you smiled softly, glancing up at him before continuing to fiddle with your sleeve. “Thanks for helping out today, Bambi” Bradley rumbled out, pausing for a moment before telling you what dishes were pre-ordered for the large booked table this evening. He noticed, however, that your attention was more focused on getting the sleeve to stay up your forearm than his words, and he sighed wearily before stepping closer to you.

His calloused fingertips graced your inner forearm as he slid the fabric upwards, folding it a couple of times before securing it above your elbow. Blinking, you stared dumbfounded at Bradley’s face, his hair that peaked out under his hat, his neatly trimmed mustache, and that shapely cupid's bow…

He repeated the process on your other sleeve, before leaving the close proximity between the two of you. Biting your lip, you had to keep from letting out a noise as he started dancing around the small pastry space, rambling on about food. His scent had been overwhelming, and the body heat he radiated had you slightly dizzy.

As service begins, you find your nerves dissipating more and more as time goes on. Bradley even gently encourages you when he can tell you’re freezing up with insecurity over plating or timing. After a few hours, you’ve not only relaxed and managed to make most of the entrees and desserts on your own, you’ve made Bradley smile five times, and laugh twice. When you’ve sent out the large tables first course, you slink over to Bradley’s side at his request to help him plate. 

“Alright, Bambs, remember - terrine first, meat, and then sauce - alright? And when I move behind you you stay still, okay?” Bradley’s voice was level, and he held your eyes with his own to see you copied. “Mhm!” you squeaked out, putting on plastic gloves as you put up as many plates on the counter as it could hold. 

“Alright then, start plating the terrines then,” he offered you another rare side smile, moving towards the grill to start putting the finished steaks on a warmed up skillet. Moving swiftly, you accidentally dropped the first terrine on the floor. You cursed softly under your breath - it had been hotter than you realized. Looking over your shoulder, worriedly, you saw Bradley shake his head “No worries, Bambi - I made more than we needed. Keep going.” 

Letting out a sigh of relief you started over, starting to work up a routine as Bradley moved behind you to put meat on the plates you’d already put terrines on. As you finished with the terrines, you were about to move to fetch the sauce-pan, as Bradley had instructed earlier. 

“Hey, hey, behind, sweetheart” eyes widened as they almost came in contact with Rooster’s broad chest, and you giggled somewhat nervously before lowering your gaze and slinking past Bradley’s broad form as he chuckled. You’d heard Bradley call Mir and Angie sweetheart sometimes - but never you. It felt pathetic the way it made your chest feel tight and those damn butterflies appeared in the pit of your stomach again. 

Finishing off the plates, the two of you wiped the sides of them before ringing the little bell that would usually have you scrambling to reach the kitchens from the dining hall. 

“I have to admit, that bell makes me react very strangely when I’m in here,” you smiled at Bradley as you fixed a strand of your hair that had fallen before your eyes, back into your cap.

He smirked softly at you “And yet, it always takes you so long to get in here…” he teased. Opening your mouth in mock surprise, you swatted at Bradley with the cloth you had slung over your shoulder, he only laughed, grabbing a hold of the other end of the cloth, pulling it into his own hands as it slipped out of your fingers. Rolling your eyes, you exited Bradley’s side to resume your duties on pastry, looking at the two new tickets that had come in.

A small smile was still apparent on your lips as you made the two ice cream desserts, taking extra care with the whipped cream - spending time fixing the strawberries and chocolate sauce to your liking, before ringing the bell with a happy grin. 

Looking up, you frowned. The warm plates that Bradley and you had fixed were still there.

“Bradley… it’s been almost four minutes! Those will get cold! Where is everyone?” you looked worriedly towards the door that led to the dining hall. Bradley glanced at you and chuckled before looking at the plates “Yup, they’re almost dead,” he frowned slightly before slamming his large palm down on the bell, making it ring out angrily in rapid succession - something you hated when you were in the front of the restaurant. You understood the urgency now though. 

“Those look real good, by the way,” Bradley commented, nodding towards your desserts. “Way better than Mickey,” he winked jokingly, and you felt heat spread slowly across your cheeks. Swallowing hard, you looked at your creations, a feeling of pride filling you at Bradley’s praise. 

“They’re starting to melt now though…” you pouted, furrowing your brows, considering for only a moment before you too let your palm slam down on your own bell harshly.

Bradley let out the loudest laugh of the night at that before he howled “Atta girl!” you grinned at him, leveling him with a look. And it seemed as if understanding passed before the two of you as you simultaneously slammed your hands down on your bells - making them ring in tandem at different pitches. 

Bradley’s low chuckles mingled with your giggles as a flustered John and Angie came running into the kitchens. Bradley’s face immediately fell and turned sour as they approached, and his tone took the all too familiar tone it usually did when it reprimanded you. He chewed them out before telling them to hurry the fuck up. 

“... and Bambi’s desserts are melting! Get a fucking move on!” he added at the end, sending you a conspiratorial wink, before turning back to his ovens and grill. In spite of the warmth that spread in your stomach and the grin on your face, you took pity on Ange and John, and swiftly grabbed the ice creams and went out into the front of the restaurant to deliver them to the table. 

The rest of the shift is spent joking around with Bradley, getting to know him just a smidge more, and slowly letting yourself act the way you usually do around your other co-workers with him. As he riles you up with jibes at the wait staff, you give as good as he does, and he balks at some of your more risque jokes and comebacks. Those times make you smirk to yourself as you clean up your station at the end of the shift. 

Waving goodbye to Bradley, you let out a giddy squeak as you sat in your car, letting out a long sigh of happiness as sparks flew through you at rapid speed. You couldn’t wait to come back to work tomorrow, having ended this shift on such a good note with Bradley.

As you fell asleep that night, you envision that Bradley might treat you as he treated Mir and Angie now, maybe even how he treated Mickey. You saw before you greeting him with a smile and getting one of those gorgeous ones back. Imagined making him laugh and making a point of hurrying into the kitchen, maybe slamming the bell jokingly if he wasn't at his station. The smile that tugged at the corners of your lips didn’t wane as sleep overtook you. 

The next day you giddily fixed your hair and makeup a little extra, spent a little extra time picking out jeans that hugged your curves and made your ass look just that little bit more juicy, and a black tight top that complimented your figure, before taking care to leave a little extra early to work.

Dancing into the kitchen, you saw Jake was back behind the kitchen counters, and he greeted you happily as your sunny grin spread sunshine around the otherwise silent room. 

“Hiya Chef!” you sang happily to Bradley, leaning on the counter to let your starry eyes meet his. You saw his jaw clench, his brown eyes that had been alight with mirth and kindness yesterday was once again cold and stand-offish. Blinking in confusion as Bradley swallowed hard, you tilted your head slightly at his reaction. You reached out, looking to see if anything had happened to him, when he uttered one dismissing word in greeting;

“Flounder.” 

It felt like a punch in the gut. He had looked away from you, disinterested as he continued to work. As if you weren’t there. As if yesterday had never happened at all. As if he hadn’t promised not to call you that anymore.

Drawing in a sharp breath, you turned swiftly to walk back to the front of the restaurant, a leaden weight sinking deep into the pit of your stomach as you ignored the way tears burned behind your lids.

next chapter

ahhh rooster what the fuck?? ugh I love him. stupid man! sorry for the wait for this! how are we feeling???

[prosciuttulipa]

I saw that your requests for JJK are open. Can I get an opera singer girlfriend headcanon for Geto?💃💋

Geto Suguru with an Opera Singer Girlfriend

tw: slight angst at the end (because it's Geto Suguru), but otherwise none.

a/n: This is my first time writing for JJK, so do let me know if you have any feedback or comments!

Geto Suguru likes to think that if he hadn't become a jujutsu sorcerer, he would've pursued something in the arts. Perhaps he would've become an author, or a sculptor. But he's made up his mind to be a jujutsu sorcerer, and so art remains a hobby to him.

Nevertheless, he holds creatives in high regard. He's under no illusion that an art career is difficult, and he admires the consistency and courage it requires. Geto finds it freeing to watch an artist create or perform—it feels like watching birds fly overhead.

Opera is an art he doesn't have a lot of experience with, so he queries about it often at the start of your relationship. How did you get into opera? What do you love about it? Do you have a favourite singer, or aria? Do you have a dream role? He enjoys learning about the art form, but even more so the bright expression on your face as you talk about it.

He asks Satoru for help. Going to the opera was part of Satoru's fancy Gojo clan upbringing, and Suguru pesters Satoru for any knowledge he has on the art. Satoru is unfortunately useless (he always fell asleep during it), but he helps by using the Gojo name to procure free opera tickets.

He makes it a habit to carry extra lozenges for you. Suguru has them for when his cursed technique takes a toll on his throat and tongue. But he's started associating them more with you, when you steal his candies to soothe your throat after practice. He sneaks a few into your bag, just to be safe.

He also brings you warm drinks whenever you meet up. When his throat hurts he tends to chew on ice, but he's heard that's bad for singers. If you have a favourite hot beverage, he makes it a point to always get it for you.

Suguru calls you "my songbird", as a pet name. He uses it when you're feeling a bit insecure about your talent, wanting to cheer you up. "Won't you sing me a tune, my songbird? You have such a pretty voice." If you need an extra laugh, he'll reference the Phantom of the Opera, putting on a dramatic voice: "Sing for me, my Angel of Music! Sing for me!"

As a date idea, you decide to teach him how to sing an opera duet. Suguru isn't very confident in his singing, but he lets you try to coach him. He's somewhere between a tenor and a baritone, according to your observations. His cursed technique actually means he's great at controlling his throat, so he's less inclined to strain his voice.

Unless he's away on a mission and can't physically be there, he'll attend all of your performances. You get a bouquet of flowers after every performance, and a kiss to your cheek as he murmurs praise into your ear. If he's unable to make it, you get a good luck text beforehand, his bouquet of flowers sent directly to your changing room instead.

He asks you to sing him to sleep after particularly stressful missions. Suguru doesn't enjoy opening up about being a jujutsu sorcerer—he'd much rather keep that part of his life away from you—but he still wishes to seek comfort, in his own way. The way he usually does this is by lying his head in your lap, or asking you about the songs you practiced that day. When you answer, he'll express an interest in hearing an excerpt, quickly falling asleep to your voice when you oblige.

My pretty girl with a pretty voice. What else could a man ask for, songbird? Don't be shy. I love hearing you sing.