#that kid deserves it though be a menace | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daryltwdixon · 4 months ago

Text

Teach You

Daryl Dixon x Reader

warnings: smutttttt

notes: daryl has 0 game, 0 experience, and is eager to please. I thought about this as I was falling asleep last night and couldn't wait to write it for you. Inspired by Norman saying if Daryl ever got down and dirty there would be premature ejaculation

She/her pronouns, foreplay only, gets straight to it

The invitation had been innocent enough, though Daryl had found a way to make it a minefield in his head. Dinner at her house. Nothing fancy, she’d said. Just them, some canned spaghetti, and maybe a drink.

He’d almost said no, but the way she’d looked at him—smiling soft and easy, like she wanted him there more than anyone else—made him mutter, “Yeah, alright.”

Now, he’s sitting on her couch, shoulders stiff, his crossbow propped awkwardly by the door. She hums in the kitchen, clinking dishes together. He wonders if it’s too late to leave.

“Don’t sit too quiet in there,” she calls, teasing. “You’ll scare the furniture.”

Daryl huffs a laugh through his nose. “Furniture don’t need me to make it nervous.”

She steps into the room, carrying two mismatched bowls. “You kidding? You’re terrifying. Real menace, Dixon.” She hands him a bowl, sitting close enough for her thigh to press against his.

Daryl shifts, his grip tightening on the bowl. “S’not what people usually say.”

She gives him a sidelong glance, lips quirking. “What do they say?”

He doesn’t answer, staring into the spaghetti like it’s gonna save him. She leans in, the bare skin of her arm brushing his, and he forgets how to breathe.

“You’re not used to this, huh?” Her tone is light, but her eyes are searching.

He shrugs. “Dunno what ‘this’ is.”

“Someone flirting with you,” she says, blunt as ever, setting her bowl aside. “How’s that feel, by the way?”

He almost chokes. “Ain’t what you’re doin’.”

“It’s exactly what I’m doing.”

His ears burn, and he fights the urge to stand up and bolt. “Y/N—”

She cuts him off, leaning closer, her voice dropping to something softer. “If I haven't made it abundantly clear lately: I like you. A lot.”

The words hit him harder than any walker ever could. He swallows, glancing at her, then quickly away. “Ain’t right.”

“Why not?”

“I’m… too old.” He shifts again, looking anywhere but her face. “You could do better.”

Her laugh is quiet, almost disbelieving. “You really think that?”

He nods, his jaw tightening. “Don’t got think ‘bout it. It’s true.”

She tilts her head, watching him for a long moment. Then, setting her hand lightly on his knee, she asks, “When’s the last time someone told you you’re wrong?”

He tenses under her touch but doesn’t pull away. “Not wrong—”

“Daryl,” she interrupts gently. “You’ve got this whole big, twisted idea in your head about what you deserve. And it’s bullshit.”

He stiffens. “Ain’t—”

“Bullshit,” she says again, firmer this time. “And I’m gonna prove it.”

She stands, setting her bowl aside, then his, and turns to face him. Her hands are on her hips, her gaze steady as she looks down at him. “Can I ask you something personal?”

He frowns but nods hesitantly.

“Have you ever… been with someone?”

His face flushes crimson, and he drops his gaze to the floor.

“That’s a no, then.” Her voice is warm, not teasing, but it makes him flinch anyway.

“Don’t mean nothin’,” he mumbles, fidgeting where he sits.

“It means everything,” she counters, stepping closer. “Because if no one’s shown you what it feels like to be wanted, how’re you supposed to know?”

His heart hammers against his ribs as she moves between his knees, crouching down and resting her hands lightly on his shins. He stares at her like a deer caught in headlights. “What’re you doin’?”

She smiles, tilting her head. “Only what you want me to. But you have to tell me if you do.”

He swallows hard, his hands gripping the edge of the couch. “I...I dunno.”

“It’s okay to want, Daryl,” she murmurs, moving her legs up and onto his lap with a slow, deliberate movement so she's straddling him, her hands now resting delicately on his shoulders.

His breath catches, and he freezes, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, "Okay," he breathes.

Her voice drops lower, softer. “You don’t even know where to put your hands, do you?”

“I— I can’t—”

She gently lifts his wrists, guiding his hands to the curve of her hips. “Start here.”

He stares at her, wide-eyed, his fingers twitching against her waist. “You sure ‘bout this?”

“I’ve never been more sure.” She says, her hand coming up to cup his jaw, the touch sending electricity into his skin, “I’ll show you what you’ve been missing. Only if you want me to.”

His grip tightens slightly, a shuddering breath escaping him. “Yeah. I want it. I want you.”

Daryl barely has time to process anything before she tilts his chin up, forcing his gaze to meet hers. Her hands are steady, her expression soft but laced with something deeper-desire, maybe? His throat goes dry.

"First things first," she murmurs, brushing her thumb along the line of his jaw. "You ever kissed anyone before?"

He shakes his head, his breathing becoming irregular.

Her smile softens as it spreads across her face, endearing and non judgmental. She leans in, her breath warm against his lips. "Then let me teach you."

Her mouth brushes his softly, testing, like she's giving him the chance to pull away. He doesn't. Instead, his hands tighten on her hips as she deepens the kiss, her lips moving against his in a way that makes his head spin.

"Relax," she whispers against his mouth, pulling back just enough to guide him. He exhales shakily, his shoulders dropping slightly. When she kisses him again, he leans into it this time, his lips parting hesitantly.

She hums in approval, her hands threading into his hair, tugging gently to encourage him. He nearly lets out an inhuman noise at the feeling of her fingers curling in his hair, but he swallows it down, instead focusing on her soft lips on his.

"That's it," she breathes, her voice low and sultry. "Just follow me."

Her tongue traces the seam of his lips, and he jerks slightly, his breath hitching. She pulls back, laughing softly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he rasps, his face burning. "Just... wasn't expectin' that."

"Well, get used to it," she teases, leaning in again. This time, when her tongue slides tentatively into his mouth, he meets her halfway, mimicking her movements as best as he can. It's clumsy, but she doesn't seem to mind, her soft moans sending heat straight through him. It suddenly occurs to him that she might be enjoying this just as much as hime.

As the kiss deepens, her hips begin to move, rolling slowly against his lap. Daryl tenses, his fingers twitching against her sides as she grinds against him, finally drawing a low, shaky groan from his throat.

Her lips brushing against his stubble and eventually against the shell of his ear where she whispers, "You like that?"

"Yeah. Feels-feels good." he nods, swallowing hard.

She smiles, pressing a kiss to his jaw before pulling back just enough to grab the hem of her shirt. Slowly, she lifts it over her head, tossing it aside to reveal bare skin and soft curves that leave him staring, wide-eyed and trozen.

"You're beautiful," he mutters before he can stop himself, the words tumbling out unfiltered.

Her smile softens, and she cups his face in her hands, searching his eyes. "Could say the same about you. Touch me, Daryl."

His hands flex nervously on her hips, now pressing into bare skin that feels hot to the touch. "Don't wanna mess it up."

"You won't." She reaches for his hands again, guiding them upward until his calloused fingers brush the swell of her breasts. He sucks in a sharp breath, his touch featherlight and hesitant.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice rough with uncertainty.

"It's perfect," she murmurs, arching into his touch. "Here, let me show you."

She places her hands over his, guiding his fingers to knead and explore, her soft sighs of pleasure encouraging him. He grows bolder with each movement, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, drawing a gasp from her lips.

"Like that," she breathes, her hips grinding down harder against him. "You're doing so good, Daryl."

Her praise sends a jolt of heat through him, and he pulls her closer, burying his face against her neck as his confidence grows.

"Never done nothin' like this before," he admits, his voice muffled, his lips tracing the column of her neck and moving down to her shoulders, onto her clavicle and chest.

"You're a fast learner," she says breathlessly, tugging his hair gently to make him look at her. Her lips find his again, hungrier this time, and he responds with a desperation that surprises even him.

His hands continue their kneading of her breasts, traveling around her to hug her tight against him, the swell of them pressing into his clothed chest, his hips beginning to move instinctively beneath her. The thought occurs to him that he hates clothes.

She gasps against his mouth, breaking the kiss to press her forehead to his.

"You're incredible," she whispers, her voice breathy. "I've wanted this for so long."

Daryl swallows hard, his chest heaving.

"Don't know what you see in me, but... I don't wanna stop."

"Then don't," she murmurs, kissing him again. "I'll take care of you. Just let me."

With newfound confidence—or maybe just desperation—Daryl leans forward, pressing his lips against the soft skin of her chest. He works his way down, his kisses slow and clumsy, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her breath hitches when his mouth brushes between the swells of her breasts, and when he kisses the top, then the underside, he swears she arches into him on purpose, trying to drive him out of his damn mind.

Then, tentatively, he takes her nipple into his mouth. The sound she makes—low and ragged—has his cock straining so hard against his jeans he thinks he might lose it right there. Her hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging lightly as his tongue flicks out, testing, tasting her. She gasps, and that sound drives a hunger in him he’s never felt before.

His hips shift beneath her as she continues grinding against him, her movements deliberate and unrelenting. The friction is almost too much, the ache in his lap unbearable. He grips her hips hard, trying to slow her down. “You’re gonna drive me crazy,” he mutters, his voice rough, lips brushing against her neck.

She exhales a shaky laugh, a smile teasing her lips. “That’s kinda the point.”

Before he can respond, she leans back slightly, her hands moving to the waistband of her jeans. “Here,” she says, popping the button open with practiced ease. His breath catches as she begins to slide the zipper down, revealing the curve of her hip.

His mind races. He’s never had a woman like this before—so wanting for him, so sure of herself. His chest tightens at the thought of messing this up, of not being enough for her. But at the same time, his heart pounds with anticipation. God, he’s thought about her like this more times than he can admit. What her skin would feel like. What her lips would taste like. And now, it’s happening, and he feels so far out of his depth he doesn’t know where to begin.

She must notice his wide eyed stare, because her other hand tilts his chin up then, catching his gaze, "Only if you want to," she says again.

His throat is suddenly very dry, and all he can do is nod.

She smiles, and his chest tightens. She guides his hand beneath the waistband of her jeans, the soft skin of her pubic bone brushing his fingers first. The light tuft of hair there is the only thing rougher than her skin, and when his fingers graze lower, they slide easily over the slick heat of her center.

A growl rumbles in his chest, unbidden, as he realizes how wet she is. For him. His head spins, his blood roaring in his ears. When his fingers dip lower, pressing into her, her walls clench around them greedily. She moans—loud, uninhibited—and the sound nearly undoes him.

"Yes, Daryl, that's it," she breathes. "Curl them, baby."

He does as she says, his fingers pressing into her, finding that soft, spongy spot that makes her cry out and buck against him. His palm brushes against the swollen nub at the apex of her sex, and the way she moves against him, grinding against his hand, has him gripping her hip with his free hand to ground himself.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, his voice raw as he watches her, awestruck.

She’s beautiful—blissed out and needy, her body moving with his like they’ve done this a hundred times before. He can’t take it anymore. His free hand comes up, fingers curling lightly around the back of her neck as he pulls her down to kiss him. The kiss is desperate, hungry, and the little sounds she makes against his lips make his body tighten unbearably.

“Don’t stop,” she gasps against his mouth, her voice trembling. “I’m so close.”

Her words send a jolt through him, and he groans low in his throat, the tension in his core mounting to an unbearable peak as he groans against her lips, gasping for breath as his high flushes through him. Before he can stop it, his release hits him hard and stars break against his vision. Her whimpers rise to full on ragged moans as she presses into his hand then one last time, his fingers knuckle deep inside her as they press against her spongey walls as she tightens around them, sucking his digits further into her as the climax breaks over her.

His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, her kisses trailing down his jaw and neck as her hips slow, her ragged breaths giving way to soft, contented sighs.

When she pulls back, her cheeks flushed and her eyes hooded with lust, she looks down at him and smiles. “Did you just…?” she asks, her gaze dropping to his lap.

His face burns as he remembers himself, the wetness in his pants prominent as they both look down. Slowly, he pulls his hand from her, the loss of contact making her frown slightly. He bows his head, shame tightening his chest as he presses his hands into his lap.

“That is so hot,” she murmurs, her voice rich and warm, not even a hint of laughter behind it.

Daryl’s head jerks up, his breath catching in his throat. “Hot?” he rasps, his voice cracking slightly.

She nods, her smile soft and utterly disarming as her fingers trail along his jaw. “Yeah. You’re so worked up just from me, Daryl. That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her words make his head spin. She’s serious—dead serious—and it hits him like a freight train. She isn’t mocking him, isn’t annoyed or disappointed. She likes him. Wants him. And not just in some passing way.

“You really mean that?” he mumbles, his hands twitching where they return to rest awkwardly against her hips.

Her brow furrows slightly, her expression turning tender. “Of course I mean it. You have no idea how crazy you drive me, do you?”

He stares at her, stunned silent, his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t understand it—can’t wrap his head around why someone like her would want someone like him—but the look in her eyes leaves no room for doubt.

Her lips brush against his, slow and teasing. “Wanna go again?” she whispers, her voice like honey. “I’ve got a few more things I can teach you.”

His heart stutters, and he swears the heat in her gaze alone could undo him all over again. She’s not just enjoying herself—she’s reveling in it, like she’s been waiting for this moment as long as he has.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, rough and hoarse. He swallows hard, his body stirring again despite the lingering haze of his release. “Yeah, okay.”

Her smile widens, and it’s nothing short of radiant. She leans in, her mouth covering his in a kiss that feels deeper this time, more confident. He lets himself relax, his hands finding her waist, and for the first time, he lets himself believe this is real—that she’s here, wanting him, and not judging him for a second.

Her hips roll against him again, slow and deliberate, and his fingers tighten instinctively on her waist. When she breaks the kiss, her lips curve into a smirk, her voice dropping to a sultry purr. “Good. ‘Cause we’re just getting started.”

Part II

#gooood morning!#the walking dead #daryl dixon #twd daryl #daryl #the walking dead daryl #daryl x reader #daryl twd #Daryl Dixon smut #smutty

2K notes · View notes

julymusings · 28 days ago

Text

i could be yours part one

i could be soft and sweet, i could be hard and loud, i could be anything you ever need somehow.

prequel to simplicity!!!

or; an entire summer of chance encounters with the so-called prince of gotham [9.5k]

Jason todd x f!reader warnings: intoxication & vomiting (w/ description), suggestiveness, discussions of toxic relationships (cheating, emotional manipulation, misogyny); special dedication to @fluffy-anna who inspired this au with the ask that started it all‼️‼️😳

part one | part two | series masterlist

June 12th

Jason finds his brother at the entrance of the event, waiting for him with crossed arms and looking displeased.

“You are very late, Todd.” Damian looks up at him. His face is shadowed in front of Jason, whose head blocks the sun from Damian’s view. He wears a t-shirt with the Wayne Animal Sanctuary logo printed across the front and a name tag on the left side of his chest.

“Sorry, kid,” Jason says, and he means it. “Traffic.”

“No matter. I have a job for you.” Damian turns toward a table with a sign that reads, ‘Volunteer Sign-in”, but Jason stays rooted in place.

“What? No, I’m not letting you put me to work,” Jason scoffs.

“Why else would you be here?” Damian asks, looking affronted.

“You asked me to show up, I showed up. Isn’t that enough?”

“It is not, Todd. All you have to do is sit in a chair and ensure no one steals a dog. Is that too much work for you?”

“If someone manages to steal a dog from you of all people, they deserve to keep it.”

“Flattery is not going to get you out of doing work. Do not push me.”

Jason snickers. “Don’t push you? Or what? You’re half my size. I’m so scared.”

Damian huffs. His bright eyes narrow to something more menacing. He takes a sharp breath in for what Jason thinks is an attempt at puffing his chest and appearing intimidating— he’s wrong.

“Wow, Todd,” Damian bursts out loud enough for the surrounding tables to turn their attention. “You think we should send them to a kill shelter? Shame on you!”

Jason can feel the scathing stares shot at him without breaking his glare at Damian. “Funny. That’s really funny, Damian.” Jason says, sarcastically. “I’m leaving now.”

“You think we should abandon them on the side of the road?” Damian shrieks. “That’s low even for you.” He shakes his head disapprovingly.

Jason doesn’t engage, only turning around to walk back to his bike. He stops short, however, when he sees a little boy looking up at him with widened eyes. He's frowning, one tiny hand fisted in the hem of his cat-decorated shirt. The other is wrapped around the fingers of another man, presumably his father. Though Jason towers over him, the father looks at him with disgust.

He stifles a groan and turns back to Damian, who sports a brilliantly cheerful smile. Jason drops his head and sighs. “Where do I go?”

“You have to sign in, first.” Damian leads him to the center table, and Jason accepts a pen from the stink-eyed woman behind it to add his name to the list.

“Will you be making a donation?” Damian asks. When Jason hands back the pen, the woman purses her lips in contempt. Jason glares at Damian, but he is unmoving in his fake oblivion.

Jason reaches for his wallet.

“You could at least pretend you’re excited to be here.”

You hold your hand in front of your face, shielding it from the brightness of the afternoon. “Why?” You grumble. “I doubt the animals care.”

“Of course they do!” Your friend is much too bubbly for someone who stayed up until early morning drinking wine and watching reruns of nineties sitcoms on cable. “They can literally smell your emotions. They’ll know if you hate them.”

“I don’t hate them.” You roll your eyes, though it’s blocked by your large sunglasses. “I would just really rather be in bed right now. And I’m surprised that you wouldn’t. How are you not hungover?”

“Um, maybe because I didn’t drink an entire bottle all on my own.” He takes your hand and leads you through the throngs of people gathered around playpens of cats and bunnies.

“Did I drink that much?” You say it quietly, more to yourself than to him, but he picks it up anyway.

“Yeah…I only drank, like, two glasses? You didn’t notice?” He’s stopped at the end of a line leading to a pen of small rescue dogs.

You tilt your head, squinting at him through your sunglasses. “Does it look like I noticed?”

The line moves up as others clear out, having had their fill of playing with the dogs. The late spring sun beats down on your neck and arms, the light and sounds intensifying your headache, and you can’t help but sigh.

“Oh, what now? I planned this for you. I thought you wanted to adopt a dog.” He says, lifting up your sunglasses to get a peek of your eyes before you swat his hand away.

“To adopt a dog, you need a place to live.” The two of you move up forward in the line. “I’m sleeping on your couch right now.” Your stomach twists, and you’re not sure if it’s from the hangover or the reminder.

“Right now,” he reminds you. “But you’ll find a new place, and a new guy, and then you can take it on walks to your old place and make it poop on the lawn.”

Your forehead crinkles as you draw your brows together. “The guy or the dog?”

“Whichever one you want.”

This earns your first (sober) smile all week, and he brightens up.

“I don’t think I want a new guy just yet,” you say, crossing your arms.

“Well, you don’t need, like, a serious guy,” he says. “Just, like, a rebound.”

“A rebound? Seriously?” You scoff at the idea.

“Yeah, seriously. Just to get back out there, you know? Take your mind off of…” His voice fades out, both of you already knowing where he was going.

“I don’t think a rebound is what I need right now,” you say, avoiding his eyes. “I just need to find a new place to live.”

“Not even if it’s him?”

You follow his gaze to the person manning the area, his face coming into view as more patrons clear out.

“Damn.” Your friend fans himself as he comes into full view.

“You are so dramatic,” you say, but you can’t stop your gaze from sliding across his broad shoulders.

“Oh my god, I think I’m about to pass out. He looks like marble.” He grips your arm, pushing his weight onto you with a pleading cry of your name. You swat him away. “Please. Please. If not for you, for me.”

The man is…well, he really could pass as marble. His face is composed of sharp angles and rigid features, with a hard facial structure and crooked nose stolen from David himself. He sits in a chair next to the playpen with a relaxed posture, his arms crossed and legs stretched out in front of him. He looks indifferent to the noise around him—lazy, even—but there’s no mistaking the alertness of his eyes, the way they scan along the length of the park, surveying each passing patron with mechanical precision; as the line moves up and people speak to him, he studies their faces, eyes falling to their hands, their pockets, and their shoes. It earns him some uneasy glances— the discomfort his probing, baring gaze causes, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t care.

By the time it’s your turn, the crowd has lessened. The sun is just past its peak, and the late-afternoon drowsiness has set in for most people. The dogs are romping around in the shady grass underneath a tent to protect them from the heat, and you’re grateful to get a break from the harsh sunlight when you approach, finally able to lift your huge sunglasses and rest them atop your head.

The man—Jason, the sticker on his shirt reads—takes your tickets and you let yourselves into the playpen. He looks you up and down with the accusatory eye of a trained spy; you begin to feel guilty for things you never did, every small mistake you’ve ever made coming to the front of your mind. He looks at you like he can sense it. Now that you’re seeing him up close, there’s a small tuft of white hair at the front of his hairline that, from afar, looked like a reflection of sunlight. It’s a bit jarring, making someone so young-looking stick out in a crowd. You catch yourself staring, and so does he. His jaw tenses and he looks away.

“Five minutes,” he says.

Immediately, you and your friend are overrun by small and medium-sized dogs jumping onto your legs and climbing over each other for your attention.

“Okay, wow. Hi there!” You squeal, kneeling on the ground as they crowd around you and your friend. All the dogs have tags on their collars with their names and the Sanctuary logo on the front. Your friend zeroes in on an excitable retriever puppy who jumped into his lap and is licking all over his face.

“Lucy,” he reads from her name tag. The dog’s tongue lolls out, teeth baring in a smile as he scratches under her chin.

“Cute,” you say, watching their interaction. Lucy jumps into his arms and he coos, attacking her with kisses.

“Isn’t she?” He scoots closer to you. “Aren’t you feeling better?”

“I guess so,” you sigh, patting another dog's head before it notices two other dogs fighting over an enticing twig and scampers away to join.

“You know what would make it even better?” He asks, and you raise your eyebrow, though you know where he’s going.

He jerks his head towards Jason, eyes widening suggestively. When you stare at him, unamused, he scoffs and smacks your arm with the back of his hand.

“Come on, he’s perfect!” He whisper-shouts. “Just look at him. God, if I were single…”

You roll your eyes but look at him anyway. He looks flushed from the sun. That, or his decision to wear jeans and a leather jacket in this weather.

“I’m not sure I trust someone who dresses that warm in June,” you reply.

“Why worry about how he’s dressed? Just worry about un-dressing him.” Your friend snorts at his own joke, and Lucy startles at the sound, sniffing around his face for the source.

“Besides,” he continues, “I’m not sure you’re in the place to judge what he’s wearing.” His gaze drops to your shirt. “Like, I get the whole ‘putting-in-no-effort-post-breakup’ thing, but what is that shirt? Why is there a cockroach on it? And why is he holding a briefcase?”

You’re a little offended by that. “It’s…it’s The Metamorphosis. We read it in high school. Together.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know I blocked out everything from before I turned twenty-one.”

You press your lips together. “Fair enough.”

You spare a quick glance back to Jason, but he’s busy staring down someone walking by. Near his chair, in the corner of the pen, you notice for the first time a slightly older dog sleeping under small streaks of sunlight that seep through holes in the corner of the tent. It’s almost silly how it mirrors Jason— dark, furry legs sprawled out in the grass against black denim doing the same. Its ears flop open, just like the black waves that stick up in some places. The dog is even graying around its nose, white whiskers stark against the expanse of black fur.

You shuffle over on your knees, and the dog’s ears twitch, brown eyes opening to peer at you.

“Hi,” you murmur, palm outstretched for him to sniff. His tail thumps against the grass. You rub his belly and he rolls completely onto his back, tail wagging harder.

You can’t help but giggle. “What are you doing all the way over here? Didn’t want to play with your friends?”

“Senior dogs aren’t as popular.”

You look up; Jason’s gaze is fixed on you, calculated, yet unreadable. You feel warm under his stare.

“Sorry?”

“He’s a senior dog. Most people prefer the puppies. More energy. Cuter.” He looks across the pen, to where your friend is holding multiple puppies in his lap. “Easier, emotionally speaking. ‘Cause they’ve got more life left.”

Your heart sinks as you look down at the dog in front of you. He pushes himself onto his legs, and it's clear he moves much slower than the younger dogs, but he’s just as adorable. His nose pushes at your hand— a request to keep petting him.

“That really…sucks.” You scratch behind the dog’s ear and his back leg twitches.

“Not much we can do about it.” He sounds aloof, but he rubs at a spot over his chest as he says it.

“Well, I’d adopt him if I could. Little…” You check the tag hanging from his collar, leaning closer to make out the engraving. “…Monster…Truck?”

Jason’s brows knit together. “Seriously?” He turns toward you, and you show him. He laughs— it surprises you. He looks so different when his face is broken into a smile. Nothing like the guarded, indifferent look he wore until now.

Jason looks behind you, squinting. “He seems…eager.”

Your friend is lying on his back, laughing as the dogs climb over him.

“He is.”

“Good idea to come here,” Jason notes. “Seen a lot of couples around; fun place for a date.”

Your lips quirk up and you shake your head, opening your mouth to correct him when you’re interrupted.

“NO!”

You both whip around and see your friend bolting upright. The dogs skitter away from him, and he crawls over to you.

“We are not a couple, I guarantee you.” Your friend is close to shouting. “I’m actually—” He flicks his wrist down, and you stifle a groan. “And also taken. So this—” He gestures between the two of you. “Not happening.”

Jason nods. “Oh, okay. Um…sorry.”

He points to himself. “Not single,” he says, then points to you. “Single. Not single,” he points to himself again, then back to you. “Single.”

“I think he got it.” You keep your eyes locked on the ground in front of you.

“Just making sure! You know, we’re in the middle of a misinformation crisis. So, you should always be fact-checking.” He pats you on the back and looks Jason right in the eye. “She is single.”

You face him, eyes wide with pursed lips. “Thank you,” you say, through gritted teeth. “For that.”

“Anytime,” He flashes a bright smile and shuffles away.

You take a steadying breath and slowly turn back to Jason. He looks confused more than anything else.

“Sorry.”

“No—no worries.”

You stay silent, patting ‘Monster Truck’ on the head.

“Nice shirt, by the way,” Jason says, after a minute of silence.

“Oh! Thank you,” you grin. “Do you…like Kafka?”

“Yeah, I do. Is The Metamorphosis your favorite?”

“Definitely. Although I might be biased; I have a preference for tragedies.”

Jason leans closer. “You think it’s a tragedy?”

You tilt your head. “How is it not? Gregor never wanted to become what he did, but his parents still blamed him for it. They hated him, hurt him, and were relieved when he died when all he wanted was to keep being their son.” The dog rests his head on your knee, and you move your scratches to his back. There’s a quirk in Jason’s cheek, like an almost smile. “But the tragedy is that, in their eyes, he stopped being their son the second he changed. He was a monster to them, and he stayed that way until he died. He hoped that they would love him again, but he was doomed from the day he changed.”

“You don’t think Gregor was a monster?” Jason asks amusedly; you didn’t mean to get so passionate about Gregor Samsa today, but he’s clearly not complaining.

“Of course not,” you scoff. “Do you?”

“No, not at all.”

“Good. I’m surprised you don’t think it’s a tragedy. What is it to you?”

He shrugs. “Horror?”

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, sure.”

He chuckles. “You don’t agree?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Seems like you don’t,” Jason teases.

“Please don’t put words in my mouth, Jason.”

He laughs again, louder this time, and it sounds like music. You can’t help it; you break into a grin—something about his laugh is so contagious. You want to swallow the sound and be drunk on it for days.

“Seems unfair that you know my name and I don’t know yours,” Jason says.

A high-pitched squeak sounds from behind you, followed by a gruff throat-clearing, and a mumbled Sorry. You ignore it, eyes squeezing shut in a silent prayer that he can’t sense the sheer amount of heat radiating off of you.

You tell him your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. Like it’s something special to be held close.

He tears his eyes away from you when more people approach the pen, a line beginning to accumulate. You realize you’ve been here way longer than five minutes, and stand, brushing grass and dirt from your knees.

“We should probably…” You nod towards the people waiting.

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, sounding disheartened.

He stands, offering a hand so you can step over the playpen walls. His skin is rough, but warm, and your skin buzzes under the contact. As you swing your legs over, Monster Truck whines and paws at the walls of the enclosure.

You frown, leaning down to give him one final scratch under his chin. “Sorry buddy, I’ll miss you.”

Your friend climbs out after you, but steps away, giving you some distance.

“Maybe, um…” Jason’s hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. “I’ll see you later?”

You nod, smiling. “Definitely.”

The sun is setting, and you’re drowsy and sun-tired from spending the day walking around the park. At every table and tent you visited, application forms for adoption and fostering taunted you from their piles, and you thought about little Monster Truck, old and lonely in his cage at the shelter, while there’s nothing you can do about it. Then you thought about Jason, his interesting views on literature that you’d love to hear more about, and how good he looked under the dappled sunlight shining down on him through the trees. Maybe he could be a good rebound, you think as you walk around the park, stealing glances at where he sits in the hopes of catching him as he leaves. But the more you think about him, the more your traitorous mind, too romantic for your own good, spins ‘rebound’ into possibilities of ‘casual’ into ideals of ‘relationship.’

Your friend is pulling the car around when you spot him a few tables down, an easy smile on his face as he talks to a beautiful woman with red hair and glasses.

He’s standing so close to her, you notice. He laughs at something she says. It’s the same laugh he gave to you. It leaves a bad taste on your tongue.

How much do you even know this guy? One conversation isn’t enough to gauge his character. You were presumptuous to assume he was flirting with you; there’s no way someone like that is single. Looking at him now, you’re brought back to days as a bright-eyed tween girl with a crush on the pool’s college-aged lifeguard. In other words— delusional.

He leans down and kisses the top of her head.

‘Relationship’ suddenly follows a thread of lies, manipulation, and excuses, all woven into a tapestry bearing nothing but three wasted years.

And for what? Ideals?

Shame sinks into your stomach, burning through to the surface of your skin. It’s like he can feel your stare because he looks up and his eyes immediately find yours. Frustrated tears prick at your eyelids as he squeezes the woman’s shoulder in goodbye and makes his way over.

Two seconds too late, the car pulls up to the park's edge. Your friend waves you over, and you’re half-tempted to make a run for it. But Jason calls to you, and on instinct, you turn.

“Hey, I was looking for you.”

You manage a strained smile, unable to form any words.

“Are you leaving?”

“Mhm.” You give him a nod.

The minute tilt of his head tells you he knows something is off.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, well, there’s a good place for coffee not far from here. If you’re interested.”

“I’ll be sure to check it out.”

There’s a shift in the air. You both feel it.

“Actually, I meant…if you wanted to go now,” he says.

The fucking nerve of this guy.

“Why would I want to do that?”

This gives him pause. He looks at you with those calculating eyes, searching for something you refuse to give him. After a few too many seconds, he responds.“I thought you maybe wanted to—”

“Oh my god, Jason, no!” You spit. The force of it catches both of you by surprise.

He clears his throat, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.” He walks away before you can say anything.

Your legs carry you through your haze of indistinguishable emotions and into your friend’s car.

“What was that?” He asks, as soon as your seatbelt clicks into place.

“I don’t know.”

You spare one last look at the park. You have a clear view of Jason through the crowd, back with the same woman and now joined by another man. He’s shorter than Jason, and a little more tanned. He claps Jason on the back in a warm, familiar fashion. He and the woman’s hands are interlaced, and from the way she looks at him, it’s clear you made a mistake.

“Oh, fuck me.” You lean back against the headrest, taking a deep breath to soothe the stabbing pain in your chest.

“Do you want to go back?” Your friend offers. He peers at you sympathetically, and that only makes you feel worse.

“No. No, please just drive.” You drop your face into your hands, voice cracking.

His palm finds your shoulder. “Maybe it’s for the better. Like, everything happens for a reason, you know? For all you know, he could be a murderer. Or something.”

You want to find comfort in his attempts, but you just can’t.

“Drive. Please.”

“Things are gonna get better for you. I can feel it.” He shifts gears and peels away from the curb. The park disappears in your rearview mirror, and you can only hope he’s right.

June 30th

Things got worse.

On one particularly difficult day, you drag yourself back to the animal shelter because you just couldn’t get Monster Truck out of your mind.

“For the record,” the employee says as he leads you to his enclosure, “We just call him Monty.”

Monty, having already heard your voice as you approached, was waiting at the gate with wide eyes. His tail swung from side to side, and the sight of him had you melting.

The employee unlocks the gate and Monty lumbers out, panting happily and jumping onto you as you kneel.

“Hi, buddy!” You smush his face between your hands. “I missed you.”

“Have you filled out an application?” The employee asks.

“Oh.” You flush. “I’m sort of…in the process of moving right now. So…no.” It’s a half-truth. Your stuff is all in boxes and ready to be moved. You just don’t know where yet.

“That’s okay, you can still fill one out now! The process might take some time, anyway. Where are you moving to?” He has an unsettlingly bright smile. You feel like he’s already judging you.

“I’m…not sure. Yet.”

“I see.” He smiles even wider, somehow. “Then where are you living now?”

You blow out a sigh. “At a friend’s.”

“So, you’re essentially homeless?”

“Woah, dude.”

“If you aren’t planning to adopt, then you can’t visit the animals as you please. This isn’t a petting zoo.”

You share a few choice words with the employee, including a not-so-whispered ‘jackass’ (to which he says, ‘I heard that’ and you shout a ‘You were meant to!’) on your way out the door.

Later on that month, you heard about a modest one-bedroom apartment from a friend of a friend, whose friend knew the landlord; a little above your price range, but you could manage. You went through all the proceedings— references, background check, credit check, coming up with the money for a deposit—you were all ready to sign the lease and move in when you got the call.

These things fall through sometimes, the landlord said. Sorry it didn’t work out.

So tonight, when your friend, sick of your week-long pity party on his couch, hauled you into his Uber to join his date night, you thought, what the hell. Sure.

Your friend and his boyfriend are insufferably cute. Normally, you’d smile at the way they’re all over each other on the drive to the club; kissing each other’s palms and stroking one another’s hair.

Now it feels gloating.

Although this, you suppose, is your normal now, and while you can bear their playing footsie in the Uber, bear the hands in each other’s back pockets while waiting in line, bear playing photographer for them over the first round of shots, you draw the line at the sensuous, touchy dance moves happening three feet away from you. Not wanting to be the jealous and bitter third-wheel, you manage to grab their attention long enough to point to the bar and make your escape.

Still fairly early in the night, most of the stools are empty. You slide into one, and the bartender, a dark-haired woman whose name tag reads ‘Luisa’, approaches with a smile.

“What can I get you?”

You order a shot and, after a quick glance back to your friends (they’ve escalated to full-on grinding), you add a cocktail.

You throw back the shot with barely a grimace and start downing the cocktail. Luisa whistles.

“Everything okay?”

You merely shrug, not bothering to remove your mouth from the glass. Or breathe. The liquid level lowers at a steady speed until you’re left with only a few ice cubes.

Someone from a few chairs down scoots over to the seat next to you.

“Wow.”

You don’t look at him, but the voice sounds male.

"I like a girl who can handle her liquor. Can—"

“No,” you say, not lifting your eyes from the counter.

You hear him scoff from beside you. “You could at least—"

“Nope.” You swish the straw around in the glass, pushing the ice cubes about. They clink against the corners of the cup.

“There’s no need—“

Something about this guy, and every guy to ever exist, fills you with exhaustion and rage. You drop your head into your hands, and groan. Loudly.

You hear his footsteps receding, as well as some curses flicked your way, but take an extra minute to hide in your hands. You think to yourself, when did men get so much audacity?

Another glass is set down in front of you. You look up; it’s Luisa. She wears an understanding grimace.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“Break-up?” She asks, and you nod. “This one’s taken care of.”

“By who?”

“Don’t worry about it. Though, I do expect a generous tip later.” She winks, and you crack a smile for the first time that night.

“Why are men so…” You pause, searching for a word that adequately sums up what you’re feeling, but come up with nothing. She seems to get the point.

“Trust me, I know.”

“Yeah? What happened to you?” You sip the drink; the glass is cold in your hands, and it feels good against the humidity of the packed club.

She sighs, resting her forearms against the bar counter, fingers playing with the edges of her apron. “What didn’t?” At your sympathetic look, she continues. “I was with this guy for a few months, and everything was great. He was so sweet and loving. I thought he was, like, the one. Met each other’s families and everything. He started talking about moving in together…I was worried we might be moving too fast but he kept pushing it, saying stuff like ‘I want to be with you for the rest of my life, and I want the rest of my life to start right now!’” She accentuates her imitation with finger quotes and a high-pitched voice.

You squint at her with furrowed brows. “Isn’t that…When Harry met Sally?”

She laughs dryly. “Yeah. I hadn’t seen it. You want another?” She nods toward the glass you set down, now empty.

“Please.”

While assembling yet another cocktail for you, she resumes her story. “So I agreed, and he moved into my place, and then…” Luisa trails off, muddling mint and lime juice at the bottom of a shaker.

“Then…?” You prompt.

“Well, I found out that the day he started pressuring me into moving in together…that was the day he got his first eviction notice.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She pours your drink into a fresh glass and adds a straw, then slides it over the counter to you. “And I found out because he was four months behind on rent, and the landlord came to my place looking for him.”

“Oh my god!” You gasp, your chest burning with anger on her behalf. “What did you do?”

“I called my sisters. While he was at work, we changed the locks, packed up all his stuff, and left it on the curb.” She smiles at the memory. “Then I never saw him again.”

You snort into your hand. “So…you evicted him.”

“Essentially,” Luisa shrugs. “What about you?”

You huff. “Cheated,” is the only word you can get out, shoulders sagging as you fiddle with the straw.

“I’m sorry,” Luisa says.

"S'not your fault," you slur. Your three drinks are catching up to you. That doesn't stop you from ordering another.

Later into the night, when the crowd density around the bar has almost doubled, Luisa excuses herself to tend to the rising drink demand. You miss talking to her as soon as she leaves, but it's no matter because you're not sure your speech is even intelligible at this point. You're left with a grand total of three cocktails and two shots, the empty glasses surrounding your personal pity party at the bar. You're entertaining yourself by stacking the glasses atop one another when you hear a second set of footsteps behind the counter, though you're in no condition to comprehend the exchange.

"Hey, have you gone on break yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Okay, go. I'll cover you."

Your phone vibrates, and it takes a few tries for your clumsy hands to wrestle it out of your jeans' minuscule front pockets.

Unknown Number hey i want to fix this we can't throw away three whole years just because of one silly argument

You sho is yhid

Unknown Number i had to get a new number because you blocked me

You new nuumbrt who ids oj

Unknown Number wait are you drunk right now?

You y7es

Unknown Number i can't believe you, i'm trying to fight for our relationship and you're out drinking?

You fuvk ogg twat

"New number my ass. D'you see this shit?" You hold the phone up, facing the screen to Luisa. "How much you wanna bet he jus' borrowed— oh."

When you look up to where Luisa's face was, you're met with...nothing. A black void encapsulates your entire field of view.

"Am I passing out?" You ask, to no one in particular.

"What?"

The sound comes from above the black, and you follow it.

"Oh, shit."

You find a pair of green eyes narrowed at you, scanning you up and down. If you were more sober, you might feel somewhat intimidated by the burning stare. But any hint of sobriety has been thrown out the window and apparently took your filter along with it.

His face is somewhat blurry, but the unmistakable streak of white hair has you ninety percent confident that it’s...him in front of you.

Jason. From the animal shelter. Who you got along with, and then treated like shit.

“Woah! What’re you doin’ here!” It comes out as an exclamation more than a question and your words blend together, the alcohol making any speech require ten times the usual effort.

“What am I doing here?” It’s not accusatory, but rather genuinely confused. His voice is even, distant. Not a trace of the warmth you had last time to be heard.

You mimic his expression. “Do you, like…work here or something?”

He stares at you, dumbfounded. His face reads, this must be a prank. His mouth reads, after a moment’s pause, “…Or something.”

You sweep another look down his body. A black, short-sleeve T-shirt, well-loved jeans, and a pair of work boots grace his deific figure. You linger on his arms for a few seconds.

He clears his throat, and you’re drawn back to his face. He raises his eyebrows, unamused. The morning will be clouded by a haze of regret for how openly you check him out. But the morning’s not here just yet.

“You’re the barten—the bar…bar-man?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you answer your own question.

“Nah, you’re…you are…can’t be bar-man. You don’t gotta apron!” You point at him, jabbing your finger so aggressively it shakes your whole body—a clear mistake from the way it makes the alcohol slosh in your stomach.

He says nothing and steps away to deal with the other customers. You return to your cup-stacking but, a moment later, the glasses are pulled from your reach. Your arm follows them with a whining protest, and a tall glass is placed in your hand.

“I didn’t order any more rum.”

“This is water.” Jason begins to turn away, but stops. “Did you think I brought you a full glass of rum?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m kinda drunk,” you mumble. You take a few sips, and then place it back on the table.

“Oh, are you?” His tone has a bite to it. You look down at the cup, tapping your nails against the glass. You don’t give yourself the right to be offended; you deserve it, you think, as the events of that day replay in your head.

“Sorry for being such a bitch.” It comes out quieter, scarcely audible over the raucous sounds of the club.

“All you said was, ‘You’re not wearing an apron’.”

“Not now. Before. Last time.”

He doesn’t say anything. Then, “Just drink the water.”

“No, I’m gonna go throw up.”

“Wait—”

You jump from your stool, threading through the hordes of sweaty bodies to round the corner and bolt for the bathroom. You barge through the first door marked ‘vacant’ that you see and hurl in the toilet. Several times.

When your stomach is finally empty, you sit back against the wall, head hitting the tiles. A mixture of vomit and spit dribbles down your chin and onto your top. You take a deep breath, but the air stinks of sweat and smoke and you retch, but there’s nothing left for your body to purge.

The cold tiles do little to soothe your damp, heated skin. You need water. Water and fresh air and maybe a time machine, so you can go back and warn yourself to eat something before going out, or to pay more attention to what’s right in front of you, or maybe just go back and make sure you never say yes in the first place to that fucking—

“You in here?”

A swift knock on the door. Stern enough to knock you to your senses, and also rouse some shame. The amount of times you’ve embarrassed yourself this month alone— it brings another wave of nausea.

You don’t answer—you can’t, not with the acid and bile burning your throat and your head spinning from the glaring fluorescent lights. The door handle is pushed down achingly slowly, rusty hinges screaming in protest as the door is cracked open. Jason peeks his head in, the familiar tuft of white poking out from behind the door first, followed by the rest of him.

“Can I come in?”

You nod. He leaves a crack in the door and approaches carefully, as if you’re a wounded animal in the wild, ready to bolt at the first sudden movement. He squats down to eye-level, careful to avoid touching his knees to the floor. Smart, you think, becoming acutely aware of your shoes sticking to the ground by way of some mystery substance.

“Sorry ‘bout this,” you croak, closing your eyes in the hopes that it will relieve some of the ache.

“It’s fine.”

“No,” you slur, “’s not. Can’t stop embarrassing myself.”

“Believe me, I’ve seen much worse.”

“Doubt it.” You open your eyes to look at him. He remains a respectable distance from you, so his features are still a bit fuzzy, but you can make out the thin line of his lips pressed together. He’s indecipherable, and you wonder if it’s on purpose that he hides himself, or if that’s just his face.

“Can you stand?” He asks, rising back to his full height. Still delirious, you manage a soft groan from the back of your throat and extend your arm to him. He gets the message, taking ahold of your elbow and pulling you to your feet with ease like you weigh nothing.

You hobble over to the sink and splash cool water on your face, wiping at your mouth and neck and cursing at the stains on your shirt.

“Do you need a new one?”

It almost doesn’t register over the ringing in your ears, which is only compounded by the loud bass that bleeds through the walls and reverberates through your skull.

“You…hm?” Your voice crackles as you turn to face him. He’s oddly relaxed in his stance where he leans against the door, hands in his pockets and watching you intently.

“I can give you a shirt. If you want one,” he says. His voice is soft, but whether it’s from sympathy or pity, you can’t tell.

“Yeah, sure. Fine,” you reply, breaking eye contact to stare at the grimy wall behind him. More than anything else, you want a break from the way he looks at you; as if he’s peeling back your layers and staring right into the center of you. It makes you feel like a scolded child, walking to the principal’s office with a pit in your stomach and no idea what you did wrong, but knowing there must be something.

Your hands feel cold, suddenly, and you flinch at the unexpected sensation. Looking down, you see Jason pressing a bottle of water into your hands. You hadn’t even noticed he stepped closer.

He slips out the door, closing it behind him. You rinse out your mouth a few times, but the dry, acidic burn in your throat remains, so you go for the water bottle, but your fingers are too weak and shaky to remove the cap. You set it down forcefully on the sink’s edge and lean your weight against the sink, hands gripping the porcelain so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at them, unable to bear your own reflection. You can feel the pressure building behind your eyes and screw them shut, clamping a hand over your mouth to muffle the choked-out sob that breaks from you.

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, wiping away at the moisture. “Get it together.”

You’re trying to steady your breathing when he knocks on the door, his request to come in muffled through the wall.

A stiff “Yeah,” is all you can manage; it’s so quiet you don’t think he heard you, but a moment later the door creaks open again and Jason’s head peeks in. You steal a quick glance at him in the mirror, and that’s all it takes for him to notice the shine of your red-rimmed eyes. He freezes, hovering halfway into the bathroom, unsure if he should come in or give you your privacy.

“Here,” he says quietly. You turn around at the light rustle of him holding out a large, light blue t-shirt, and a plastic grocery bag. “I’ll let you—”

“Wait,” you say, without thinking.

He looks at you expectantly, and after a few seconds of silence, you realize you need to say something.

“Can you—” You fumble for the water bottle that sits on the sink and hold it out to him. “Can you open this?”

He twists the cap open and hands it back to you. You take a small sip. The two of you stare at each other.

“Is there…anything else?”

“I, uh…”

There is something else. But you’re not sure what it is. The only thing your drunk—and clearly stupid—mind can think about right now is how much you want him to stay.

“You remember Monty?”

“Monty?” Jason raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, you know. Monty.” You lean against the wall, resting your head on the tiles that are definitely carrying some kind of virus. At least they’re cold.

“No, sorry.” He shakes his head.

“Jason.” You cross your arms. “Monty!”

“I don’t…know who that is.” His ears are turning pink as he looks you up and down, likely wondering if the bacteria in this bathroom can cause hallucinations.

“Monster Truck. The dog.”

You can see the gears turning in his brain, and the moment the light bulb flickers on. “Oh,” he sighs. “Yeah.” His shoulder leans against the doorframe, and he pushes the door open a few more inches.

“Y’know I went to see him?”

He hums in response and tilts his chin up, signaling for you to continue.

“Motherfuckers kicked me out.”

At this, his mouth falls open. “They…what?”

You nod vigorously, grateful that you’re not alone in your outrage. “Said if I don’t have a place to live, being there’s basically loitering.”

At his silence, paired with his microscopic frown, you wonder if he agrees. It occurs to you that this is the first he’s heard of your living situation—you rush to defend yourself.

“I had a place to live. Then I moved out. Was about to move into this new place, literally jus’ had to sign some shit, but this old bitch pulled it out from under me. Worst part is, she’s not even gonna live there. Just wanted it ‘cause it was around the fashion district, an’ I guess she just wanted a place to, like, put her feet up or something after a long day of shopping.”

If Jason wants to cut in, you don’t notice. You’re fully aware that you’re rambling, but can’t bring yourself to care; it feels nice to finally get all this out. Even if it is making you look even worse in his eyes.

“And you wanna know the worst part? I had the apartment. Was basically mine already. But then she had to go and bribe the damn landlord with all her…damn rich lady money!” Your volume increases as you go on, getting angrier at the injustice. “And then he lied to me about it! Said it just ‘fell through.’ Then I showed up to talk to him in person about it, and he broke like a…like—like something that breaks easily, I don’t know. Like, if you’re gonna fuck people over, at least be good at it. Don’t be a snitch!

“And, apparently, the lady—she said that she wanted that apartment because it was ‘the safest she could find’ and she didn’t wanna ‘get mugged,’” you say, using air quotes. “Bitch! If you wanna live somewhere safe, get the hell out of Gotham!” You’re practically yelling now, and Jason suppresses a smile. You know it’s probably mocking, but still, he listens patiently to your rant.

“But, actually, she was kinda right. It was a nice place. On Tyler Street. Totally bougie—the muggers don’t even come out ‘til after midnight.”

He actually snorts at this, and you feel yourself smiling at it.

Your eyes fall to the shirt in your hands. You hold it up to get a good look. It’s an icy-blue color with a monocled cartoon penguin in front of an iceberg. Underneath is written ‘The Iceberg Lounge: Gotham Waterfront.’

It’s so cheesy, you can’t help but laugh. “Why do you have this?”

“From the gift shop.”

“What kinda club has a gift shop?”

Jason shrugs. “This one.”

He steps out, shutting the door behind him. You peel off your old shirt and stuff it in the plastic bag before tugging on the new shirt; it’s soft and surprisingly good quality. After a few moments of deliberation, you decide to stuff the plastic bag in the trash—it’s not like you’ll miss it.

You open the door, startled when you see that Jason is waiting outside.

“I’m good, you can go back to work,” you tell him.

“How are you gonna get home?”

“‘S fine,” you mumble. “I’ll jus’ call an Uber.” You drag yourself out of the bathroom, leaning one hand against the wall for support. Jason follows, hovering like an anxious parent. You shoot your friend a text letting him know, and he replies telling you to call him from the car.

“That’s—” He rests his hand on your back and maneuvers you around a flock of drunk dancers whom you’re too absorbed in your phone to notice. “I can give you a ride.”

“It’s okay. You’re working.” You don’t listen for his answer, making a beeline for the exit. He stays on your tail, and you realize as he guides you in the opposite direction that you don’t actually know your way around this place.

“Not anymore.” He pushes open the front door and holds it for you.

“You can’t just leave in the middle of your shift, Jason.” The door swings shut behind you, and sounds of traffic and light chatter replace the ear-splitting music. Jason nods to the bouncer at the entrance before turning back to you.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” He leads you around the side of the building.

“No, I will worry about it. You already hate me enough. I can’t be the reason you get fired.”

Jason stops walking. “You think—”

“I’m calling an Uber.” He tries to interject, but you don’t let him. “Look! George is three miles away, and he has a five-star rating.”

“I don’t want you getting into some rando’s car. I can take you home.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What’s your problem? You don’t like George?”

“I don’t trust anyone in Gotham this late, and neither should you,” Jason says firmly.

“Then why should I trust you?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. You scroll through your recent messages, surprised to see your ex’s ‘new number’ has called you four times in the last hour. Two of those calls have voicemails.

You skim through the voicemail transcripts. “Fuckin’ weirdo,” you seethe.

“What’s wrong?” Jason asks.

“Nothin’.” Your shaky fingers try to navigate to the ‘block’ button, but the screen shifts to an incoming call. It’s him. Again. You decline it. Not even a moment later, he calls again.

“Leave me alone,” you mutter, rushing to press ‘block’ before he can call again.

Releasing a heavy sigh, you drop to the curb, head falling into your palms. After a moment, you hear Jason sit down next to you.

“Is someone bothering you?” His tone is rigid, and it’s a shocking switch, abrupt and cold enough to send a chill down your spine. You lift your head to look at him. “If you don’t feel safe—”

“No, it’s just my stupid ex. Probably only calling ‘cause his fuckin’ mistress finally left him. Good for her, I guess. Bad for me, though. Now he’s lonely and won’t leave me alone.”

“How many times has he called you?”

“I don’t know, five? It’s fine. He’ll give up.”

“Are you sure?”

You nod. His shoulders relax. Barely. You don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, or how his hand flexes as he stares at your phone.

“If he keeps harassing you, tell someone.” At the way he speaks, you almost fear for your ex.

“I…don’t know if I’d call it harassment. He’s just an idiot.”

Jason looks you in the eye. “That’s not an excuse.” His gaze is sharp. You look away, something burning in your chest.

Quiet settles in the space between you.

“Feels like you’re judging me,” you murmur.

“I’m not judging you,” he says gently. “Why would I judge you?”

“I don’t know, just…for being with someone like that.”

It takes him some time to respond.

“People change.”

“And what if I told you he was always like that?”

“I still wouldn’t judge you.” This time, his reply is immediate.

“Maybe you should. I was with him for three years.”

“Why?” He asks, but it’s not critical; it’s curious.

“We were friends for a while first. I guess I was kind of a late bloomer if you wanna call it that. Never got much attention from…whatever.” The alcohol’s lingering effects weigh heavy on your tongue, making all your admissions come too easily. “Then one day, that changed. He was the first guy who asked me out. Claimed he’d ‘always had a crush on me’. Guess I got excited, or something. I was so high on the feeling of being…wanted. Never noticed how selfish he actually was.”

“What did he do?”

“It was subtle. He wasn’t the only one who started noticing me; I started getting approached more. But it felt worse, almost. ‘Cause it’s like…I don’t know…I didn’t even change anything.” You hug your knees closer to your chest. “But then all of a sudden I was getting all this attention. And I didn’t know why, and he was like, ‘you really don’t know? You got super hot over the summer.’”

You hear Jason wince next to you. You tilt your head back and take a deep breath, filling your lungs with fresh air when all the remembering brings a familiar pressure to your chest.

“And I know it was supposed to be a compliment,” you continue, feeling yourself sobering at the memory. “Every time it happened, I would tell him about it, thinking we could laugh, but then he’d say some shit like, ‘Well they only like you now. I was the only one who liked you even before.”

“So, until now, you…lived with him?” Jason’s eyes are on the side of your face, you can feel it, but you don’t dare to look at him.

“Yeah. Moved in together after graduation with a lease in his name ‘cause I didn��t know any better.” You chuckle self-deprecatingly. “Found out in the spring that he’d been cheating on me for months, so I moved out. Been moving between friends’ couches ever since.”

A bout of heat runs through your veins as the gravity of everything you’ve told him settles in. You breathe out a long sigh, keeping your eyes trained on the sky above. There are no stars in Gotham, not since the sudden boom in factories and highways and airborne bio-weapons, and the moon is barely visible, waxing on the edge of a new moon. The sky is an endless expanse of gray.

“What about you? Don’t make me the only naked one here.”

The blinking light of an airplane catches your attention, and you track it across the sky. The alcohol has slowed your cognition; it’s nearly a full minute before you realize Jason hasn’t responded. You finally look at him—his lips are parted, eyes narrowed.

You frown. “What?”

“…Naked?” He asks.

“Yeah.” You shrug. “Never heard that before? It doesn’t mean naked naked. It means, like…naked.”

His face remains blank.

“C’mon, Jason, I have no interest in seeing you naked naked.” You look him up and down with distaste, hoping to support your statement, but get caught—again—on his arms. But who can blame you? You’re drunk, and lonely, and his sleeves are hugging his biceps like that, and they look big enough to crush your head.

When your eyes find his again, his jaw is tensed.

You dart to your feet, too quick to help your dizziness and burning with embarrassment.

“Whatever, can we go?”

“Please,” he says, and leads you down the street.

You stumble, tripping over your own feet as you walk and almost crashing into him. Jason huffs and reaches out to wrap his hand around your upper arm. His grip is firm, but not painful, and it holds you upright for the remainder of the walk. In the back of your mind, you wonder if he’s holding up your entire body weight in one hand.

“Wait a second–wait.” You freeze in the middle of the sidewalk, and he jerks to a stop. “That thing? ‘M not gettin’ on that.” You swallow back the lump forming in your throat as you stare at the massive motorcycle parked at the side door.

“Why not?” You can tell he’s getting antsy now, having to look after you like a babysitter, but not even the fear of being a burden can outweigh the uneasiness that comes from…that.

You take a step back. “That’s—you know how dangerous those things are?”

He looks to the sky, taking a deep breath. “Only if you don’t know how to drive them. I do.”

“Look, I get it, you got that whole thing goin’ on, with the bike, and the leather, and the big muscles—” His eyes widen a bit at that last part. “—But do you know what the chances are of being injured when you’re in a motorcycle accident? Do you, Jason? Ei—”

“Eighty-two percent,” he cuts in.

You jerk back, narrowing your eyes. “How’d you know that?”

He scoffs. “How did I know that? You don’t even have a motorcycle!”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do,” he snaps. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be throwing a fit right now. So please, just get on the bike so I can take you home.” Jason shoves the helmet out to you, his expression fiery and pleading in a way you’ve never seen before. Still, you hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip and looking between him and the helmet.

Your eyes meet, and he sighs. “I’ll drive slowly.” He speaks softer, and somehow, it settles some of your nerves.

You take a deep breath and take the helmet, sliding it over your head. Jason tightens the strap below your chin, and his fingers brush against your neck. You feel dizzy again, your eyelids drooping with sleepiness. With him standing so close, you can smell the cologne wafting from him, layered on top of something deeper; a mixture of fresh soap and natural musk.

“You smell good,” you murmur.

He snaps your visor shut.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you say, though it’s muffled through the helmet, so you nod.

Once you’re both on the bike, you wrap your arms around his waist, squeezing tightly for fear of falling off. You feel his body vibrate as he says something, but you’re too tired to worry about what it is.

He revs up the bike and takes off, circling back to the front of the building and merging onto the main road. And yeah, he’s not going that fast, but it’s fast enough to leave your stomach a few feet behind. You cling to Jason, pressing yourself impossibly tighter to him.

Your eyes are closed the whole way, but the cold wind blowing against you feels nice on your skin. You’re so lost in the hum of the engine sending relaxing vibrations through you, how soft Jason feels, and the helmet drowning out the sounds of Gotham traffic that you don’t even notice when he stops in front of your friend’s building and takes off his helmet. When the light taps to your knee don’t work, he squeezes your leg with a stern call of your name. You jump in surprise, knocked out of your reverie, but pry yourself off of his back.

He gets off first, holds his arm out to offer stability as you clamber off, then undoes your helmet. By now, you’ve sobered up considerably, but you still lack just enough of your senses to stand on your toes and throw your arms around his neck. It’s a split-second embrace, so quick that you barely catch the fresh earthiness of his scent before pulling away. You swear the air feels heavier on your lower back, warmth bleeding through fabric where a hesitant touch hovers, but when you step back his arms are firmly at his sides.

Looking up at him, the tips of his ears are dusted with pink, and his eyelashes flutter in a gust of summer wind.

“Thanks for putting up with me,” You mumble through a drowsy grin. “‘Specially after I fumbled you that badly.”

Jason blushes harder. “Get some rest,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “And call your friend,” he calls as you climb the steps. You wave goodbye, and he just nods, waiting until you get through the door to mount his bike again.

He’s just about to kick it into gear when he pauses. He stares at the door for several seconds, fighting with himself, before groaning out a string of curses, pulling out his phone, and searching up Tyler Street.

divider

there are so many notes bc this was so long omg. it ended up being longer than i anticipated so i split it into 2 parts don't hate me🫥

omg...the birth of an au...i still can't believe so many people liked the first part, this is a prequel for how they met. ty for reading my writing🤭i looove writing iceberg lounge jason!! part 2 of this fic and more parts coming soon!!!

so uh...maybe i'm going crazy but i could've sworn that wayne animal sanctuary was a canon thing when i started this, but then i tried to look it up and couldn't find anything :/ but then i included it anyway bc i'm The Author and i can do whatever i want!

the metamorphosis shirt is based on this "working bug" design that i ❤️ (i have the sticker!).

the motorcycle accident stats were for 2013-2017 from the new jersey division of highway traffic and safety website- basically if you were in a motorcycle accident in those years you had an 82% chance of sustaining injuries from it. wasn't sure if it was clear😬

742 notes · View notes

aizawaondrugs · 8 months ago

Text

Okay, it's a really popular trope that Danny gets rid of Jason's pit madness by cleansing the nasty ecto in him BUT!

Neverborn babies are created by two ghosts mixing their ecto together. (or maybe this is just fanon? idk, it's a crossover anyway🙌)

So I raise y'all:

Jason isn't contaminated by the pits and his ecto isn't nasty because of them. He's just really fucking traumatized and the Pit Rage part of him is literally his fucked up emotional state marinating in his ecto. There's actually no Pit Rage, he's just super fucking emotional and super fucking traumatized and mentally unstable, though he's working on that.

Danny? Poor, Danny "I want to help!" Fenton? Should've taken him to Frostbite but managed to mix his ecto into Jason's to try and cleanse the "contamination" out of it instead. Like an idiot.

Jason? He's... ghost pregnant and weirdly okay with it. He likes kids, there are no actual pregnancy symptoms to fuck up his mood. He's actually much happier now that he has something to look forward to! Frostbite said that taking care of his mental and emotional health will take care of the Pit Rage so that's also covered. Danny is sleeping on his couch. He has his own place but Jason thinks he deserves to sleep on the couch and he can and will enforce it.

Danny? Total and utter panic. He's a dad! Again if Ellie counts! What the fuck he doesn't know anything about kids or normal people things! Will the kid be full ghost because he had unknowing ghost sex with the hot revenant? Or maybe a halfa because they're both at least half alive? Is there a precedent for this?! Clockwork? CLOCKWORK HELP HIM!

Jazz? Sooooooo angry at her stupid fucking little brother. Of all the irresponsible, dumb shit he could've done this wasn't something she ever imagined! He truly outdone himself. All he needed to do was take the revenant to the Far Frozen to be treated! And what did Danny do? HE KNOCKED HIM UP! For someone so smart her little brother truly is fucking stupid!

Ellie? She's very excited! Danny and her might've mutually agreed to be cousins/siblings but that didn't mean he wasn't a better father to her than Vlad. It never was a high bar to clear but still. Baby sibling!

The Fentons? Oblivious. But when they find out? Ancients help them all.

The rest of the batfam? Also oblivious but something just isn't right with Jason. They will find out what. And when they do? Complete and utter chaos. Alfred is mildly disappointed, Bruce shut down because grandbaby and the rest are menaces. Duke is offering his services as superpowered babysitter for the superpowered baby lol

Frostbite? Shaking his head. He knew the Great One was impulsive in his youth, never really having time to truly think through his actions in those early days but he thought Danny grew out of it. Apparently, he didn't. Volunteered to be Jason's primary doctor.

(Vlad? In ghost prison lol)

1K notes · View notes

sttoru · 2 years ago

Note

toji making suggestive comments towards reader infront of newborn megumi, then reader getting mad at him telling him to never do it again 😭😭

⟣ tags. dad!toji x female reader. fluff + suggestive themes. reader gets called ‘mama’.

“don’t start.”

you knew it — just by taking one glance at your husband from your seat at the couch — you knew toji was up to no good. his hands in the pockets of his shorts, eyes half lidded whilst checking you out and the corner of his lip curled up into a menacing grin; he was seconds away from making inappropriate comments about you, to you.

“ain’t said nothin’ yet.” toji shrugs, smirk still in place. he sits down next to you on the couch and looks down at the baby who was curled up on your chest.

it was an adorable picture; to see the mother of his child being so nurturing and caring, so loving and content. it was an every day sight, yet those mundane moments intensified the urge to take you to the bedroom and shower you with his. . . affection.

megumi babbles something in the meantime, his saliva creating a wet spot on your shirt — which you don’t mind since you’ve gotten used to it, “what is it, ‘gumi? hmm? cutie.”

you giggle and tickle your little son gently. your focus was entirely on him instead of toji, who had already snuck an arm around your waist by the time you realised the proximity. his breath tickled your ear;

“you look so fuckin’ sexy right now, mama.”

you gasp in response. not at the seductive and flirtatious words your husband had whispered, but rather at the fact that he cussed in front of megumi. you made it a household rule — to try and swear less in front of your child. and yet there toji goes, breaking that rule a week after its made.

“toji. what’d i say about cussing in front of your child?” you warn with a glare, but that does nothing more than turn toji on more. he loved it when you bossed him around or had an attitude.

megumi’s babbles and coos had died down eventually. he was more engrossed by the way his parents were interacting in front of him. you didn’t seem as ‘happy’ with toji’s words, however, and that made the emergency alarms in the little baby’s head go off;

“bwah! bwah!” megumi’s smacks toji’s thigh with his tiny hand. the impact wasn’t rough, but the sound of the slap on toji’s bare skin sure made it seem like it was.

you grin as megumi comes to your ‘rescue’. the small slaps didn’t seem to stop until toji gave up and defeatedly redrew from you—scooting just a few inches away from his son and wife.

“got what you deserved.” you lightheartedly comment to your husband. megumi didn’t seem to stop there; the kid sticks his tongue out towards his father’s direction for a split second—rubbing salt into the wound.

“watch it, megumi. i’ll fight ya if it means i get y’r mommy’s attention.” the dark-haired man jokes with a smirk tugging at his lips, his fist gently and carefully making contact with megumi’s chubby cheek. the little boy huffs and instantly tries to nibble onto toji’s knuckles, which was incredibly adorable.

“oh-ho? seems like i finally have an opponent worth fighting. .” toji comments before lifting his hands up in the air, fingers bent at the knuckles, teeth bared — re-enacting a scary monster creature of some kind,

you watch the two with amusement; megumi wasn’t backing down at all and was flailing his arms in the air as toji slowly approaches him again, making tiny noises in protest. your husband was also making some noises, though less. . . cute. his were more growling like—it showed the dedication to his role, at least.

“got’cha! c’mere,” toji grins as he suddenly grabs and lifts megumi up in the air; putting him in air-jail as he likes to call it. the baby kicks and squeals, trying its best to get out, “now—are ya gonna let me show mama some affection or should we do this the hard way?”

megumi protests once more like he actually knows what was said to him and kicks his legs frantically, causing both toji and you to laugh at your baby’s antics.

you sat back and watch the two go back and forth like that for a good while, enjoying the moment. you felt all giddy seeing them interact and wanted nothing more than to kiss and cuddle with both.

and of course, you wished that precious moments like these would never come to an end any tjme soon.

#ෆ : parenting 101.#jjk x reader #toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk fic #toji x you #jjk x you #jjk fluff #toji fluff

7K notes · View notes

endless-ineffabilities · 5 months ago

Text

casual*

a.k.a. your one-night stand with modern Aemond Targaryen

*18+ minors dnfi

main masterlist

The intimidatingly handsome-as-hell guy sitting all by his lonesome at the bar seems to be on the same wavelength as you.

His gaze has been oscillating between the rim of his pint and you. Your face, your hands, and yes—you're sure you saw it—your ass, too. You squirm in your place, several seats away, but not because his attention's unwanted. These fucking bar stools are just so damn slippery that you feel like your smooth jeans would slide right off, and you would embarrass yourself in front of blondie. Though, his hair veers closer to Santa's snowy beard than Rapunzel's gold locks. How unusual. How strangely attractive.

Silver hair coiffed neatly above his perfect, angular face, those naturally pouted lips, and those eyes—wait—that eye. One seemed to be a prosthetic, but it doesn't diminish his aura. Not even a little. The fucked up voice in your head might even think that it makes him look hotter. More dangerous.

Straight to the depths of hell it is for you.

He throws a shit-eating smirk your way when your eyes meet again, right before taking another swig of his frothy drink. But he doesn't look away this time, holding your gaze as his glass tilts in the air and inevitably finds its way back on the bar's surface.

Oh, he knows he's attractive. Worse, he knows that you know it.

Heat unfurls in your belly from all the eye-fucking, the tension, and from the very real possibility that your own fingers will not be your only source of pleasure for the night, as trusted as they are.

Too bad you just downed the contents of your drink. Or not, because it seems to signal the first switch of the night. Blondie gestures to the bartender, then to you, and before you know it, another one of your drinks materialises in front of you.

"Courtesy of that guy over there, miss."

"Oh. Thank you."

That guy over there, who is no longer over there, takes that as his cue to finally approach you.

"Hi."

"Hello." He sits on the stool next to you, inching it closer as he settles down. He's even prettier up close, damn him. His hair looks like spun threads of silk. His dark blue sweater, his snug black jeans, his lips which are tugging at the corners to form a sheepish smile. "Please don't hate me for this, but I'm about to throw you a line."

You swallow. He can throw you just about whatever he wants, and that's not just the alcohol talking. "Oh?" you half-shrug your fluster away. "I expected as much. Let's hear it."

"Hmm." He glances down, showcasing his remarkably long eyelashes, then back up at you. With his head tilted, he looks slightly menacing, but in a good way. Like he wants to eat you.

Your coworker is about to receive a luxurious gift basket for recommending this bar to you.

His line then goes, "I find it hard to believe that someone as goddamn beautiful as you would be sitting all alone in this bar tonight." His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, then released. "But maybe I should be grateful, because this would mean that you're perhaps single?"

You have to hand it to him. That line would normally be at the same level of poetry as a middle-aged dad's Facebook rant, but from him? From his lips, and with that smooth accent? A fucking Shakespearean sonnet.

Already prematurely swept off your feet, you know you have to up your game. "I'm married actually. Husband's on a business trip. Again. My three kids, bless their hearts, stress the hell out of me so I left them with the nanny and went straight here."

His mouth parts slightly, his brows furrowing. You wink at him and add, "Glad I did."

You watch as his mind whirs, as his eye darts to your obviously bare ring finger. For a smooth talker, he sure takes a moment longer than necessary to keep up with your humour, or maybe you're just that good of a performer.

"You're killing me here, beautiful."

"That's what you deserve for that line. Did you take that right out of your playboy handbook?" you say, laughing softly.

"Excuse me, miss, but I own no handbook of any sort," he responds in a stern manner, but his smirk betrays him. "And you might not believe me, but I don't do this often. I mean, I don't really do this at all."

"What, is that another line? You're on a roll, handsome."

"I mean it. I don't make a habit of approaching pretty girls at bars."

"Why, because they just flock right to you?"

He raises his palms in mock surrender. "Hey, you said it. Not me."

There is a beat of silence as you watch each other, both trying to gauge the stranger sitting close. You decide that he might be more than just a pretty face. He smells immaculate, too.

And, more importantly, he seems kind. You pride yourself in having a knack for these things. Though you hope that knack isn't deliberately fooling you because you want him to get into your pants.

He's the one to break the silence and start the flirtatious interrogation that normally happens before getting right down to business. "So, when you're not busy with your three precious kids—" he says, prompting an eye roll from you. "—what do you get up to? Are you from around here? Do you frequent this bar?"

"Woah. One question at a time."

He leans forward on the counter, until his hand brushes against your forearm. "Just one more question before you begin, and brace yourself, because this is the most important one."

You find it easy to laugh in his company, so you do. "Okay, give it to me."

"Are you sure you can handle it, babe?"

No. Not when he's calling you babe. "Try me."

"What's your favourite colour?"

You learn that his name is Aemond. He's twenty-nine years old, born and raised in London before moving to New York to become the head of the American branch of his father's company. He has two older sisters, one older brother and one younger. His favourite colour is green. He's an Aries. He likes both classic rock and classical music.

And he's a fucking phenomenal kisser.

You spent another hour chatting each other up at the bar, which didn't feel like an hour at all. You could talk to him about practically anything, and you would have, until you both decided that it was time to let your bodies do the talking.

It only took 10 minutes for him to drive you back to his fancy apartment, but that didn't stop him from groaning and mumbling fuck's sake under his breath at each encountered red light.

"Patience," you giggled lightly, but then he turned his lust-clouded gaze to you, and you immediately were on the same page, cursing at stoplights in your mind.

With your back pressed against his bedroom wall, he kisses you with a frenzied hunger that you're sure you have never experienced with any lover. He lifts you up, and you cross your ankles around his waist. Biting his lip, he slowly undoes the buttons of your blouse, marvelling at your exposed chest. You twist an arm behind to unclasp your bra and it falls to the floor.

After a sharp intake of breath, he lowers himself and sucks at your nipple, his tongue padding at your stiffened peak. Your neck cranes upward at the hot sensation, and you grip his locks, and moan, "Fuck yeah, keep going."

He nips and bites at your breasts, leaving a glistening trail of saliva in his wake. "Your tits are so fucking perfect," he praises. "You're perfect."

"Mhmm, yeah," you mewl, reaching for his face. "Come here."

His hand slides to the back of your neck to tilt your head just right, then his mouth is on yours once more. It's unfair, really, how good he is at it, every flick of his tongue intensifying your desire for him.

You let out a wanton, wanting moan when he pulls back suddenly. He smugly chuckles at the sound, and how you instinctively follow his movement, craving more.

Your legs drop from his waist, and you barely catch your balance, breathless and disoriented. "What—" you start, confused, but Aemond steps back just enough to fix you with a searing look.

"Jeans off, baby," he demands. Like he even had to ask. He tilts his head, that insolent smirk playing on his lips again. "Underwear, too. C'mon, now."

Your hands move on their own, fumbling with the button and zipper before pushing the denim down your legs and kicking them to the side. You're grateful you had opted out of wearing skinny jeans, which you would have had to unsexily wiggle out of. You hook your thumbs into your underwear and slide those down too. The air is cool against your naked body, making you shiver slightly, but Aemond's gaze—burning, all-consuming—keeps you rooted to the spot.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his tone dropping into something almost reverent. He drops to his knees in one smooth motion, and the sight alone nearly does you in—this ethereal, sharp-tongued stranger kneeling before you like he's a pilgrim who finally reached a shrine. His hands find your hips as he guides you to balance one leg over his shoulder.

You barely have time to process before his mouth is on your leaking cunt. He doesn't start slow, doesn't give you a chance to ease into the sensation. His tongue is hot and insistent, dragging over your folds with a precision that has your knees buckling almost immediately.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hands flying to his hair for something to hold onto. He holds you steady as he works you over like he's determined to make you unravel completely. And you don't doubt that he will.

The flat of his tongue drags up, circling your most sensitive spot before his lips close around it, sucking lightly. Your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, a broken moan slipping from your lips as your free leg trembles beneath you.

You can feel the heat pooling low in your stomach, spreading outward like wildfire. His free hand slides up your inner thigh, his fingers pressing into the flesh there, holding you open for him as he works you over like it's his favourite thing to do. Like there’s nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing than ruining you right here, right now.

"Aemond", you gasp, his name falling from your lips unbidden. He groans at the sound, his tongue doubling down, faster, harder, dragging you closer to the edge. You try to fight it—try to hold onto the last scraps of control you have—but he shifts his angle, his nose brushing against your core, and the whole world tips sideways. The coil snaps, and your orgasm crashes out of you. Your body locks up, your pelvis shaking uncontrollably as you cry out, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Aemond doesn't pull away, his tongue easing you through it with slower, lazier strokes.

When you finally slump back against the wall, boneless and dazed, he leans back just enough to look up at you, his face glistening from his nose down to his chin. You're almost certain that you have never seen anything more sensual in your life. He licks his lips, and your eyes automatically follow the path of his tongue—the culprit of your sweet, little death.

"You taste as exquisite as you look," he says.

You know he deserves the sloppiest, most soul-sucking head after what he just put you through, so it's the easiest decision you have ever made to give him just that. Nothing more, nothing less. And anyway, it's for your pleasure too.

You don't relent until his warm, salty cum spills on your tongue, most of it sliding down your throat and the rest shooting out to cover the lower half of your face in milky streams.

The two of you laugh together when his leg gets caught in his trousers as he stumbles out of the rest of his clothes, making him land on his arse at the edge of his bed. The sound rings pleasantly in your ears, and you find yourself needing to hear it more often.

No. You know what this is. If all goes well, then you'll have the memory of this great night to keep.

But Aemond himself is not yours to keep.

Your face must have fallen, because he reaches an arm, coaxing you to him. "Hey. What's going on in that head of yours, love?"

"Nothing," you shake your head, closing the distance between you. He anchors his fingers at your hips and presses a kiss on your lower belly. Everything seems to pause for a moment. You both keep still as he rests his forehead against your stomach, and your fingers gently thread through his hair, massaging his scalp.

"I feel like I've known you for a long time," he murmurs, and you wish you could hate him for not making this easy.

"Is that another—"

"Not a line. I mean every word."

He rises slowly, his hands brushing the curves of your body with an aching tenderness that seems out of place for a night like this. He lays you onto the bed, then reaches in his nightstand drawer for a condom.

You nearly cry out in pleasure when his length first enters you fully, the sensation of him almost too much to bear. His face is lowered so his cheek is touching yours, and you hear every little moan that escapes him as he finds his rhythm. His thrusts are measured, not rushed or frantic. And it feels so damn good.

Aemond talks well, but he fucks even better.

"Faster," you plead.

He pauses and smiles, his lips ghosting over yours. "I'm taking my time, love. I wanna savour you."

His hips roll forward again, his cock sinking into you inch by maddening inch. "Don't wanna lose you, baby," he groans.

Oh, he is not playing fair.

Your hips soon rise instinctively, meeting his slow, deliberate thrusts, the need for more of him pulsing through every inch of you. He notices, his lips curling into a smug smirk.

"Okay, then," he says smoothly. "I'm going to fuck you as hard as I can now. You ready for me, love?"

Your breath catches, your body already trembling beneath him, and all you can do is nod, eyes widening in wonder at his promise.

"Answer me. I need to hear it," he commands.

"Oh, Aemond," you breathe, "what do you think I'm here for?"

His smirk falters for just a second, replaced by something darker. He lets out a low, throaty chuckle, his fingers digging into you. "Careful, love," he warns. "You’re about to find out."

Without another word, he abandons his restraint, and he claims you with a force that leaves you gasping, your spine arching as he delivers on his word. His hips snap against your pelvis, his body practically vibrating over you. He's relentless, just as you wanted, and he has to grip you tightly so he doesn't propel you upward into the headboard.

You feel his lips graze the shell of your ear before biting down, his breath ragged as he pounds his cock into your pussy with a heightened desperation that drags a moan from your throat. "Say you're mine, baby," he actually whimpers. "Say I'm the only one who gets to fuck you like this."

You would tell him anything he wanted. But he doesn't even have to ask for this one, because you wish so badly for it to be the truth. "I'm yours. Only you—aghhh—can fuck me as good as this—uhhhh yeah—Aemond."

He flashes you a boyish grin, and he looks so pure you have to take a mental image of the sight. Lips pulled back to reveal a perfect set of teeth, a sheen of sweat forming by his hairline as he keeps bucking his hips at a breakneck pace, hair unkempt and falling in front of his forehead.

You lose yourselves in each other, your sharp breaths falling in sync.

As before, he latches his mouth wetly over your breast, and you arch into him. His hand slips between your bodies, his fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing it in tight, merciless circles that make you scream, "Oh, Aemond!" into the air.

"You like that?"

"Fuck yes."

"You gonna come for me, beautiful?"

Aemond sure has a habit of asking for things that are already guaranteed for him, polite boy that he is.

It doesn't take long before he spills inside you, his body shuddering with the release. The feeling of his cock convulsing deep in your pussy sends a wave of pleasure crashing through you, and you follow him, your walls clenching around him as your own climax hits hard.

He collapses next to you, the weight of the moment settling in as the room grows still. His forehead rests against yours, and there's nothing but the sound of your shared breathing, a calm after the storm.

"Fuck," he breathes, sheer satisfaction audible from his voice. "That was…"

"Yeah. It was..."

"Yeah."

Months pass before you see Aemond again. When you do, it's in another, more crowded bar—a place packed with patrons and full of noise—but his eyes find you immediately. This time, he makes sure to take your number. No disappearing act in the morning, no hasty exit on your part while he sleeps because you're running late to work. He'll be damned if he lets you slip away again.

You both fall into something deeper over time, and three years down the line, you stand in front of family and friends, exchanging vows.

Decades pass, and when your grandkids curiously ask how you two met, Aemond would smile, eyes softening with the memory.

He would say, a quiet laugh escaping him, "I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. Shame it took us a few months for our forever to begin."

Vhagar taglist 1 — @kravitzwhore @litchifaerie @g-cf2020 @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @noxytopy @fan-goddess @m00n5t0n3 @diannnnsss @nsr-15 @the-awkward-barbie @rockstwrsz @yellowstonebaby @urdeftonesgrrrl @eddieslut69 @callsigncrushx @starwarsdinosaur @qweq-6802 @tulips2715 @joyismm @just-mj-or-not @crystal-siren @all-for-aemond @alokaaaaa @vhwyrm @purpleskiesandroses @technicallystrangereview @jjkysnk @inesdiary96 @weirdblob21 @lonelyladyghost @tssf-imagines @nurtargaryen @paula-lkr @queenofshinigamis @breezyjin @empfm @amanda08319 @unrealwinchester @optimizche @seamaiden @spoffyos @subliiminals @believeinthefireflies95 @ex0tic-vgh @anukulee @peachysunrize (cont. ...)

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut #hotd #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader

555 notes · View notes

ayrtonswnna · 5 months ago

Note

hello there!

Can I request a Franco x reader? But where Ayrton Senna is alive in this universe and the reader is Senna? If not, then fine. It's up to you. Thanks in advance 😊😊

ʚɞ a/n: that is my moment!!!!!!!! i often imagine how would it be to have ayrton in contemporary scenarios it's unhealthy lol. i really think he'd be full of jokes and a fun guy just like he was off track. thanks for the request, it was a real nice one to write! (and if anyone has any senna request, i'll be more tham happy to take it! (i'm even willing to write stuff with senna himself))

ʚïɞ "you got me good" FC43

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀↳ masterlist ↳ drop a request! ↳ more franco fluff!

✧₊⁺ franco colapinto x cecília senna (senna!female oc)

✧₊⁺ word count: 1,6k⠀⠀⠀⠀✧₊⁺, gender: crack, fluff.

✧₊⁺ summary: franco and cecília kept a secret relationship and when they decide to come clean, her father was ahead of it and he's a total menace.

✧₊⁺ warnings: alternative universe where that may 1th 1994 didn't happen and ayrton grew old like he deserved to, my hyper focus on that man shown in references, a bit of portuguese properly translated, kinda short and poorly contextualized, curse words, franco is a baby, just soft and light content for the win.

"What do you mean he doesn't know about it?"

Franco took a deep breath, massaging his own scalp as his friend and co-worker continued talking, a mix of excitement and judgment in his words.

"You are not making this any better," he mouthed.

"You are dating his daughter! You are da-ting. The man's daughter. Like... The man's daughter. The hell haven't you met her family!?"

"I am scared, okay!? If I get rejected by her family... It's not just my girlfriend's family. It's simply Senna himself! Should I what!? Drop the job? Hide in a cave?"

Alex laughed, the words and the tone easing the tension. The guy was worried to death and things might be simpler than he thought. Everyone knew Senna was a fun person.

Dating Cecília Senna felt almost like marrying into royalty. It's a good feeling, though. Bagging Cecília Senna could easily be added to one of Franco's big achievements — and he's a former F2 driver called in last minute to fill a Formula One seat — and he's doing great.

But still, it's Cecília Senna, the only child of a legend, someone he looked up to growing up, someone he saw in the paddock many times before ending up in his daughter's sheets.

"Hello, everyone!"

God, his heart might have dropped to the floor just now. The retired driver walked into the garage happily, with his daughter attached to his arm and waving familiarly.

Everyone gathered around them immediately, though Cecília's eyes instantly met Franco's. She knew he was scared and had made fun of him until she couldn't anymore, teasing him in every way she could.

"I've heard the news on the Argentinian! You guys are lucky you got away easily!"

Alright, it's time to pray. What news? That he's fucking his daughter? That they meet every week? That she wanted a Williams' box pass so badly just because of him? Or... That they hid it from everyone just to gain a bit more time?

"We got quality, mate! That's it." Vowels took his cue to fill in the blank, the people dispersing and going back to their work. "Found the kid sparring and made him a beast."

"Yeah, of course," the Brazilian laughed. "What's up, buddy! Feeling the pressure?"

Franco mentally cursed Cecília for raising her eyebrows and doubling the meaning of the question, but he managed to stand up and dry his sweaty hands on his pants.

"I try not to, honestly. Not... think about it a lot," he said, feeling he could have worded the sentence a bit better as they shook hands.

"That's the spirit! I heard a lot about you, little man. Do you know my daughter? Cecília?"

Tricky question. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Tricky question.

If he had heard about it, then he knew about them. Franco could say "yes" and end up with a lecture, or say "no" and be caught in a lie.

"You guys think you are smart, huh? Fooling around, hiding from cameras..."

Oh, it's over. It's over for him. The "drop the job and hide in a cave" plan was almost running in his veins right now. Maybe he should Sebastian Vettel his way around, retire early, and move to a countryside home in Switzerland. Yes, that's a good plan.

"Pai... Para com isso." Cecília shoved her dad's side, rolling her eyes. (Dad... Stop that.)

"What? You guys thought you got away with it?"

"Pai! Ele tá ficando sem graça!" she insisted. (Dad! He's getting uncomfortable!)

Franco thought of speaking up, but the nerves were all up and maybe he should let it be.

"Yeah! He should!" Ayrton still had a serious look on his face, making Franco shiver.

"Pai, sério." (Dad, I'm serious.)

"Sir, I know it—"

"Come on, Franquinho! I'm fooling around, take that scared look off your face!" In a matter of seconds, Ayrton's grin turned into a playful smile, and his arm was hooked over Franco's shoulder, messing up his hair and leaving him even more confused. "Did I scare you? You should have seen your eyes!"

Franco laughed, still a bit dulled. That was a big one.

"You're a bastard," Cecília rolled her eyes once again, aware of the father she had.

The man was a natural jokester, full of little jokes and loved making uncomfortable scenarios in the name of fun. He was a handful.

"And you guys should have told me about this before! You lost it all, Franquinho. Angra, the travels... You need to be introduced to the family!"

He had heard about Angra; the beach house Cecília went to every now and then, how much she and her father loved the place. He even saw an old interview where Ayrton said that his retirement plans included being "Angra's nature inspector."

"Yeah- Yeah, sim." Franco risked some Portuguese, patting Ayrton on the back before they both stepped apart. "Sorry for... for taking too long to meet you, I was- Damn, you got me good."

"I could see!" Senna didn't waste a single laugh. "Don't worry, little boy. You're a good investment. And Cecília is pretty happy, so... you got my support."

"I'm even happier to hear it." Franco chuckled. "Thank you, very much. Your daughter also makes me really happy."

"Of course! Her bad jokes make everyone laugh." Ayrton kept the teasing going. "Now you better show me some racing! I've been in your place and to keep the daughter you need to be as good as dad!"

"You should have seen your face, baby!"

Franco glanced at his girlfriend as he turned his head, their first alone time since the morning's humiliation session.

"I don't wanna talk about it," he mouthed, shirt off and focus switching. "That was traumatizing."

"I told you he's a clown." Her shoulders went up a bit. "But he wasn't lying at the end! He likes you!"

"I got that part. Now I know where you got that dark humor from." The blue-eyed boy stood in the middle of his room, hands on his waist as he let his girlfriend use her eyes.

"What can I say? I am my father's daughter." She smiled mischievously. "He wants you to spend some time, though. Before Vegas, maybe?"

"I could've Max Verstappen my way around and have stayed for the week... But we waited until your dad could scare me to death in the middle of the box so... Yeah, it can be next week." He started simple, voice steady.

But then Cecília approached and her hands liked to touch. All over his torso while she traced a good way for his hair.

"You ain't seen nothing yet." The smile was still on her face, lips coming closer and closer to his. "But I am really happy, you know? Now we can just be and enjoy some time... I can take you to Angra, and I don't need to hide in your driver's room. I was done with pretending I was investing in Williams just so I had a reason to watch the races here."

"Told you about it... You could afford my seat."

Another joke. Ever since he got into F1 as an emergency call, she did say she only had to call her dad and his 2025 seat would be secured.

"You're gonna get it because you deserve it, I am not affording that." She flashed her eyelashes, rimming a single syllable as his hands also started to travel.

Inside her expensive shirt, up and down her back in good pressure before they found room at her waist.

"You know what else I deserve?"

"You freak! Go shower and I'll be waiting for you outside. My dad is around!"

It took them no time. Within weeks, Ayrton and Franco became partners in crime, and suddenly, Cecília was having a taste of her own medicine.

"Turn it off! Now!" Ayrton whispered in a screaming tone, the last signal Franco needed before turning off the power for the whole house.

Cecília had just come back from the beach and Franco finally knew the Angra house. It was dark, and the prank was not very well planned.

"Porra." (Shit.) they heard the Brazilian swearing. "Que inferno, de novo? PAAAAI?" (What the hell, again? DAAAAD?)

He knew some words in Portuguese and it only made it funnier. Him and his father-in-law were hiding in the small laundry room as Cecília searched for them.

"Ready, kid?"

"No, but I'll do it anyways."

"Good kid. You're a great one." The old man, as a new custom, messed with the Argentinian's hair, before opening the door and waiting for him to leave.

"Eu juro, se vocês estiverem armando pra cima de mim eu— Ah— FRANCO! NO!" (I swear, if you guys are planning something against me I—)

He's fast even with his limited knowledge about the furniture in the house, walking in the dark before he could lift her and throw her over his shoulder.

It's the fourth time she's thrown in the pool and she just knows it's her father opening the glass door for the exterior area before she's sinking in cold water.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU ALL!" Cecília screamed. "I JUST WASHED MY HAIR! OH MY GOD! PUTTING YOU TWO TOGETHER WAS THE WORST THING I EVER DID!"

"Não reclama, princesinha..." (Don't you complain, little princess...) her father played, now standing besides her boyfriend. "Bate aqui, you passed the test. Welcome to the family." (High five,)

"I hate you guys. Eu odeio vocês, los odio. Whatever. Don't ever talk to me again." Cecília stomped her way out of the pool, walking straight past them.

"Don't get mad, baby... It's just a joke!"

"Well, boy... It's your girlfriend. Go ease her nerves. You're called Colapinto for a reason."

ʚïɞ ayrtonswnna, 2024. check my masterlist or drop a request (: reblogs and feedback are always welcome (:

#lele writes ʚɞ #formula 1 #f1 #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #formula one #imagine #formula one fluff #formula one fluff imagine #franco colapinto fluff #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto #franco colapinto x oc #franco colapinto x reader #senna!oc #franco colapinto x senna!daughter #senna!reader #ayrton senna #williams racing

425 notes · View notes

lynnie-ee · 6 months ago

Text

Day 10; Fight.

╰┈➤"Your boyfriend's goals were very clear; Make you happy, spend time with you and defend you from anyone who dared to insult you in any possible way."

╰►Gender neutral reader, one-shot, 1.9k words. Kinda based on that one tweet that was like "My girl can wear whatever she want cause I can fight."

╰► Characters: Deuce, Jade, Floyd, Epel.

╰►Note: The prompts are based on words I found interesting and then I put them on a roulette to decide when I would write about them, lol. English is not my first language, so please let me know if there are any grammatical mistakes <3. Not proof read, I haven't written in a long time, so I apologise if anything is out of character.

╰►Masterlist / Inktober Masterlist.

⤿

﹙❥﹚Deuce Spade ❜ ˖ ࣪⊹ ִֶָ

He tries his best, most of the time.

Every time he gets jealous or mad at someone else, he has to remind himself that he’s no longer a delinquent. 'Top students don’t engage in fights', he’d say to himself, even though he was well aware he had been in a few arguments with other students ever since he joined Night Raven College, each time promising himself it wouldn’t happen again.

Until it came to something related to you.

It was Halloween, it was supposed to be fun. You wanted to try a different costume this time, and decided to wear a more eccentric outfit, trying to match the extravagance of the other dorms.

You looked really cute, and Deuce was quick to compliment you, taking your hand with an excited demeanour, walking with you towards the Heartslabyul stand to show the rest of your friends your outfit.

He was really happy, as he walked along you, entertained as he listened to you talking about how you went into town and tried in many costumes before choosing that one, when he was able to hear a comment made by another Hearstlabyul student as they walked by.

"Well, they got no magic and no style, huh? Where did they even get that costume, at the kid's section?"

"Repeat what you just said." Deuce was quick to stop his walk, turning towards the student with a frown on his face.

"I said they look terrible." He answered with a defiant demeanour.

"They look perfect, are you out of your mind?" He got closer to the student with a menacing aura, ready to punch him if it was necessary.

"Not really, I've seen better-dressed scarecrows, why are you even letting them go outside like that?"

That was it.

Before you could even stop him, Deuce threw a punch directly at the guy's face, who wasn't even brave enough to defend himself, instead he just stood there holding his now bleeding nose, seemingly out of words now.

"And just so you know, they can dress however they want! And they got their costume at the adult section, don't say such stupid things!" He screamed as you dragged him out of the place, trying to avoid the small crowd that was starting to form due to the sudden commotion.

"Riddle's gonna kill you if he knows about this, you know?" You commented as you both walked to Ramshackle now, deciding to wait a bit before going to Heartslabyul.

"And It'll be worth it! He had no reason to say that kind of thing about you."

"I don't care, really."

"But I do! No one will insult you in front of me without getting what they deserve."

You giggled softly at his attitude, stopping briefly to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Well, thank you, my Prince Charming." You watched as he blushed, timidly holding your hand.

"Whe-whenever you need it, my love!"

⤿

﹙𖧵ֹֺֽ໋໋݊﹚Jade Leech ❜ ˖ ࣪⊹ ִֶָ

He can definitely fight, but it won't be his first option, unless the other person is the one who starts it, which never happens, because, well, he's Jade Leech.

He prefers to use more efficient techniques to make sure people never bother you again, which is why is widely known around school that no one should mess with Ramshackle's Prefect.

So imagine his surprise when, in the middle of one of his shifts, as you were sitting on one of the stools of the bar while waiting for him to be done, he heard a most unfortunate comment.

"Doesn't Azul always bother everyone about how this is a very distinguished place? I wonder who let them in while looking like that, they look like they came here straight out of bed."

As Jade was walking to a different table, he heard two students from Scarabia, making him promptly direct his gaze towards you, sitting by the bar with your headphones, without being aware of the words directed at you. It was Saturday, and you had stayed at his dorm last night, so you had decided to wear something comfy as you waited for your boyfriend. The outfit of the day was one of Jade's hoodies, which had a small embroidery of a mushroom on the front, along with a loose pair of jeans, as you supposed nobody would look at you in the secluded corner you chose to be.

You looked absolutely adorable in his eyes, and he wouldn't stand for malicious comments about you.

"Is everything alright? Are you enjoying your meal?" He asked politely towards the group of Scarabia students, who froze up immediately when Jade appeared out of nowhere, his smile more frightening than usual.

"Ye-yeah, everything is fine."

"I'm glad to hear that, but..." His smile widened as he got closer to the student who made the comment earlier, whispering so only he could hear. "I wonder if you'd be still fine if Professor Crewel knew about how you cheated on his last exam?" An innocent tone could be heard in his voice.

"How-how did you-?"

"This is a very distinguished place, as you know. It'd be inappropriate to allow patrons with such immoral attitudes to be seen in here."

"Let me talk to Azul, you can't-"

"Uh? What was that? I can't do it, you say?" He raised an eyebrow, a curious expression on his face, as he expected an answer from the nervous student, who knew better than to make Jade Leech angry.

"We-were finished either way, right? Thanks for the service, we'll be going!" The other student interrupted, quickly getting up to get ready to leave.

"Ah, I hope you enjoyed your time here." The vicehousewarden bowed politely. "But I hope you're aware that, if you make such inconvenient comments about my partner, I won't let you go as easily." He added with a close-eyed smile that didn't match his words in the slightest, as the students went away as fast as they could.

"Uhm, Jade? Your shift is about to finish, isn't it?" You asked taking your headphones out of your head to speak to your boyfriend more properly, as he placed one of your favourite drinks in front of you, his smile remaining on his face, but this time being softer.

"Yes, my love, just wait a bit more."

⤿

﹙𖧵ֹֺֽ໋໋݊﹚Floyd Leech ❜ ˖ ࣪⊹ ִֶָ

Some days he fights, someday he doesn't care at all, some days he'll let you defend yourself if you want.

Either way, same as Jade, you weren't bothered often. No one would risk enraging the unpredictable Leech twin, and at first, when you started dating, some people wouldn't even look at you at risk of being misunderstood by the Octavinelle second-year.

It was less extreme now, as you've dated him for a while, but there were still some people who preferred to be more cautious around you.

But of course, there'll be always stupid people who'd make rude comments even when Floyd was near.

"Wish me luck, shrimpy!" Your boyfriend looked at you expectant, an excited smile on his face.

"Good luck, Floyd, score some points, okay?" You kissed his cheek softly, giggling when he accommodated the hoodie you were wearing, before going back to the basketball court.

You were in the stands, waiting for the start of a match between Night Raven College and another school which you didn't much about, you just knew that you were supposed to be there to support your boyfriend, and your friends too.

Floyd played better when you were around, and he liked to find you right away in the middle of the crowd, which is why he gave you his hoodie before the match. A hoodie that he likes to wear loose, and considering his height, you wondered if it'd fit you right when he offered it. You were wrong, and now you were sitting while completely drowning in the piece of clothing, making you look a bit out of place. But you didn't care, as long as he was happy.

The match started and everything went smoothly, as Floyd seemed to be on top of his game, scoring points left and right as he watched you cheer on him.

Until a student from the other school spotted you in the middle of the crowd, laughing to himself and then commenting on it with one of his classmates.

"Did you see that one student over there? I wonder if all the students here dress like such a mess, that hoodie is at least four sizes bigger than them."

"Perhaps they didn't even look themselves in the mirror before coming here, how embarrassing."

Floyd frowned as he heard such a comment about you, quickly deciding his strategy. He wouldn't allow words like that to be directed at his little Shrimpy.

"Hey, Floyd, pass it to me- what are you doing?!"

BAM.

The whole gymnasium fell into silence as Floyd threw the ball in the air. The thing was, that instead of being aimed to score a point, it landed on a different place...On the head of the student from the other school.

You could only watch in surprise, as Floyd turned around to show you a thumbs-up, as if he had solved a problem you had no idea about.

"Floyd! What was that?!"

It was a very effective strategy, at least.

⤿

﹙𑁍﹚Epel Felmier ❜ ˖ ࣪⊹ ִֶָ

He'll fight at any opportunity that he gets.

After all, that's what a good boyfriend does, right? Defending you from stupid people it's his number one priority, and he wants to show you that you can depend on him.

It reaches a point in which Vil has to intervene, as it has been a regular thing lately, something the housewarden can't allow. 'Brutes don't belong in Pomefiore', is what he tells Epel one day as he scolds him, reminding him there are more ethical ways to solve things. Now he's on observation; one more fight and he'll be punished by cleaning all the windows of the dorm.

Ever since, he has been doing good, and you help him calm down when some stupid student from another dorm says something mean, telling him they don't know anything about the two of you.

But one day, as you both hang out in the Pomefiore lounge, he hears some second-years speak to each other across the room, as if you two weren't literally a few meters away from them.

"Did you see that atrocious sweater? No matter how you look a it, it doesn't match their jeans at all. Vil should stop letting people with such bad taste enter Pomefiore, don't you think?"

"What did ya say about (Y/n)?!" Epel startled you as he suddenly got up from the sofa you both were, quickly walking towards the other Pomefiore students, who observed him with a superior demeanour.

"We were talking about how badly your partner dresses. You're a Pomefiore student, Epel, you should know better than to let them walk outside with such ugly clothing."

"I gifted them that sweater! Take back your words, you idiot!"

"Even worse, you're absolutely tarnishing Pomefiore's reputation by-"

"And the next I'm gonna tarnish is gonna be your face if ya don't apologise to them, so hurry up, would ya?" Epel interrupted, promptly getting ready for fighting.

"Epel, let's just go to my dorm, okay? If you get into another fight you'll get punished." You tried to talk some common sense into him, considering that Vil would immediately know if there was an argument in his dorm.

"They're insulting you, ain't no way I'll letting 'em get away from that."

"But Vil-"

"I don't give a damn 'bout Vil-"

"What's the meaning of this scandal?!"

Well...You'll help him clean those windows, would you?

⤿

493 notes · View notes

jarvewrites · 3 months ago

Note

hi! I'm sorry for not being specific on my last ask! Could I request genin Gaara developing a crush on genin female reader? Like how would he act and/or adjust to this new feeling?

🏵️

genin!gaara crush headcanons!

hey there 🏵️ anon, glad to see you again! no worries about that, thanks for your request ^ ^

characters : gaara

female!reader

(love this header)

— genin!gaara was a menace and that would be an understatement

— as we all know he had a rough childhood, being isolated from the other kids and getting treated like a monster simply because he was a jinchuriki(my boy didn't deserve this)

—so he grew up into this cold - blooded person, who never showed any signs of kindness or care even towards his own siblings, threatening them and making they obey his very command(as shown during the chunin exams)

— so let's say he met you during the chunin exams, i can see two scenarios. either you pick his interest right way(perhaps some unique looks or out of ordinary behavior) or he doesn't really acknowledge you(common for him)

—his crush would develop slowly, but surely. at first it would simple interest in your abilities, just like with sasuke, or being impressed by lee's skills, that's the first one

—especially if you were good with taijutsu or any other type of jutsu that could easily counter his sand attacks. he would he intrigued to find out how you were gonna fight during the exams

— but it was the kindness blended with courage that intrigued him the most. he saw how you took care of your teammates, wholeheartedly trusted them and never backed down, especially when a much more stronger team tried to take your team down. gaara thought to himself that this was stupid and just annoying

—but soon he thought of you more, which annoyed him that itself resulted into him snapping at temari and kankuro much more easily than before

—i don't think that genin gaara is smooth with small talk, so even if he gets a chance to stir up a conversation, he would say something that almost sounded like a threat

—even if gaara doesn't realize at first, his siblings definitely would notice his subtle change in behavior. temari and kankuro were worried that gaara was just blood - thirsty as ever, so that's why he acted this way

—soon gaara would look at you frequently, though his stares were giving "resting bitch face", it made you feel weirded out especially after knowing his reputation of cruelty

—the idea of having a crush on you wouldn't even cross his mind at first, or at second..

—only when kankuro slightly made fun of the way gaara was that interested in you he thought of this possibility.

—«it looks like our little brother has a crush on someone!» temari looked at kankuro as if he doesn't appreciate his own life. gaara, surprisingly didn't snap this time, he simply hummed in return while his thoughts wandered around his head

—after realizing his crush gaara would try to deny it, but soon it angered him, he stopped believing in love, care or anything remotely like that after his uncle's betrayal

—so he would take it out on you, during the forest round of chunin exams he would say remarks at you, how ninja shouldn't be so trustful with teammates as they just disturb the work.

—in the final round of the exams gaara would approach you, saying how thrilled he is to find out your abilities. you didn't know if that was another threat of his or he is just trying to scare you off with words.

—you know what happens next, orochimaru attacks, sasuke chases gaara, naruto saves him and completely changes his views of this world. only after that gaara starts to change and finally understands your perspective of the world.

—when sasuke leaves, gaara with his siblings help out konoha. after the mission failed gaara came back to the village to apologize to you for acting this way during the exams.

—with white tulips in his hands gaara wanted to make amens with you. kankuro and temari were all near while it happened, you could hear kankuro giggling, saying that «my little brother changed a lot, don't you see?»

—kankuro's words flustered gaara, as he shook his head disagreeing «i still have a long journey to take. once again, forgive me for my past behavior. i hope this would mark new beginnings in our interactions»

—gaara seemed so nervous during this conversation, so when you told him that he can stop worrying about it and that it's all in the past he cracked a little smile

—so even though in the begining gaara never thought of ever feeling love himself and getting a new friend, life had other plans for him!

— by the way, white tulips mean new beginnings and forgiveness. gaara definitely asked temari for an advice on how to apologize to a girl, which surprised her, but she was happy to help.

—«since when he apologizes?» kankuro tilted his head before temari scoffed «have some faith in him! he changed!» «temari, i think he has a crush..»

— after those events you would see gaara on missions the sand or when he would come to konoha for diplomatic reasons as son of the kazekage. those white tulips never disappoint, they did spark a new path in both of your lives!

thanks for reading this far! as always, if you enjoyed the post make sure to like and reblog. thank you for your support, i appreciate it! 🌷

#j☃️#naruto headcanons #naruto imagines #gaara #gaara x reader #sabaku no gaara #gaara headcanons #gaara of the sand

174 notes · View notes

lupinqs · 4 months ago

Text

CHAPTER THREE ━━ Mia, The Menace

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 4.6K

❀ ━ warnings: none i think

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: sigh another filler i’m sorry guys next chapter is when things actually start happening ….. also will u guys pls lmk if y’all like this series so far bc i feel like i’ve been writing it so shitty i’m sorry 🫠

THE AIR in Jo’s family home feels warmer than she remembers, thick with the lazy ease of summer afternoons in Boston. She’s sprawled out on the couch in the living room, half in Asher’s lap, her back pressed against his chest. The TV hums in the background, some half-forgotten show playing on low volume, but neither of them is paying much attention to it. Instead, their focus is on Mia, Jo’s eight-year-old little sister, who’s commanding the room as she rehearses her dance routine.

The house feels bigger than it ever does when Jo’s parents are home, their absence leaving behind a peculiar stillness that’s only occasionally interrupted by Mia’s bursts of energy. Her parents are celebrating their anniversary weekend in Maine, indulging in some much-deserved quiet while leaving Jo in charge of their youngest child. Jo doesn’t mind; after all, it’s July—her off-month—and she’s back in Boston for a brief stint of home-cooked meals and family chaos before heading back to Storrs in August. Babysitting Mia, however, is proving to be a full-time job in itself—which Jo probably should’ve expected.

Mia’s energy is endless. Right now, she’s twirling and leaping across the living room, her movements surprisingly precise for a kid her age. She’s dressed in a sparkly leotard and pink tights, her hair tied in an elaborate bun she’d made Jo do before this—because, well, if Jo is good for anything, it’s doing hair. During summer sessions, half the team made her do their braids before practice—Paige especially, the blonde hopeless at doing her own—and Jo knows it’ll only get worse when the season starts up.

Jo tries to keep a watchful eye on her sister, but she can’t help but be distracted by her boyfriend. He’s absentmindedly tracing small circles across the middle of her thigh, and she can feel his heart beating against her back. When she glances up at him, she can’t help but grin at the softness of his smile as he claps along with Mia’s haphazard twirls, the way he leans into the couch—into Jo—like he belongs here. Which, he does. He always has.

“Joey!” Mia calls, her voice sharp and commanding for an eight-year-old. She pauses mid-spin to put her hands on her hips, her small frame vibrating with indignation. “You’re not watching!”

Jo blinks, pulling herself out of her thoughts. “I am watching,” she defends, though it’s not quite true. She sits up a little straighter against Asher, nudging him as if to say help me out here. “You’re doing great, Mia. Keep going.”

Mia narrows her eyes, clearly unconvinced. “Ugh,” she groans, glaring at her older sister. “Payton always gives me better advice. You just say, ‘good job.’ That’s not going to help if I want to be the best dancer in the entire world, Jo!”

Jo exchanges a look with Asher, who’s barely holding back a laugh. Payton, Jo and Mia’s older sister, is a professional dancer living in New York City—a career Mia idolizes. Unlike Jo, who’s spent her life on the basketball court, Payton is everything Mis wants to be: graceful, disciplined, and impossibly good at pirouettes. It’s a path Jo has no interest in, which is probably why Mia constantly reminds her she’s the least qualified coach in the family.

“Well, yeah,” Jo says with a shrug. “Payton’s a pro. She’s, like, me in basketball but with dance. I’m just here to cheer you on, don’t really know what to tell you’s right or wrong, Mimi.”

Mia just groans again, even more dramatic this time, launching into another leap across the floor. Asher leans closer to Jo, his lips brushing against her ear as he drops his voice to a whisper. “Tough crowd.”

Jo snorts softly. “You have no idea,” she murmurs back.

Mia finishes her routine with a fluoride, throwing one arm in the air as if she’s just landed a gold medal-winning move at the Olympics. Asher claps loudly, a grin inching across his face. “Amazing, Mee!” he says enthusiastically, though he’d say that even if her performance was outright awful. “You’re getting even better than Payton, I think.”

For once, Mia doesn’t respond with her usual sass. Typically, when it comes to Asher, Mia’s either teasingly threatening him or biting at him or calling him funny names—she’s a menace child if Jo’s ever met one. But instead, Mia actually smiles at the boy, her cheeks flushed pink from exertion. “Thanks,” she says cheerfully, and Jo stares at her in disbelief.

“Wow,” the point guard says, raising an eyebrow, impressed. “You smiled at him. And thanked him. I think that’s a first.”

“Progress,” Asher claims, smiling broadly down at Jo.

Mia, on the other hand, sticks her tongue out at her older sister before collapsing onto the rug, sighing dramatically. “I’m exhausted. Someone get me a glass of water.”

“Get one yourself,” Jo tells her, already pulling out her phone. She scrolls through her notifications lazily, her thumb pausing when Paige’s name lights up her screen.

PB 😱😱

Got a nike event in Boston tmrw morning

Soooo we’re hanging out after

No negotiations

Jo’s lips twitch into a smile.

Ma freshie 💘

obviously

what time?

Paige replies almost instantly.

PB 😱😱

Like noon?

Don’t bail jojo

Jo shakes her head, rolling her eyes to herself. Paige never fails to amuse.

Asher, whose chin is now pressed against Jo’s hair, his gaze on her text. He asks, “So, you and her are really tight now, huh?”

Jo shrugs, because, well, kinda, duh. “I mean, we do live together,” she says, as if that explains everything.

“Yeah, but she’s Bueckers,” he replies, saying her name like it means something. Which, even though Paige would say it doesn’t, it totally does. “That’s a huge deal. She’s, like, insane on the court. Seen all the highlights.”

Jo doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she lets her mind wander to the past month and a half—the morning runs, the late-night shooting, the quiet moments in their shared apartment, the not-so-quiet playful bickering. Paige isn’t just her teammate or her roommate. She’s… something else entirely. Someone Jo can’t quite put into words—an enigma, maybe. “She’s just Paige,” Jo murmurs finally, her voice softer now.

Asher grins. “I’ve gotta meet her sometime. Best introduce me soon, Jo.”

“You’ll like her,” she replies, confidence threading her voice. She can already picture how Paige would probably charm the hell out of him without even trying—she does it to everyone, after all. “She’s… yeah, she’s cool.”

From the rug, Mia sits up suddenly, as if she’s finally hearing the conversation, her curiosity clearly piqued. “Who’s Paige?”

Jo blinks at her. “My roommate,” she responds simply. “You knew that.”

“And teammate,” Asher adds.

“She knew that, too.”

Mia crosses her arms, her tone all business now, ignoring Jo’s last comment. “Is she nice?”

“Yeah,�� Jo answers easily. “She’s great. Super chill, really funny.”

“Is she good at basketball?” Mia fired back.

Jo grins. “One of the best.”

“Bet she’s better than you.”

Jo throws one of the throw pillows on the couch at her sister’s head. “Shut up, Mia.”

Mia just giggles, dodging the pillow with ease. Asher laughs, shaking his head as he watches the two sisters bicker, more than familiar with it.

For all her teasing, Jo can’t shake the warm, almost buzzing feeling in her chest. She’s excited to see Paige tomorrow. For reasons she can’t explain, she’s missed her a lot these past couple weeks they’ve been away from campus. It’s probably just because going from basically spending every waking minute with one another to none at all is a little odd.

Probably.

THE JULY sun beats down on Boston, and Paige feels it’s warmth seeping into her skin as she walks along the tree-lined streets near the Commons. The Nike event she attended this morning went off without a hitch, just a casual appearance with some photos and a couple clips filmed that they’ll probably put into an add. But now, she’s got the rest of the day free. The thought makes her grin as she thumbs out a quick text to Jo.

PB 😱😱

All done 😊😊

Where u at?

It takes Jo less than a minute for Jo to reply, sending a pin for a location that’s about a half mile away. Paige starts walking, but a follow-up text rings before she’s even crossed the street.

Ma freshie 💘

mia and i are by the ice cream shop

hurry pls, she’s losing her mind

The next message is a picture of Mia making a ridiculous face, her lips twisted and one eye squinting in mock disgust. Paige snorts out a laugh right there on the sidewalk, the noise startling a couple walking by. She doesn’t care, though. The kid already seems like a riot, and Paige is oddly excited to meet her.

The stories Jo’s told her about Mia over the past month and a half come rushing back: the eight-year-old’s uncanny ability to get under people’s skin, her endless energy, and her knack for saying the wildest things at the worst times. Paige has been looking forward to meeting her, though she’s still not sure if it’s because she’s genuinely curious about the so-called “demon child” or if she just wants to see Jo in full big-sister mode.

When Paige rounds the final corner, she spots them immediately. Jo is standing near a brightly colored ice cream shop, her arms crossed, her face pinched in annoyance as she talks to a smaller figure—Mia, presumably. Mia, on the other hand, looks completely unbothered, her tiny hands on her hips as she talks back with the kind of confidence that only a sassy little girl could muster.

Paige slows her steps, taking in the scene with a grin tugging at her lips. Jo’s wearing a simple outfit—ripped jean shorts that show off her long legs, a tightly-fitted white tube top, and a Red Sox cap pulled low over her face. It’s casual, but there’s something about the way she looks so effortlessly good in it that makes Paige pause for half a second longer than she should.

Her stomach dips unexpectedly, and Paige frowns to herself. Relax.

Still, as Paige approaches, she can’t help but notice the way Jo’s tan skin seems to glow under the sun, how smooth her legs look. Paige shakes her head, forcing her thoughts back on track. Because, seriously, the fuck is she even thinking about?

Clearing her throat, Paige makes her presence known. Jo turns, her annoyed expression instantly replaced by something brighter—her eyes lighting up, a wide grin spreading across her face.

“Hey, JoJo,” Paige greets teasingly, the nickname rolling off her tongue before she can stop it.

Jo’s grin falters for half a second, and she slaps Paige’s arm lightly. “Quit calling me that.”

Paige smirks. “Nah.”

Before Jo can retort, Mia steps forward, her curious gaze fixed on Paige. The little girl is smaller than Paige expected, with a mop of dark curls and big brown eyes that seem to take in everything. Paige crouches down to her level, offering a hand.

“And you must be Mia,” she says warmly. “I’m Paige.”

Mia doesn’t take her hand right away. Instead, she gives Paige a long, exaggerated once-over, her gaze hard as she studies her. The blonde tries not to fidget, but it’s hard under the little girl’s piercing eyes. Jo wasn’t kidding; Mia’s got this quiet intensity that’s a little intimidating, even if she’s only eight years old and Paige is twenty.

Finally, Mia breaks into a grin and giggles as she takes Paige’s hand. “Hi,” she says, her voice lilting.

Paige relaxes, smiling back easily. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard lots about you.”

Mia tilts her head. “From Jo?”

“Yeah,” Paige remixes with a grin. “She talks about you all the time.”

Mia beams at this, clearly pleased, while Jo mutters something under her breath that Paige doesn’t catch.

Paige chuckles a little as she stands. “Sooo, ice cream, right?” she asks.

Mia’s eyes light up and she grabs Paige’s hand like she’s known her her whole life rather than a minute or two. “Yes! Best ice cream in Boston!”

Jo snorts, falling into step beside them, shoulder brushing against Paige’s lightly. “She says that about every ice cream place we go to,” she mumbles, though there’s an undeniable softness in her tone.

“It is the best,” Mia insist, her voice full of conviction.

Paige grins. “Guess I’ll have to see for myself.”

The moment they step inside the ice cream shop, Paige is hit with a wave of sugary air and the sound of chatter. It’s buzzing in here, bigger and more crowded than she expected, almost every table occupied, with kids laughing, parents corralling them. The line snakes almost to the door, and Paige glances down at Mia, who’s still clutching her hand tightly.

“Looks like this place is the best,” Paige observes, smiling down at the little girl. Mia beams back up at her, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Told you!” she chirps, voice triumphant.

Paige can’t help but laugh softly. She glances over at Jo, who’s scanning the menu above the counter. The sunlight streaming through the shop window catches on the stray wisps of Jo’s hair that escape from under her Red Sox cap. Paige tries not to let her eyes linger too long on the curve of Jo’s jawline or the way her tube top leaves the expanse of her collarbones and neck exposed.

Jesus Christ, she doesn’t know what’s wrong with herself today.

The line moves slowly, but Paige doesn’t mind. Mia fills the time with a steady stream of chatter, never letting go of the blonde. She tells her about her favorite ice cream flavor (superman), her least favorite vegetables (brussel sprouts), and their family dogs (a dachshund named Dory and a golden retriever named Murph).

Paige listens attentively, nodding and laughing at all the right moments. She’s used to this—her own siblings are just as chatty, and she’s always been good at humoring them. There’s something comforting about Mia’s unfiltered enthusiasm; it reminds Paige of home in a way that makes her chest ache just a little.

As they inch closer to the counter, the line passes by a display of candy shelves, and that’s when it happens. Mia freezes mid-sentence, her eyes locking into something with the kind of laser focus that only a kid ready for a sugar high can muster.

“Oh my gosh,” Mia breaths, pointing to a massive rainbow-swirled lollipop almost as big as her head. She finally removes her hand from Paige’s to start tugging at Jo, begging, “Joey, please, please, can I get it? Please?”

Paige blinks a little at the nickname. Joey. She’s never heard anyone call Jo that before—she thought the only one she had was the one she hates that the whole team’s started using for her (JoJo). But Paige thinks Joey’s cute. In fact, she files it away in the back of her mind.

“No. Definitely not,” Jo says immediately, shaking her head down at Mia.

Mia’s face scrunches up in exaggerated disbelief. “What? Why?”

Paige glances between them, finally seeing what Jo meant about Mia being a demon child. The girl’s dramatic flair is something else entirely.

Jo sighs heavily. “Because the last time we were here, Mom bought you one, and you threw it up on the way home. It was gross, Mia.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Mia whines, still eyeing the lollipop like it’s the holy grail.

“It was that bad,” Jo counters.

“But it tasted sooo good,” Mia insists, dragging out the words as she tugs at Jo’s arm again.

Jo raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Did it taste good when it came back up?”

Mia stops short, her small face scrunching up in thought. The gears are clearly turning in her head as she considers this. And just as suddenly as the argument started, Mia lets out a resigned sigh and steps away from the candy display.

“Fine,” she mumbles, sounding defeated.

Jo smiles to herself, clearly pleased, and Paige has to bite back a laugh at the entire sibling interaction.

“Nice save,” she says under her breath, leaning slightly toward Jo as they start moving forward in line again.

Jo glances at her, their faces closer than usual, though she doesn’t seem to notice. Her smile just widens as she responds, “You learn a few tricks when you’ve been stuck around her for eight years.”

Paige chuckles softly, watching Mia bound up to the counter like she’s on a mission, finally their turn to order. The little girl presses her hands against the glass case, scanning the vibrant tubs of ice cream with a dramatic level of intensity.

“I want Superman!” Mia declares, her voice brimming with excitement as she points at the swirled red, yellow, and blue ice cream.

“Please,” Jo adds, giving the employee a small, apologetic smile as she nudges Mia’s arm, giving her that older sister look that Paige can tell means—use your manners. The worker scoops a generous amount of the ice cream into a cup and hands it over the counter. Mia accepts it like it’s a trophy, her eyes and grin wide as ever.

“Can I just have a scoop of cotton candy, please?” Jo asks, her turn now, her voice casual like she’s not about to commit a culinary crime.

Paige can’t help but scrunch up her nose at the brunette’s order. Nasty. She doesn’t say anything—yet—but she stores the information away for later mockery. The worker hands Jo her cone, a garishly bright pink and blue swirl that makes Paige wince just looking at it.

When it’s Paige’s turn, she doesn’t even hesitate, ordering mint chip—her absolute favorite.

They pay quickly, before stepping outside into the warm air, each armed with their chosen flavor. Mia’s already half-covered in Superman ice cream and Jo has her head tilted slightly to avoid dripping the cotton candy monstrosity in her hand.

Paige glances at Jo’s cone and makes a face. “Cotton candy is crazy work,” she tells her, incredulous.

Jo raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “What’s wrong with cotton candy?”

“Everything,” Paige answers, gesturing at the cone like it’s personally offended her. “It’s basically sugar-flavored-sugar. It doesn’t even taste like real cotton candy. It’s just—” She shudders dramatically.

Jo narrows her eyes at Paige’s cone in retaliation. “Says the person eating frozen toothpaste.”

Paige gasps, her hand flying to her chest in mock indignation. “Excuse me, mint chip is a classic. It’s refreshing. It’s balanced. It’s—”

“Minty,” Jo interrupts, wrinkling her nose. “Which is gross.”

“It’s not gross! You’re gross,” Paige fires back, grinning despite herself.

Mia, who’s been watching the exchange with wide eyes, suddenly pipes up. “Okay, I’ll decide!” she declares. She scoops up some of her Superman ice cream for good measure before pointing her tiny spoon at Jo’s cone. “Joey, let me try yours first.”

Jo bends down slightly to hold out her cone, and Mia takes a small bite. She lets it melt in her mouth, her face scrunching up like she’s debating a complex equation. Finally, she nods. “It’s okay,” she says, though she doesn’t look thrilled.

Jo looks affronted. “Just okay?”

Mia shrugs nonchalantly before turning to Paige. “Now yours!”

Paige kneels slightly to hold out her cone. Mia eyes it suspiciously. “Why is it green?” she asks, sounding almost fearful.

“Don’t worry ‘bout the color,” Paige tells her, waving off the question. “It’s good. Trust.”

Mia hesitates for a second longer before scooping up a tiny bite. She puts it in her mouth, and her face goes still. For a moment, Paige wonders if she’s about to spit it out, but then Mia’s eyes light up.

“This. Is. So. Good!” the eight-year-old squeals, practically bouncing in place.

Paige grins, holding out her hand for a high five. “Told you. Welcome to the winning team.”

Mia smacks her hand enthusiastically, ice cream forgotten for a moment. Jo, however, is standing off to the side, arms crossed and pouting like a kid who just lost her favorite game. Paige glances at her and immediately starts laughing.

“Oh, don’t be mad,” she teases, nudging Jo’s arm.

“She’s supposed to be on my side!” Jo grumbles, glaring halfheartedly at Mia. “I’m your sister!”

Mia sticks her tongue out at her, clearly unbothered. “You’re just mad because you have bad taste.”

Paige nearly chokes on her ice cream, laughing so hard she has to steady herself against a bench they’re stood next to. “Dang, Mia!”

Jo shakes her head, though the corner of her mouth twitches upward in a reluctant smile. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you little menace,” she mumbles, ruffling Mia’s hair.

Mia slaps her hand away from her head, beginning to bicker with Jo. Paige watches, quiet now as she bites into her cone. She finds herself unable to look away, a strange warmth blooming in her chest.

See, whatever that is, has to go. She doesn’t like it, doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t understand it in the slightest.

It just—has to go.

THE LIVING ROOM feels cozy in a way that Paige hasn’t experienced in a long time. It’s not her home, not her couch, not her family, but something about it wraps around her, soft and warm. The overhead light is off, leaving the room bathed in the dim glow of the TV. Colors flicker against the walls, shapes shifting across the furniture. Paige doesn’t know what movie is playing—something animated, she thinks—but it’s barely background noise at this point.

Jo sits a few feet away, her back against the armrest of the couch, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly. Mia’s curled up fast asleep in her lap, her little head tucked under Jo’s arm, one of Jo’s hands running lazily through the little girl’s hair. The motion is slow and deliberate, like second nature, and it’s strangely captivating. Paige finds herself staring, watching the way Jo’s fingers disappear into soft brown curls, touch gentle.

Paige hadn’t planned to stay this long. After Mia had declared mint chip her new favorite ice cream and told Paige she could officially call her Mimi—a nickname that only her absolute favorite people can use—they’d hung out all day, walking around the Commons, then shopping, then getting dinner. After that, they were meant to depart, Jo and Mia going home, and Paige going back to her hotel. But then Mia had looked up at her with those big, pleading eyes, practically begging Paige to come back and watch a movie with them. And Paige is terrible at saying no to kids.

So, she came home with them, to their house which sits right on the outline of the city. The house isn’t massive, but it’s nice—nice enough for Paige to have faintly wondered how much money Jo’s parents make. But it’s still welcoming and cozy, and Paige feels comfortable here. She also likes that she’s got to see all the photos around—the ones of Jo when she was little, some more recent ones that Paige can guess are apart of her senior photos, and a couple of her with her sisters.

The only one that she didn’t enjoy seeing was that one. A nicely framed picture of Jo and her boyfriend sitting on the shelf directly to Paige’s right. They look happy in it. Too happy, in Paige’s opinion, though she doesn’t know why it bothers her so much. Maybe she’s got some sort of jealousy deep down in the part of her heart where her commitment issues aren’t veined around, an envy toward a stable relationship like that. But either way, there’s no reason for her to care. And yet, she doesn’t like it.

Paige shakes the thought away, focusing instead on the conversation. She and Jo have been talking quietly since Mia fell asleep, their voices hushed but easy. It reminds Paige of late nights back at their shared apartment on campus, how they’ll end up in the kitchen at the same time and somehow talk for hours without meaning to. Paige likes those moments more than she’ll ever admit, and this feels no different.

Their conversation drifts, flowing naturally, until Jo starts talking about her sisters. “I admire them, you know,” she says softly, her hand still moving through Mia’s hair. “Payton, especially. She’s… well, she’s incredible. Mia thinks she walks on water, and honestly, sometimes I do, too.”

Paige tilts her head, curious. Jo’s voice has a different quality now—still soft, but there’s something else underneath it. Not sadness exactly, but something close. “What about you?” Paige asks. “You’re incredible, too. And Mia clearly adores you.”

Jo smiles, but—for once—it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, but it’s different. Payton’s a dancer—like, a real dancer. She’s in New York City, with the ballet there. And that’s what Mia loves. That’s what they both love. And, y’know, they connect over it. It’s dance; it’s their thing.”

Paige frowns, the words sinking in. Jo rarely talks like this. She’s always so happy, so upbeat, so wrapped in sunshine that Paige sometimes forgets there might be anything else underneath. “You don’t feel connected to them?” she asks, her voice a little quieter now.

Jo hesitates, her hand pausing in Mia’s hair for just a second before continuing. “Not really,” she admits. “I mean, I love them, obviously. But… it’s hard sometimes. I’ve always been the odd one out, you know? The one who plays basketball while they dance. Sometimes it just feels like we’re on completely different planets.”

Paige doesn’t know what to say at first. She’s surprised—stupidly so, maybe, because she’s never considered Jo might feel this way. But, if she thinks about it, it makes sense.

“I get that,” the blonde finally says, soft but steady. “I mean, I’m so much older than my siblings that it’s hard to connect with them sometimes, too. But… for what it’s worth, I think you’re amazing. And I know Mia does too—whether she says it or not.”

Jo looks over at her then, and for a moment, Paige thinks she might forget how to breathe. There’s something in Jo’s eyes, something raw and unguarded, and it makes Paige’s chest feel tight. “Thanks,” Jo says quietly, barely a whisper.

The moment feels too heavy, too close, and Paige decides to lighten the mood. “So,” she says, changing the subject, her small smile curling into more of a smirk. “Mia calls you Joey?”

Jo’s smile returns, softer this time but more genuine. “Yeah. My whole family does. It’s a much better nickname than that JoJo Siwa shit y’all have come up with.”

Paige laughs, shaking her head. “Don’t shit on the JoJo nickname. It’s iconic.”

Jo raises an eyebrow, her smile turning teasing. “Iconically bad,” she corrects.

“Okay, fine,” Paige says, pretending to think. “But I like Joey more, too. It’s cute. Maybe I’ll start calling you that instead.”

Jo shrugs, but her smile widens just a little. “Anything’s better than JoJo.”

Paige grins, leaning back into the couch, though—for whatever reason—her heart starts thumping a little faster. She doesn’t know why she feels the way she does around Jo sometimes—why moments like this stick with her longer than they probably should. But for now, she doesn’t let herself think about it too much. Instead, she lets herself enjoy the quiet, the warmth of the room, and the easy rhythm of their conversation.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wcbb #wbb #uconn #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #paige buckets #wcbb x reader #ncaa wbb #wlw #lgbtq #nobody gets me

234 notes · View notes

goldfades · 4 months ago

Text

sweet on you (dad!joe au) thoughts of the day!

this morning, joe got up with hayes to let you sleep in, and you woke up to the sound of them laughing in the kitchen. when you walked in, joe was holding hayes on his hip, both of them wearing matching pajama sets that you didn’t even know joe had ordered. “look who’s finally awake,” joe teased, like he hadn’t been waiting for you to join them.

hayes keeps calling joe “dada” in this sing-songy voice, and it’s like joe can’t help but melt every time he hears it. today, hayes said it at least ten times in a row just to make joe laugh. “you’ve got my number, kid,” joe finally said, shaking his head with a grin.

joe is so gentle when he handles hayes, even when hayes is being a little menace. like earlier, when hayes decided it was funny to stick blueberries to joe’s shirt while he wasn’t looking. joe just laughed, picked one off, and said, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

joe has this thing where he smooths hayes’ hair down whenever he’s holding him, even if it’s not messy. it’s like he can’t help himself, like he needs to make sure hayes is taken care of every second.

tonight, hayes got overtired and a little fussy, so joe walked him around the living room, humming softly under his breath. you could hear snippets of whatever song joe was making up as he went along, and by the time hayes finally fell asleep, you realized your heart was just as full as it’s ever been.

joe always insists on doing bedtime stories, even on game days when he’s exhausted. tonight, he turned The Very Hungry Caterpillar into a full-blown production, complete with voices for every piece of food. “this apple sounds like a New Yorker,” he said at one point, making hayes giggle so hard he had hiccups.

sometimes, joe gets this look on his face when he’s watching you and hayes—like he’s trying to memorize the moment. it happened earlier when you were playing peek-a-boo, and you swear he looked at you like you hung the moon.

after hayes went to bed, joe found you folding laundry and immediately pulled you into his lap, saying, “this can wait.” he held you there for a while, his hands tracing slow circles on your back, and whispered, “i love this life with you.”

joe has this soft habit of thanking you for the smallest things, like when you made his coffee this morning or set his keys by the door. today, he thanked you for “being my favorite person,” like that’s just something he says now.

he bought you flowers yesterday, and when you asked why, he shrugged and said, “just felt like you deserved them.” this morning, he pointed out how good they looked on the counter, like he was proud of himself for picking the right ones.

tonight, when you were brushing your teeth, joe came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. “you know,” he said, his voice low and warm, “i don’t think i could love you any more than i already do.”

The house is finally quiet, save for the faint hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand. Hayes went down after a full day of mischief and laughter, leaving you and Joe completely spent in the best way. You’re lying in bed, your head on Joe’s chest, his hand trailing slow, lazy patterns along your back. His other arm is tucked behind his head, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek.

“Long day,” you murmur, though there’s no real complaint in your voice. It was the kind of long day that fills your heart just as much as it drains your energy.

“Yeah,” Joe agrees softly, his voice still thick from the weight of the day. “But a good one.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, and his eyes are already on you, tired but warm. There’s a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, and you reach up to trace it with your fingertips, just to feel the texture. He catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm, holding it there for a moment before resting it against his chest.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “With Hayes, with everything... I don’t know how you do it.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Pretty sure you’re the amazing one. Did you see yourself today? Full-on Broadway performance during bedtime stories. Hayes is gonna think his dad’s an actor instead of a quarterback.”

Joe smiles, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that way that always makes your stomach flip. “Anything for the kid,” he says simply, and you know he means it with every fiber of his being.

You settle back against him, letting the weight of the day melt away in his warmth. “Anything for us,” you whisper, closing your eyes.

“Always,” he murmurs back, pressing a kiss to your hair. And in the quiet of the night, with the soft rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

#sweet on you ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊#joe burrow bengals #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fan fic #joeyb #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc

239 notes · View notes

multi-fandom-imagine · 1 month ago

Text

Little Mustang on the Loose || Roy Mustang ||

A/n: I got like no sleep cause I stayed up playing Monster Hunter.

Roy Mustang, the Führer-President of Amestris, prided himself on many things—his sharp mind, his impeccable leadership, and his mastery over flame alchemy. But today, he prided himself most on something far greater: taking you his wife—his stunning, formidable wife—on a well-deserved date.

“I’m entrusting you all with my son,” Roy stated, adjusting his gloves as he handed his two-year-old, chubby-cheeked bundle of chaos to his subordinates. The child blinked up at them with his big, dark eyes, his tiny hands clutching onto his father’s pristine military coat.

Jean Havoc, Breda, Fuery, and Falman stood in a line, nervously saluting. The kid looked harmless enough, but they all knew Mustang’s smirk held the weight of an unspoken threat—if anything happened to his son, they would not live to see another sunrise.

“Riza is busy with actual work,” Roy continued, knowing full well she would have shot down this entire arrangement had she been here. “So I expect the rest of you to handle one small child for a few hours.”

Havoc scratched his head. “Sir, no offense, but—uh, are you sure about this? I mean, kids are—well—fast.”

“My son is very well-behaved,” Roy said smugly, ruffling the toddler’s dark curls. “You won’t even know he’s there.”

You gave him a knowing side-eye but said nothing, merely pressing a kiss to her son’s forehead before taking Roy’s arm. "The three will be fine."

And then, with one last look of warning, the Führer-President and his wife left for their long-awaited date. You cooing at your son while Roy practically dragged you out the door.

Thirty Minutes Later…

“Okay, so, this isn’t that bad,” Havoc said, lounging back on the couch in Mustang’s office while Fuery made funny faces at the baby. “Kid’s just sitting there playing with his little—uh, what is that? A tiny alchemy glove?”

“It’s just a regular glove,” Falman corrected. “But look at his chubby little hands. He can barely get it on.”

Breda snorted. “Man, he really is Roy’s kid, huh?”

Everything was peaceful. For about five minutes.And then—disaster struck.

It started when Fuery, trying to adjust his glasses, absentmindedly set the child down for a moment.

That moment was all it took.

One second, the boy was sitting there, giggling sweetly. The next, he was gone.

“Where’d he go?” Havoc asked, suddenly alert.

Fuery’s face paled. “Oh no.”

The office door was slightly ajar.

The toddler had escaped.

A silence fell over the room.

Then—

“Oh, shit.”

The hallways of Central Command were no match for a determined toddler with tiny but surprisingly fast legs.

Havoc, cigarette barely hanging from his lips, sprinted down the halls, yelling, “He went left! No—right!”

Breda, panting, skidded to a stop. “How can someone so round be so fast?!”

The baby cackled—a high-pitched, mischievous laugh—before making a sharp turn and disappearing under a desk.

“HE’S LIKE A MINIATURE MUSTANG!” Fuery wailed, crawling after him.

Falman, usually calm and collected, was now horrified. “Do you have any idea what will happen if we lose the Führer’s son?!”

Breda, in a rare moment of sheer panic, grabbed Havoc’s shoulders. “We’re all gonna die. Mustang is gonna incinerate us one by one—oh my god, we’re dead men.”

Meanwhile, the toddler had somehow managed to make his way to the mess hall, where several high-ranking officers were now standing on chairs as the tiny menace pulled at tablecloths, sending trays of food crashing to the floor.

Major Armstrong, upon seeing the chaos, gasped dramatically and attempted to assist. “FEAR NOT, BRAVE LITTLE ONE! I SHALL LIFT YOU TO SAFETY WITH THE POWER OF—”

The baby bit him.

“…Strong teeth,” Armstrong whimpered, tears streaming down his face.

Breda, hands on his knees, tried to catch his breath. “We need a strategy. He’s too unpredictable.”

"He's just a baby!" Furey fixed his glasses though his head looked around and before they could form a plan—the toddler disappeared again.

Final Boss: Führer Mustang’s Office

After what felt like an eternity of chasing the child through Central HQ, they finally tracked the little gremlin down to Mustang’s office.

But by the time they got there—it was too late.

The toddler had somehow managed to climb onto Roy’s desk.

More importantly—

He had found his father’s gloves.

The tiny, chubby hands clapped together and then a small poof of smoke rose from the desk.

The baby stared at his work, wide-eyed. “Oooh.”

Silence.

Fuery let out weak (stressed) laugh “…He’s learning.”

Falman swallowed. "God help us all.”

Havoc wiped a hand down his face. “Okay, okay—no one has to know about this. We just get the gloves away from him before Mustang—”

Then, the door creaked open.

Roy Mustang and you stood there.You took one look at your grinning, soot-covered son and sighed.

Roy, on the other hand, slowly turned to his men, his gaze dark, dangerous, and promising pain.

“Explain,” he said.

Breda weakly raised his hand. “Uh… funny story?”

The Führer-President cracked his knuckles.

Havoc gulped.

“We’re so dead.”

#drabbles #drabble #roy mustang #roy mustang x reader #roy mustang x you #roy mustang x y/n #roy x reader #fma #fma brotherhood #fmab #fma x reader #fullmetal alchemist #fullmetal alchemist x reader #anime #anime x reader #anime x you

104 notes · View notes

terraswallows · 5 days ago

Text

Diary of an Awkward trans-girl : The Weekend.

Dear Diary,

I won’t go into too much detail—but let’s just say this weekend carved a little place in my heart I didn’t know existed.

She came over. This chaotic, radiant, absolutely adorable menace of a trans girl who managed to pull me out of my shell in ways I didn’t think were possible. From the second she stepped in, there was this energy—playful, warm, magnetic. We played Magic together, the correct and proper way to spend the weekend in my opinion. Then we jumped into some old-school PlayStation 2 games, the kind that make you feel like a kid again. But the best part?

The movie. Or rather, trying to watch a movie. I stayed glued to the screen while she slowly leaned into me, got cozy, and somewhere along the way… fell asleep. But not before stealing the blanket we were supposed to share. I know I should’ve tugged it back, but—she looked so peaceful, curled up with her little smile and gentle breathing. I couldn’t bring myself to disturb her. It was like watching princess nap.

We spent the whole evening before that building a Magic deck together. Shoulder to shoulder. Her arm brushing against mine. Each time it happened, it was like a tiny little spark danced across my skin. It wasn't just about the game anymore. It was about the way I started to lean into her, physically and emotionally. The way she made me laugh. The way she teased. The way she made me feel like it was okay to be soft. To be girly. To be me.

There were moments where I wanted to melt into her, just press my forehead to her collarbone and exist there. Wrapped up in her warmth. I wanted to nuzzle in, hold her close, maybe even sneak a sleepy kiss behind her ear—but something in me held back. There’s this strange disconnect in my chest. Like these parts of me that I locked away so long ago have forgotten how to breathe. Like even though I’m finally opening up, there are echoes of an old voice whispering, “You don’t deserve this.”

But I’m learning. She showed me a piece of who I could be—playful, affectionate, full of laughter and longing—and I want to see more of that girl. I want to be her. I am her. Just… a little scared still.

It’s strange, isn’t it? The very walls I built to protect myself have started to feel like cages. And now that I’m finally letting them fall away, I see how much they were keeping me from living. From loving.

She didn’t just visit me this weekend. She reminded me that my heart can flutter. That platonic affection doesn’t have to be terrifying. That affection can be cute and warm and sweet and full of teasing and giggles and cuddles. She made me feel again.

And I think… I’d like her to keep doing that.

So here’s to the girl who stole my blanket, teased me mercilessly, and helped me start pulling down these walls with nothing more than her chaotic joy. Maybe next time, I’ll be brave enough to reach out. To curl into her. To let go completely.

Maybe next time, I’ll let her steal my heart instead.

#trans #trans community #transgender #mtf trans #transfem #lgbtq #lgbtqia #trans woman #transgirl #sapphic #sapphism #trans t4t

126 notes · View notes

newtonsheffield · 2 months ago

Note

I love that they still pay Sophie though even when she literally becomes the kids auntie. I know in big families someone's always around to watch somebody's kid but labor is labor, childcare is HARD, and just because you're family doesn't mean you don't deserve to be compensated! She's also just... objectively the best at it in the family I mean she has a degree.

im also still not over "my Soph", do the other kids start doing it too? Does Neddy reject sharing or does he not care? Does Sophie love reminding Neddy for the rest of his life how preciously possessive he was as a baby?

I don’t think it’d even be a question for Kate and Anthony. Before she married Ben that was her career. She’s got a degree. They’re damn lucky to have her slowly introducing the alphabet into Neddy’s routine alongside them and helping him do sensory play!

Neddy does love calling people his. Like all big siblings it takes him a second to adjust to the idea that he needs to share his things and his people with Miles when he comes along but he’s also pretty used to sharing with Greggy and Hy at that point. Greggy and Hy go out with him and his Daddy sometimes because Poppy Edmund’s not here anymore but they have an Anthony as well. With regards to HIS Soph, Benedict did not think his biggest problem would be Neddy. He expected it to be Anthony, bodily shielding Ben from Sophie so he didn’t make it awkward meaning Anthony would possibly have to find a new Nanny. But no. It’s Neddy. For the first time Benedict appreciates how similar Neddy is to Anthony when Neddy looks unimpressed at the flowers he’s picked out for Sophie.

“They’re not very big.”

Ben rolled his eyes, “These are like the biggest in this shop, Mate.”

“My Daddy gets bigger ones for Amma all the time. He says she deserves them because she’s pretty and she loves us.”

Ben sighed, “Well your Daddy’s obviously richer than uncle Benny.”

“You’re not being a good boy for my Soph. She might not want to be your friend anymore.”

Benedict sighed, dropping the bouquet back into the water and picking up a bigger one, “Happy, Neddy?”

“Happy!” He grinned, “Can I get Choccy milk?”

“Bloody Charlatan.” Ben muttered under his breath. “Obviously, mate. When have I ever been able to say no to you?”

Sophie obviously loves all of her nieces and Nephews but she has a real soft spot for Neddy, she can’t deny that. He was her first sweet little boy. And he still is, even at sixteen when she’s chaperoning a dance with Kate and he’s clearly flirting with a gaggle of girls in the corner.

“Remember when he was a tiny baby? And used to call me his Soph.” Sophie sighed to Kate who let out a sad noise of her own.

“He was my sweet little angel. Now he’s so much like Anthony.”

“Stop pretending that’s a bad thing.” Sophie chuckled.

“I’m not! I’m just saying: Anthony was a charmer and I should have known his son would be a menace!”

#surprise neddy au #molly’s asks and answers

95 notes · View notes

cowgurrrl · 1 year ago

Text

Something in the Orange

Pairing: Joel Miller x art teacher!reader

Author's note: this might become a mini series idk idk

Summary: A parent-teacher conference leads to trouble [4.0k]

Warnings: no outbreak! au, teacher things, Ellie being a little loner, Joel the Menace making a return, Joel gets both his daughters in this one because it's what he deserves, flirty flirt, i think that's it???

You feel like you've been running a million miles a minute since you got in this morning. The second you could unlock the door, at least three students spilled into your room and chaotically ran to the kiln to collect their most recent pottery projects. One of them ended up shattering (the exact one you warned Colin about, but he didn't listen), and, as per high school custom, they were all screaming about it. You consoled the students just in time for your principal to walk by and ask about lesson plans which made you scramble through your backpack for your notebook even though you knew damn well there wasn't a single lesson plan in there. "Do you always have those lights on?" Principal Martinez asked, gesturing to the room's fairy lights and orange lamps. Leave it to administration to want to avoid art classrooms so much that they don't even know about the Big Light Philosophy.

Since then, it's been class after class. You only have one more period before your planning period and then, finally, the end of the day. There are a hundred things to do, but you can't focus on any of them. You got so caught up in managing your classroom and helping students with the hardest parts of their portfolio work that you almost forgot you had a parent meeting scheduled during your planning period.

Calling in parents for meetings about their children may be your least favorite part of your job. It makes you feel like a bad teacher, and parents usually don't feel great about getting called in on a workday to talk about their kid. Luckily, Ellie's dad, Joel, seemed more than happy to take time to talk about her. You rack your mind for his occupation as you add some detail to a canvas you've been hiding in your office and working on when you can. Was he a blue-collar worker? Or was he another stuck-up Austin transplant parent who's gonna accuse you of lying? He'd make the fifth parent who's made you cry this semester.

A knock on your locked door pulls you from your thoughts, and you quickly put away your painting before answering the door. "I told you she was in here!" One of your students, Dina, announces as she and a posse of three other kids you don't recognize push their way into the room. "Miss, you've gotta take that thing off your door; otherwise, people are gonna think you went home!"

"You mean the sign that says, 'planning period. Do not enter?'" You ask, and she snaps her fingers.

"That's the one." She says as she and her friends start putting their backpacks down at one of your high tables. You sigh and kick the door stopper into the threshold.

"You guys can't stay here. I have a meeting in five minutes."

"With who?"

"None of your business."

"Miss!" Dina acts wounded, and you cross your arms over your chest, your keys jingling around your neck in the process.

"I am an adult with a college degree and the debt to show for it. You are a teenager with a still-developing brain. You have to listen to me," you say. "Wait, whose class are you supposed to be in right now?"

"Mr. Flynn's."

"Guys!" You groan before walking over to your desk and quickly writing up a hall pass for them. "I know you don't like math-"

"No, we don't like Mr. Flynn." Dina cuts you off.

"Or math!" One of her friends adds, and you shoot them a (loving) disapproving look.

"Whatever you don't like, you can't keep hiding out here. Mr. Flynn is two seconds away from trying to get me fired for how often I let his kids in here during class, and I actually like this job, so," you rip the hall pass off the pad and hand it to Dina. As they pack their stuff up, a tall, bearded man steps into your classroom and makes eye contact with you. "Out, out, out! I love you. You're gonna change the world one day, but please get out." You blow them kisses as you usher them out of the room.

"Are you Ellie's art teacher?" He asks, a confused look on his face, and you nod.

"Yes, I am. Sorry about that. They're still figuring out that I have work to get done even when I don't have a class," you explain, a little breathless from running all over the place and getting caught off-guard. You really do try to act a little more professional with parents, but the kids threw you off. The kettle whistling behind your desk doesn't make it any better. "Is there anything I can get you? Coffee? Tea?" You pick up a random mug off your desk but find it full of murky water. "Paint water?"

"Are you allowed to have an electric kettle in here?" He asks, and you laugh nervously as you find a clean mug and your tea box.

"I won't tell if you won't." You say. He stands there awkwardly as you pour yourself some tea, and you realize you didn't pull a chair up for him. "Um, we can sit..." you glance around your messy classroom until you find a clear table and gesture toward it. "Here." He follows your lead, and you take a deep breath as you sit down.

"You gonna be okay?" He asks, the hint of a smirk on his lips. His curly hair looks golden brown in the low light, and his round eyes have a little knowing twinkle. You take another breath to compose yourself and nod.

"Yes. Sorry. It's been a long day."

"Don't worry bout it. I'm sure they run you ragged."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Well, you do have paint in your hair." He says, and panic seizes in your chest. You're never more aware of how crazy your job can be until you meet Real Adults. Even if you can't remember what he does for a living, you still have to admit that you look a little silly next to each other: you, with your paint-stained sunflower dress and markered hands, and him, with his black shirt and jeans. He doesn't have any apparent stains or splatters on his clothes, but he's broad with thick biceps. He must work with his hands or something within that capacity. You clear your throat and try to get back on track with the meeting.

"Uh, so Mr. Miller, the reason I called you here today was to talk to you about Ellie," you start. "First, I just wanna say that she is an amazing student. She always does her work and engages thoughtfully with the material. I really do enjoy having her in class."

"Well, that's certainly good to hear. She talks a whole lot bout this class and you, so... it's nice to place a face to the name," he says, adjusting his position on the stool. "But I have a feelin' you didn't call me down here just to tell me how great my kid is."

"She is great. She's extremely talented, smart, and funny, but she spends more time in my classroom during lunch than anything else. I'm worried about her making friends and finding a community here at school. I've tried convincing her to join the art club, but she's hesitant. During class, she just sits with her headphones in and draws. She really doesn't like talking to anybody but me." You wait for blame to be assigned to you or get lectured, but it never comes. He just sighs, and he deflates a little in his chair.

"She's been through a lot this year. Well, her whole life, really, but 'specially recently," he says dejectedly. "What can I do for her?"

"There's an art show this Friday night here at the school. It'll all be student work from across the district. I thought if maybe you or... whatever adults she has at home came with her to this, she might feel more comfortable talking to her peers or even want to submit some of her own stuff."

"We can do that. I'll get off work early and ask her uncle if he wants to come," he's quick with his solution, and you're a little shocked. You rarely get parents, let alone fathers, who act this swiftly when something is going on with their kids. "Is there anythin' else goin' on that I should know bout?"

"Uh, no. Like I said, she's a great kid. You should be really proud." You say, and the concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows disappears with a proud smile.

"Thank you," he mumbles, suddenly shy. "And thanks for carin' so much bout her. It's nice to know she's got someone lookin' out for her here." You don't know what to say, so you just nod and stare at him. You know, like an idiot. It takes a chuckle from him to snap you out of your thoughts, and blood rushes to your cheeks.

"Yes, of course. She's a good kid." You say.

"You said that already."

"I bet you'd be a little scatterbrained if you were at the mercy of two hundred teenagers all day."

"You're absolutely right. I would be," he says, smirking devastatingly. "Someone ought to get you a coffee or somethin' if you're dealing with all that."

"People like you should go argue with the school board. I'm sure you'd be popular with all the teachers."

"That'd be a first. I think I might've been the least favorite parent for all of my girls' teachers."

"Well, I find that hard to believe."

"Yeah?" He asks, leaning forward just a little, and you nod, smiling. Your brain struggles to come up with something to say, and you're a little embarrassed at your silence, but luckily, your projector saves the day by buzzing loudly and making the picture on the board cut in and out. You mumble a quick apology before getting up and climbing up on a desk to jiggle a piece back into place. You hear Joel curse behind you, and when you turn to see what the problem is, you see him holding his arms out behind you. "Do you stand on desks often?"

"Only every day. I haven't fallen yet this year." You laugh at his exasperated expression and turn back to the projector. It's still making a weird noise, so you move it around a little more, moving the desk under your feet, and Joel stabilizes it with a sigh.

"How long has it been doin' that?"

"Couple months. I keep putting in maintenance requests, but nobody ever comes to fix it."

"I can fix it for ya," he says simply, and you look down at him. "I've got tools in my truck. It wouldn't take long at all."

"Really?" You ask, and he nods.

"It'd make me feel better knowin' you're not almost breakin' your neck every day."

"You mean, standing on a decades-old desk to mess with an ancient piece of equipment isn't OSHA compliant?"

"Please," he says, grabbing your ankle when the desk wobbles under you, and you laugh at his worry. "Let me fix it for you before you give me a heart attack." You think about declining and just putting in another work order, but the likelihood that anyone would actually come and fix it is slim to none. Plus, you really shouldn't be climbing on top of desks every day. You pretend to think it over for a few more seconds just to watch the worry play across his features as his grip on your ankle gets tighter.

"Only if you really mean it."

"I really mean it," he says, offering you his other hand. "Now, would you please get down?"

"Fine." You say and take his hand. You bend to safely get yourself down, but Joel moves his other hand from your ankle to your waist and basically hoists you to the ground. Once your feet touch the floor, he doesn't let you go immediately like he's trying to figure out if you somehow got hurt when he wasn't looking. There's a part of your brain that's aware of how inappropriate this would look to any passersby, but you're also highly aware of how warm his big hand is on your hip.

"Ya alright?" He asks softly, and you nod, taking a conscious step back from his arms.

"Yes, thank you."

"Good," he says, also taking a step back. "Let me go get my tools, and I'll get that fixed for you."

"Perfect. I'll be here." You stand there, staring at each other awkwardly, for another moment before he turns on his heels and walks out of the classroom. The second he's out of your line of sight, you bury your head in your hands and start silently freaking out.

What the fuck are you doing? How did a parent-teacher meeting turn into him hauling you off a desk and offering to fix your projector? Technically, nothing incriminating has happened, and it needs to stay that way. It doesn't matter if you think he's attractive or like how he worries about everything. He's Ellie's dad. Teachers have gotten fired for much less than this, and you're not willing to risk your career because of one guy.

When he gets back with his toolbox, you're sitting at your desk and sorting through assignments like a reasonable adult. He doesn't say anything as he climbs up on the same desk you were standing on and begins messing with the mechanics of the equipment. You each work in silence for a few minutes before a screw clatters to the ground, and he grumbles something under his breath. "Do you mind..." he starts, pointing toward the lost piece.

"Not at all." You cover your anxiety with your chipper teacher voice and search for the screw with your phone flashlight. You find it tucked between canvases, carefully pick it up, and walk over to where he's standing, waiting for him to be ready for it.

"It looks like it's just an old piece in here. I'm sure you can order a new one, and I can come back and install it if ya want," he explains, looking down at you. You probably look stupid just standing there with a tiny screw in your hand, but he doesn't laugh. "D'you mind handing me that tool to your right?" He asks, and you blindly reach for the tool you think he's talking about. "Your other right." He corrects, and you flush in embarrassment.

"Sorry. I never was a very good woodshop student." You say, and he laughs once he has the tool in hand.

"My girls are the same way. Just askin' ‘em to hold a flashlight while I work on their car is like pullin' teeth," he says fondly. "Speaking of which, is there a reason the lights aren't on in here?"

"The lamp light is less harsh, and it helps students focus. Plus, nobody likes coming into a bright classroom first thing in the morning." You explain, and he hums.

"If I'd had a teacher like you growing up, I would've been at school much more than I was."

"You didn't like school?"

"Hated it," he says, opening his hand for the screw. Once you drop the tiny thing into his large palm, he straightens up, and you can barely hear it going back into its rightful place. "'S a miracle I graduated."

"That was me in college."

"Now, I don't believe that for a second."

"Really?" You laugh, and he nods.

"Someone like you, with your pretty dresses and all that empathy, was meant to be a teacher."

"I wasn't always like this," you evade the compliment despite the butterflies in your stomach. "Being a teacher was never on my radar until I graduated. A lot of my life was never on my radar until then." He puts the hood of the projector back on and climbs down from the desk until he's standing in front of you again, wiping his hands on a red handkerchief from his toolbox.

"Well, with the way you carry yourself, I never woulda guessed." He says. He opens his mouth to say something more, but the sharp tone of the bell ringing cuts him off. You jump at the sound and look at the clock as if it were wrong.

"I'm so sorry. Time must've gotten away from me. Thank you so much again, Mr. Miller, for coming in to talk with me and looking at the projector. I hope to see you and Ellie on Friday." You say quickly as the sound of rowdy kids fills the hallway, and you hold your hand out to him. He takes it and squeezes it firmly.

"You can call me Joel. Mr. Miller makes me feel old." He says, and you smile. He doesn't look old, unlike the other dads you've encountered. Sure, he's got some gray at his temples and in his beard, but it suits him.

"Joel, it is then." You resolve. His hand lingers in yours for a little too long before finally pulling away. "Well, Joel, unless you want to elbow through teenagers, I'd suggest you hide out here for a few more minutes." He does happily, even helping you carry supplies to your car once the hallways have cleared out enough. He's a proper gentleman, slinging your backpack over his shoulder and opening doors for you. You part only once everything is in your trunk, and he bids you goodnight with a charming smile that fills your thoughts on your drive home.

Ellie surprises you the next day as you're setting up the classroom. Normally, she isn't in until right before the bell rings, so seeing her this early is a little bit of a shock. The ink staining her hands is not. "Hey, dude. What's going on?" You ask. "Did you get breakfast from the cafeteria today? I heard Mrs. Hodges has those French toast sticks that everyone loves. You can probably get two servings if you run."

"No, I already ate. My dad and uncle had to leave early this morning, so we got breakfast. Speaking of which," she says as she takes off her backpack and pulls a cup of iced coffee out of her water bottle pocket. "This is for you. We didn't know what you liked, so we got a vanilla latte or something."

"Oh, El! You didn't have to do that. Thank you, honey." You say, and she sets it on your desk for you to enjoy once you don't have paintbrushes in hand. "If this is your way of getting a good grade on your piece, I already told you that you have nothing to worry about."

"It wasn't my idea. It was my dad's." She says nonchalantly before moving to the back of the classroom to get her sketch book. You, however, are confused and secretly pleased that Joel thought of you when he didn't have to. You find a message scribbled on the side when you reach for the cup to take a sip.

Thanks again. See you Friday. -J

You turn to hide your smile from Ellie, but she's so deep in her work that you doubt she would've noticed anyway. You put some music on, and you and Ellie work silently on your projects until the bell rings and the day starts.

The rest of the week goes by without a hitch, meaning that nobody accidentally ingested paint, and you only had to have one Come to Jesus talk with your Art 1 class. When Friday night rolls around, you're excited to see all the students work and treat yourself by wearing a new shirt with black scribbles all over it and black dress pants. You figure you should look as art teachery as possible for an art teacher event.

By the time you get to the school, the hallways are buzzing with students dragging their parents from one piece to another and administrators praising their art programs even though you know not one of them has seen the inside of an art classroom in months. You make small talk with some of your students and their parents before finding a way out of the conversation and letting yourself wander through the makeshift gallery. You love your kids, but you really don't want them breathing down your neck as you look at all the art. You're almost at the end when you hear a familiar voice calling your name, and you turn to find Ellie walking toward you with Joel and, who you assume to be her uncle, next to her.

"Hey, kid! I'm so happy to see you here!" You say sincerely, and she smiles shyly. You turn to her uncle and hold your hand out to introduce yourself.

"Tommy. We sure have heard a whole lot bout you at home." He says with a smirk, and you laugh.

"All good things, I hope."

"Of course. Ellie just bout worships the ground you walk on," he says. "Joel was singin' your praises, too."

"Alright, I think that's enough. Why don't y'all go walk around, and I'll catch up with ya?" He suggests, and Tommy chuckles. Another teacher calls Ellie's name from down the hallway, and she's quick to drag Tommy off to meet him, leaving you and Joel alone. He's replaced his black shirt with a light blue dress shirt, and it looks like he's recently trimmed his beard. He looks nice.

"Singing praises, huh?" You raise your eyebrows at him, and he smiles sheepishly. "Thank you for the coffee the other morning, by the way. It was a really nice surprise."

"Figured it was the least I could do to thank you for takin' such good care of my girl."

"Well, thank you. I owe you."

"You don't owe me a thing," he says. "Although, Tommy was a little upset that I didn't bill you for lookin' at the projector."

"Was he?" You ask, and he nods.

"Oh, yeah," he laughs. "Said next time I should, at least, ask you on a date."

"Mr. Miller-"

"I thought you agreed to call me Joel." He raises his eyebrows in a silent challenge, and you shake your head, fighting a smile.

"Joel, while I'm flattered by the offer from someone so handsome-"

"You think I'm handsome?"

"I can't date my students' parents." You say, ignoring his question, but even then, the playful look on his face doesn't fade. "Well, I can leave you to it. I know Ellie will probably want to show you around."

"Right. Of course," he says. "It's really nice to see you."

"You, too. I'm just glad I didn't have paint in my hair this time."

"I don't know. I thought it was kinda cute." You feel yourself blush at his words, but you have to shut it down before it can become anything more than flattery. You take a deep breath and try not to let that stupid smirk weaken your knees as he watches you.

"Goodnight, Joel."

"Goodnight, ma'am." He says, tipping his head politely before sauntering down the hallway like he owns the place. Trouble, you think to yourself. But you can handle trouble. It's in your job description, for Christ's sake.

So, you brush off the flirting and try to ignore how his kindness and sweet words made you feel. You absolutely cannot flirt with the parent of one of your students. Dating is completely off the table. You can handle this like an adult. You have to.

After a cold shower and a leftover dinner, you check your email once more before going to bed that night. Sitting in your inbox with alarming clarity is an email from Ellie with the subject line: Art Club. Her email is somehow just as short as her subject line.

Simply, "When can I start -E."

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha

585 notes · View notes