#they had it but they did not linger on it for too long which was

[jhyoos]

Idk why but I’m really feeling a streamer!vi x fem reader smut 🤨 .

i haven’t really done smut before but i can try!

streamer vi! x streamer! reader

summary : vi fingers you while she lets you play on stream.

mentions : smut with a lil plot, modern au, fame au, plot twist, lowkey loser! vi

Vi had been a well-known name in the streaming world for a while, skyrocketing to fame after her The Last of Us playthrough went viral. Her genuine reactions, quick wit, and undeniable charm—along with the fact that she was, undeniably, hot—made her an internet sensation. Meanwhile, you had carved out your own space in the streaming community, building a dedicated following through your high-energy Roblox horror game playthroughs. People loved watching you scream at pixelated jumpscares, and your frequent collaborations with other big-name streamers only expanded your reach.

Your paths crossed during a crossover event that neither of you expected to lead anywhere—but after that first collaboration, you never stopped talking. Texting turned into late-night calls, which turned into video chats, and before you knew it, months had passed, and you'd both fallen hard. Moving in together felt like the natural next step, and soon, you found yourselves in a shared apartment with two separate, decked-out streaming rooms.

It was Vi who first suggested the idea of a joint stream. Just one game, babe. The internet’s gonna lose its mind. You didn’t need much convincing, and the next thing you knew, you were live on her channel, settled comfortably on her lap as you navigated the latest chapter of Poppy’s Playtime. Vi, however, wasn’t nearly as focused on the game as she was on you. Every time you hit a checkpoint, she pressed a slow, teasing kiss to your shoulder, her smirk widening at the way your concentration wavered. When you struggled with a puzzle, her hand slid over yours, guiding your movements effortlessly—but she didn’t pull away after helping. Instead, her fingers intertwined with yours, her chin resting on your shoulder as she murmured a low, “You got this, babe,” just for you.

The chat went absolutely feral.

The teasing started slow—just little touches that could’ve been innocent if not for the way Vi’s fingers lingered a little too long. At first, it was just her hands resting on your thighs, a casual, almost absentminded gesture as she watched you play. But then her fingers started tracing slow, deliberate patterns against your skin, inching higher with every passing minute.

You swallowed hard, your focus wavering as she casually slipped her fingers between your thighs, applying the slightest bit of pressure. Instinctively, you parted your legs just a little, the movement barely noticeable—but Vi noticed. Of course, she did.

Your breathing grew heavier, the game on the screen blurring in and out of focus as her fingertips skimmed dangerously close to where you were beginning to ache for more. But when you flicked your gaze toward her, expecting to find her watching you with that signature smirk, she wasn’t even looking at you.

Her face was the picture of nonchalance, her eyes glued to the computer screen as if she weren’t doing anything at all. As if she weren’t driving you absolutely insane.

You continued to focus on the game, looking at the chat every now and then and interacting with them. “Yeah I’ve never played this game before. Vi did the other ch—ah!,” you gasped as you felt Vi’s hand go into your panties.

Thankfully, something that was jumpscare worthy popped up on the screen covering up your gasp. Vi looked at you “You okay?,” she says innocently. You looked at her with a nod “Y-yeah,” you say. She took that as a sign to continue as she rubbed circles onto your clit, kissing your shoulder. You cleared your throat, trying to cover up the moan that almost escaped as you continued to play the game.

Your walls clenched around nothing as you tried your best to focus on the game as Vi continued to play with your bundle of nerves, creating a pool in your panties. “Fuck…,” you let out a moan, trying to cover it up as a sigh of frustration. “Just focus, baby. You got this,” she says.

She getting off on this as much as you were, grinding up against your ass slightly trying not to let the viewers see. The feeling soon stop, relief rushed over you but it was soon short lived when two fingers went inside of you. You bit your lip as you tried not to moan.

“Vi…,” you say shakily as she starts to pump her fingers in and out of you slowly. There were faint sounds of wetness from your arousal bring swished around with her fingers. It couldn’t be heard because of the game sounds. Vi used her other hand to help you with the game, putting her hand on top of yours. “There you go,” she says.

You didn’t know if she was talking about the game or you.

You continued to play the game as she slowly pumped in and out of your cunt. You leaned over slightly which made her fingers reach the spongy part of your insides, you unexpectedly let out a moan.

The chat started to explode wondering why you moaned. “I…hit my toe on the monitor,” you said. You bite your lip as you continued the game, this time Vi’s fingers didn’t move.

You needed them to move.

You took a quick peek at her and she only gave you a smile, a knowing one.

Suddenly, her fingers started to move faster than what they did before. You automatically clenched against them, but that didn’t stop the pace of her fingers.

You bite your lip as you try to focus on the game but then Vi spoke up. “We’re gonna continue this later tonight, you guys. Thank you for watching and remember to turn on your notifications for when I go live again,” she says before pulling her hand out of your shorts and ending the live.

She immediately attacked your lips with hers as she wrapped her hand around your neck, pulling you closer than what you already were. “Fuck. You’re so hot,” she says in between the kisses.

You thought she was going to go in for another kiss until she moved her hand from your neck and started to kiss your neck, leaving marks.

Her fingers made its way back into your cunt as she started to finger you at a fast pace, her thumb rubbing your clit. You moan loudly, it almost sounded pornographic as you put both of your legs on the desk, spreading them wider for her.

“You’re such a slut. Letting me finger you while we’re live. You enjoyed it didn’t you?,” she teased.

“Vi!,” you managed to get out. It was the only thing you could respond with besides your whines and moans. You were getting close and Vi knew from how tightly you were clenching to her fingers.

“Come on. Cum for me, pretty girl,” she says in your ear before harshly biting it. It only sent you over the edge.

“Fuck!,” you moaned out loudly as you came around her fingers. Vi’s pace slowed down as she helped you calm down from your high.

You whined when she finally pulled her fingers out, putting them in her mouth as she sucked your arousal off her fingers. When she was done, she grabbed your face and kissed you deeply. You kissed her back.

ping!

The sound made you guys both stop in your actions. You looked over at the computer. The camera was off, but the audio was still going.

The stream was still on.

Fuck.

“Vi! I thought you said you ended it!,” you said hitting her in the chest.

if you don’t like it…you can punch me in the tit.

REQUEST ARE OPEN !!

[jiminomenon]

valentines special!

pairing: punk! karina x mean girl! reader

word count: 1.3k+

summary: valentine’s day was just another overrated holiday—until jimin turned it into a full-blown spectacle. from an obnoxious banner over y/n’s locker to stuffing her arms with roses, jimin made sure everyone knew exactly who y/n belonged to. despite y/n’s endless complaints, jimin only doubled down, dragging her away for a surprise rooftop date with takeout and chocolates. annoyed but secretly soft, y/n let her win—just this once. not that she’d ever say it out loud.

from my series: match made in hell

valentine’s day was overrated. the flowers, the chocolates, the desperate attempts to prove love in one day—it was all so unbearably cliché. y/n had always looked down on it, rolling their eyes at the couples who paraded through the halls like they were starring in a low-budget rom-com.

she didn’t do romance. she did power. control. having people wrapped around her finger just to let them go the second they got too close.

and yet, somehow, jimin had wormed her way past all of y/n’s walls.

where y/n broke hearts, jimin broke rules. where y/n ruled the school, jimin ruled the streets. where y/n thrived off making people crave their attention, jimin was the only one who didn’t play along—because she already had it.

which was why y/n should’ve known better than to expect jimin to ignore valentine’s day.

they barely made it through the entrance of the school before being ambushed.

balloons—black and pink, because jimin had to keep some edge to the whole ordeal—lined their locker. but the real kicker was the massive, messy banner hanging above it, spray-painted in red like some crime scene message.

“mine. forever. get over it.”

y/n’s eyes twitched.

the hall was packed, and people were staring. whispering. y/n could already hear their names being thrown around in hushed voices, laced with awe and jealousy.

then there was jimin, leaning against the lockers with her usual smug grin, ripped jeans and leather jacket giving her that effortless bad-girl look she knew drove people crazy.

“what the hell is this?” y/n asked, voice flat.

jimin popped a lollipop into her mouth, tilting her head. “a declaration of love, obviously.”

y/n exhaled through her nose, already feeling a headache coming on. “this is humiliating.”

“and yet, you’re still standing here looking hot as hell,” jimin mused. “so, i think i did something right.”

before y/n could snap at her, jimin whistled. suddenly, a group of her delinquent friends appeared, each carrying a bouquet of deep red roses—real ones, expensive ones, the kind y/n would never admit to liking.

one by one, they handed them to y/n until their arms were completely full.

“jimin.” y/n’s voice dropped an octave, laced with warning.

“what?” she leaned in close, lowering her voice. “you think i’m gonna let some loser try to shoot their shot with you today? had to make sure everyone knows who you belong to.”

y/n pursed her lips, ignoring the way her heart pounded at her words.

“you’re insane,” she muttered.

“and you love it.” jimin grinned, leaning in to press a lingering kiss against y/n’s cheek, right in front of everyone.

whispers erupted around them. someone gasped.

y/n scoffed, shoving the flowers into jimin’s hands. “you’re carrying these.”

jimin only smirked, tucking one behind y/n’s ear. “anything for you, princess.”

the chaos didn’t stop there.

the rest of the day was filled with jimin’s shameless displays of affection.

she skipped her classes to walk y/n to hers, stealing bites of her lunch and draping herself over her shoulders like a clingy cat. she slid love notes into their pockets (most of them inappropriate), charmed the teachers into excusing her lateness, and made a show of glaring at anyone who even looked at y/n for too long.

by last period, y/n was exhausted.

they barely had time to breathe before jimin was dragging them out of school, her grip firm yet gentle as she led them to her motorcycle parked just outside.

“we’re ditching,” she announced.

y/n raised a brow. “and where, exactly, are you taking me?”

jimin tossed her a helmet. “it’s a surprise.”

y/n narrowed her eyes. “if this is some grand romantic gesture, i’m—”

jimin rolled her eyes. “just get on.”

reluctantly, y/n did, wrapping her arms around jimin’s waist as she sped off.

they ended up at an abandoned rooftop, overlooking the city just as the sun started to set.

a picnic blanket was laid out, complete with takeout from y/n’s favorite restaurant and a box of chocolate-covered strawberries.

y/n stared.

“say something,” jimin said, rubbing the back of her neck. “this is the most effort i’ve ever put into anything.”

y/n slowly turned to her. “you… actually planned this?”

“yeah, yeah, don’t make it weird,” jimin muttered, flopping down onto the blanket.

y/n sat beside her, watching as the sky turned shades of pink and orange.

“you’re ridiculous,” she said softly.

jimin smirked. “and yet, you’re still here.”

y/n rolled her eyes, but when jimin reached for their hand, they didn’t pull away.

jimin’s fingers traced lazy patterns on y/n’s palm, her usual cocky smirk softening just a little under the glow of the setting sun. it was almost unsettling—almost.

y/n clicked their tongue. “you’re really trying to be all romantic right now, huh?”

jimin scoffed, biting into a chocolate-covered strawberry. “romantic? please. i just like watching you get all flustered.”

y/n snatched the box from her hands, popping one into their mouth. “you’re so full of yourself.”

“and yet, here you are,” jimin teased, leaning in so close their noses nearly touched. “sitting on a rooftop with me, eating strawberries, holding my hand like some lovesick idiot.”

y/n refused to let her win. she tilted her head, gaze dropping to jimin’s lips.

“you’re the one who planned this whole thing just to impress me,” she murmured. “so, really, who’s the lovesick idiot here?”

jimin’s smirk faltered for half a second.

then, with a huff, she leaned back, flopping dramatically onto the blanket. “fine, you got me. i’m obsessed with you. madly in love. completely whipped. whatever.”

y/n hummed, pretending to think. “i like the sound of that.”

jimin groaned. “you’re unbearable.”

y/n grinned, lying down beside her. “and yet, you’re still here.”

silence settled between them, comfortable and warm. below, the city buzzed with life, but up here, it was just them. no distractions. no expectations.

just them.

jimin shifted onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “you never told me if you liked it.”

y/n blinked. “liked what?”

“all this.” jimin gestured vaguely at the setup. “the banner, the flowers, the whole valentine’s day thing.”

y/n let out a breath, staring up at the sky.

she had never been the type to care for grand gestures, never cared for romance beyond what she could use to her advantage. but jimin wasn’t just some disposable admirer.

she was jimin.

y/n turned her head, meeting her gaze. “it was stupid.”

jimin’s expression barely changed, but y/n caught the flicker of something in her eyes before they continued.

“but… it was also kind of nice.”

jimin’s lips twitched.

“kind of?” she echoed.

y/n smirked. “don’t get ahead of yourself.”

jimin huffed out a laugh before reaching for y/n’s face, brushing their hair back.

“happy valentine’s day, princess,” she murmured.

y/n rolled her eyes, but when jimin leaned in, she didn’t pull away.

jimin’s breath was warm against y/n’s lips, the space between them shrinking with every passing second. y/n could feel her heartbeat hammering in her chest, but she refused to let jimin see how much she affected her.

“if you’re expecting me to say it back, don’t hold your breath,” y/n murmured, tilting her chin up slightly.

jimin chuckled, eyes flickering down to their lips. “who said i needed you to say anything?”

and then, finally, she kissed her.

it wasn’t soft, it wasn’t sweet—it was everything jimin was. reckless, consuming, and just a little cocky. she kissed y/n like she had something to prove, like she wanted to remind she exactly who she belonged to.

y/n, for all their pride and stubbornness, melted into it anyway.

jimin grinned against her lips, tugging her closer. “took you long enough to give in.”

y/n pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, smirking as she tangled her fingers in the collar of jimin’s jacket.

“shut up and kiss me again.”

jimin didn’t need to be told twice.

[alexusonfire]

She Blossoms in the Night

Patti!Fosca x Fem!Reader

Happy Valentines Day everyone, have a little sweet treat 🖤 Requested by @kittenpielove , mostly fluff, with a HINT of angst if you squint

She’d captured my attention from the moment I first saw her.

A pale, fragile thing, with dark hair that hung in long strands down her back. Her walk was hunched and hobbled, like the pain in her joints was almost too much for her to bear. Clothed in layers, despite the lingering summer heat, her swaying skirts could be heard down the long halls, warning of her impending arrival. Older than I, perhaps exaggerated by illness, with such sullen eyes they drew instant pity. 

I’d heard of the Colonel’s sickly cousin from my brother’s letters; “a ghost” is how he described her. Gaunt and haunting, her wails of pain were often heard long into the night. The men avoided her as best they could, on constant alert for the sway and howls; they’d even go so far as to completely ignore her at dinner, hooting and hollering around her as she sat in her own melancholy. 

Upon finally meeting Senora Fosca, I could not fathom what he’d been writing about; in all my years, I’d never found someone quite so alluring.

Our first real exchange was in the greenhouse, which I would later learn Fosca tended to herself. I’d only meant to take a short walk, something to clear my thoughts lest I be left tossing and turning. As I ambled between rows of gardenias and petunias, their scent wafting pleasantly in the air, her sudden presence in the doorway startled me. Loud as she could be in her throes, silence came just as easily to her. 

A ghost, wicked and cursed, the men would have whispered, the way she was half-hidden by shadow.

Yet I’d never seen her so beautiful.

“I did not mean to frighten you.”

I asked her to sit with me, mostly for my own selfish reasons. I could not stop admiring the way the moonlight reflected those dark strands of hair, once so dull and bland now seeming vibrant. Her skin shone, eyes sparkled; she so often hid from the sun, its rays flushing her unpleasantly, but here, in the cool glow of the moon, she flourished. I wanted to keep her here forever, if only so that I might look upon her wistful beauty as often as I pleased.

Our conversation flowed easily, lengthening well into the night. She remained firmly rooted in reality, her reality, refusing to spin pretty tales of love and fantasy. I encouraged her to speak of the small pleasantries she had, such as her piano that she often played, or the novels that lined the walls of the quarters. When she finally bestowed me with a small smile, it felt as though the sun had finally burst through the clouds on a cold, rainy day. I knew, from that very briefest of moments, that she’d captured something within me.

__

I began to ask after her, to her cousin and the Doctor, sometimes even being so bold as to knock on her door when the light barely clung to the corners of her shadowy bedroom. I longed to see her lit by the moon time and time again, so deeply it was like an ache welling in my chest. Much to my initial surprise, she never objected to my visiting, and soon began to ask after me as well. We now spent our days together, reading, gardening, or she teaching me the notes of her piano. Sometimes we would speak, other times simply be near one another. Her cousin was so pleased to see that Fosca had finally found a friend, and the doctor attributed the color she had gained in her hollow cheeks to our closeness.

As time went on, I became more and more infatuated. I took it upon myself to care for her when the doctor could not, even going so far as to share her bed when her mental state did not allow my departure. We clung to each other, more than would normally be found appropriate, but as the men were busy with their own tasks and truthfully, they were simply glad to have Fosca out of their hair, no one said a word against it.

I couldn't be more pleased with their lack of attention. I adored having her all to myself, my sweet, sad little mourning dove. Her cold hand in mine brought me a sense of belonging I hadn’t experienced in years, and one evening as we lay curled into one another, she told me much the same.

We snuck away to the ruined castle for our first kiss. Ever conscious of her declined physical state, I waited for a day she seemed brighter, lighter, more sure of herself on her feet. When the light fell and darkness rose, I gathered her and an oil lamp up, then headed down the rocky path. She held tightly to me, her boned fingers digging into the cotton of my sleeve. Her gentle voice guided me through the winding vines and crumbled stone, leading us to the overgrown courtyard gardens. She’d spoken of this place often, with such reverence. Her entire body filled with it now, her spine straightening and shoulders relaxing. When her lips tipped upwards, I could bear it no longer. I pulled her flush to me, we sharing a small moment of longing between us before her mouth melded to mine. We fit perfectly together, as though we were always meant to be connected in this way. With the moon as our witness, we claimed each other for our own, swearing our love and our lives to one another for as long as hers would allow.

–-

Ten years we shared, filled with more love and joy than either of us had ever hoped for. Though the true extent of our affections remained behind closed doors and hidden corners, we often found peace in the greenhouse while the world slept. Even when her legs weakened to needing a cane, she held my arm for support as I sat her amongst the flowers, she curling into me as we wiled away the hours discussing life and our menial day-to-day.

I lay those same flowers on her grave, as she requested of me, and took care in their upkeep every week. I would sit with her in the evenings, that block of marble shining as she did under the moon, and tell her of my life without her, how I missed her, and couldn’t wait to see her again.

My ghost. My mourning dove. My Moonflower.

My sweet Fosca.

[amoeganism]

DON'T LIE, I'M PERFECT AND YOU LOVE ME luka

Luka really wants to take a nap after a long day of being exploited and being a pain in the ass to every human around him, but your priorities (pissing him off) come first!

WC: ~600

Your boyfriend, visibly exhausted, miserably slumps his upper body onto his bed and his knees collapse. Bundled under mounds of thick blankets, you reach an arm out to ruffle Luka’s blond hair, brushing through his wavy locks and petting his head like a dog. You snicker at the sight of his face contorting after realizing what you’re doing, lazily swiping your hand away and grunting before coughing into his arm. 

It takes you a few moments to inch over to where Luka lays. You didn’t want to sacrifice the comfort of being suffocated and melting into your bed until you’re a pile of sweat and nasty mulch. His eyes slowly flutter shut and his breathing slows but the uncomfortable position he’s in acts as a barrier between him and falling into a deep sleep. However, it takes too much energy to try to pull Luka fully onto the mattress, but what doesn’t take much energy is disrupting the rest he needs. You aren’t planning on getting the title of “Number One Lover of a Superstar” and you hadn’t seen him the entire day since you both had woken up; you deserve this, you reason to yourself. 

Under your fingertips, you switch between prodding and poking his pale cheeks until they warm and bloom into a faint pink. Luka tries his best to make you stop, puffing his cheeks and intertwining your fingers together but you retaliate by grabbing his face and watching him deflate. It gives you a slight ego boost when he gives up and chooses to throw his lanky limbs over you, adding his heavy bodyweight over the mass of your blankets.

“How was your day of terrorizing the music industry?” you ask, immediately returning to pinching his cheeks. 

“I don’t need to terrorize anyone. Everyone already knows that I’m a fan favorite.”

“Yeah because I totally hallucinated you having at least ten different tabs about Mizi and you weren’t writing in a notebook titled ‘Evil and Devious Masterplan’. You’re embarrassing when you beef with people eight years younger than you.”

“God forbid a man has hobbies.”

“Yeah I really hate it. Stick to singing and looking cute. Only I deserve to see your evil. It makes me feel special when you aren’t exposing yourself to everyone.”

“You make it sound like I’m flashing the public.”

“You pretty much are. Your dick and bad personality are the same thing.”

“You’re so mean to me,” Luka whines in which you stick your tongue out at him in response. “I’m an innocent man who can do nothing bad. Ever. And here I am, being mistreated by the one who is supposed to love me until and beyond death. What did I do to deserve this?”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry Luka,” you press a kiss to his sore, red cheek, letting your lips linger on his skin before hugging him tighter. At the same time, you ignore the fact that he is a thirty year old man throwing a minor tantrum over you having fun being insufferable the same way he does on a daily basis. “Anyways, can I bite your face? I have a really bad urge to do that right now. Actually, I don’t need your permission.”

“Hey! I have a show tomorrow, you know? My fans are going to be disappointed if I appear with teeth marks on my face. What will the public think—ow!”

“Hehe, you’re so cute like this.”

“At least bite the other side to even it out,” Luka sighs and turns his head. 

“I knew you loved me.”

[monstroysters]

Identity theft's a crime; up to 15 years in prison. Requires the end of a life to establish another. Pointedly frowned upon in most circles for very good reasons even beyond the risk of a loved one experiencing the grief of Finding Out. Whatever unconscionable amount of Saturday morning cartoon aesops had long affirmed that the glue which held society together against being torn apart by undue crime was a 'if you know something, say something' mindset. Yet, here you were, doing everything but.

Despite yourself, you hadn't told anybody about what you think had happened to Brad. You hadn't told anybody about when he suddenly came home sans packing from a 'week-long siesta trip' that he inexplicably hadn't even deigned to leave a note on the fridge about. Now, Brad was an ass, the type to shirk the dishes, punch holes in the drywall over Silver in Siege and listen to music without headphones on; but he understood Roommate Etiquette 101. His marked attempts at establishing his own 'brohood' belied the fact he was smart enough to know you don't scare the person who's helping with paying for your room and board. You were friends, rather acquaintances in so far as one is when living together with someone, so not actually - you were both phantoms lingering in the other's wary periphery.

Brad was not a man to announce his arrival with a little smile and a 'Hey my roomie buddy, I'm home'. The kind of smile and tone of voice which held that kind of earnest warmth usually reserved for a long-term lover established to your mind from the contour of their bones to the taste of their lips. You hadn't said anything back when he'd showed up home again. You didn't say anything after, either. If you, hypothetically, ignored your amygdala throwing out warning signals and figured everything was normal, the Brad you knew would have gotten pissy about you acknowledging his behavior. If you trusted your brain, as you had, not saying something was a survival tactic. The brain liked those, and so did you. You Fancied being Alive and Whole, and if the situation was actually Like That-

Unlike how the real deal, the real Brad would have, he never pressed the matter. Things quickly fell back into an now eerie normalcy strangely quickly. No Missing Persons reports showed up in the news for you that you could catch him out on. No viral social media posts about roommates, spouses, partners or friends behaving unlike themselves to confirm you weren't just paranoid about your roommate's sudden change of heart. There never came up a reason to doubt him when he said he'd come back from visiting friends or family. You never had to remind him when the bills were due. What slips of the guise you managed to catch, the stray cephalopodic appendage frustratedly grabbing at something out of the reach of his arms or the extra row of molars puffing out his cheeks when he yawned told all truths. At that point, though, you'd grown oddly accustomed. Maybe, so had he.

Whatever he was, Brad had done something to Brad. Even if you knew what, you weren't in a position to say anything if you wanted your head to remain on your shoulders. As things looked, as things were, you didn't have a reason to say anything because nobody had any reason to believe you, if you even got that far. You'd humored the thought that he knew that, too, and that was why he'd grown so comfortable around you. Comfortable enough that he shared your tiny couch with you without any ego-preserving barbs sent your way, and always asked what toppings you want on the pizza. It was an awful thing, you knew but you had no reason to call him out, whether for your own safety or for preserving this weird new status quo. Things were better this way, and the thought frightened you far more than the entity you shared a condo with.

Your “friend” has been replaced by a doppelgänger. You aren’t sure where it came from or what it is under the disguise. But you know one thing; you prefer it over the original.

[bitchinbarzal]

My perfect Valentine | M Knies

summary: valentine’s day has never been your thing, but matthew has a way of making even the simplest moments feel special.

-

Valentine’s Day has never been your thing.

Not in the love is stupid kind of way, because you do love love, but in the Valentine’s Day is an overpriced, overhyped Hallmark holiday way. The restaurants jack up their prices, the flower shops sell out of roses in hours, and somehow, every single rom-com on the planet plays on a loop.

But when you started dating Matthew, you learned something very important: he loves Valentine’s Day.

Not in the grand gestures and flashy romance kind of way, but in the little things mean the most kind of way.

Like how he makes it a point to have pink roses waiting for you every year, even if he has to order them weeks in advance. Or how he insists on making breakfast because “it tastes better when I cook it for you” Or how he always, always makes sure you feel like the most important person in the world—even on a day you don’t care much about.

This year, he has a game, which means you won’t see much of him, but that doesn’t stop him from going all out.

You wake up to the smell of coffee and something sweet.

The other side of the bed is empty, but the warmth lingering on the sheets tells you Matthew hasn’t been gone for long. You stretch, rubbing your eyes before padding into the kitchen, where you find him standing at the stove.

He’s still in his pajama pants, his hair a mess, a concentrated look on his face as he flips a pancake. The sight makes you smile.

“You’re up early” you say, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind.

Matthew grins, glancing over his shoulder. “Had to get a head start. Big day”

You roll your eyes “It’s just Wednesday”

“And Valentine’s Day” He turns around, wrapping his arms around you “You know the rules. No Valentine’s Day slander allowed”

“I wasn’t slandering”

“You were thinking about slandering”

You laugh, tilting your head up to kiss him “Fine. I’ll behave”

Satisfied, Matthew lets you go, turning back to the stove “I made your favorite”

You glance at the counter, where a plate of chocolate chip pancakes sits next to a pink envelope. Next to it, a vase filled with delicate pink roses. Your chest warms.

“You do this every year” you say, running your fingers over the petals.

Matthew shrugs “You act surprised every year”

You don’t know why you do. It’s just him. He loves making you happy, and he’s never needed an excuse to do it.

You pick up the envelope, looking at him “Can I open it now?”

“Only if you’re prepared to cry”

You roll your eyes, but when you open the card and see his familiar handwriting, you know he might be right.

Matthew has a game that night, so you don’t expect much else.

You meet him at Scotiabank Arena before warmups, handing him his pre-game coffee like always. You’re barely able to say Happy Valentine’s Day before he’s being ushered into the locker room, leaving you to watch the game from your usual seat.

It’s a good game. A win.

By the time he comes out of the locker room, he’s grinning, hair still damp from his post-game shower.

“You played great” you say, standing on your toes to kiss his cheek.

“All for you, sweetheart”

It’s cheesy, but it makes you blush anyway.

It’s late by the time you get home, and you assume the night is over.

But Matthew has other plans.

As soon as you step inside, he tugs you toward the kitchen, where two plates of takeout are waiting. Your favorite place—the one that’s always too busy to get into on Valentine’s Day.

Your heart melts “How did you—”

“Ordered it this morning before they got too busy” he says, pulling out a chair for you.

You sit, watching as he sets a candle in the middle of the table, lighting it with a flick of his wrist. It’s not grand or flashy. It’s just the two of you, eating takeout at midnight, with a candle flickering between you.

And it’s perfect.

After dinner, you curl up on the couch, tucked into his side. He’s warm, solid, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your arm.

“Good Valentine’s Day?” he asks softly.

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze “The best”

Matthew smiles, pressing a kiss to your temple “Told you. No Valentine’s Day slander allowed”

You laugh, shaking your head, and when he kisses you, slow and sweet, you think maybe you’re starting to like Valentine’s Day after all.

[alieinthemorning]

Acts of Service [Caleb]

Content: Self-Indulgent, Brown-Skinned Reader, Brown-Eyed Reader, Domestic Fluff, Confessions, Getting Together, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Soft Caleb, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert

Pronouns: She/Her

Note: I see Caleb within the childhood friend trope. Anything outside of that makes me uncomfortable, so I won’t be engaging with it in any sort of way.

Reblogs: Let me know that you enjoy my work and want to see more, so don’t forget to like and reblog (and comment in the tags. I love seeing people’s rambles in the tags)!

This work’s concepts, plot and original characters are my own which means I do not allow any sort of creative theft nor do I allow my work to be entered into any sort of A.I. bots. Thank you for respecting my space and boundaries

Wanna support me? Here’s my Ko-Fi!

The second you are about to enter the shower, a presence makes itself known at your door. You sigh, heading to the door with an inkling of who it is. 

“Hey, pip-squeak—woah!” Caleb’s cheerful greeting turns into a flustered one as he takes in your towel covered figure. 

“Hurry up, you’re letting all the heat out.” You wave him in as you turn around. “You’re the one who interrupted me, so now you gotta wait.”

“I, uh…okay…” He shut the door behind him, lingering in the front hall. 

And wait he did. You didn’t take too long, but you did take your time. Especially with moisturizing. You had to take extra precautions in this cold weather, after all. Least your brown skin end up ashy. You put on your coziest clothes, and a nice fragrance. Taking a swig of water to rehydrate, you take a moment to ponder. You need to wash your hair—that’s also on today’s to-do list, however, you really didn’t want to wash your hair now since the shower had tuckered you out immensely.

Oh, wait. There is someone who’s done it before in your house right now.

“Caleb!” You rush out your room, and burst into the living room. “Can you wash my hair?”

His face scrunches up for a moment before it relaxes into a grin. “You leave me here all by my lonesome for an hour, and now you wanna put me to work?” He chuckled as he stands. “Sure, I’ll do it.” 

“Great! I’ll go get my stuff—can you rinse the sink out?” 

“Already on it.” 

Having Caleb wash your hair was nice. Not only because you don’t have to wash your hair yourself (hehe), but also because…it reminds you of the old days. He’s still as gentle as he was before, he still takes the time on your problem areas, and he makes sure the temperature is perfect before putting you back under the water. 

You’re damn near asleep when he starts three-strand twisting your hair. The only thing keeping you awake is the chocolate that he had giving you—“as a friend”, he said.

“You know, it’s been a while since I’ve done this, but it doesn’t feel like we’ve missed a beat.” Caleb reminisces.

You smile. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing earlier.” You yawn. “Even though my routine change a bit, you didn’t screw up.”

“Screw up?” He flicks the back of your neck. “I’m hurt that you think that I’d mess you up.”

The two of you share a laugh, and it’s nice. How long has it been since you’d been able to laugh like this? To be this close? To share in each other’s warm presences?

You yawn again as your bonnet is carefully put on. “So what now Did you have anything planned?”

“Nah, just wanted to come and visit”

You lean back into him, gazing up at his flushed face. “How about this: you go out and buy some stuff to stay the night and ingredients for dinner while I take a nap?”

“You’re havin’ me do all the work while you laze around yet again.” He shook his head without an inch of malice. 

“Like you’d have it any other way.”

His smile becomes softer as he replies. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He gently nudges you off him so he can stand. “So what do you want for dinner?”

“Surprise me.” You join him, stretching. “I’m putting all the work into planning this date, you can do a little something.”

You make your way to your bedroom, a skip in your step as you hear the tail end of his sentence that he murmurs under his breath. 

“...she’s gonna be the end of me.”

Your nap came and went. You don’t know how much time passed, but it didn’t matter as you were woken up to the delicious smell of Caleb’s food. You were immediately able to pick out the fried chicken just from the smell. 

“Oh, I’m bout to smack this back like a damn heart attack.” You say as you take your seat. You notice that the flowers that he had also brought are now being used as a centerpiece. 

How romantic. 

Caleb outright laughed, as he placed a few dumplings on your plate. “Where did that come from?”

“A friend.” You say through a mouthful of rice. “When she said that it really resonated with me.”

The meal is just like earlier when he was twisting your hair. It’s warm and inviting. It’s like meeting each other again without missing a beat. It’s familiar. 

It’s…home. 

He’s home. 

You smile. “Welp, you’ve given me a wonderful Azure Echo’s Day—even though I was supposed to do all the work. So! I’ve got you on next time!” You wink at him. 

His smile falters a bit. “Haha…you don’t gotta to…”

“I insist.” You push, “I mean, what kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

This time the smile falls entirely. “Can you…not…do that?”

Your elbows hit the table, fingers lace together as you lean on your head on them. “Do you think I’m joking, Caleb?”

He looks away quietly. 

“I’m not being serious.” You sigh. “I’m not playing with your feelings. I know how you feel about me, and I know how you feel about you. And…” You pause, chewing your bottom lip for a moment before continuing. “...If we don’t cross the line now, we might not ever get the chance to again. We can’t keep being scared of destroying our peaceful friendship while being miserable because we never even tried to be more than that.”

He finally looks at you, and says your name ever so softly. His sugilite gaze is the same, and full of love. You wonder if your own brown one is reflecting the same.

“So?” A mischievous hint in your tone. “Are you gonna ask?”

“But you just said—”

“You should still ask me properly!” 

His sighs through a smile before getting up and rounding the table. He pulls you up to join him, holding you close and asks:

“Will you be my girlfriend?” 

Although the two of you did it a little backwards, February 14th marks the day that the two of you shared your first kiss as a couple.

THIS WAS WRITTEN FOR MEEEEE

ON AZURE ECHO'S DAY

DURING BLACK HISTORY MONTH

FOR MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Ko-Fi | Masterlist

[cece693]

Could I request a doctor reader with Mathew Brown from Hannibal

after will abandoned him he was placed into the same hospital he once worked at and transfers his devotion and obsession onto his new doctor ( which they don’t reciprocate but he is determined to make them see the truth . He won’t fail again

I Won't Fail Again

pairing: matthew brown x male reader tags: Matthew needs help, but he's a good guy, well kinda, mentions of will and how he dumped his ass, creepy if this occurred in real life, open ended, this takes place over multiple sessions explaining the many line breaks

Matthew Brown had once devoted himself wholly to Will Graham. It was a devotion born of fixation and admiration, a strange, electric faith in Will’s innocence and cause. But that faith had failed him—Will had abandoned him in the end, leaving Matthew alone with the ruins of that intense purpose.

Legally, psychiatrically, he was considered too unstable to be in a conventional prison. But those who saw madness where Matthew saw clarity found it easier to send him to the very same hospital he’d once worked at. The irony chafed at him: how he’d worn these halls in uniform, how he’d walked among patients with a sense of authority. Now he was one of them—a patient in the place he used to think he controlled.

Matthew’s new doctor spoke in measured tones and wore his well-pressed suits like a shield. Something about your composed manner and unwavering voice snatched Matthew’s devotion before he even realized it. He started to watch you the way he used to watch Will, with an unnerving intensity that left the staff uneasy.

At first, Matthew tried to be subtle. He’d never been patient with these feelings, but he understood the delicate nature of coaxing truth from people who refused to see it. He studied your routine: when you arrived, how long you lingered over your notes, what you ordered from the vending machine during your mid-afternoon slump. The man was so carefully, elegantly boring that it fascinated Matthew. He found a new anchor for his once-directionless faith.

They met in a consultation room with a small table and two chairs. “Mr. Brown,” You greeted in a quiet, authoritative voice. “I understand you used to work in this hospital.”

“I did,” Matthew replied, drawing out each syllable to watch for any reaction and was rewarded by your shifting in your seat and adjustment to the cuffs that latched around your wrists. “People here never appreciated what I did for them. They questioned my methods. But I was always correct in my observations.”

You nodded politely, your eyes skimming Matthew’s file. “You worked with Will Graham, an FBI profiler.”

“Yes,” Matthew’s voice caught. “I believed in him. I still do, though he left me behind.”

“And now, you’re here.” Your tone remained unwavering, though Matthew could feel the slight tension in the line of your shoulders.

“Now I’m here,” Matthew echoed softly, leaning forward. “So are you. And you matter.” You blinked, betraying a flicker of confusion. To Matthew, that confusion was like a flash of lightning in the dark. He’d glimpsed a crack in your armor.

The nights were endless, fluorescent-lit intervals broken by head checks and medication calls. Matthew forced his eyes open to watch the corridor’s watery reflections dance through the glass panel in his door. In those quiet hours, he replayed each session, searching for some sign of your needs—some place where fear might be peeled back to reveal the truth beneath. He wrote letters he was never allowed to send, letters scrawled in the margins of paper meant for therapy notes. He does not see what is in front of him, he penned, sketching your profile from memory. But I won’t fail again. Not like before.

A part of Matthew still ached from Will’s desertion. That pain only hardened his resolve. You would see he wasn’t insane, or misguided, or broken. Matthew knew what was real, and you could be guided—he just needed time.

“There’s no reason you should trust me yet,” Matthew said, his voice steady, “but I promise you, what I’m telling you is important.”

You scrutinized Matthew’s pale face. “And what is it you believe so fervently now?”

“That there’s a higher understanding. We’re all looking at these petty illusions. The staff, they talk about me behind my back— but you? You see more.”

“I see a man who was obsessed once. I see a man who has trouble trusting others because he believes himself to be the only one who truly sees the truth.”

Matthew’s lips curved, halfway between amusement and resentment. “My last devotion was misplaced. This time, I won’t make that mistake.”

You tilted your head, measuring those words. “You must realize that I’m your doctor, Matthew, not your friend.”

“And Will was the FBI profiler, not my friend,” Matthew countered sharply, “yet I still believed. But belief alone isn’t always enough—we have to act.”

A hint of alarm flickered in your eyes. “That’s precisely what gets you into dangerous territory.”

Matthew exhaled a slow breath. “Danger is only a problem if you’re blind to it.”

Two weeks later, you discovered a piece of folded paper in your office, slipped under the door. It was a neatly drawn portrait of your face—perfectly proportioned, every line precise. Beneath it, in neat handwriting, was a single phrase: I see you.

You felt a chill prickle over your arms. You had no doubt who had left it. Matthew Brown was watched closely in his room, but hospital schedules weren’t bulletproof. At some point, Matthew had found a way to slip this note out. Or maybe he had an ally; or maybe he had manipulated the staff. You couldn’t tell. Either way, Matthew had decided to keep pressing.

Something clenched inside your chest. You’d heard stories about Brown’s past. You'd read the man’s file thoroughly—his unwavering conviction, his near-fanatic devotion to Will Graham. If that devotion had pivoted toward you now…you threw the paper away, ignoring the subtle quake in your hands.

During their next session, you looked down at your desk, deliberately avoiding Matthew’s penetrating gaze. But Matthew leaned forward, a serenity painting his face, as though he saw a door open in your guarded expression.

“They’ll never understand you the way I do,” Matthew said softly.

“This dynamic between us,” You answered, measuring every word, “is not about understanding on the same level. I’m here for your treatment, to help you cope, to—”

“Cope with reality?” Matthew cut in, smirking. “Whose reality? Yours? The staff’s? People blind to the evil that lurks? I was right before, you know. About Will. It was all part of a bigger design. No one believed me except him. But he left me behind, too. I won’t let that happen again. I’m better prepared. I see you for who you are.”

“And who am I?” You asked, voice trembling with more frustration than you intended.

“You are more than a doctor. You are a gatekeeper. But you don’t realize what you can open.” Matthew’s chains rattled softly as he stood—an abrupt, forced movement before the orderlies could push him back down. “I’m going to show you. I’ll make you see it.”

The orderlies pressed Matthew back into his chair, forcibly securing his wrists. But his voice cut through the hush, steady, still so certain:

“I won’t fail this time.”

You stood, turning away, every nerve on edge. Part of you wanted to run from that unwavering stare. But you had to stand your ground—you were the doctor, you reminded yourself. Matthew was the patient. That was the line. That was the truth.

Yet, as you closed the door on the session, you could still feel Matthew’s eyes boring through the narrow window. A part of you couldn’t shake the prickling sense that the boundary you thought so firm might just be one more illusion Matthew Brown was determined to shatter.

Days turned into weeks, but Matthew’s conviction never faded. He filled diary pages with sketches of you, of the hospital corridors, of the images in his head. His rhetoric grew more certain each time he saw you—no grandstanding, no pleas for acceptance, just calm belief that you'd one day stand at the threshold of truth and see as Matthew did.

Outside, the hospital staff whispered about transferring Matthew to an even more secure unit. You found those whispers comforting, and yet a strange tension resided within you. You weren't supposed to feel unnerved. But a single look from Matthew across the corridor, or a note slipped under you door, reminded you that devotion—obsession—had a power all its own.

And Matthew? He’d quietly vow, over and over, behind that door with its little window, “I won’t fail again.” Because he had found a new clarity, a new mission, and a new center of gravity in you. He would not let this devotion slip through his fingers.

[infini-tree]

episodic - part 4

< back | next >

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Summary: Everyone doubles down.

A/N: alternative chapter summary: Melvin Has A Normal Day.

once again thank you art of book for listing all the faculty names and subjects. 

on that note: Melvin's characterization. since this au is primarily based on movie continuity, in the end i decided to defer to its lead. which makes things difficult, as most of his inventions were all pretty lowkey (and the turbo toilet had been further augmented by a third party), and some future plots hinge on his more OP inventions. scene 2 is meant to bridge the character gap between all his incarnations, and also narratively sets some stuff up for this AU. i did say he's a core secondary,

---------------------

With the final bell rung, Benjamin made quick work of packing his suitcase. Considering how fast the kids ran out of the school, the halls should be quiet now. The last thing he needed was noise and talking. And so, he stepped out into a reception room filled with faculty. 

Not just talking– yelling. At him.

He glanced over to Anthrope, who should have shooed them all away. Her now-empty seat was still swivelling. 

“Of course,” he grumbled.

“Whadd'ya mean 'of course'?” Rected griped.

“We’re up to our eyelids in marking these brats’ worksheets!” Ribble waved a stack of papers at his face– all from the impromptu beach day, if he read the date right. “And you expect us to mark an entire grade’s worth of volcano projects?!”

“Clearly it's not just the students that need to apply themselves.” 

The rest of the teachers froze.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He narrowed his eyes, his tone still as clipped from the announcements. “Aren’t you the one always complaining about their marks?”

“Well, yes, but–”

“But nothing, you're the one who insisted on teaching three subjects.” He moved on to other teachers. “Meaner, you’re only doing the running tests– I don’t see why you’re complaining. The most you have to do is make sure they don’t trip over their own shoelaces.”

“The papers–”

“Because its so hard keeping track of when kids stop running.” He turned to Guided. “And you– all the tests are based on stuff your class should have covered by now.”

Guided grumbled something about how the topics were from the start of the semester, no one remembers that.

“Dayken–” Said teacher jolted up from the back. “What are you even doing here? You're a kindergarten teacher.”

“I wanted to feel included--”

“In any case, all I’m hearing–” He pointed an accusatory finger at all of them. “Is that all of you are mad that you need to actually do your job.”

“Excuse you?!” Ribble shot back. No other teachers spoke up.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to do before you barged in here.” He pointed at Rected and Ribble. “You have until the end of the week to make it work.”

He could feel something tighten in his chest flare as he saw the teachers back off. It wasn’t relief, but it was a near thing. At least he wasn’t on the back foot. 

“Dismissed.” The tone broached no argument.

The impromptu staff meeting ended– not with a bang, but a whimper. More accurately, it was a grumble of swears that cannot be recounted in a fanwork made for general audiences. He watched all the teachers skulk out of the room with a leveled glare. 

None of them dared to look back.

If we could have, we would have. Who else would agree?

He stood there until he was absolutely sure he couldn’t hear anyone nearby. After that, it was just a matter of going down the steps. Of making it through the hallway. 

Ignoring how unmoored he felt. He looked to his feet– left, right, left, right. Repeat until he was at the door.

It wasn’t the first time anyone would have thought that about him. Heck, it wasn’t the first time the quiet part was said out loud. It was, however, the first time it was actually doable.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Ben?”

“Guh–” He whirled around. “Edith!”

She blinked. He stared. The silence lingered a bit too long for his liking, though it was clear she wanted to say something. 

“Do you need anything?” he managed.

“Are you alright?” When no answer came, she continued to trail off. “I mean, I– I saw everyone goin’ up to your office. And then there was the announcement earlier, so–”

“Of course I am.”

Another blink. “O– oh, uh, ok, then…”

“OK, then.” 

Edith persisted. She trailed behind him closely as he came closer to the door. Most days he’d be a little endeared to it, but right now, right now–

“So, where are you going to set up this whole ‘science fair’? You, uh. Forgot to mention it.”

Of course he did. “The cafeteria. It has the space for it.”

He held a hand up to the door. 

“I guess the floors have to be cleaned early…” she mumbled. “Uh, hey– wait!”

He had barely half-opened it.

“If you need anything, just ask, OK?” Then, in a lower voice, she added: “I don’t know why you’re actually doin’ this, but–”

His hand was gone as he whipped back to look at her. “Actually?” he snapped back. 

“I– I know you, and you wouldn’t be doin’ this without a reason.”

“Know me?”

His rage was already so spent– from the boys, the teachers, the other guy, it can only persist for so long. It doesn’t billow out so much as burn him out from the inside. And when pushed that far, something had to give.

“It took you a month to realize I wasn’t being an idiot on purpose,” he said. “The real question is why didn't I do it sooner.” 

Edith’s eyes widened and her shoulders shrank at the remark. Guilt curdled in him, but it was a distant thing. He wanted to leave. He wanted to reach out and take it back. His body chose the worst compromise between the two and made him stand there like an idiot.

“OK then.” She looked away. “Um, I guess I’ll prep the cafeteria for it then.”

“OK then,” was all Benjamin could manage before she left to do just that. Which was fine. That’s what he wanted, right? He needed to get going too.

Left, right, left, right. Car. Drive. He forced himself to focus on the road completely. To hold onto the wheel like a lifeline. And it worked. At least until he hit the first red light– and then the thoughts crept in.

He should have said something different. He should have said it differently. What kind of answer was I should have done it sooner, anyway? 

His knuckles turned bone-white at his grip. 

Still, he felt unmoored– like a sharp turn would make him leap out of his own body, and– If we could have, we would have, George’s voice rattled in his head. They had the motive, and they had shown time and time again they had the means. 

And yet here he still was: sweating in sixty-degree weather.

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was yet another thing to mull over and hang over the other guy.

---------------------

For the next two days, the elementary school was a minefield for George and Harold. Which was why they found themselves stumbling around a corner and quickly entering the nearest empty classroom. The small mob ran past the corner none the wiser.

Harold gave a forlorn look to the stack of comics in his arms. “I don’t know how much of the sales can take this.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” George placed a hand to the other boy’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

A pause. The other boy gave a cautious look around, now that they had a moment to breathe.

“Well, maybe put that on hold for five minutes, what the heck is up with this classroom?”

The classroom looked normal for the most part– if you ignored the absurd number of desks. There had to be triple the amount– several stacked up on each other like a fortress or maze walls. One precarious tower looked further away than it should be possible in a room this size, but it could easily be tiny desks.

“What the…”

“You two!” a voice cried.

“Ah!” Harold yelled.

“Ah!” George yelled with a little jump.

��Ah,’ Melvin did not yell. Instead, he said: “I’m surprised you two aren’t out for recess.”

They were still standing by the door so there was no chance of him sneaking past them, and his shock of ginger hair would have stood out if he had decided to stay in. 

“Yeah, well, I’m surprised you, uh… you…” George said, letting the statement hang. “-- That you’re not working on something for that pop science fair.”

Melvin didn't react. He didn’t know whether it was better or worse– especially after Krupp made that dreaded announcement.

“What is it this time?” he continued, gesturing to the desks. “Something that increases the amount of class per classroom?"

"A scale model of the school’s pop science fair-- with additional statistics?” Harold added.

“Something to make people remember why they went into a room!” George added with a laugh, before snapping to a more contemplative look. “No wait, that’d actually be… not half-bad.”

“Hm. I’ll make a note of those,” Melvin said as he continued to stand there and not do that. The conversation lulled into silence a beat longer than comfortable. Before they could speak up, he added: “And for your information, I am working on it. Hold on.”

The both of them gave another cautious once-over to the room. The room– outside of the weird amount of desks– looked normal. It looked free of any invention, save for the muffled rattling noise. George had even peeked behind the teacher’s desk on the off chance it was hidden. 

“What do you mean hold on? There isn’t anything here.”

Melvin didn’t answer. 

Instead, the walls and some of the surrounding fixtures started shimmering different colors before settling on the color of error bars you see on TV.

Harold jumped away from a nearby desk he was leaning on as he felt it shift and become less sturdy, wobbling like heat hazes. As they lifted up to the ceiling, the whir had become a fraction louder.

“What’s going on?” he turned around. “Melv– ah!”

George let out a yell, seeing Melvin’s shape shimmer until he was a mass of red and greens. He ran to him, and his first instinct was to try and grab where his shoulder was. All his fingers met was air. Then thin strands as his hand sailed past where his shoulders would be and into the now-clump of what was the tattletale.

“Melvin!”

The strands rose up and darted away like all the other ones until they were standing in a regular classroom with its usual amount of desks and a third smaller than it looked before.

“He was too young!” George said.

“It should have been me!” Harold threw himself to the ground, bashed a fist against it, and stopped. He thought for a moment before continuing in the same dramatic cadence: “OK, I take it back, that’s a bit too much, but you get it!”

“Are you two done yet?” 

“I swear I can still hear his voice, even now–” the boy whipped his head around so fast his tie went askew. “Melvin!”

He got out of his overdramatic kowtow. “What the heck?!”

“Like I said, I’m working on the Warp-Weft-O-Tron 2000,” he said like it would explain everything. “Stress-testing it, to be more accurate.”

“The wh–” Before George could finish his sentence, the other boy stood up and pointed at the whirring thing behind Melvin.

In the corner of the classroom, around some tools and papers was something that took the space of two desks. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a sewing machine grafted beside a blocky computer . The needle continued its work and its now-unobscured rattling.

They all followed the threads converged to the machine, now completely colorless. They could just barely see the shiny thread zip through it and up the machine until even that thread dissipated. And once it did, the needle made its final whirring before powering down.

The adrenaline of seeing a kid disintegrate, like the strings a few seconds ago, dissipated to incredulity. 

“What kind of science is that thing for–” Harold pointed an accusatory finger at the machine. “Freak-People-Out-ology?!”

“It's built on the principles of techno-textiles and a bit of virtual simulation.” Melvin clicked his pen a few times before pointing it at them. “How about you two?”

“Huh?”

That was apparently the wrong answer as he put a finger to his temple. “I’m merely curious what you’re working on, seeing as Krupp’s announcement said you two suggested the pop science fair.”

And you believe him? George wanted to say, before answering his own question– of course he’d believe that.

Or at the very least, he wouldn’t cast further doubt. Doubting Krupp would mean doubting The Man. Plus, grades were on the line, and that was top priority to the tattletale than trying to think through whether they would ever suggest that.

It had only occurred now to George that that was the reason why Melvin wasn’t automatically on the defensive.

“We’re, uh– keeping it under wraps,” Harold said, realizing the other boy was taking too long to reply.

“Of course.” Melvin nodded in understanding as he made his way to the Warp-Weft-O-Tron and pulled out a spool the size of a lava lamp sitting on top of the sewing machine half. Its threads were soot grey and frayed. He placed it to the side and put an empty spool in its place, but not without grumbling about the material being insufficient.

“I will admit, the sudden nature of this assessment adds a wrench to everything, but– nothing like the stress of an unforeseen deadline to get everything in gear.”

Harold stared at the machine, and then to the boy still engrossed in fixing… whatever. In gear was an understatement if he made a simulation machine on a time crunch.

“You were really holding out on us all these years,” George said, eyeing the computer.

Rows of code scrolled up its screen. Most of it was gibberish, but there were parts he could understand. A record of previous commands and whether it was typed out or recorded through audio. S., MELVIN x1, DESK x15, and more distressingly, a MATERIAL PROCESS WARNING, whatever that was.

“How’d a sock sorter beat this out when you were picking out stuff for the Invention Convention?”

He poked around a nearby toolbox– which was more of a folder of assorted squares of materials. Many of them looked like normal threads, but a good chunk of them weren’t, from how the light bounced off them. 

“Firstly: it's a sock matcher. Secondly: Krupp only accepts the ‘practical’ ones–” He pulled out a square of the latter and placed it in an adjacent slot. Something between contemplation and annoyance edged into his tone. “The Turbo Toilet was pushing it. But, the pop science fair has no such restrictions!” 

“...It doesn’t?”

A thread the same color as the square spat out of some unseen cavity and began wrapping itself around the spool.

“I asked Ms. Ribble about the specificities for this assignment, and she said, and I quote: ‘sure, do what you need to do’.”

George and Harold both sucked a breath through their teeth. Unlike the tattletale, they knew that wasn’t full permission, so much as the classic grown-up tactic of dismissing a kid by giving them a vague answer to sate them.

“Guess not even tattling can get you all the perks you want,” Harold said carefully.

Melvin stopped typing on the computer part of the machine for a moment. With him faced away, they weren’t sure what expression was on his face, but they could feel a shift. Nothing as drastic as what happened in the principal’s office, but it was there.

“You should go.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “I need to troubleshoot.” 

Harold looked to the clock. Recess was almost over, which meant their opportunities to prepare were dwindling.

“Right,” George said.

And they slipped back into an empty hallway. They looked back, and through the window-sliver on the door, they could see the threads shoot up and around the room. The classroom became a black void, though it slowly made its way along the color spectrum.

“What do you think?” Harold asked.

“That our playground street cred is in the gutter at this rate,” George replied.

He gave him a light punch on the arm. Despite everything they couldn’t help but laugh, the sound echoing through the hall. 

“We could use it in the Captain Plan,” Harold replied. “It might be a little difficult to, ah–”

“Turbo Toilet it?” George finished, thinking back to the Invention Convention. He watched as Melvin tried to recalibrate it. “It’s a pretty big wildcard.”

As if on cue, after a few basic prisms popped into existence in the classroom, a rough approximation of a cat did. That, apparently, was too much as the simulation spooled itself back up like before. 

“But I think we do need a wildcard. It'd drive Krupp up the wall.”

Harold winced. “Well, I mean it can’t make anything worse.”

The both of them walked off to the abandoned art room. Harold shuffled his backpack to the front of him as he counted up the supplies he pilfered. To name a few: flour and water to make glue on the fly. Baking soda and vinegar, because those were Classics. Toilet paper– ‘nuff said.

He stared at a box labelled Office Supplies. In it were huge packs of sticky notes, for irony.

As wrong as Melvin was about whose idea the pop science fair was, he was right, frustratingly, about one thing: nothing like the stress of a deadline to get everything in gear.

---------------------

The Captain Plan was one of their simpler plans, in theory. 

It was simple in the sense that it was meant to only target Krupp. The hard part, for obvious reasons, was that Captain Underpants was integral to said plan.

It amounted to swapping them out at strategic places they set up. Things he can’t stand. Things that he’d be afraid of. Long enough for the experience to stick. Then they’d swap him back to Captain and slowly amp it up. Rinse and repeat.

They’d keep doing this until he took everything back– the whole assignment gauntlet, the whole thing with the science fair–

The whole capital T Thing with Captain. 

And if he refused, well– there wasn’t anything else for it except to rinse and repeat until he did. They’ve got almost half a decades’ worth of grievances to pull back up. 

(“Krupp won’t– can’t expel us for this,” George said the night before, his form backlit by a jumbo flashlight. “I mean, he’ll need us to ‘deal’ with Captain.”

The Treehouse’s windows were boarded up to get ready for the colder weather. They should be prepping it for winter, putting stuff away so it won’t get messed up, since they insisted they didn’t need George’s parents’ help, but here they were– 

“I mean, he could hold us back now.”

“But would he really want to keep us there if we keep doing this?”

Harold shivered. “Point taken.”)

The walkie-talkie in Harold’s pocket made a noise. 

“Yyyello’.”

“How’s it going?”

Right now, the ‘it’ in question was scoping out the cafeteria. The tables were all neatly arranged in rows and ready for whatever project the fourth graders will put on them later. There was no one here save for Edith, who was deep in the kitchen.

“Melvin’s stuff is here.” 

He made his way over to the Warp-Weft-shaped tarp. After double checking for any Tattle-Turtles, he was disappointed to find no obvious screws to loosen at the access hatch.

Harold began pulling at the spool on top, unsure of how exactly to mess it up outside of tying the thread in knots. One end of the thread snaked its way to the needle, while the other end–

The other end came out of a small hole, which in turn was connected to the strange hatch Melvin put in that material square that one time. He pulled out a pair of undies, courtesy of Captain himself, and stuffed it into the slot.

The sewing machine whirred, clearly having difficulty with processing a non-square material. The thread didn’t move to spool itself, but it must have processed it by the way the underpants were disappearing in the slot.

As for the computer: it reminded him more of the school printer. There were menus upon menus of settings. In any case, Harold set out to randomly poking at them all. Some he understood– audio commands on, because that may be useful for their plan since it would be easier than trying to get close to type anything out. Everything else?

“...What the heck is a Young’s Module?” Harold asked, less out of curiosity and more to commentate for George’s benefit. “What do you think? Max or minimum?”

“I mean, Krupp’s pretty old…” his voice crackled through the walkie talkie.

“High it is!” And with that, he quickly swiped it as far to the right as he could before quickly closing everything out to the first screen. “OK, I’ll get back to y–”

“Ben!” Edith’s voice called out from across the cafeteria.

Harold ducked under the tarp before either of them could see him.

“We got a situation. Krupp’s here,” he whispered loudly.

“What? Why?!”

Harold hazarded to peek at the small gap between the tarp and the floor. He had been expecting like-liking goo-goo talk. If he had to be honest, he would have preferred that to whatever angry inspector routine Krupp was doing.

“Checking, I think.” 

He tilted his head at the principal running a finger over a table for dust. The action was clearly more for acting out… whatever this was, than any actual concern for cleanliness. The lunch lady continued to trail behind him, trying– and failing– to start a conversation.

There was a quick inhaling noise through the speakers. “OK, give me a minute. Move when I give the signal.”

Harold didn’t reply, mostly because they were close enough that he could hear them. Even from this distance, he could see how heavy the bags under his eyes were. How his posture was more hunched than usual.

Krupp sighed deeply, and his shoulders sagged even further. “I’ve been through worse. Trust me.” It almost sounded like a plea.

The lunch lady had no time to dwell on a response as the intercom screeched to life.

“Principal Krupp, please report to your office immediately,” George’s voice crackled through the intercom with a mock-smug air.

“Oh, for–” Said principal ran past her brusquely that the pin that was keeping her bangs up over her face had jostled to cover half her eye.

The signal!

“Good talk!” she called after him belatedly, but made no move to go after him. Then with a big sigh, she mumbled, “I’m blowin’ this.”

And with that, she made her way back to the kitchen and finally gave Harold an opening to get out of there. He made a mad dash to the doors, making sure to not slam it as he trailed him. Now that he was in the hallway, the faint sound of crackling and shuffling echoed throughout.

“Hey, how far is he from the office?” George asked, his voice crackling from both walkie talkie and still-active intercom.

“He’s making his way up as we speak.” 

“Cool.”

Krupp was up the first half of the stairs when he turned around. He was breathing heavily, and it was definitely not just because he was speed-walking up the stairs.

“You two have got a lot of nerve disrupting everything–”

“You’re one to talk,” Harold replied, thinking about the pop science fair coming up in a few hours. To all their years in school. To the capital T Thing with Captain.

The principal halfway down a step to approaching him until–

SNAP. The sound reverberated through the school intercoms. For a split second he saw something cross his face. Wide eyes. Furrowed brows.

And then Captain Underpants fell on said face.

He snapped back up, the toupee sitting lopsided on his head. “Sidekick! Where’s–”

Harold held up the walkie talkie. 

“Up here,” George replied.

He gave an unsure look as he tried to find where up was in relation to a walkie talkie.

“In the office,” Harold clarified. He walked past him and up the stairs, motioning him to follow.

Captain stood up, wiping the grit from his cheek. It might be because he took a heck of a tumble, but there wasn’t the typical shock of liveliness he expected when he swapped in. All things considered, he was… well, maybe not calm, but expectant.

George was standing at the receptionist half of the office, one of the curtains tucked under his arm. 

“You ready?” Then, in a stage whisper to Harold: “Anthrope’s gone off because of… ‘printer repairs’.”

Harold stared at the empty corner of the room. There was a smattering of printer ink at the walls, outlining the office printer that was not there anymore. They couldn’t help but snicker conspiratorially.

“Er,” Captain leaned over to look at what had got their attention. “What’s the plan to Free The Children now, sidekicks?” 

“We’re putting Krupp through his own personal gauntlet.”

“I don’t think it’ll take long for him to crack.” Harold gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “We’ll make sure of it. Everything’ll be back to the way it was faster than–”

“A speeding waistband?” the superhero offered. He was definitely hiding it as he shimmied out of the principal’s clothes and put on his cape, but that same look was back on his face. 

“Exactly.”

“Where do we start?” He approached the ink stains on the wall, as if expecting the answer to pop out of the mess.

“Uh, Captain?” George pulled his attention back to the door of the principal’s office. He opened it with an overdramatic flourish. “Just step into our office for this first bit.”

Harold let out a low whistle at the sight. Every surface of the room was covered in sticky notes, leaving the room in an unsightly pale yellow that made the room look flat. Between the writing and the shadows, it did little to help figure out where everything was as Captain nearly tripped on a chair.

“What do you think of our Prankovation 2– trademark?”

Captain took to floating, mindful not to touch anything. He looked confused– he probably didn’t get things like irony yet. “…How long did this even take you?”

“Prankster’s trade secret.”

“This looks done, though,” he hedged. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help you here– especially with this–”

He gestured to his wrists, now tied together by jump rope courtesy of Harold. The boy went over to the sticky notes-engulfed water cooler and poured out a thimble’s amount into an open hand.

“For this one, we need to swap you back over to Krupp,” George explained. Seeing the superhero's disappointed look, he quickly continued: “This part's quick-- we're going to bring you back right after for the next bit.” 

“O– OK, then sidekicks. I trust you.” Captain twisted around so his face was in patting distance. This close, he could see the expression for what it was– hesitation.

And Captain was gone, leaving Krupp to fall on the floor, a flutter of pale yellow in his wake.

[heylittleriotact]

𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤-𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐃𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤.

Here's an ao3 link because apparently we're still not auto-formatting

Two Weeks Later

Rook nibbled at her lip and sat up straighter to get a better view of the curb. Parking was a bit trickier on side streets once the windrows of melted and refrozen snow and ice started accumulating, but she managed to negotiate the uneven surface, pulling up alongside the curb and putting the car in park. “Am I good?”

Emmrich opened the passenger side door and glanced down. “Perfect - about five inches from the curb. Well done!” He closed the door and Rook set the parking brake, then cut the ignition. 

“Thanks Emmrich - I really appreciate you letting me do this.” 

For the past week he’d been letting Rook use his car after work to practice driving in preparation for attempting her road test. Practice, being the vital operative to their arrangement: Emmrich wasn’t actually teaching her anything, because as she had been brutally quick to point out when he initially floated this idea to her that: ‘I don’t need you to teach me anything: I already know how to fucking drive, Emmrich. I did the in-car lessons and everything when I was 17, I just never actually got around to doing my test.’

So ‘practice’ she did, and thankfully she hadn’t crashed his car yet. 

“How are you feeling?” He asked, unable to keep the smile from his face: her long black hair fell in soft, shiny waves around her face and over her shoulders today, and she looked very pretty under the streetlights outside of her apartment. 

“Good! I feel like I’m getting more confident each time, which is what I need, honestly. I think I should be ready to try my test soon - I’m thinking after Wintersend is a reasonable goal.”

Wintersend was five weeks out. 

That meant at least five more weeks of practicing with Rook.

His heart leapt at the thought. There was no denying that he looked forward to their time together each day, and he genuinely missed it when they couldn’t get together due to one or both of them having days off, or an evening cropped up where he was scheduled on a visitation or prayer service. 

He’d only managed to falsify excuses to avoid being alone with her for a week after Mrs. Gardner’s funeral. Only had it in him to come up with reasons why he couldn’t drive her home for a few days until finally he could no longer resist the self-serving appetite to be in her company, and resumed offering. On days he couldn’t drive her home, he always made a point of texting her to make sure she arrived safely, because again: any occasion in which he had a convenient reason to converse with her was a happy one.

She slipped off her seatbelt and put her hand on the door handle, pausing for a moment as if she wanted to say something, but clearly thinking better of it before opening the door and stepping out of the car. 

Taking this as his cue to get back in the driver’s seat and head home for the night, Emmrich got out too, walking around the back of the car until he was on the driver’s side. 

Rook hadn’t moved. She was just standing there, clutching the open door of his white Audi like she might fall if she let go.

“Rook?” He inched closer, concern piercing through the ever-present haze of infatuation that lingered in his head these days.

Her eyes drifted to her hand on the door, her face set in an uncharacteristic look of consternation before her gaze met his. 

Then she let go of the door and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in her chest as she squeezed him tightly.

“Thanks,” she said, voice somewhat muffled as he attempted to come to grips with what was happening.

He was just about to return the unexpected embrace when she released him suddenly, parting from him only for a second before she stood on her tip-toes and pressed her lips to his - a quick, impulsive connection that made his stomach bottom out. 

Then she was looking up at him again: she was tall, but he was taller than most people. 

Her gray eyes that reminded him so much of the cleansing summer storms that rolled across the plains during the dog days of summer searched his, though she remained silent.

The dwindling warmth left by her lips on his punctuated the continuance of time as he stared at her, his mind reeling.

Her fingers curled around the knot of his tie, and the warmth returned when she dragged him down and crushed her mouth against his, her sweet soft tongue sweeping past his lips, brushing hungrily against his and tasting him with a desperation that caught him off guard.

His mind stopped reeling and immediately went blank instead. He leaned into the kiss, returning her enthusiasm, one arm snaking around her waist, the other slamming onto the roof of the car, bracing them both, as her hand relinquished his tie to palm the side of his face.

She wanted him. She wanted him as badly as he wanted her…

Their teeth bumped, and she kissed him harder, biting down gently on his lower lip before pulling away only enough to breathe, “I need you to fuck me, Emmrich.”

Certainly. He could absolutely acquiesce to that. His mind was all but consumed with sinful thoughts of fucking her lately: this would pose no inconvenience. 

The journey from the car into the warm lobby of her apartment building was a blur, as was the time it took to climb the stairs to whichever floor she lived on. And then he was kissing her again, even as she closed and locked the door behind them, then dragged him down the hallway to the bedroom, leaving her coat in a heap on the floor, tugging his suit jacket from his shoulders and down his arms, discarding it with the same exhilarating carelessness.

Then there was a soft bed beneath them, their hands frantically wandering, squeezing, and groping as they undressed each other with little pretense or ceremony: his tie was loosened and yanked over his head before it vanished into the comforting dimness of her room. Her shirt was hauled up over the perfect tits he had been fixated on since the day she sent that cheeky photo to him, and he filled his hand with one, plunging under her dark blue bra while her fingers darted between the buttons of his waistcoat and his belt-buckle, seemingly unsure of which article of clothing she wished to do away with first. 

She eventually seemed to settle on his pants, conquering the belt with his assistance, and slipping loose the button, then the zipper that were concealing his throbbing cock. She slipped him free from the confines of his underwear, stroking him with a keen urgency that made him buck into her hand as he undid her jeans with one hand and yanked them down over her ass along with her panties. 

Not wanting another second to go by without being inside of her, he lined himself up and thrust into her sodden core, his hands finding her beautiful, tattooed wrists.

“Ohhhh - Emmrich… fuck!” She groaned, looking up from under him, her black hair splashed over the red sheets like it had been in that perfectly scandalous picture.

He claimed her lips once more, swallowing her moans as he took her with a instinctive hunger he did not know he was capable of - filling her tight, soft pussy; feeling every inch of her as she clenched and flexed around him before withdrawing and slamming back into her sopping heat, the lewd sounds of their frenzied tempo filling the room. 

“You feel just as amazing as I… as I knew you would,” she panted, squirming against him and palming his ass with one hand, urging him deeper - harder. “You feel so fucking good,” she whined through clenched teeth, managing to wriggle free from her jeans and drawing her knees towards herself, opening further for him. “Fuck me hard, Emmrich - fuck me the way you’ve wanted to fuck me since you met me...”

He was about to do exactly that… but then his phone rang. 

That awful, evil, damnable Marimba tone that in that exact moment made him feel positively murderous.

His eyes snapped open. The dream vanished.

The Marimba did not. 

Disoriented, blinking into the darkness, he grasped for the phone on his nightstand, picking it up with an anguished groan.

‘Call-Center, McDermott & Rafferty’ said the name on the call display. The time in the upper left corner was 2:17.

He slid his thumb over the screen to answer the call and flipped his legs over the edge of the bed, the sheets still covering his leaking, rock hard cock. “Hello, this is Emmrich.” He put on his most professional voice - certainly not the cadence of one who was just dreaming about being balls deep in a coworker. 

“Hey Emmrich,” came the familiar voice of the overnight receptionist, Jen. “Got a first call on the line. Vital stats are done. It’s for Mr. Phillip DeSouza - he passed away at Crystal Grace Hospital, we have permission to transfer him into our care, and his son, Gio is on the line and wants to talk to a funeral director.”

Emmrich took a deep, grounding breath he hoped that Jen couldn’t hear. “Thank you Jen, you can put him through.” 

He took the call, answered Gio’s questions with the appropriate amount of compassion and kindness befitting someone who had just lost their father, booked an appointment to meet for arrangements the following morning, and put the phone down when he was done, drawing both hands over his face, raking his fingers through his sweaty, untamed hair as his cock continued to throb insistently, clearly not interested in calming down despite the early hour.

Sighing, he reached for the phone again, opened his messages and found the ongoing exchange he had with Rook. 

The most recent messages were from earlier this evening. She had said ‘Thanks for the parallel parking brush-up - it’s fucking crazy to me that you can do that with a hearse no problem lol’. He had said ‘It’ll be second nature in no time’ and even dared to tack on a smiley-face. 

He could probably text her now and get a reply: even when she wasn’t out on the town with her friends, she was a self-proclaimed night-owl and by her admission she rarely went to bed before three. 

He tapped the message field and the keyboard popped up. 

But what would he say? ‘Hello Rook, I just took a call from a family with a raging hard-on because I was in the middle of an exceptionally vivid dream of having sex with you when the phone rang. How is your evening going?’

Hardly palatable late-night conversation between professionals…

He tapped out of the message and scrolled up and up and up until he found the picture she’d sent him: he couldn’t bring himself to save it to his device. If he did that it would be admitting something he wasn’t yet ready to admit.

There she was, crash-landed on the dark red pillow like she had been in his dream. Snarling up at him defiantly - daring him… taunting him as if this static image of her from weeks earlier knew exactly what he had been dreaming about minutes earlier. 

He grasped his cock and imagined her pale fingers around him instead of his own. Lost himself in the quirk of her plump lips and the delectable fantasy of them wrapped around him; her perfectly white teeth scraping gently up his shaft before she took him until he hit the back of her tight throat.

It was far from the first time he’d jerked off to this particular photo, and it was unlikely to be the last at this rate. 

Breathing heavily into the darkness he worked his cock feverishly, giving himself over completely to the image of Rook and the intoxicating hold she had on him.

His balls tightened, pressure reaching its breaking point deep within, and with a shuddering gasp he spilled into his hand, feeling the heat of his cum as it dripped onto the sheets and ran down between his legs, moaning softly as his movements slowed and then finally ceased. 

Down the hallway he could hear the telltale warble of Manfred, followed shortly by rhythmic wheezing and a wet ‘splat’ as the cat ejected a surely massive hairball onto the floor.  

His timing was as impeccable as ever.

“-So instead of spending your break or your lunch scrolling through your phones, we’d really like to see you socialize: talk to each other.” 

Rook had to actively force herself not to roll her eyes at the ludicrous imposition put forth by Derek: the audacity it took to think that he had the authority to tell any of them what to do with their time during their unpaid breaks was astounding. 

Asshole. 

Why was it that every Derek she’d ever met (only two, to be fair) turned out to be a massive prick? 

She felt the tingle of someone’s eyes on her, and Rook stopped regarding Derek with an expression of subtle disgust to look across the huge lunch room table, meeting Emmrich’s gaze in time to see the corner of his mouth curve slightly upwards. 

He looked tired: the dark circles around his eyes were darker than usual. He must not have slept well, she decided, though despite that he looked as put-together and handsome as always. 

Her heart skipped in her chest, and whatever Derek was droning on about at the weekly staff meeting no longer mattered.

Did he have any idea? The slightest inkling of what that sweet, clever smile did to her? 

She’d basically resigned herself at this point to the fact that she was smitten with Emmrich: she was no stranger to infatuation and the ferocity with which it would blow into her heart, ravaging her carefully crafted barriers and walls, laying waste to her various doubts and reservations until all that remained was a burning fixation - an all-encompassing curiosity that begged to be satisfied until she either bent to its will, or waited for it to run its course, letting it burn itself out until it was little more than smoldering ash. 

In this case, she’d just have to be content with the excuse of driving practice to scratch the itch until the urge to shove her tongue down Emmrich’s throat subsided in a month or two, and she could get back to fantasizing about someone else - a celebrity or something - when she got herself off. 

How many times had she wanted to test the waters? See if he would be interested in more than letting her drive his car? 

How many times had she talked herself out of it because there was no way someone like him would be into a train-wreck like her? 

Oooh, but she did rather like imagining him smiling like that at her from between her thighs…

Fuck… 

Her panties practically flooded at the very thought.

“Does anyone have anything else to add?” Derek looked around the table, finally finished outlining his grand vision in which they were all best pals as well as colleagues. God she hated his stupid pink face and his stupid haircut that was identical to his father’s, except it was blonde instead of white.

“The RSVP deadline for the annual Wintersend Dinner is this Friday - if you haven’t already, please respond to the invitation that would have been sent to your personal email address and let us know if you plan to attend, and if you’re bringing a guest.” Myrna, making a rare appearance outside of the chapel in the south end of the city that she managed, tapped the end of her pen on the table as she spoke, looking about as interested in the prospect of the Wintersend party as she sounded. “It’s at a new venue this year, so you don’t want to miss it.” 

She looked like she wanted to miss it. 

Before she’d gone on maternity leave, Tessa had told Rook that the party the year before was a mess: the venue ran out of food and over a third of the staff in attendance either didn’t get dinner at all, or they got a very small portion. The only silver-lining to the night was that Tom Rafferty got especially into his cups and was buying drinks for anyone who so much as said ‘Happy Wintersend’ to him. 

Rook was still on the fence about going: she didn’t have anyone to bring with her, and she’d been to enough work parties over the years to know that she had little interest in getting drunk with or around the people she worked with. 

They didn’t need to know that side of her. 

She didn’t need to know that side of them. 

“Thanks Myrna,” Derek said, “I think that’s everything. Have a good week, everyone.” 

Rook pushed her chair back from the table and stood, picking up her coffee, ready to file out of the lunchroom with everyone else. 

“Rook.” 

She turned to see Derek pushing in his own chair, his pudgy, well-moisturized hands without a single callus on them gripped the back of it. “I need to speak with you. Meet me in the clergy office in five minutes, please.” There was no depth in the expression on his face: no genuine emotion on it. It was empty and unreadable like something that had been soullessly rendered by AI. 

Emmrich, having overheard this as he passed behind Derek, frowned at Rook from behind the future-owner. She shrugged one shoulder slightly to indicate she was just as confused as he was.

“Uh… yeah, of course,” she said, mind racing to try and figure out why the hell Derek would want to speak with her. Was she getting fired? Had a family finally complained about her? Had it been brought to management’s attention that Rook was actually a cantankerous cold bitch, and a terrible, terrible fit for a career that required patience, kindness, and the ability to pretend you weren’t fucking annoyed constantly? 

She slipped out of the lunch room, joining Emmrich as he climbed the stairs to the main level. 

“What does Derek want with you?” He asked. Ascending the narrow stairwell together put them in close proximity to one another, and Rook couldn’t help but notice how good he smelled today: grounded and earthy, like wet cedar and oakmoss.

“I have no idea, but I get the feeling it isn’t good,” she admitted, trying not to let nerves get the better of her: she’d tried so hard over the past four and a half months to be perfect. She still had a month and a half left of probation, and they could let her go for any reason until that six months was up…

Emmrich let her pass through the door at the top of the stairs first. He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly - such a small gesture, but one that made her stomach do backflips. “Try not to worry,” he said quietly so no one else in the hallway could hear. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Rook nodded, wanting to believe him. She couldn’t make her voice work, so she just nodded some more and then made her way to the clergy office, one door over from the main admin office. 

She sat down at the desk and resisted the urge to screw around on her phone till Derek showed up: if he wandered into the office and found her on her phone, he’d flip his shit.

Thankfully she didn’t have to wait long: Derek appeared in short order, closing the door behind him and sitting across from Rook, holding a pen and a sheet of paper - a termination letter?

Rook’s mouth felt dry.

“Sorry for interrupting your morning,” Derek began, folding his hands over the paper on the desk so she couldn’t make out what it said. “I won’t keep you long, Rook. I just wanted to chat with you about an urn you sold last week - the cloisonné for Mrs. Strickland?” 

Rook felt herself frown. “Uh… okay.”

“Let’s start with you walking me through exactly what your process was when you ordered the urn for her.”

“I don’t understand,” Rook said, her ears heating up. “Was there some sort of problem?”

“If you could just start with your process, please,” Derek insisted, his face the same placid expression of absolute nothingness as always - it was like it was supposed to be friendly and assuring, but it missed the mark completely and was just fucking creepy instead. This dude literally was the perfect image of the stereotypically creepy funeral director. 

“I… I… she came in - Mrs. Strickland - last week and said she wanted to buy a keepsake urn for a portion of her husband’s cremated remains,” Rook began, still completely at a loss, but taking care not to sound defensive or nervous. “I took her up to the selection room and showed her the urn catalogue as well as some of the actual samples we have up there. She was quite indecisive, but was especially drawn to the cloisonné urns - she just didn’t know which colour she liked more. I spent the better part of an hour with her, listening to her thoughts on the different colours as she weighed her choices, making suggestions or offering my opinion when she asked for it. 

“She wound up settling on the blue butterfly cloisonné because her husband had some sort of deep spiritual connection to the colour blue or something.” 

It had taken forever to get her to pick an urn, and Mrs. Strickland had that rich-bitch, Karen energy about her that implied that Rook should be thanking her lucky stars that she was so blessed to be the one helping the widow with this magnanimous undertaking. Honestly, she was awful to deal with, but Rook could at least try to chalk that up to grief and not a consistent personality trait.

“I brought the urn with me and took her to this exact office, actually, to finalize the purchase and take payment. Once that was done, I gave her a copy of the receipt, the urn catalogue, and then updated Mr. Strickland’s file with the purchase so I could email the arranging director and have them order the urn.”

“And you specifically meant to select the blue butterfly on the dropdown list in the file?” Derek inquired.

Yeah… that’s what I fucking said, right? I’m fucking sick of this dick jerking me around.

“Yes.”

Derek sighed and fidgeted with the pen in his hand. “Listen, Rook - you ordered the wrong urn. When Mrs. Strickland came back to pick it up, she said she’d actually ordered the brown butterfly cloisonné, and since Mr. Strickland’s remains were already placed in the blue one, we’ve had to charge it back to the yearly bonus because as you know, we don’t resell used merchandise.”

“What?!” Rook’s voice rose incredulously. “But I’m sure she wanted the blue one - I said the words ‘blue butterfly’ no less than thirty times - I even had it sitting here on the desk when she paid for it!”

“Sometimes we mishear or misunderstand when families ask us something,” Derek said in his sage, holier-than-thou tone that implied he’d pursued his solemn calling as a death-professional with stalwart passion his entire life, rather than fucking off years earlier and fooling around as an investment banker until he lost everything came crawling back to daddy and his business. “Which is why we’ve got to be really careful when we’re assisting them with these important and meaningful decisions: they might not seem like a big deal to you, but they’re huge to them - that woman just lost her husband.”

Her heart pounded in her ears as she reined in the desire to tell Derek where he could shove his arrogant, condescending bullshit.

“Perhaps you clicked the wrong urn on the dropdown menu and meant to click the brown one?” He suggested. He was trying to give her an out: a way to excuse the mistake that would reduce it to a careless mis-click rather than a blatant overlooking of a family’s wishes.

“I clicked the blue butterfly cloisonné and had it ordered because that’s what Mrs. Strickland told me she wanted,” she asserted, unwilling to admit to something she didn’t do - even if it might save her ass. “Perhaps she was confused and forgot that she ordered the blue one - I can only imagine she’s going through a lot right now.”

Derek’s lips pressed into a thin and rather disapproving line. “We can’t blame families for our own mistakes, Rook. That’s not fair.”

I didn’t make a fucking mistake, you asshat! That broad forgot which urn she ordered, and rather than admitting that, doubled down and insisted that we fucked up!

“I can tell you’re upset about this - that’s good. It means you won’t forget the lesson to be learned from it. You’re a great employee, and you do good work, Rook - we’re thrilled to have you on the team, but just try to be a little bit more attentive when you’re ordering merchandise for families, okay?” 

Fuck you, man.

He slid the piece of paper and the pen across the desk to Rook. 

McDermott & Rafferty - Chargeback Form, said the header at the top.

“This just outlines what we’ve talked about today, what you’ll do to avoid it in the future, and indicates the cost of the urn, which will be taken out of the shared company bonus.”

$210. Son of a bitch.

She didn’t want to sign it. Didn’t want to put her name on it because if she did, it meant that she was agreeing that this was her fault and she’d done something wrong when she knew she hadn’t.

But… she didn’t have a choice. 

She scribbled her signature on the bottom of the form and slid it back to Derek. “Can you please email me a copy of that?” She asked, keeping her voice amiable and professional. She’d learned the importance of keeping a paper-trail the last time she’d been unceremoniously canned from a job.

“You bet.” Derek said, signing off on the form as well. “Try not to take it too hard, Rook - we all make mistakes.” He set the pen down - oh lovely, he wanted to talk more. “Are you planning on attending the Wintersend party?” 

Her eyes meandered over the platinum wedding band on his left hand, and she immediately felt uneasy with the direction of this conversation.

“Haven’t decided yet. Maybe,” she said shortly, reverting to her defensive, guarded way of interacting with men she didn’t trust.

“Since it’s your first year with us, we’d love to see you there.”

We, he said, like there would be some sort of committee of McDermott & Rafferty employees eagerly wringing their hands the night of the party, hoping she’d make an appearance. 

“Yeah if I’m not busy that night, maybe,” she said again, standing up. “Am I free to go now? There are arrangements starting any minute that I need to help with.” 

“Of course, Rook.” Derek stayed seated, but she breezed past him towards the door anyway. “Have a good day.” 

“I’m driving us to a bar,” she announced hours later, looking over her shoulder and backing out of Emmrich’s parking space. “You can choose to leave me there and I’ll find my own way home after I’ve had a fucking well-deserved drink, or you can stay and have a well-deserved drink with me.”

She’d been in a mood for the rest of the day after her chat with Derek. Emmrich hadn’t needed to inquire what it was about: she’d texted him as soon as she was done and told him about the nightmare with the urn.

He felt for her: as far as chargebacks went, it was a particularly lazy one. Eating the cost of the urn wouldn’t have blown the bottom line of the business, and doing so would have avoided planting the seed of distrust in Rook’s mind that would almost surely take root and grow wild in time after more and more microaggressions and petty implications that she wasn’t good at her job: He’d seen it enough times in nearly thirty years.

“I’ll have a drink with you,” he said. “But you won’t be getting back behind the wheel this evening.” 

Rook’s learner’s license had a zero tolerance for alcohol condition. 

“Fine,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road as they exited the parking lot and she navigated towards her side of town.

The bar was a hole in the wall: a locally owned little place called Ray’s that occupied a spot in an old strip mall in between 7-11 and an adult store. The neon sign was half burnt out, and one of the windows had a large crack spider webbing across it from a central impact point as if someone had kicked or punched it. 

Not really the sort of place Emmrich regularly found himself, but he was hardly one to judge. 

“Just a moment, please,” he said when Rook went to get out of the car. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened his tie pulling it up over his head and folding it carefully before depositing it in the glove compartment. Then he put his jacket in the back seat, very aware of how close the twist and stretch put him to Rook, who he noticed smelled like apples and magnolia and the freshly baked cookies that they served to families at arrangements.

He undid the top button of his shirt and said, “There we are - now we can carry on perpetuating the notion that funeral professionals cease to exist outside the walls of the funeral home, or the boundaries of the cemetery.” 

Staff of McDermott & Rafferty were not to be seen in places like bars with their uniforms or name tags on. They were not to take or distribute photographs of themselves in their uniforms either: the business was fiercely protective of the reputation of their brand, and Emmrich was aware of at least half a dozen staff over the past decade who had been fired without question for breaking that particular rule. Of course, all of them would have gotten away with their crimes if someone they worked with who didn’t like them for one reason or another hadn’t seen their social media postings and immediately ratted them out to management. Trusting people in this line of work was nothing short of a gamble, no matter how nice they seemed, hence why Emmrich didn’t have - nor would he ever have - a ‘Facebook’ or an ‘Instagram’.

The smell of bleach and stale beer hit his nose as soon as they got inside, and Emmrich followed Rook to a booth along the far wall: wood panelled, with mirrors spanning the wall above it. This place looked like it was untouched by time, frozen somewhere in the late 70s. 

Sitting across from Rook, he rolled up his sleeves and ordered a pint of whatever she was having from the server who approached them. 

He listened to her go off about her conversation with Derek, hands waving through the air, pausing occasionally to take a long drink from the rather skunky lager in front of her, while he occasionally sipped from his own. 

It’s nice to be able to offer a supportive ear to a colleague, he told himself as he silently marvelled at the colour of her eyes, the shape of her delicate, feminine fingers; and the way she filled out the Misfits t-shirt she was wearing. 

Having taken her winter coat off when they got inside, he’d never seen so much of her arms, and he was fascinated by the sheer variety and clarity of the tattoos now visible: a swallow, a red rose, a Zippo lighter, a coffin, and a dagger through an anatomically correct heart were only a few of. He was of the mind that he could stare at them for hours.

“- and honestly I wouldn’t be so stuck on this if it weren’t for the fact that I don’t know what I could have done differently to avoid it,” she said, pausing to take a breath. “I have no problem with admitting when I’ve fucked something up, and I’m happy to do things differently in the future to avoid it happening again, but like… what can I learn from this? What, am I supposed to… to like make families sign off on their purchases to confirm and verify that we’re on the same page? That seems shitty: people will think I don’t trust them!” She took another drink and set her pint glass down a bit harder than she needed to. “I need a smoke,” she muttered, sliding out of the booth and grabbing her coat and swiping a pack of smokes from the front pocket of her backpack. “I’ll be right back.”

Emmrich was already on his feet. “I’ll come with you.”

“Oh you don’t have to - it’s cold out and you’re not wearing a jacket. Don’t worry - I’ll be fine on my own for five minutes.”

“I was actually going to ask if I could impose myself upon you and bum one.”

Rook looked from the pack of cigarettes in her hand to Emmrich, then back again, looking delightfully bemused.

“I’m sorry - you smoke?”

“I’ve been known to partake from time to time - not habitually of course, but as more of a social experience.” 

“Uh… okay. I am legitimately shocked.”

He laughed, unable to help himself, and held the door for her. “Why?”

“Because you’re so… proper and… good.” She slid two smokes from the pack and put them between her lips, lighting them both and handing him one. 

“And good people can’t indulge in the occasional enjoyment of a harmless vice?” He quirked an eyebrow and took a drag, savoring the powdery, artificial taste of her lipstick on the filter.

“Smoking kills,” she quoted. 

“Everything kills, eventually.”

“Touché,” she shrugged, shoving her free hand in the pocket of her coat. “Sorry for sitting around ranting this whole time - I know it’s a downer, but I’m really pissed off about that chargeback.” She puffed on her smoke and ground the toe of her boot into some snow. “Are you gonna go to the Wintersend party?” She changed topics abruptly.

“I usually do.”

“Does it suck as much as everyone says it does?”

He chuckled again. “It’s not all that bad when there’s enough food to go around. Were you planning to go?”

“Dunno.” She stubbed her smoke out against the metal ashtray fastened to the brick wall, clearly too cold to linger outside long enough to smoke the cigarette down to the sponge. “Are you bringing a ‘guest’?”

What an interesting question.

He extinguished his own smoke and dumped the butt inside the ashtray, “I wasn’t planning on it. Are you?”

“I never said I was going,” she smirked, ducking under his arm to pass through the door, back into the heat of the bar. 

She got back to the booth and slipped out of her coat as Emmrich sat back down. When she went to hang it from the hook at the top of the booth, a wayward sleeve caught her pint glass which was still roughly a third full, causing it to wobble, then tip over.

“Shit!” She exclaimed, watching as what was left of her beer dripped off the edge of the table onto the vinyl seat of the booth on her side. “Typical,” she sighed. “And they didn’t give us any napkins. Oh well.” 

Emmrich didn’t have any time to question her - she just shook her head and slid into the booth alongside him. Their thighs brushed and he nearly leapt out of his skin as she sidled up next to him innocently. 

“Rook, what are you—?” He stammered.

She righted her glass and dragged the laminated drink menu over the table towards herself. “Hm? Oh, I’ll get the server to bring a rag when she comes back to take our order - I’m assuming you’ll have another one?”

He wasn’t sure what to do with himself, truth be told: he certainly was not in the habit of going out for drinks after work with colleagues - especially not ones half his age. To say he was out of his element was an understatement, but the lascivious details of his dream the night before kept intruding on his train of thought, and now Rook was sitting right next to him…

“I really like you, Emmrich,” she said, looking sidelong at him, her voice taking on an uncharacteristic softness. 

“Thank you - I like you too, Rook,” he responded cheerfully, and for some reason, Rook sighed heavily, put her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. 

He thought he heard her mutter, “Holy fuck,” but he couldn’t be sure.

They each had one more drink, then Emmrich drove Rook home. She was quieter than she had been all evening, and she looked distracted and worried on the ride home - he chalked it up to the weight of a stressful day, and was sure to tell her to try to have a relaxing rest of her evening when he dropped her off. 

Bad days happened to everyone, but there was no denying that in this profession they tended to hit harder and sting a bit more than they did for most other people. 

He set down the book he’d been reading in bed for the past hour when his phone buzzed. Picking it up, he saw it was a message from Rook, and his stomach immediately leapt at the sight of it. He really loved hearing from her - he was quite taken with her, as inappropriate as it was, but— oh.

He’d opened the message and was now staring - bug-eyed, his mouth slightly agape - at the screen, and the image of Rook on it. 

The other picture she’d sent him was an innocent moment of drunk impulse. This was something altogether different… and unmistakably deliberate.

She was posing in front of a mirror, holding the phone up to her reflection, wearing a snug gray chemise trimmed with light pink lace. Her long, thoroughly inked legs were visible right up to the hem of the chemise, which was very short. The flimsy material of the garment made it clear that her hard, perky nipples were pierced and her free hand was splayed sensually over her hip as she pushed out her chest, emphasizing her narrow waist and the luscious curve of her hips. 

‘Thanks for listening to me vent today. I feel much better now - Rook, xoxo 😘♥️’

What…? Surely this was meant for someone else…

It was bad enough when he was just drooling over her like a depressed, unmarried, middle-aged man, but unless he was completely mistaken and way off base, this new photo and the message that came with it seemed to indicate some sort of romantic interest - or physical attraction to the recipient at the very least.

“I really like you, Emmrich,” she had said at the bar. 

Emmrich’s blood went cold and he couldn’t tear his eyes from the photo and the suggestive little smile on her crimson lips. 

No wonder she looked like she wanted to cry when he responded like the oblivious fool he was. 

But if she… if I…

What do I do?

The right thing would be to politely inform her that this wasn’t appropriate, and he’d appreciate it if she refrained from sending him any more pictures of herself.

But Emmrich Volkarin had done the right thing for his entire life, and in his mind that more than made up for the words he tapped out in response. 

‘You are beautiful.’

His cheeks heated, his stomach roiled on itself and his hands went clammy as the three bouncing harbingers of an imminent response popped up. 

‘I’m off tomorrow… do you wanna come over?’

He nearly vibrated out of his skeleton as adrenaline shot through him at those words and the blatant meaning behind them: she wasn’t asking him over at this hour for a friendly chat.

He could just stop. 

He could just not reply at all, put his phone down, and go bitterly masturbate in the shower like a mature human being, knowing that getting tangled up with someone - a colleague - of Rook’s age was begging for trouble - not to mention a potential danger to his professional career and reputation. 

Knowing that it was unfair to take advantage of someone as youthful and full of potential as she was in order to stroke his own aging ego and soothe the cruelty of his own inadequacies. 

Knowing that if he went through with this, he was almost guaranteed to regret it.

Instead, he typed out: ‘See you soon.’

He hit send and got out of bed, unable to stop his hands from shaking as he dressed himself in a hurry in a cashmere sweater and chinos. 

He felt strangely disoriented as he beseeched Manfred to please not get into anything while he was away. Felt like he was dreaming again, even though he knew he was not as he threw on his peacoat and grabbed his keys before setting the alarm system and vanishing into the garage, unable to get the image of Rook’s incredible body from his mind. 

“I really like you, Emmrich.”

[jd-loves-fiction]

Did I say 2 reqs, I meant 3. This is gonna be a more specific one

You already know. Boothill, Gallagher, Blade, Aventurine and Ratio meeting reader of another universe and this reader almost the complete opposite of the one from their world with a different story and different circumstances.

(For more context HSR universe reader is more child-like, reckless, clearly teen aged, seeking parental validation a lot, Impulsive and just over all immature as expected from a kid.

Meanwhile this other universe reader is the same age but they are a lot more responsible, mature, basically parents the people around them, grumpy but caring (basically if you mixed Blade and Ratio personality-wise))

🌑it never eeeenndsss!! 😭(havin the time of my life) ALSO CAN YOU TELL I HAVE FAVORITES :D (maybe i should write a character study thing with Ratio too.... i like him a lot more than i realized)

✦ 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦

Eerie as hell, very freaked out

Like, who is this child and why do they look like you??

Obviously likes your normal self better, OBVIOUSLY

This is just weird :( you should be acting like a kid, because that's what you are, not... whatever this is

Unsettled through every enteraction with this other version of yourself, always a little distant - just can't get used to the change

Once its all over, he let's you get away with a lot more than usual (which was already a lot) and scolds you a lot less

✦ 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞 ✦

Feels a strange sort of longing - this is what you could've been like

He sees it as the version of you, you should've turned into if you'd have a relatively pain-free life

If makes him ache in a way he hasn't been able to process yet

Lingers a lot on the possibilities - would you have never met him like this? Would that have been better for you?

Slips into self-deprication alarmingly quickly

Once it's over, he turns very introspective for a few days after

Before returning to his quiet, grumpy self, only change being he tries to make your life a little easier in all the subtle ways he can

✦ 𝐀𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 ✦

Definitely see the Dr. Ratio things and it freaks him out a little

He has to deal with one doctor, and now there's two?? (affectionate)

Isn't entirely pleased with the change - you're a lot less like him this was and he doesn't like it

Aven likes being able to relate to you and connect to you though your similarities (even if most of the things you have in common are undoubtedly negative)

Your similarities also help him lead you away from the worst stuff he's experienced walking the same path as you - like this though? He can't lead you, he doesn't know how and therefore feels as if he can't protect you

Spoils you like hell once the situation is solved, buying you anything you want and encouraging your childishness and recklessness - definitely not healthy, but he likes you better when you're similar

Totally has nothing to do with him seeing his younger self in you and wanting to vicariously heal himself through healing you oh my god this man needs so much therapy

✦ 𝐆𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐫 ✦

Appreciates the help? but is conflicted about the whole thing

Sure, you're being a lot more helpful than usual (or this version of you is, rather) and more well behaved on top of that, and he appreciates that BUT it's weird

It's just weird - you're a kid. You're supposed to act like him, you don't need to be good and helpful for him to enjoy having you around

Subtly urges this other version of yourself to relax a little and let loose, more so just to see if they would - they don't. He's quite surprised by it

He though they would when given the chance, that this serious version of yourself was just acting this way becasue they had to and would revert to your normal way of acting when given the chance

The thought that the you he knows isn't necessarily the you, you were meant to be is troubling

The following days, he has a troubled look in his eye but brushes you off when you try to pry

✦ 𝐃𝐫. 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨 ✦

It's like looking into a mirror...... he's not a fan

Not in a self-centered 'I'm the only one who can act like that' kind of way, more so in 'why the hell is a kid acting like this' kind of way

Despite what some people would have you believe, Dr. Ratio is actually incrediby caring - he's just on the spectrum (that part is headcanon but tale as old as time)

His life's mission is to spread his knowledge to everyone isntead of monopolising it like the Genius Society is doing

So in a way, it's good to see you follow some of his lessons and act like he sometimes suggests you do

But it feels so damn wrong it just doesn't sit right with him

He wants you to grow to appreciate his lessons when the time is right and you're grown enough to understand them yourself

This just feels like you skipped that teenage rebellion stage that he feels is important to go through

Plus, the slight chip on his shoulder he still carries from being rejected by the Genius Society tells him, the world doesn't need more Ratio's (🥺)

Strangely encourages your misbehavior in the days to come, turns a blind eye to your troublemaking and lightens up on the lessons

The whole ordeal has him appreciating the teenage part of development more than before

AHEM - Valentine event here ;)

[m4rv3l-girl]

I’ve Got Your Back - {Part 1}

Bucky x Y/N

Bucky meets you, a student making ends meet at an over-priced convenience store. Despite being afraid of entering the world of romance again, you just seem to …understand each other. Maybe there’s more to them both than they originally thought.

Warnings: age-gap. Angst. Workplace bullying. Language.

Bucky Barnes stepped inside the convenience store. The fluorescent lights buzzed above him, illuminating aisles stacked with overpriced snacks, crappy. The smell of mop-water sat in the air.

He hadn’t really planned on stopping by. But a craving for something sweet had led him here, the tiny corner store tucked between a laundromat and a liquor shop. A couple of kids loitered by the slushie machine, arguing over which flavor was superior, while a man in a wrinkled suit debated over cigarettes behind the counter.

And then, there was you.

You stood at the register, expression caught somewhere between tired and vaguely annoyed—not outright rude, just carrying the weight of someone who’d had a long day. Bucky knew the look well; he saw it in the mirror more often than not.

He didn’t expect much interaction beyond the necessary exchange of goods and payment. But as he approached, a voice from the back interrupted the quiet monotony.

“Y/N! Are you fucking serious? I told you to restock aisle four, not stand there like a damn statue!”

Your spine stiffened at the harsh words. From the back room, a squat man in an ill-fitted polo stomped out, glaring at you with the disdain of someone who’d long since lost any patience for basic human decency.

Bucky noticed the way your eyes momentarily glossed over, how your fingers curled slightly against the counter before you took a steadying breath.

“I did restock it, Mr. Carl,” you replied, voice even but quiet. Bucky swore he saw a glassy sheen in your eyes. “I was just about to—”

“Don’t give me the excuses, girl. If I have to tell you one more time—”

“That’s enough.”

The words left Bucky’s mouth before he could stop them.

Both you and your boss turned to look at him. Your eyes widened slightly, surprised, while Carl just narrowed his, sizing up the stranger who had the audacity to interrupt his evening tirade.

“And you are?” Carl scoffed, crossing his arms.

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “A paying customer who doesn’t appreciate seeing people get treated like dirt for doing their job.”

Carl let out an incredulous huff but, perhaps noticing the sheer muscle and steel beneath Bucky’s jacket, decided not to push it. With a dismissive wave, he muttered something about ‘lazy employees’ and retreated to the back.

You let out a slow breath and glanced at Bucky, something between gratitude and embarrassment flickering across your face.

“Sorry about that,” you murmured, ringing up his purchase. There was a twang in your voice, an accent that seemed a mix-match.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, shaking his head. “You okay?”

You hesitated. Bucky recognized that too—the reluctance to admit that things weren’t fine, even when they clearly weren’t.

“I’m fine,” you said, forcing a small smile. “Been through worse.”

Bucky nodded, respecting the boundary but not quite believing you. He tapped his fingers against the counter, considering his next words carefully.

“You need me to rough him up a little?” he asked, only half-joking.

A surprised laugh burst from your lips before you could stop it. It wasn’t much, but it was genuine, and for some reason, that made Bucky feel lighter.

“Nah,” you said, shaking your head. “As tempting as it is to see Carl get launched into a snack display, I don’t think that would help my employment status.”

Bucky smirked. “Fair point.”

He took his bag, but instead of leaving, he lingered for a second. Then, in a softer voice, he added, “Seriously though… if you ever need help, I’m around.”

There was something in his tone—something solid, reassuring. A promise.

You met his eyes, seeing not just the war hero or the former assassin, but someone who understood. Someone who didn’t just say things to sound good, but meant them.

“Thank you,” you said, and the sincerity in your voice made him realize that maybe, you were telling the truth when you said you’d been through worse.

He gave you a single nod, the kind that said more than a hundred words ever could. Then, with a quiet goodbye, Bucky turned to leave, his heavy boots echoing against the linoleum floor. As the door chimed shut behind him, you couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth spread through your chest. It had been a long time since someone had stood up for you like that—if ever.

The rest of the shift dragged on, the weight of your boss’s words lessened slightly by the brief encounter with the mysterious customer. You found your thoughts drifting back to Bucky’s face—his concerned eyes and the gentle curve of his mouth when he’d offered to help. It was a small gesture, but in that moment, it felt like a lifeline thrown to a drowning person.

When your shift finally ended, you stepped outside into the cool night air, letting it wash over you like a wave of relief. The neon lights of the store sign cast a garish glow on the empty sidewalk, but it didn’t feel as lonely as it usually did.

As you began the short walk home, you noticed a figure leaning against the wall of the adjacent laundromat. It was Bucky, arms folded over his chest, watching the world pass by. He pushed off the wall when he saw you, his eyes lighting up in a way that made your heart stutter.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You okay to walk home?”

You nodded, surprised by his concern. “I’m fine. I live just a few blocks away.”

“Okay,” he said, falling into step beside you. “I’m in no rush, and I don’t like the thought of you walking out here by yourself after what I heard in there.”

The gesture was unexpected, but somehow comforting.

“Thanks,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden rush of emotions. “Did you wait here this whole time just to check I got home okay…?”

Bucky shrugged, his shoulders shifting beneath the leather jacket. “Call it a gut feeling. Besides, it’s the least I could do after that show back there. No one should have to deal with that kind of crap at work.”

You couldn’t argue with that. As you walked side by side, the silence stretched comfortably between you, filled only by the distant sound of passing cars and the occasional chuckle of a couple leaving the liquor store.

“So, what’s your story?” Bucky asked, his gaze scanning the street as if expecting trouble. “If you don’t mind me asking, of course. I get the feeling you’ve got a bit of a history with that guy.”

You sighed, looking down at your worn-out sneakers. “It’s nothing special. Just a dead-end job, trying to make ends meet while I figure out what I want to do with my life. Carl’s always been a bit of a… character, but he pays the bills. Or at least, he did before tonight.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to you. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged, a hint of sadness in the movement. “I think that might’ve been the last straw. I’ve been looking for something better for a while now, but it’s hard to find something that fits with my school schedule. Plus, I can’t exactly quit without another job lined up, you know? But I feel like shit there.”

Bucky nodded, his expression empathetic. He’d been in tough situations himself, had to make choices that weren’t ideal.

“Well, if you ever need a reference or anything, you’ve got my number now.” He fished out a piece of paper and scribbled down a string of digits. “And if he ever gives you grief again, just remember, you’ve got backup.”

You took the paper, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. The thought of having someone like Bucky on your side was oddly comforting. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

As you approached the turn that led to your apartment complex, you felt a twinge of sadness. You didn’t know much about him, but there was something about his presence that made you feel less alone in the world. But you knew that this was the part where you said goodbye and went your separate ways.

“This is me,” you said, pointing to the dimly lit building. “Thanks for walking me home, Bucky.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on the worn-out stairs leading up to the entrance. “No problem. Stay safe, okay? Wait…how did you-”

You smirked, holding up the receipt from the store. “It’s my job to remember faces and numbers, even if it’s just for the night. Plus, yours is pretty hard to forget. War hero, and all”

The corner of his mouth quirked up, a ghost of a smile. “Well, I guess that makes me pretty memorable.”

You nodded, tucking the paper into your pocket. “It does. Thanks again, really.”

“Take care, Y/N,” Bucky said, giving you a small salute before he turned and melted back into the shadows of the alley.

The night felt eerily quiet once he was gone, the echo of his footsteps fading away into the distance. You climbed the stairs, the chill of the evening seeping into your bones and unlocked the door to your apartment. Inside, the warmth of the room was a stark contrast to the outside world. You threw your bag onto the couch and kicked off your shoes, feeling the weight of the day finally start to lift. As you padded over to the fridge, the cold floor tiles biting at your socks, you pulled out the leftover pizza from the night before, the cheese congealed into a sad, greasy mess. But it was food, and that was all that mattered right now. All that you could budget for.

As you heated up your dinner in the microwave, the glow of the screen casting a soft light across the kitchen, you couldn’t shake the image of Bucky’s face from your mind. The way he looked at you - like he truly saw you - was something you hadn’t experienced in a very long time. The microwave beeped, snapping you out of your thoughts. You took a bite of the lukewarm pizza, the cheese pulling away from the bread. But somehow, it tasted a little less disappointing given that your night was accompanied by a nice guy… and a small spark you hadn’t felt in a long time.

You sat at the small table by the window, looking out into the quiet street. Sometimes a car passed by, their headlights painting streaks of light on the pavement. You found yourself wondering about Bucky’s life. What led him to be so kind? What made him want to protect someone like you from a simple act of workplace bullying? The curiosity grew, but you pushed it aside, telling yourself that you should be grateful for the brief respite from your reality and not overthink it.

Your phone buzzed, breaking the silence. You glanced down at the screen, expecting a notification from a class group chat or a text from a friend complaining about their day. But instead, you found a message from an unknown number.

Unknown: Hey Y/N, it’s Bucky. Just checking in. How are you holding up?

Your heart skipped a beat. You weren’t used to this kind of attention, especially not from someone like Bucky Barnes. You know, handsome. Sweet. You took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts. Just the thought of answering gave you a flutter in your chest.

You: Hey, I’m okay. Thanks for checking in. It’s been a long night.

Bucky: No problem at all. Just wanted to make sure you’re not letting that asshole get to you. You deserve better.

The bluntness of his message made you chuckle around a mouthful of pizza. It was refreshing, the way he didn’t mince words. You chewed thoughtfully, considering how much of your situation to share with him. After all, he was basically a stranger.

You: I’ve had worse days, but thanks for caring. I’ll be okay. Just trying to keep my chin up and move on.

The phone vibrated again, the screen lighting up with another text from him.

Bucky: That’s the spirit. Ever need someone to vent to, I’m here. Or, you know, to help you move some furniture. I’ve got strong arms and not a lot of plans.

The offer made you smile wider. It was almost a vague way of saying he wanted to see you again, despite being a blunt man he could bring himself to ask you out. It was laughable, in a way.

You: Haha, I’ll keep that in mind. I actually do have an old bookshelf that’s been giving me a hard time.

Bucky: Perfect. I’m your man. Whenever you need it moved, just let me know. No strings attached. Unless you want to grab some coffee first.

The suggestion was casual, but it hung in the air, charged with something more. You chewed on your lip, contemplating his offer. It wasn’t just about the bookshelf; you knew that. But the idea of seeing Bucky again, of sharing a moment that didn’t involve work or the stale air of the convenience store, was tempting. You hadn’t had a decent conversation with anyone in what felt like forever.

Coffee sounds good - you replied, trying to keep your excitement in check.

Bucky: Great! How’s tomorrow afternoon around 3? I can swing by with some muscle and a decent taste in caffeine.

You nodded to yourself, feeling a rush of blood to your face. It wasn’t a date, but it was something. Something outside the routine of your life. Something that had the potential to be more than just another forgettable encounter.

You: Tomorrow at 3 it is.

Bucky: Looking forward to it. Get some rest, and don’t let Carl ruin your night.

The conversation ended with a promise to meet, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that the universe had just handed you a gift-wrapped opportunity for a new beginning. You spent the rest of the night scrolling through job listings, a renewed sense of determination burning in your chest. Maybe you didn’t need to settle for the same old crap anymore. Maybe there was more out there.

The next day dragged by with the excitement of a snail race. You found yourself checking the time on your phone every few minutes, counting down the hours until you could see Bucky again. It was ridiculous, really. You barely knew the guy, but he’d left an indelible mark on you with his kindness and protective nature.

Finally, the clock struck 3, and you felt your nerves begin to fray. You’d chosen your outfit with more care than usual, opting for a simple black dress that fell just above your knees and a light cardigan to ward off the chill of your ill-heated apartment. It was cleaner than it had been in weeks, the bookshelf sitting awkwardly in the middle of your living room, a clear indicator of the ruse you’d concocted.

When the buzzer rang, you took a deep breath and opened the door. Bucky stood in the hallway, dressed in a simple white t-shirt and jeans, looking every inch the hero from your childhood comics. He held up two steaming cups of coffee, the aroma wafting into the room.

“Peace offering,” he said with a wink, handing one to you.

You took it gratefully, feeling your nerves dissipate a little. The warmth of the cup felt good in your hands. “Thanks,” you murmured, taking a tentative sip.

He stepped inside, surveying the bookshelf with a nod of approval. “Looks like it’s seen better days.”

“It was my grandmother’s. I just can’t seem to part with it,” you said, feeling a twinge of nostalgia.

Bucky set his own coffee down and rolled up his sleeves. “Well, let’s get to work then.”

The process of moving the heavy, cumbersome piece of furniture was surprisingly easy with his help. You directed him where to push and pull, and together, you managed to maneuver it into the perfect spot. It was a small victory, but it felt significant, a symbol of progress in a life that often felt stagnant.

Once the bookshelf was in place, you sat down on the couch, breathless and laughing. Bucky followed, his smile reaching his eyes as he took in the now organized space. He handed you back your coffee, and you took a grateful sip, watching him as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“So, what’s the story behind the books?” he asked, gesturing to the eclectic mix of novels and textbooks that now lined the shelves.

You shrugged, feeling a bit self-conscious. “They’re just my escape. Sometimes school gets overwhelming, and I just need to lose myself in a good story.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on the spines before meeting yours. “I get that. Sometimes, when I’ve had enough of my own head, I’ll read for hours. It’s like…going on an adventure without leaving your couch.”

You shared a knowing look. “Exactly. And my couch is pretty comfy for traveling the world.”

Bucky’s smile grew a little sad. “Or escaping it, huh?”

The air in the room changed, thick with unspoken understanding. You both knew what it was like to carry a past that weighed heavier than any book. You took a deep breath, deciding to let down your guard a little.

“Yeah, I guess so. Sometimes it’s easier to deal with other people’s problems than my own. And the ones in books have a better chance of a happy ending than the ones in real life.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “But you can’t live in someone else’s story forever, Y/N. You gotta write your own sometimes too.”

You looked away, feeling the weight of his gaze. It was a gentle push, but it was a push nonetheless.

“I know,” you said softly. “I’m just…scared to mess it up, you know?”

Bucky’s hand found yours, his grip firm but gentle. “You won’t. And if you do, that’s what the backspace button’s for. Just keep going.”

The warmth of his hand was like a balm to your soul, a silent promise of support. You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling the beginnings of something unfurling in your chest - hope, perhaps?

You both sat there in silence for a moment, sipping on your coffee, the quiet hum of the fridge the only sound breaking the stillness.

“So, what’s your story?” Bucky asked, curiosity etched in his voice as he took a sip of his now lukewarm coffee.

You took a deep breath, unsure how much of your life you wanted to unpack for a man you’d only just met. But there was something about him that made you feel safe, like he could handle whatever you threw at him. “It’s not much to tell, really. Just trying to get through school, work to pay the bills, the usual stuff. My parents aren’t around, so it’s all on me.”

The sadness in your voice was palpable, and Bucky’s expression softened. He knew what it was like to be adrift in the world, carrying the weight of responsibilities that were never meant for one person.

“What about your friends? They help you out?”

You shrugged. “They try, but everyone’s got their own lives. It’s hard to juggle it all. And Carl…” You trailed off, not wanting to dwell on the sour note he’d left you with the night before.

“He’s not worth another thought,” Bucky said firmly. “You’ve got more important things to focus on. Like what you’re gonna do after you graduate.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I want to be a counsellor. I’m studying psychology.”

Bucky’s eyes lit up. “That’s amazing. You’ll be great at it. You’ve already got the patience and strength to deal with people at their worst.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the compliment. “Thanks. It’s just what I’ve had to learn to do, I guess. Can I ask you something a bit stupid?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his grip on your hand not loosening. “You can ask me anything.”

“How did you become so…” You paused, searching for the right word. “So…good?”

He chuckled, a sound that was surprisingly warm and full of life. “It’s not something you just become, Y/N. I’ve seen a lot of bad stuff. Done a lot of bad stuff. It’s about making choices, every day. Choosing to do the right thing even when it’s hard, even when it’s scary. And I’ve had a lot of people help me along the way. Like Steve… Captain America, I mean.”

The mention of his friend brought a wistful look to his eyes, and you felt a tingle of curiosity about the stories he must have, the adventures he’d been on.

“I just…I mean, I’m not gonna trauma dump on you or anything but sometimes I just feel like I…can’t make up for anything…” Your voice drew out.

Bucky’s thumb made small circles on the back of your hand, a gentle reassurance. “You fascinate me.”

You looked up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He took a deep breath, his gaze drifting to the floor before meeting yours again. “You look so sweet. I..obviously you are. But, I can tell there’s something else going on. That something happened….”

You felt your eyes well up, unsure if you wanted to let go of the dam of emotions you’d held back for so long. But the sincerity in Bucky’s voice, the way his thumb kept caressing your hand, made you feel like maybe, just this once, it was okay to be vulnerable in front of him.

“It’s just… I’ve made some mistakes,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Big ones. Ones I’m not sure I can ever fix. It’s hard to…move on from that.”

Bucky’s eyes searched yours, the warmth in them unwavering. “We all have regrets, Y/N. Hey, we all know I do. But that doesn’t define us. It’s what we do next that counts. And you, helping people, that’s a pretty noble next step, if you ask me.”

You took a shaky breath, his words resonating deep within you. “Sorry.” You giggle softly, “This is a bit dark for a first…whatever this is.”

“It’s okay to be real. Sometimes that’s all anyone can ask for.”

Bucky’s words surrounded you like a warm embrace, his grip on your hand a silent reminder that you weren’t alone. The room felt a size smaller, but not in a suffocating way - more like the comfort of a blanket on a cold night, wrapping you in a cocoon. You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of your secrets threatening to spill out.

He could see a look of guilt spilling over your features suddenly.

“Bucky, I’m a bad person.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You hadn’t meant to say it so bluntly, but there it was, hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

Bucky’s thumb stopped moving. He studied you, his gaze intense but not judgmental. “You can’t believe that, Y/N. You’re not. Everyone makes mis-”

You cut him off with a shake of your head. “No, Bucky. You don’t understand.”

The silence grew heavier, the air thick with the unspoken words. You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for his judgment, his pity. But all you found was his hand tightening around yours, a silent declaration that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I was trained in the Red Room.”

It was a whisper, the weight of the confession making your voice tremble.

Bucky’s eyes searched yours, the warmth in them never fading. “The Red Room?” he repeated, his voice low and measured. You nodded, the words feeling like lead in your mouth. The Red Room was something you’d buried deep, a chapter of your life you’d hoped never to have to re-open. But here you were, in the dim light of your small apartment, sharing it with this stranger. He deserved to know. He deserved the option to walk away and never look back at the twisted world he’d barely escaped the first time.

He was quiet for a long moment, his hand still wrapped around yours. The tension grew, a symphony of unspoken questions and fears playing in the air. You felt your heart hammering in your chest, the thumping rhythm echoing in your ears. Was he disgusted? Would he leave now?

Bucky’s eyes searched yours, looking for the truth in the shadows of your irises. “The Red Room,” he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue like a dark secret. You could see the recognition in his eyes, the understanding of what that meant. “You were a widow.”

It was less of a question than a statement.

You nodded, feeling the weight of your past pressing down on you like a heavy blanket. The air grew colder, and you found yourself shrinking into your cardigan, as if it could offer some kind of protection from his judgment. But instead of recoiling, Bucky leaned in closer, his gaze never leaving yours.

“How’d you get out?” His voice was gentle, the question not one of accusation, but of genuine curiosity.

You took a deep breath, feeling the walls of your chest constrict around the words you hadn’t spoken in years. “Natasha and Yelena…they found me. When they took the Red Room down. They…freed me.”

Bucky’s grip on your hand grew stronger, his eyes never leaving yours. You could see the understanding dawn in his expression, the knowledge of what it meant to be plucked from the hell you’d been living in and thrust into a world that didn’t make sense anymore.

“Bucky, you….I think you should go.”

Your voice was barely a whisper, the tremble in it clear as day. You couldn’t hold his gaze anymore, the guilt and fear of what he’d think of you now that he knew the truth too much to bear. You didn’t expect him to stay, not after what you’d told him. But the way he looked at you, with a mix of empathy and something you couldn’t quite name, made you hope.

“I’m not going anywhere, Y/N,” Bucky said firmly, his thumb still caressing the back of your hand. “You’re safe here. With me.”

But the dam had already broken. Tears spilled from your eyes, a silent cascade that painted tracks down your cheeks. You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed to hear that, how much you’d needed someone to remind you that you weren’t the monster you felt like. You hadn’t expected to find that in the arms of a man who’d been through his own brand of hell.

But here you were, crying in front of him, letting the pain of your past spill out in a messy, human way.

——————————————————————————————————

I’m hoping this series will be intriguing for some of you fabulous readers! 🫶

[searchingforserendipity25]

Just Before Spring. On Ao3.

The way Aldo went on about it, one would think St. Valentine had gone and gotten decapitated on his birthday specifically to spite him, several centuries in advance.

"The poor fellow," Thomas chided lightly, not for the first time. His voice did not carry far, and did not need to, over their small table. The window beside Aldo gave them Rome, enough of a view to threaten rain and bad traffic. "I know it is inconvenient, Aldo, but he was a martyr, and a miraculous healer besides."

 He had fished out his glasses, and was peering down at the wine menu. It was sweet of him to put up the show, when they both knew they would end up skipping the good ones for their usual dizzying saccharine rosé.

"The poor fellow has a dozen little chapels all over the world with his metacarpals wrapped up in gold and studded with rubies," Aldo said. "Is it too much to ask for? All I want is a nice birthday dinner with a dear friend, nothing much. It’s the same problem every year. It is my birthday, I am allowed to kvetch.”

He had been lucky, he knew; all his other siblings had been named for the saint's feast day on which they had been born. 

Not Aldo; his parents had taken pity on him. Bad enough all the inevitable fuss, and the unfortunate childhood anguish around valentine cards, the having and the not-having of boyish signatures. The seminary had been a relief, in that regard. No expectation of romance now, and so much the better. Whatever there was of it, for him, was not the saintly kind.

Thomas did not count. Even miraculous St. Valentine, wise in the many iterations of love, wouldn't know what to do with the two of them.

“Always, dear,” Thomas agreed. He smiled over his frames at him, eyes gleaming in the familiar flickering light. Aldo reminded himself: nothing votive, no devotional turn of the heart. “I wouldn’t dream of stopping you. "But you have to admit the couple's discounts are quite reasonable. Split up a fish course, and then a steak?

Aldo set down a focaccia slice and displaced the ostentatious floral display between them, to better spy what the table behind Thomas was ordering. 

"Make it bass with the house sauce and all the pairing, it’s looking good. Let's go crazy, it's not Lent yet."

Around them: other small round tables, voices tilted close for intimacy. The candle smoke really was quite heavy.

By the end of the night it would linger on Aldo's lapels, his hair, very noticeable when they walked arm-in-arm down to the Apostolic Palace, up and down the slick cobblestones, avoiding rain in some awning or another, talking the night through. Every year, another year older. 

The lighting was too warm; someone had thought it a tasteful idea to order red candles. A Pavlovian instinct to think votive thoughts asserted itself.  Aldo did not pray much to his patron saint. Aider of unlikely lovers, the poor fellow was busy enough most of the time, and more so on this day; Aldo had left him to it, besides a few timely reminders.

Aldo Cardinal Bellini prayed in his heart, not for the first time either, Don't go getting ideas, Valentine, this here doesn't count.

Not the marrying kind, Aldo Bellini. That had been clear enough all his life. 

He wouldn't have been, even if he had not followed his calling and been ordained, and lived to trade cards with men grown into their years. Long ago Monsignor Lawrence and his good memory for personal reports and relevant birthday details had surprised him with a gift of a dinner reservation on the day he liked to pretend was not his. Aldo had known, sure enough; he wouldn't be the kind to bother St. Valentine for any other sort of candle light again, if he could have many small feasts like this instead.

“Cheers,” Thomas said. He gave up on the pretense, and closed the menu, unfolded his napkin. His feet beneath the table nudged Aldo’s, teasing, like a brother or a lover or an old spouse. It was Aldo's birthday; he was allowed to decide on fish and meat and full pairings, with dessert to follow, and that the the distinctions between loves did not much matter.

"Cheers," Aldo said, and kicked him back, gently, to make him smile. “Rosé?”

[maevawrites]

i soooo need a johnny x black! reader fic 😌💝

𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧, 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 . . . johnny cade

✦ disclaimers/warnings? ~ black!reader x johnny cade, fluff, oneshot, may have grammatical errors

✦ word count: 1.2k words

valentine's day was supposed to be a day full of love—spending time with your person, eating heart shaped chocolates, and enjoying the warmth of their presence. maybe going out on a heartfelt date, candles lit, with some classic jazz playing in the background.

but that wasn't the case for you.

for you, valentine's day was just like any other date on the calendar.

you had never been asked to be someones valentine but that never really bothered you. you were okay with not being with anyone. you knew when the time was right, you'd find your person.

that didn't mean your heart never skipped for someone though.

for years now, that someone had been johnny cade.

johnny was different. though he was gentle and soft spoken—especially towards you—he had his own way of being tuff. all of that and more made you fall for him. but you knew nothing could happen between the two of you, or so you thought...

you were currently on your way to the curtis home, having accepted the invitation to hang out from ponyboy for the evening. the cool air nipping at your skin, and the small red dress you decided to wear (with tights and a jacket of course) wasn't keeping you the warmest. but you didn't mind. the chill felt like a distant distraction compared to what was on your mind.

as you walked, your thoughts wandered—to johnny, like they often did. his quiet smile, the way his eyes would ever so slightly soften when meeting your gaze—just the thought of him made your heart flutter. you hadn't told anyone about your feelings, not even ponyboy, and boy did you tell him basically everything. you thought talking about them would make it feel more... real.

you often wondered if the feelings could be mutual. you'd caught him more than once looking at you, his gaze lingering a little too long, his cheeks turning red before looking away quickly. but maybe that was just your mind playing tricks—wanting it to be true.

once you arrived at the curtis's, you stood on their porch for a moment. you quickly adjusted yourself. i mean, yeah, this was just another casual hangout with your friends but knowing johnny would be there made your body heat up, wanting to look somewhat nice around him.

just as you were about to put your hand on the doorknob to let yourself in, the door opened before you. pony stood in front of you with a cheeky smile. "hey y/n!" he said, as you walked in. "hey pone—" as you walked in you noticed the house was unusually quiet. which was odd considering most of the time the gang was over, the TV blasting mickey mouse (per two-bit's request), and someone always ransacking the fridge for chocolate cake.

but tonight felt different. the house felt weirdly calm.

"where is everyone?" you asked, your eyes scanning the living room, the familiar space almost too still. "uh," ponyboy awkwardly stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. "they're all... out, they should be back later, i think."

you blinked, and eyed him suspiciously. his behavior was a bit odd but you didn't think much of it. maybe they had all gone out to a drive-in or something.

"johnny is in the kitchen," ponyboy blurted, almost like he had been waiting to get that off his chest as he led you further into the house. you nodded, already feeling flutters in your chest pick back up again at the mention of johnny's name.

as you walked toward the kitchen, you caught sight of him standing by the table, shifting his weight between his feet—something you noticed he did when he was nervous. he was focused on something in his hands but you couldn't tell what it was. once he heard you and pony's footsteps, he looked up, hiding whatever he had behind his back, his gaze softening like it always did whenever he saw you.

"hey," johnny greeted, his voice low.

"hey johnny," you replied back smiling. out of nervousness you started playing with the ends of one of your braids.

"whatcha got there?" you inquired. johnny hesitated before pulling it back out from behind him. "i wanted to uh.. give you something." he said, his voice even quieter than usual.

he then revealed to you a book. not just any book though, it was the book you had been talking about for the past couple weeks. you had frequently mentioned how much you wanted to read it but had no luck finding it at the library.

you were beyond shocked. "no way, is this really.." you barely whispered, a warm fuzzy feeling started to fill inside you. this sweet gesture made you fall for the boy in front of you even more. "i, uh, i remembered you talking about it.. thought you might like it." a crooked smile appeared on his face.

he gently placed the book in your hands, your hands briefly touching, sending a ripple of warmth through you. you quickly looked down at the book, trying to steady your breathing. you'd think your heart was going a mile a minute with the way you could hear it pounding in your ears.

you slowly take a deep breath in, your chest rising and falling with the effort to steady yourself. you try to calm the fluttering in your stomach before opening to the first page of the book. to your surprise, nestled between the pages was a beautiful dried up red rose. with its soft, faded petals, looked like something right out of a fairy tale, precious and delicate—just like the moment you were currently sharing with johnny.

"i also wanted to ask if you would be my.. valentine?" johnny spoke almost too quickly, you could see the worry in his eyes, waiting for what your response would be.

he liked you. he liked you a lot. but never found the courage to say it out loud. johnny had never had a girlfriend, never been the kind of guy to throw his feelings around, unsure if anyone could ever see him in that way. the feelings he had for you were raw, real, and hard to understand, let alone express. but with some help (and persuading from ponyboy), he helped plan this whole thing for you.

valentine.

a word you had never imagined hearing from johnny—let alone directed at you. for a split second, you considered pinching yourself, because the whole thing felt too much like a dream.

"johnny," you quietly say, stepping closer to him with a timid smile, your heart swelling. "i'd love to be your valentine."

before you could overthink it, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. the warmth of his skin lingering on your lips, and when you pulled away, you noticed the faint imprint of your sparkly strawberry lip gloss left behind.

johnny blinked, this sudden gesture of affection catching him off guard. his breath hitched slightly, but instead of pulling away, he found himself frozen in place, his heart hammering against his chest. it startled him—yet left him feeling content in a way.

you couldn't help but giggle as you stepped back, eyes shining, "guess that's my way of saying thanks," you said with a sheepish grin.

johnny brought his hand to his cheek, his fingertips brushing over the faint imprint of your lip gloss. he could still feel the softness of your lips, like a quiet secret only meant for him.

a smile spread on his face—the kind you rarely got to see, the kind that actually reached his eyes, "anytime, y/n."

✦ maeva's thoughts ~ golly this is so buns but i wanted to write something. also i just wanted to mention that i will have inconsistent updates b/c of school. school is literally kicking me in the ass right now but i gotta lock in.

[shadowww-bunny]

「Tired」(Destiel)

❥ After a long day, Dean relaxes in his angel`s arms

❥ fluff, hurt/comfort

It was a really shitty day. Castiel could tell by the slamming of the door to their motel room and the annoyed expression on the older Winchester's face, which had been appearing more and more frequently lately.

Dean was on edge, although he tried not to show it. Stubbornness. One of the hunter's traits that the angel found both attractive and annoying. And yet, Dean isn't at the bar with a pretty girl and a bottle of whiskey, Dean is here with him, and it feels right.

Dean doesn't bother taking off his jacket, he unceremoniously plops down on the sheets so that his head is on Castiel's lap and his legs are stretched out along the bed. The hunter is so close that Castiel seizes a moment to see those beautiful features on a young face, distorted by pain and fatigue that no amount of rest can fix.

For him, an angel of a Lord who had once led the legions, it was strange and wrong to feel affection, especially for a human, but Castiel couldn't find the strength to resist it. His gaze lingers on the small scratch on the Dean`s cheek. The angel almost involuntarily frowns, and some part of him feels an familiar desire to protect, heal any wounds on the hunter's body, but he knows that this is not what Dean needs right now.

A soft sigh escapes the angel's lips before his hand rests on the hunter's head, stroking the soft hair. The touch is gentle, careful and incredibly light, like a feather, as if he is afraid to break something fragile. Of course, Dean wasn't fragile, by any means. But right now, there was something almost vulnerable about his usual cocky and tough mask that he puts on in front of the whole world.

Castiel's fingers slide over his skin like he's done so many times before, feeling every curve, every freckle and scar. And Dean, Dean is just enjoying it, nuzzling into the angel's hand like a touch-starved puppy who has finally found a warm place in his master's lap.

Dean has never been one to cuddle, outwardly not a fan of physical affection, he longed for it with all his heart. Castiel realized this when the hunter's hands started wandering over his body too often, patting his shoulder after a successful hunt, lingering on his arm when they were sitting in a cafe, and tugging on the sleeve of his trenchcoat when Dean got bored. And something about this behavior makes Castiel's heart flutter.

A slight movement brings Castiel out of his reverie. The hunter grips the angels`s tie, twirling it between his fingers. Castiel doesn't resist, allowing Dean to pull him in, closing the distance between their faces to a few inches. Their lips meet in a light, tremulous kiss that transforms the tense atmosphere into the enjoyable comfort.

"You know that kissing is not a substitute for normal sleep and rest, right?" Castiel quietly remarked when the kiss broke off.

"How do you know? It seems quite healing." The hunter retorts, and the angel may notice a hint of dry sarcasm and teasing in the hunter's voice.

"Dean..." Castiel's deep, low voice sounds with a hint of disapproval, but the hunter interrupts him by catching his lips again in another kiss.

And again the angel gives in. He could never, and did not want to, tell the hunter no. Right now, Castiel's whole world was represented by one person in his arms, and it seemed surprisingly natural, as if it were meant to be.

For Castiel, all this was new, it was difficult for him to express the human emotions that he felt, but did not fully understand. And yet, this unfamiliar but pleasant feeling, so warm and so deep, makes his heart contract again, and angel notices how his usual stoic expression softens as he bends down to return the kiss.

[aloof-cold-hands]

Womanly Man (short story- William and Cornelius)

Note- this short story was originally crafted for a college course, which had a very strict page limit. Therefore, many sections were condensed.

Cornelius first met William at the third quarterly meeting of the law firm, in which Cornelius was wedged in an olive green chair with his waist dipped over each arm. His collared shirt stuck to his damp skin, and when he breathed his nose whistled quietly. Cornelius’s forehead was glossy and his eyes were strained into a squint behind thick glasses as he pretended to read over one of his attorney’s cases. Coworkers discussed finances, papers flipped, and Cornelius rubbed the side of his face.

A thin man in a cream colored suit set his file down across from Cornelius. When the man sat in his chair, he crossed one leg over the other, then tucked a piece of silk hair behind his ear. Each arm of his chair was wide on either side of his curved waist, which his suit hugged snuggly. He leaned forward and placed his elbow on the table, then placed his palm on his cheek. He peeled open the file he had set down, skimming it.

 His cheekbones were pronounced, almost skeletal, and his sleek nose came to a pointed tip. His eyes were heavy, much like Monroe’s, but this man was missing her birthmark and red lipstick. He was young.  He looked up at Cornelius, and Cornelius looked at him. To Cornelius, the man was womanly.

It was the annual office Christmas party when Cornelius met William a second time. Paper reindeer were strewn across the ceiling and tinsel hung off the reception desk. The company’s complimentary “holly jolly” pencil holders were lingering beside every type writer. “Lonely This Christmas” lazily whirred from a record that the manager, Larry, had set up. 

Cornelius stood just beside the buffet table holding a paper cup that was stained pink from wine. On his head sat a headband with felt antlers. He was the only legal assistant that had attended, all of the mingling parties around him were attorneys. 

He breathed deep and slow through his nose, and he watched the red wine in his cup swivel.

For the fourth time that night, Cornelius gripped the cold neck of the bottle and tipped the lip over his cup. The wine poured in glugs till the cup became weighted again. After he set the bottle down, he wiped his hands on the side of his pants.

Slim fingers slid across his back, and Cornelius stepped to the side.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cornelius said.

“Pardon me.” 

The blonde man from the quarterly meeting gave Cornelius a close mouthed smile. The man poured himself a cup of water from the dispenser on the table, and Cornelius removed his felt antlers.

“I don’t believe we’ve met properly,” The man said.

“No, uhm…,” Cornelius replied.

“May I ask for your name?”

“Cornelius.”

“Hello, Cornelius.”

Cornelius took a sip of his wine, and the man took a sip of water. 

“Yours?” 

“Call me William.”

William offered Cornelius his hand, and Cornelius accepted. His palm was damp, warm, and calloused. William’s hand was cold.

“You’re an intern, is that right?” Cornelius asked.

“I handle criminal cases,” William replied. Cornelius flushed. “And you?”

“Oh, uhm, I’m a legal assistant.” 

“Mm, you work divorces for Tom?” “Usually, yes.”

“I see,” William said, then glanced down at Cornelius’s left hand. Cornelius put it in his pocket. He slid his wedding ring off with the pad of his thumb.

The record played, the yellow lights buzzed, and Cornelius felt his shirt sticking to his back. He parted his lips to say something, but so did William.

“How long have you been married?” William asked.

“Oh. Too long,” Cornelius said, then chuckled. William didn’t laugh. “Twenty eight years now.”

“That's lovely,” William said.

“Oh, thank you,” Cornelius replied.

“May I take you for drinks?” William asked.

“Now?”

“Would you like that?”

“I’m not much of a drinker, really.”

William said nothing, he only smiled. Cornelius’s thick glasses slowly slid down the bridge of his nose from sweat.

“I have to be home before twelve,” Cornelius said.

“Would you prefer that I drive?” William asked.

“Well- which bar?” 

“Do you have a favorite?”

William and Cornelius slipped out of the building together into the chill of winter. William’s work shoes clicked like heels on glossy winter pavement, and Cornelius studied his legs. The car was a flat ford pinto with white rimmed wheels and a mustard yellow finish. William opened the door for Cornelius.

William turned the heaters in the car on as he drove, and Cornelius talked about war.

“Drafts don’t happen as much as kids think. My boy James is old enough but they don’t want him in Vietnam, haha.”

“Have you been in war, my friend?” William asked.

“No, no but my father was,” Cornelius replied.

“Hmm. Do you fear being drafted?” William asked.

“No, no we’re too old to be drafted,” Cornelius said. 

William did not respond. Cornelius looked at him.

“Could you be?” he asked, watching William’s face.

“I don’t believe I will be,” William responded.

Cornelius’s brows furrowed. He thought about that.

When the men arrived at the bar, William led the older man to the very back where they could hide in a booth together. The floor was checkered, the walls were pastel yellow with orange and brown stripes, and the jukebox on the other side of the bar played “Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps” by Doris Day.

 Cornelius had seven rounds of bourbon, and three of vodka. William had one lemonade, which he swirled with a straw while he watched Cornelius’s face get red and his mouth get lazy.

“I like bourbon a lot, but I can only afford beer in large amounts. My father liked beer though,” Cornelius said, slurring. “You’re not gonna drink?”

“Mm. I find that it gives me passion but takes away my performance,” William replied, to which Cornelius chuckled. 

“Oh yea? Have you disappointed a date before?”

William smiled, and took a sip of his drink.

“Do you take girls out often, not being married? I bet you do, looking so young. And blonde, you look like Maralyn Monroe actually.”

“I see,” William said, reaching out for his cigarette back.

“Do you take out girls a lot?”

“I find women to be incredibly beautiful.”

“Yea, I’m sure with the type of women you must get. I never had that, not even when I was your age.”

“No?”

“Look at me,” Cornelius said.

“I am,” William replied.

William was stroking his fingers up and down his left collar bone, his shirt was three buttons open revealing his smooth skin and much-exposed neck. It was long and pale, and Cornelius could picture a double string of pearls strewn across it.

“You’re like a woman,” Cornelius said aloud. William grinned.

“Thank you,” William said.

“You look like a woman.”

“Thank you.”

Cornelius stared at William and breathed heavily through his nose. William stared at Cornelius and traced his collarbone.

William paid the bill and steadied Cornelius on the way to the car. Snow specks stuck to the windows as William drove the drunk man home. Cornelius’s gut was extended and his face was heated. He breathed slowly, and he needed several reminders to give directions. 

William’s ford pinto rolled up to the curb, coming to a stop at a two story house with lightless windows. Cornelius looked up at the master bedroom. It was then that he felt a hand on his knee.

“What a wonderful evening, Cornelius,” William said. “Will I have the privilege of taking you out again?”

The thumb against his knee began to rub back and forth, and for a long time Cornelius did nothing. Then, sobered by his own excitement, he pulled his leg away.

“No, no I’ve uhm, spent enough of your money. You don’t have to do that.

“You’re so thoughtful,” William said, smiling. “Goodnight, Cornelius.”

“Goodnight, William.”

After staring at William for a long time, Cornelius opened the car door and lifted his body into the cold.

Cornelius kicked off his shoes at the front door and began to unbutton his shirt as he walked up the stairs. He removed his belt at the opening of the master bedroom, which jingled as it dropped to the carpet. When he shifted into bed, the king sized mattress dipped and creaked under his weight. He neglected to brush his dry, liquor coated mouth, or shower off the sweat from the night. Linda was turned away from him with curlers in her hair.

“Where were you?” she asked.

Cornelius said nothing. He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder, then began to rub his palm up and down her skin. Linda rolled his hand off and pulled the sheets tighter around her body. Cornelius stared at the back of her head, studying the coils of blonde hair wrapped in mint green plastic curlers. He wondered, to himself, if William ever curled his hair. He then turned away from her.

Husband and wife laid quietly with one another in the dark bedroom, and Cornelius wished he had slept on the couch. 

A week later, William took Cornelius for another round of drinks. Cornelius collected bottles and talked, and William listened. A shoe touched an ankle or a hand would brush against an arm. They discussed Elvis, The Beatles, and Charlie Chaplin, who William didn’t know.

“Really? You don't know him?” Cornelius asked.

William just smiled.

“He’s been in talkies, some of the first actually.”

“A talkie?” William asked.

Cornelius thought about that for a while, staring at William’s smooth face.

“Come home with me,” William said.

To which Cornelius replied while hot faced;

“Okay.”

 William’s car rolled into a flat driveway. One beam of light became two as the headlights neared the garage door, then shut off. The home was single story and older, like the kind that were built when Cornelius was newly married. The exterior was pastel yellow and the steep roof was mahogany brown. The lights on either side of the front door were lit.

Cornelius watched William open the door without unlocking it. William then began the process of lighting lamps and closing curtains while Cornelius removed his coat. The home was quiet and smelled heavily of smoke.

The couch in front of the TV was custard yellow with several textured blankets sprawled across the top. Crocheted, wool, and faux fur. There were throw pillows, a bean bag, a shag rug, and a coffee table with a completely full ashtray in the center. 

The kitchen still carried the trends of the 50s. Mint green cabinets and counters, Vinyl flooring, and a round breakfast table.

From the hallway emerged a black cat. She bobbed over to the door to greet them with her tail up in the air. She neglected William and pressed her head into Cornelius’s calf, then dragged her body against his leg. She meowed frequently, looking up at Cornelius while circling his shoes.

“Hello, Cynthia,” William said as he removed Cornelius’s coat for him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “Would you like to wait in my room while I feed her?”

“Oh, uhm…” Cornelius said. The beat in his chest became heavier.

“I’ll only be a moment.”

“Okay.”

Cornelius slid his hands into his pockets and stepped out from Cynthia, who followed him down the hallway until she heard the peel of a cat food can in the kitchen. There were no portraits on the walls, nor were there paintings. After studying the bathroom and the guest room, Cornelius opened the last door down the hallway and tugged at the pull chain on the floor lamp beside him.

The room was soft blues and cream. William owned a canopy with sheer curtains that hung over the bed. His bedsheets were glossy, probably silk. He had two yellow dressers with colognes, a record player, and a jewelry box sitting on top. And most noticeably, William owned a spacious vanity mirror. To Cornelius, this room belonged to a woman.

“Would you like to take your shoes off, dear?” William asked, and a hand slid onto Cornelius’s shoulder.

Cornelius said nothing, and William waited. He stepped around to look at Cornelius’s face. His eyes were peaceful and half lidded, and his collarbones were more exposed to Cornelius than he had ever noticed before. William’s thin fingers plucked Cornelius’s glasses from his face and closed them.

“I’m not a queer, William.” Cornelius said.

“I didn’t think you were, dear,” William replied.

For a very long time Cornelius said nothing, and William said nothing. Then, Cornelius kissed William.

William’s body was sleek, and thin, and young. His skin was milky and smooth against moist, nervous, veiny hands. His chest hair was frail and sparse, and his waist slim. His delicate fingers slid against sun spots and coarse stomach hair, then a hairy breast. William’s ribs cupped the older man's rotund stomach, and when Cornelius couldn't last the way William could, William did not laugh. The curtains were closed, it was dark, and Cornelius was handsome.

“I’m sorry,” Cornelius said. A drop of sweat left his forehead.

William kissed his cheek, and then the corner of his mouth.

“My darling,” he replied.

 Cornelius was guided to lay down, and he obeyed. He placed his head on William’s chest and curled his body against him. William cradled his wide, damp body. Both men breathed together and thought together, naked on top of silk sheets. William whispered kindly to him, and Cornelius began to weep. William stroked his head and pulled him close.

The next morning, William helped Cornelius dress, made him breakfast, then smoked with him. Cornelius didn’t say much to William. 

After breakfast, William drove Cornelius home. When the ford pinto came to a stop, Cornelius did not leave the car. He watched the window on the second floor to the master bedroom, then sighed through his nose. Linda would be dressing herself for church at this time, and she would want him to attend. Cornelius knew this.

“My dear, may I walk you to the door?” William asked.

“Oh, no William. Uhm, thank you, no.” 

William placed a hand on Cornelius’s knee and rubbed his thumb back and forth.

“I understand. The evening was a delight, Cornelius. Will I have the privilege of seeing you again?” William asked.

“Uhm, I don’t know.” 

William nodded, then gave Cornelius’s knee a squeeze. William leaned in close and Cornelius worried that William wanted to kiss him. Instead William reached to open the glovebox and withdrew a white sliver from it. It was then offered to Cornelius. The business card read; Bill Clement - Criminal lawyer. In the middle of the card was a phone number. 

“Thank you,” Cornelius said.

“Goodbye, dear.

Cornelius watched William’s car drive away.

He pressed the front door open, which tended to get stuck in the frame, and stepped inside. Dishes clanked in the kitchen and the news man was giving the weather on the television in the living room. There were footsteps upstairs in Cornelius’s daughter's room. 

Cornelius rubbed his face in his hands. The white light coming into the home was glaring, the noise was sharp, and the pressure of a headache swelled against his skull. He wandered deeper, rounding the corner to the kitchen where Linda stood in front of the sink in a floral sunday dress. Her blonde hair with streaks of gray was done up in a beehive.

“Linda,” Cornelius said.

Linda turned her head to look at him, and Cornelius felt her eyes scan his body. She scowled, then put her plate down to fully face Cornelius. She crossed her arms, and stared at him. Cornelius stared at the kitchen tile.

“Where were you?” She asked.

“I’m sorry, Linda.”

“Where were you.”

“I got drunk, I was going to call.” “You didn’t.”

“I know.”

Cornelius swallowed thickly, and Linda waited.

“I went drinking with uhm, Bill from the firm. I slept at his place.”

“Cornelius,” Linda said, leaning back against the counter. “When I asked you not to drink on a church night, you said that you wouldn't.”

“I know-”

“You promised.”

The television discussed the upcoming election, their daughter’s footsteps came down the stairs, and the neighbors dog barked in the yard. 

“This is the one thing I get, we go to church as a family, Cornelius. We are a family that goes to church every single Sunday. You cannot do this again.”

“Okay.”

“Get ready and show up late,” Linda said.

“Alright.”

“Did you lose your glasses?”

Cornelius reached up to feel the bridge of his nose where his glasses were not perched. He pictured them waiting for him on William’s nightstand.

“Oh, I guess,” he said as Linda walked past him to the front door. He suddenly became aware that he smelt of liquor and tangy sweat.

Both his wife and his daughter stepped onto the front porch, then closed the front door behind them. Linda had to tug the door to get it into the frame properly. 

Cornelius swayed in the kitchen for a minute, then sat down on the couch and watched the news.

That very night, while Cornelius sat in the kitchen alone, William was intertwined with Gene, a good friend, on his silk sheets. They were both incredibly beautiful, and both incredibly skilled with their mouths. Just as they had begun to kiss, the phone in the kitchen rang. William tilted his head to the side for Gene to trail warm pecks down his neck to his collarbone. But after the third ring, the well-built man stopped.

“Aye,” Gene said. 

“Hmm?” William replied.

“Phones ringing.”

“If it’s urgent, they will call again my dear.”

 Moments later, William was wrapped in a sheer robe walking to the kitchen. The tile was cold under his bare feet, and he nearly tripped over Cynthia as she curled around his ankle mid step. He plucked the phone from the wall and pressed it to his ear.

“Hello?” He said, leaning against the counter. He toyed with the custard colored coil from the phone.

“William?” Cornelius asked across the line. He was drunk.

“Cornelius, hello dear.”

“William, hello. How are you? I’m sorry, uhm, did I wake you up?” he asked.

“Not at all. Are you well?” William asked.

“Oh, I’m fine. I just wanted to call.”

“I see.”

Cornelius went silent, and so did William. William could hear him breathing.

“I need to-... when can I see you again?”

William smiled.

“Aww, my darling. Are you unwell?”

Cornelius said nothing.

“May I take you for drinks tomorrow?” William asked.

“Yes, please.” Cornelius said. “Thank you.”

“No need to-”

“Thank you. I love you.”

William’s smile dropped into a neutral line and he stopped toying at the phone coil. 

“I’m sorry. I don't mean- I’m not that way. You know that, I’m not like that.”

“I know, dear.”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight, my darling,” William said.

“Goodnight,” Cornelius replied. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If you're interested in more writing, consider looking into my patreon!