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macfrog · 3 months

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sweet child o' mine | pt. iii

now taking name suggestions for my joel's duck doodle. must rhyme with a curse word. most creative wins.

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: as your pregnancy progresses, you and joel are getting closer. dangerously closer.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :) DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

December.

The days are funneled by a quick pinch of dark, the breeze heavy in its sail. Houses lined with twinkling lights and windows pierced by pointed trees. Crooning from every radio station, teary-eyed movies on TV, and spiced apple everything.

You hate every fucking minute of it.

“Wait a second,” Tommy sits forward, leaning in, “you never do nothin’ for New Years?”

You shrug, lifting your eyebrows. “Nope. Just don’t like it much. That a crime?”

He considers it as he hands his empty tumbler up to Joel, his head lolling some. He’s on his…fourth drink of the night, right? Though, if you take into account his earlier argument – I’m eatin’ as I go. It don’t count. – it’s probably more like two. But it’s whiskey, so –

Never mind.

“Yeah,” Tommy finally decides, “kinda. The hell’s wrong with you, girl?”

“Tommy.”

Joel’s voice is a warning, edged by the sharp clink of three glasses pinched in his fingers.

His brother laughs amiably in response, though, nodding to your mock-offended expression. “At least you’re spendin’ it right this year. Last one before lil’ Dickie comes along, huh?”

Maria slaps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “It’s Duckie,” she hisses, glancing over to you.

“Shoot,” he says, chuckling. “I knew that. My mistake.” And then, hand out towards you in an apology which makes your shoulders jerk with laughter, “I did know that, I swear.”

Tommy and Maria flew in a few days ago; the younger Miller adamant that he’d spend one last New Years with his big brother before he became a father. The night they arrived, they showed up on your doorstep – a hamper filled with diapers and muslins and baby socks hanging from Maria’s arm. They’ve asked to hang out with you every day since.

They’re good fun. Tommy likes you, at least, enough to tease you as much as you figure a brother might. He’s definitely the louder of the two – sometimes you swear you notice Joel cringing at him, something caught between a laugh and a frown on his face. And Maria’s sweet; she’s asked probably six times every hour since she first saw you if you’re feeling okay, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry.

Joel text you yesterday morning. Tommy and Maria wondering if you feel like coming over for NYE. No pressure, he added, I lie pretty good.

A smile snuck its way across your lips before you had the chance to tame it. Sure, you typed, I’ll bring the newspaper.

What Joel’s told them, about the wedding and the baby and everything since, you’ve no idea. You guys almost talked about it when he told you they were flying down after Christmas, but before you got the chance to ask him, Vanessa pulled up out front.

Not exactly a conversation you felt like having with the dude’s girlfriend hooked around his right arm.

She smiles at you, now, as you shuffle to the edge of the armchair you’re curled up in. Joel’s armchair – the plaid blanket cradling you, the leather soft and crinkled beneath. Your eyes quickly drop from hers when his hand reaches for your mug, your fingers crossing as you pass it up. “Let me come help,” you say, pushing from the chair.

He holds up a palm, shaking his head once. “Stay. I got it.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, settling back. Vanessa resumes smiling. You wish she’d fucking quit it. You wish you’d fucking quit focusing on her.

Joel knocks the mug gently against your shoulder with a small, almost sympathetic smile, and heads for the kitchen – leaving you sat between Tommy and Maria on one couch, and Vanessa on the other. You tuck your heels under your thighs, picking at a hangnail as you wait for the conversation to thaw.

Maria makes some comment about Austin in the winter: how different it is to Jackson, and the three of you nod and hum in agreement before the chatter fizzles to nothing again. You glance over to the clock, watching the hands chase one another to twelve.

This isn’t what you imagined a get-together with Joel’s family would feel like. Tight, tense. So tense that you can feel the weight on your chest, closing your lungs. Talking about the weather and the holiday traffic, talking about nothing to avoid talking about everything.

Tommy’s chin lifts, after a second too long of silence. “Hey, Joel!” he barks. “You ain’t shown me this nursery yet!”

Joel leans around the doorframe, half-distracted. “Barely even started it, little brother. Crib only got delivered yesterday.”

“Sheesh,” Maria’s eyes widen, “you sure are prepared.”

Vanessa laughs when Joel rolls his eyes and vanishes again. “You got no idea,” she says, “I have never seen him so…pedantic, right?” She looks to you, still smiling. So sweet, you worry your lips are pursing at the sight of it. Your neck tensing. Your eyes watering.

“Yeah,” you reply, nodding shyly and swallowing back the saccharine. “I think he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.”

Joel’s voice calls from the kitchen again: your name. When you answer, he says, “Why don’t you take Tommy up, show ‘im what we got so far?” and then, leaning back around the door, “She picked the color ‘n whatnot.”

“Ah,” Tommy says, palms pushing down on his knees, “so you’re the brains, then?”

You mirror him, accepting Joel’s request. As though you had any choice in the first place. Standing beside the younger Miller, you mutter, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He holds a hand out to usher you ahead, following you upstairs. Past the tousle-haired boy in grayscale, past the German shepherd, past the Christmas Day portrait. Wandering like you know the house inside out, like you might’ve picked the exact coordinates of each nail the picture frames hang on yourself.

Like the photographs pinned to the walls aren’t still as alien to you as they’d been that day you first set foot in here, the dress Joel would come to tear from your body slung over your arm.

You twist the gold handle and unveil a homely little room, painted by you and Joel just last week. The soft blue drying into his knuckles, random splatters on your palms and your jeans. The giggles drawn from your chest; the thief either the chemicals from the paint, or the man rolling it over the walls – and you’ve a pretty good idea of which.

Tommy sniffs roughly, nodding. Taps the toe of his boot against one of the two bulky boxes leant against the wall, a crib printed on one and a rocking chair on the other. His tipsy head bob bob bobbing. “Alright. ‘s nice, ain’t it?”

You settle against the window, the glass cold at your back. “Real nice, yeah. Be even better once it’s done.”

“What’s yours look like?”

“Mine?”

“Nursery at your place. Your one pink, ‘case it’s a girl?”

You snort. “Mine is a little greener. More…I guess it’s duck egg. Had some leftover paint.”

He clicks his fingers and points to you. “See what you did there. Duck egg. Duckie.”

“Hm. Wish I were that poetic. I just like the color.”

Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets, wanders around the bare room. The faint lingering of whiskey putting up its best fight against the clean bite of fresh paint, the sweet scent shaking from him when he nods some more at the blank walls and naked windows. He clicks his teeth and asks, “How you holdin’ up, anyways?”

“How am I holding up?”

“Yep. With, uh…” he nods to the door, eyes wide, “…Vanessa,” he whispers. Louder than he must think – probably echoed, if anything, by the palm he curves around his mouth.

You cross your arms protectively, shoulders bunching. “She’s fine,” you say, voice deliberately low. You both ignore the crack in it when you add, “I like her. She’s – she’s taken this all like a champ.”

Tommy leans on the window ledge, a rugged hand you reckon you’d know was a Miller’s just by looking at it. Same rough-cut quality as Joel’s, like they’re torn from the same sheet of sandpaper. He props the other on his hip. “But, boy – it’s gotta be complicated, right?”

“I guess. But she’s real sweet about it. And Joel’s been great, too.” You sniff, the memory of your kiss flashing behind your eyes. The steady drum of Duck’s heartbeat, the gleam in Joel’s eye when he looked down at you. The guilt seeping from your skin like beads of sweat, prickling along your spine and fizzling against the cold windowpane.

Tommy blinks at you, liquor-glazed eyes scanning. His shoulders jerk, a loud huh propelling from his throat. When your head cocks in confusion, startled from your daydream, he spills. “He ‘n I had a mighty long talk when he told me.”

You feel yourself leaning in, magnetized to him – body hunched as though you’re gossiping in the corner of a house party. Inhaling secrets with the tinge of alcohol on Tommy’s breath. “Oh, yeah?”

Tommy hums. “Just wanted to make sure he’d thought it all through. Not you – I always knew he’d take care a’ you and Duck. But…involving Vanessa,” he lowers his voice again, glancing over to the warm light spilling in from the hallway, “I just wanted him to be sure.”

Your blood begins to warm, heat flooding through your body as you step closer, murmuring, “What’d he say?”

He flicks his head, seeming to toss his initial response to the wind. “You know Joel. He is his own man.”

Your face screws, head jerking back. “What’s that mean? He is his own man?”

A voice from the doorway interrupts. A shadow swimming in the golden light. “Who is?”

Tommy steps away from you, loosening his arms as his big brother drifts into the shadowy room. Dusting the conversation under the rug. The smell of whiskey backs off. “Speak of the devil. Nice paint job, Joel. Missed a couple spots, but – I’ll let you off.”

“Uhuh.” Joel’s eyes thin, his body slanted against the wall. Arms crossed, bottle of beer hanging from his fingers.

Tommy swaggers forward when Joel holds the bottle out, taking it with a wary glance at the tall figure. A dog meandering back to his owner, tail between his legs and ears flat. It takes his gritty voice to jolt you back to the room, splintering your gaze from Joel’s toned arms and huge chest. “Looks real good, you two. ‘s one lucky kid.”

Joel’s jaw lifts, his eyes landing on you. Dogs are terrible liars. “He talkin’ your ear off?”

You smile; recognizing the softer Joel you’ve grown used to over the last three months replacing the stern, cold version you once knew so well. “Only a little.”

“Tommy,” he says then, “Maria needs you for somethin’.”

The denim-donned Miller nods knowingly and heads out of the room, thud of his boots receding downstairs.

“Maria okay?” you ask, making space for Joel as he settles beside you.

He shrugs. “Only said that to get him outta your hair.”

You frown. “You sent me up here with him in the first place.”

“So I could come up ‘n check on you. Know this must be a lot – the two of them, tonight.”

“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”

You both sigh, turning to look out at the dark street. Your arms cross, sitting somewhere above the tiny slope of your bump – a new development you’re still getting used to. Your stomach feels tighter, a little more solid than usual when you touch it. A little more…real. There’s someone in there, right? Like, actually there. They’re changing the way you look, the way you feel.

“This is it, right?” you say, staring at the white lanterns illuminating Alice Brown’s rose bushes. “This is the year.”

“The year,” Joel agrees.

“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”

He purses his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve had bigger years, kid.”

“Let’s hear it, old man. Let’s hear about your biggest year. God knows you’ve had plenty to choose from.”

He sucks a deep breath in, eyes tracing the silhouette of the houses across the street as he thinks. “Senior year, nineteen ninety-three. Asked Stacy Moore as my date to the prom ‘n she said yes. I was so nervous that I forgot my bow tie. Was a pretty good year.”

You hum, agreeing, and then, “I see your ninety-three, and I raise you: two thousand and one. There was this bike I wanted for-fucking-ever; it had, like, little beads on the spokes – would make this ratatatat sound whenever it moved. Tassels hanging from the handlebars, all iridescent. I begged my mom the entire year for it, and on Christmas morning I woke up, and…” You lift your hands, air puffing from between your lips. “Santa Claus delivered that year, dude.”

“Well,” Joel clicks his teeth, shell hardening only a little, “thanks for making me feel old as hell.”

“You’re welcome.” You beam back at him, breaking into a laugh when he does.

The two of you stand a little distance apart, denying yourselves the innocent brushing of shoulder against shoulder, the nudging of elbows and swaying of hips. Admiring the empty sky and emptier street, bathing between the cold moonlight of outside and the warm lamplight in.

And from somewhere deep in your belly, somewhere tucked behind your ribs, beneath your slow-growing womb: an urge to ask about her. To bring her up. To tend to the curiosity that Tommy poked a clumsy, drunken finger straight into, tearing it apart at the seams.

Like pressing on a new bruise, satiating the hungry need to know where you were hurt, how you were hurt, when you were hurt. A bent fingertip, pushing heavily into a sensitive splatter of dark purple; the burst blood vessels hissing in response, whispering, You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.

But you defy them. You do want to know. Want to satisfy the disturbed thrill you felt, leaning into Joel’s brother. Hands turning over one another, wet bottom lip trembling as he rounded the corner on some sort of…what was it, a secret? Some sort of truth, a long-buried revelation about the other woman. She’s a witch, have you spotted her crooked nose? She’s plotting something, I swear. She’s up to no good.

Your eyes lift again, focusing back on the dull color of the outside world. The bland canvas of reality. She’s not a witch, nor some genius mastermind. She’s a boring, relatively normal woman. Kind, thoughtful. Naïve and a little too eager to please; too willing to forgive a situation which warrants no such kindness or empathy.

She’s just…fine. Lukewarm. And you’ve no idea why that pisses you off so much.

Which, incidentally, makes the bruise sting all the more.

“Maria, Maria,” Tommy’s voice claws its way upstairs, “turn it on, turn it – Joel? Joel! It’s midnight, Joel, you two better come on down, now! Have we missed it –? Have we –?”

The sound of cheering slowly bubbles to life behind his drawl as the TV volume picks up, the tittering of Maria and Vanessa chiming in.

“…five, four, three, two, one…Happy New Year!”

Joel’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for footsteps or voices or a girlfriend who never shows. And he ignores his brother, for he is his own man, and turns to you instead. Bracing himself on the ledge, he blinks down with a plain grin on his lips. “Happy New Year, Mom,” he whispers.

You return his smile, taking his hand when he reaches out to you. “Happy New Year, Dad,” you reply, squeezing his palm.

He pulls you in for a hug, kissing your cheek briskly as you hook your arms over his shoulders. His beard scratches your cheek, grazes the curve of your shoulder, and you don’t mind. Your small, swollen belly presses against his; the tiny curve safe in the midst of your embrace.

Outside, the sky crackles to life with the distant spatter of fireworks, color shattering across the black canvas – red, blue, green and gold, dissolving as quickly as they explode into the now-January night. A burst of purple light washes between the two of you, and you turn your head on Joel’s shoulder to watch as the sparks rain over your neighbors’ roofs.

“I should get goin’,” you whisper, feeling his heartbeat a little too strongly against your own. Becoming suddenly aware of the weight of your frames locked together.

“Glad you came,” he says as he leans away. “I know this ain’t…I know we’re all tryin’, but you’re tryin’ the most, and I appreciate it. I hope you know that.”

“I know it,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Now, go. Go kiss your girlfriend.”

He chuckles, making for the door. “You want me to walk you home?”

Your eyes close serenely, the image of him doused in flickers of gold burning behind your eyelids. “I’ll survive the walk across the hedgerow, Miller.”

Joel nods once and leaves, plodding downstairs to be greeted by his open-armed girlfriend, a peck between them, arms crossed behind his neck. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne slurred against his lips.

And you think – You know what? If it’ll rip you apart from her, if it’ll keep her bright red lips and her shining curtain of hair away from you, if it’ll stop her sucking in your air and your smell and your attention for thirty fucking seconds –

Then, yeah. Walk me home. Stay for a drink. Sleep in the goddamn guestroom.

Walk me home.

You slip out of the front door when the two couples are in the kitchen, missing Joel’s calling your name – or perhaps just ignoring it altogether.

“Spread the love at St. David’s this Valentine’s Day…”

Joel slows alongside a wall of cerise hearts, each one fluttering like wings whenever the hospital doors slide open and the breeze sneaks inside. Slips scrawled with names and messages: Love you M! and J + A, crude drawings of stick figures holding hands. Your lips curl into a smirk, watching him flick through each one as you palm your round stomach.

You just saw Duck for the second time. The last time, Freya was kind enough to mention, before they’re tearing you in two. Sorry, she mouthed when your expression dropped, and went back to twisting the probe over your stomach. Silently.

You’re getting better at it, you think. Playing Mom. Like some little game of make-believe, which is only real for as long as you’re looking it square in the eye – attending doctor’s appointments, updating the neighbors on your newest list of symptoms en route to your mailbox.

A little surer on your feet, now that you’ve found a balance to it: taking it as seriously as it warrants, a dry little pill stuck on the cliff of your throat, and making it easier to swallow with humor like water, a huge gulp anytime the fear claws its way up your spine.

And no more panic, since at least before Christmas. Only a little flustered this afternoon when Freya asked if you wanted to know the sex.

It felt too big a thing to hear, too real. You’re only just getting used to the backache and the bleeding gums. (And why didn’t you know that your gums would bleed? Isn’t that something they should fucking warn you about? Congrats, you’re pregnant: prepare for blood seeping from your jaw.)

No. No, thanks. Your head shot around to Joel. No, right?

He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.

Are you sure?

I’m sure, kid. Promise.

‘cause we can find out. I mean – if you want to.

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tapping you amiably on the shoulder. I don’t. You’re good.

You don’t?

No, I – He sighed, a hand dragging through his hair. If you want to, I want to. If you don’t, I don’t. Alright?

Freya bit back a laugh, the closed fist over her lips doing little to hide it. You guys should write a book on co-parenting.

But then she left the room again, closed the door on that same old little bubble – the three of you perched on the bed, you and Joel blinking up at the grains of your child onscreen – and you cried. Again. More.

Everything clearer, everything even more human than before: the globe of their skull, the tiny slope of their nose. All glowing in the dark waves of your womb, twinkling like the most beautiful constellation you could ever come across. Their ankles were crossed, feet forming a tiny heart shape in the top corner of the sonogram. Your hand lifted to point it out to Joel, and before the words found voice, you choked and broke down again.

He held you, lips to your hair, body solid as a rock as you melted into him in waves of salty tears. Smiled that honey-glazed smile and said he was so proud of you, said, look what your body’s doin’, darlin’, look what you’re growin’ – which only made you weep more.

And you pretended not to wait for it – for the moment when you might tilt your head up and your lips might line with his, and he might close the achy space between you again, might shush your cries by stealing the air from your lungs and the beat from your heart.

But he didn’t.

Which is fine.

Right?

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” he asks now, eyes still glued to the sea of hearts.

Your stare snaps from him instantly, unaware it was even held there. You tug on the hem of your sweater and pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “Fine, I’m – I’m just…Come on, man. I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”

“’n whose fault is that?”

You glower at him. “How considerate,” you seethe, “Vanessa’s a fucking lucky woman, you know that?”

He ignores you, a dumb smile on his face. The usual. “Let’s leave one for ‘em.”

A hot temper begins to boil below the surface of your skin, squeezing between your teeth in a fist-swinging breath. Also the usual these days, apparently. “For who?”

“Duckie. Somethin’ to mark the second scan. Last time we see them, before –”

Your hand flies up, eyes closing with a wince. Shut the fuck up. “Enough. I know.”

Joel hms, still smiling to himself. His beard has grown out a little: thicker, darker, gray sewn through like little whip stitches lining his jaw. He fishes a heart shape from the tub along with a pen, which he twirls annoyingly around his fingers as he thinks.

You sink back against the clinical white wall, an offensively bright color, holding your cheeks up in something of a smile when a nurse wanders past, nodding to both of you. Your face drops back to a scowl as soon as she’s over Joel’s shoulder, and your eyes meet his again – his brows raised, expectant.

“What?” you ask, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He holds the slip up. “What we gonna write?”

And whatever charm the moment may have held, withers instantly. You throw your arms up petulantly. “You wanted to do it! Pick something. See you soon, or something, I don’t fucking know.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Joel muses, creases by his eyes when he smirks. “Poignant.”

“That’s what you should write,” you step closer, shoving your shoulder into his as you study the trembling hearts on the board, “if you can spell poignant, write that.”

“Hilarious,” he mutters, bending to scribble onto the shape, shielding his work from your view when you hang around his shoulder to pry. Cupping over the message until he’s straightening up, tossing the pen back to the desk, stealing a pin from the tub.

“Let me read,” you protest, tugging on his flannel sleeve.

“I will,” he says, shaking you off. “Patience, darlin’.”

Joel turns to the wall and pins the heart higher than the rest, in a spot clear of its own on the corkboard – thick arms stretching higher higher higher and pulling your gaze with them. As he steps back, he takes you gently by the waist and positions you in front of his body, your shoulders brushing against his chest. Your ribs hold your heart back from hammering into his.

You push up onto your tiptoes and squint at the note, which quivers when the hospital doors pull open again. “Mom and…Mom and Dad f…You fucking…”

Joel dodges your batting arm, snickering with you as he turns to make for the exit. “You don’t like it?” he tosses over his shoulder.

The heart stares down at you, black ink carved into the paper, watching as you turn and hurry after him, giggling. “Mom and Dad fuckin love you? So much for my potty mouth. And the –” another wheezing laugh you’d otherwise be ashamed to let him hear, “– the drawing? It looks – it looks more like a giraffe than a duck. Or, like, you know those long-necked dinosaurs?”

Joel’s head tips back, his own laughter caught up by the breeze when you wander outside, slipping your wrist around the crook of his elbow. Something infectious about it, something which stirs your own laughter until you’re walking arm in arm to the truck with a man who, six months ago, you’d barely look at twice over the fence.

The blind rage bubbling from your empty stomach seems to dissipate, dwindled to nothing in the face of that same man – his swollen cheeks and crows-feet eyes. And you say, “You’re disgustingly sentimental, you know that? Like, sickening.”

And Joel smirks, the way he always fucking does, and says, “You love it. Can’t lie to me.”

“I love it,” you concede, nudging into him as he opens the door for you.

The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. There’s another thing you’re getting good at: being around Joel without need for snide remarks, without feeling your tongue curl under the weight of some snappy quip, loaded and aimed. Being around him and talking about Duck, asking how Tommy and Maria are. Forcing your teeth and tongue to carve out words which ask how Vanessa is, what she’s up to, when he’s seeing her next.

None of this is ideal, that’s for sure. Joel’s girlfriend aside, you’ve spent the last five months cohabiting your body with a stranger who lives most peacefully in the eye of a raging tornado of hormones – flitting between fits of giggles and pulsating joy in your veins, to waves of tears and an anger so hot beneath your skin that you wonder if your emotions might dry up completely by the time this is all through.

It's tough. It’s scary. And some nights you lie in bed, alone, wet eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for someone to burst into the room and announce that it’s all a prank. Just a silly joke. You and Joel can go back to tossing newspapers and casting glowers.

But for now, sat in the passenger seat of his truck – the seatbelt warped around the curve of your belly, the Eagles lilting softly from the radio – it feels like you’re making a home out of that tornado, too. Feeling the swirling walls of wind toss your hair like the breeze through the truck window; the chilled caress of the evening around your outstretched arm, soaring down the highway.

Yeah, you think. I can make something outta this.

“You know what I’m craving?”

Joel’s watching the light, waiting for green. “What’s that?”

“A fucking bagel. Cream cheese, pastrami,” you groan.

He snorts, cringing when he adds, “Pickles?”

A moan tears from the base of your throat, head lolling against your seat. “I could orgasm just thinking about it.”

The light turns, and Joel swings right. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he mutters, turning the wheel with one palm. “I got bagels back at the house, if you want one.”

You stare at him, jaw loose, saliva pooling behind your bottom lip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Let me make you one, ‘fore you go home. Big day, ‘n all.”

And you hate it – hate the way your cheeks fill with a genuine happiness, something swollen and achy, impossible to ignore when it lifts your eyes and hurts your teeth. Appreciation, or admiration, perhaps, that you figure you’ll only ever have for him. You don’t know what the fuck to call it.

So you sum it up into three words. “That’d be nice,” you whisper, and Joel places his hand over your knee, shaking it lightly as he drives on.

It stays there, until he’s pulling into his driveway.

He pushes the front door open and steps back, an arm extended to let you by first. An after you, ma’am, between his lips. And you turn to make some mocking joke, the beginnings of some comment about how gentlemanly he is, when you’re socked square on the nose by a heavy-fisted, bitter scent.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, stumbling backwards across the threshold and onto the porch again. Your throat constricting around nothing, your tongue twisting, your stomach lurching.

Joel catches you just in time to stop you from falling on your ass. “The hell’s the m–? Oh.”

“Hi!” Vanessa calls from the kitchen, leaning around the doorframe to wave you both in. “Almost ready! Take a seat.”

“V–? Hey, sweetheart?” Joel calls back, one hand around your wrist and the other between your shoulders. “What – what’s cookin’?”

She pauses, glancing back at the stove. Pulls the dish towel between her hands taut. “I…I made pasta.”

“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”

“…Bolognese.”

He can’t cover his own sigh quick enough. Thick with something which feels like anger. “Shit,” he turns back to you, “I am so sorry.”

You pull in a deep, unsteady breath, your lungs struggling to separate night air from tomato juice. A weight rolling at the bottom of your stomach, your entire body beginning to tremble with it. “I feel like I’m gonna – Joel, I’m gonna –”

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice urgent, palm slipping to cup your jaw. “Just breathe for me.”

But your throat’s tightening, swallowing hard around gags which come stronger and quicker the more you try to fight them down. “I can still fucking smell it –”

Her shadow blocks the stretch of light from the house. A nervous little thing, a timid creature’s shadow stretched wide across the porch floor. “Is…everything okay?”

“It’s – it’s fine,” Joel sighs again, torn between comforting you and letting Vanessa down gently, “it’s just – tomato is one of her…her aversions.” He’s unable to pull his eyes from you, privately asking, “Are you okay?” when Vanessa turns back to the kitchen.

“I didn’t – I didn’t know,” she mumbles, thumbnail between her teeth. “I am so sorry.”

Suddenly, your will not to throw up is overpowered by your will to tell her, “It’s fine,” sucking in a deep, sickly breath before adding, “I’m just gonna – I should go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Joel says, his teeth guarding the words from his girlfriend.

“I’m gonna clean up in here,” Vanessa points over her shoulder, and you think she must’ve heard him, “get outta your hair. I’m so sorry, again. I would’ve never…”

Joel lets go of you as you stagger backwards, the cold air tearing down your throat to meet the burning acid tickling up your esophagus. “Please don’t apologize,” you lift a weak hand, “how could you have known? I’ll –” another sharp gasp, “– I’ll see you guys around.”

He must say your name, must try once more to pull you back to his side, but the blood’s rushing through your ears, and your heart’s pounding at the back of your tongue, and your stomach’s notching its way up your spine. You make it to your kitchen sink just in time.

He keeps you waiting all of one hour before he’s calling you. Your arm reaches over to your nightstand, fumbling in the dark for your heavy phone, the screen cold against your cheek.

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay?”

Your lungs pull a deep, slow breath. The acid painted across your throat tickles as the air passes by it, an uncomfortable, scratchy feeling.“Mhm.”

“That a lie?”

“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”

He takes a second to answer. Lets go of whatever he was going to say with a sigh, replacing it with, “She just left.”

“Is she mad at us?”

Another second. “Just me. Not you.”

You massage the slope below your breasts, the ache in your esophagus throbbing when you move. “Why just you?”

Ruffling, like he’s settling back into his couch. Sinking into the cushion, his body as heavy as yours feels on your mattress. “I should’ve told her you didn’t like tomatoes. ‘cause now I’m a goddamn mind reader. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t my girlfriend be in my house cookin’ a damn pasta dish while I’m out, y’know? Jesus Christ.”

“Joel,” you turn slowly onto your back, bravely waiting for the waves of nausea still lapping around your stomach to turn with you, “it was a nice thing, what she did. She didn’t mean to…She probably thought she was helping.”

“Naw, I know,” he replies, the sharp bite of his words softening again, shrinking under yours. “I don’t care about her and her helping, though, darlin’, I care about y –” He barely catches it in time. “I care about you carrying my child, and I care about making sure you don’t spend your nights fuckin’…throwing up tomato sauce.”

You gulp, neck convulsing. The backwash of bile swallowed back. Your chest floods with a heat of quick panic. “Can we…maybe…not use the word? I just –”

“Sorry, baby. Sorry. This is just – it’s a lot easier if she would just…”

Your eyes close over, a salty sting sweeping behind them. If she would just lay off. Back off. Fuck off. “…but she won’t, Joel. She loves you. ‘n you…”

The words drift off, taken by the tide, swept off into silence. And neither of you bother with trying to retrieve them – you just watch, stood safe on the shoreline, as they fold under the waves of something too big for either of you to acknowledge. Too dark, too dangerous.

So, you say, “I get it,” instead; say, “I get why you’re mad. Just – let’s forget about it, okay? Sorry for…ruining dinner.”

Joel scoffs, that old, pissed-off Joel scoff. You can see his deadened expression on the back of your eyelids. You may as well have just thrown his newspaper to the end of the earth. “You know damn well that you didn’t ruin anything. How you feelin’?”

“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”

“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”

“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”

“How about a water?”

“I got some here. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Joel sniffs, “how about: you take the hint and let me come over there to see you?”

You giggle, hand over your eyes to mask your expression from the dark. “I hate you. Yeah, come over. Door’s unlocked.”

Date night – six month anniversary or whatever. Call me if you need anything.

And I mean anything. OK?

Your thumbs hover over the two gray messages, an awkward jig as your brain scrambles to offer words back. Where are you guys going? Too interested. Too weird. OK, what if I’m bored? Delete delete delete. Trying too hard. Sure, have a good n–

The ellipsis pops up and you freeze. A stupidly polite swish delivers Joel’s third text.

Boredom counts as anything, by the way.

And the fucker steals another smile from you. You notice it when you look up, clocking yourself in the mirror. Accompanied by a warmth which drips down your spine, swirls around your tummy; a fluttering you’re not sure is Duckie or something else.

Have a good night, Dad, you type back, tossing the phone to the end of your bed when you hit send. Swiping for a pillow, holding it firm to your face. Pressing so deep into the plush that even the linen won’t be able to see your grin.

Joel told you about this six-month anniversary last week. He wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. Dinner to celebrate six months? A year, fair enough. But six months?

You swallowed your pride, swallowed the same throttling ecstasy which seeped through your pores on New Year’s Eve, on that February evening she cooked– never mind; a desperate desire to tear apart the very notion of Vanessa and her cutesy little date nights and candlelit dinners. I think it’s a fun idea, you said. Y’all should do it.

And Joel listened. Because he always fucking listens to you, these days. Listens when you tell him that you like the watermelon Sour Patch Kids best, and picks them up anytime he’s at the store. Listens to you when you tell him he should move the crib away from the window, in case the streetlights shine on Duck while they sleep.

Listens when you ramble about how sore your feet are, how heavy your belly feels, how there’s a clammy heat lingering under your skin at all times, bubbling and bubbling and never rising to anything more than steam collecting on the underside of your flesh.

Listens when you tell him to go spend time with his girlfriend. And neither of you pay attention to the jealous shadow behind your words, the hesitant quiver behind his.

He replies almost instantly, the ping like a gunshot at the beginning of a race. Pillow slammed into the mattress, body lunging forward.

You too, Mom. Don’t have too much fun without me.

You lock the phone and slide it back under your covers, smiling dumbly.

There’s still a small part of you waiting for the big reveal: none of this is really happening. A dream, maybe, something you’ll wake from with a tiny throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a new reason to avoid your neighbor at all costs.

But it seems that, each time that thought crosses your mind, you’re quicker and quicker to quash it. Realizing each time that what lies ahead – Joel, your baby, this future version of yourself that you’re yet to meet, still just a little out of reach – fills you with more excitement and wonder, than it does fear.

Mom.

It’s not something you ever imagined for yourself. Not someone you ever thought you’d be. And yet, each time you say it out loud, each time you look in the mirror and picture a baby in the crook of your arm, a toddler perched on your hip, a kid stood by your side, tugging on the hem of your shirt – she feels a little closer. A little clearer. She just has to look over her shoulder, notice you waiting. I’m right here, she says. Come find me.

Mom. Mom and Dad.

You imagine Joel right now, sat in some ritzy restaurant with jazz music and stained-glass lamps on every table, ordering Vanessa some glorified lentil soup and slapping his card over the bill before the waiter has a chance to reveal the damage to him. Your lips twist at the thought – her jewels and her long hair and her sweet little smile laced with a smug possession.

And then you slap your own wrists, hissing to yourself to shut the fuck up.

“She’s nice,” you argue out loud, thin air holding no debate. “She’s kind, and I like her. She’s good for him.”

And then the air replies. Good for him, it swirls, but you could do it better.

Your arm lifts, lingering for a beat before batting the thought away.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks, between pushing yourself out of his embrace in bed, and pulling yourself back into it – armed with a pregnancy test and a chest full of fear. Three weeks of dodging him, of your cheeks bubbling with embarrassment and regret anytime you thought of it; of hoping to God that Alice or Diane or Steve and Kris across the street wouldn’t clairvoyantly know what had transpired that night and corner you on your own front lawn.

A one-night stand. That’s all it was. Two lonely bodies, excitement enough to convince you both that it was a good idea; a fitted suit and a backless dress crumpled together on the floor. Liquid courage lacing it all together.

Three weeks, then, of reminding yourself how it felt: how amazing you were together. Your hand between your legs and Joel’s name between your teeth.

Fuck. If only he knew. Goodforhimgoodforhim she’s so good for him but I’m better.

You did it better. You know you did. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time the two of you stopped. You hauled yourselves down to breakfast and sat at least three people apart, made forced conversation with Maria about the DJ stumbling off with one of her cousins, while the ghostly ache of Joel’s body churned somewhere deep inside you.

It travels through your veins the way that everything does right now: urgent and unforgiving. A need to be dealt with, immediately. Coursing through your body, an arrowhead pointing somewhere you know it shouldn’t. But your hands lift anyway – following it, loosening the waist of your sweatpants and skimming beneath your underwear.

Your body lights at the first touch. The first dip of your middle finger against the plush over your clit. Knees bend, thighs part. You push your underwear down your hips, settling your bottoms loose on your legs. You’re already wet. You’re already there.

Good fucking girl. She’s good but I’m better, right? Take it, baby. Does she take it like I take it? Take it. Can she take you like I did?

Quicker and quicker and quicker, your fingers heavy on your clit. The other hand sifting between your folds, dipping to collect a glimmer of wet. Yeah. Just like that. Do you fuck her like you fucked me? You feel what you do to me? Fuck no, you don’t. You’ve never fucked anyone like you fucked me.

Head back, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting to breathe answers to a man who isn’t here. To a man who, as he dips sourdough into an overpriced soup, sure as hell isn’t thinking about that time he fucked you so good he got you fucking pregnant.

Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?

Voice without body, drawl etched in your memory. Think she can take it all? You hum in amusement, waiting for him to answer his own question. Yeah, she can.

Attagirl. Your legs spread further, knee lifting as you insert two slick-coated fingers. His hands are on your thighs, following the dip of your hips, holding your waist as you guide him back inside. Attagirl. That’s my – Fuck, Joel, you’re so b– That’s my fuckin’ girl. Take it. Touch it. His thumb on your clit – his, not yours. You like that? Yeah, that’s nice, ain’t it?

The flesh of your breasts filling his palms, squeezing and nipping and rolling between. The warmth leaking between your legs: his and yours and fuck, he’s so deep and he’s filling you again and he’s groaning as more dribbles from where he splits your body around his own, holding you still until he’s done. Until he’s empty.

“Joel,” you whine, a third finger pushing in.

Between your hips. Headboard hammering against the wall. The sun hanging loose at the bottom of the sky. Gonna make me come again, baby. Do it. Do something irreversible. Change me forever. Fuck me fuck me fill me and then pull out, push back in with the wet squelch of your come mixing with mine and changing me forever. Making me brand new. Making me yours.

Another moan. Louder. Sharper.

Yours yours yours. All mine? All yours. We’re good at this. I know we are. Who fucks you like this? No one – No one – just you – just me. It’s so big, fuck, but I can take it. Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. All I do is think about you. All I fucking do – You gonna come for me? – is think about you.

Know you need it. Let ‘em hear you, downstairs.

Fuck, I’m thinking about you. Come home. I need you to come home, need you to –

Fuck me, Joel, I’m –

Good girl.

– fuck me.

Atta fuckin’ girl.

She’s good but I do it so much better.

We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.

She’s not as good as me.

Again? Again.

She’s not as good. She’s no fucking good.

Your walls clamp around your fist, entire body shuddering to a stop. Breath held by something shaped like the hook of his accent, two fingers either side of your throat. The same smirk on his lips that convinced you in the first place. Fuck, baby, fuck me.

“Joel,” you cry out, the sound ripping between your vocal cords, punching against the ceiling and reverberating in your ears. Your body convulses on the mattress, back arching and slackening again. “Fuck, I’m – oh, my –”

Just feel it, baby. Feel me. You got it.

Let go.

Your lungs lurch open again, breath flooding in like waves spilling over the gunwale and rushing down to pool at your feet. A lulling rock to your movements, chest rising and falling like the steady tide. Soothing, coming down. Foam and salt carrying the flotsam away, the jagged glass of his name disappearing to sea again.

And then he’s gone.

And you’re just alone in your bedroom.

Last you checked your phone, now face-down on the carpet at your hip, it was eight p.m. Streetlights on, the sky painted by the pale dregs of daytime.

Now, you lie in near-darkness, blinking up at the ceiling. Hand sifting through a bag of glow-in-the-dark stars, comparing the different sizes, considering where to stick them, and then tossing them back in frustration.

Your front door clicks open, a pause between the sound and his voice.

“Anyone home?” Joel calls, and you lift your wrist as though he can see it from the bottom of the fucking stairs.

“Up here,” you eventually announce, knuckles rubbing your tired eyes until Catherine wheels spatter across your eyelids.

His shadow splits the light from the hallway, the long rectangle crossing over your swollen belly. “The hell are you doin’?” he asks, wandering in.

You lift the bag. “Decorating. The hell are you doin’?”

He pulls your nursing pillow from its temporary home in the crib and tosses it down on the carpet, bending to lift your shoulders and slot it underneath. “Scooch,” he says, groaning as he lays back beside you. He smells like whiskey and cologne. All woody, pine and spice.

“You got a bad back,” you warn him. “You shouldn’t be all the way down here.”

“You’re seven months pregnant,” Joel clicks his teeth, “neither should you.”

“What if you get stuck ‘n can’t get back up?”

Offense pulls his brows together. “What if you do?”

You smile in response, feeling the heat of his shoulder against yours. Sucking the scent of him through your nose. The pair of you exchanging smirks and batting eyelashes, wrapped in the cool darkness of the room. It’s juvenile and intimate.

You’re trying not to think too much about it.

“I can’t fucking figure this out. I put two of the big stars over there,” you point to the far corner of the room, streetlight splintered by the shades on the ceiling, “but it looks stupid having two so close. So, then I thought,” moving your arm to the right, “a cluster of smaller ones, right over the crib. But I couldn’t move the damn thing to climb up, so…I’ve been down here ever since.”

Joel lifts his hand, stopping your train of thought. “Please do not climb on anything, bein’ that you are…with child.” And then, when your eyes roll to meet his, he grins, adding, “Nesting got you good, huh?”

“You should see my kitchen cupboards. Never been tidier.” Your expression dissolves, voice quietens – your most desperate plea since that morning you shook hands on his doorstep. Your broken wardrobes and his lonely wedding invite. “Will you help me?” you ask.

He thinks it over less than once, dragging his gaze from the twirling star in your fingers. A quick shake of his head, like it’s obvious. “’course I will. ‘s what I’m here for.” And then he yawns, lowering a hand absentmindedly to settle on the curve of your stomach; a gentle pat in greeting to Duck.

“How was dinner?”

“Good,” Joel lies.

“Vanessa okay?”

“Good,” again.

“Sorry.”

Joel’s eyes roll, fingers pausing. “Why do you always gotta be sorry for som’?”

You shrug when you realize it’s not a rhetorical question. He’s genuinely asking. “I don’t know. Just tryna be polite. I know you’d probably rather be at home right now, not…deciding where some plastic fuckin’ stars should go.”

“For my kid’s bedroom? For you?” He huffs something shaped like disapproval. “Do me a favor – stop with the sorrys, alright?”

“I’m not even done with the last fucking favor I said I’d do you.” Your eyes flit down to your bump.

He stares blankly. You know there’s a laugh gathering like hot air on a windowpane behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the glass.

“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”

“Better.”

You sigh, looking back down at the phosphorescent shape in your hands. Turning it over and over and over, matching the rhythm of his fingers tensing and then untensing on your belly. His fingers, matching the rhythm of your chest rising and falling with breath. The room quiet. The night’s eyes averted, even just for this moment.

“If it’s anything,” Joel says, “I think the stars look alright.”

Another stolen smile. Another defiant show of teeth. You place your hand on top of his: a thankful gesture, an invitation. Something in between.

Joel blinks back at you, his eyes flitting from yours to your lips. The dim light in the room swallowing the two of you whole, secluded in the upstairs of your home. And you think, Kiss me, kiss me kiss me kiss me, and you will the words over your tongue in a ragged breath – hoping that Joel might breathe them in and feel their sharp edges as they absorb into his bloodstream, each cell flipping like the star in your hand and whispering the same two words to him: Kiss her kiss her kiss her.

But right then –

There’s a burst of movement. Under your fingertips. A fluttering, like bubbles popping right below the surface of your skin.

Your eyes snap down at the same time Joel’s do; your fingers separating and hovering over your tummy.

“Did you – did you feel –?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Uhuh. Was that –?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

He takes your hand, pressing it back against your stomach with his on top. Your knuckles safe in the canopy of his palm. Both staring into space as you hold your breath.

“They’re not…they’re not doin’ it, now…”

“Maybe it was just –”

“Wait! Did you feel that?”

A second burst on your womb, a tiny beat on the other side of your bump. A wide grin breaks across your cheeks, a disbelieving laugh escaping.

Joel laughs, too. “Is that – is that the first time they’ve ever –?”

“Yeah,” you sniff, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “that’s the first I’ve ever felt ‘em, anyways.”

“Wait,” Joel says, lifting his hand and holding a finger up. Just yours on your belly. “They doin’ it?”

Your head shakes.

When he lowers his hand, Duckie kicks again. The two of you lean in to one another, exchanging laughter. You lift your own hand, watching his expression as he waits patiently.

But then his head shakes, too. “Nothing. They’re only doin’ it when it’s both of us.”

“What the fuck?” you laugh, replacing your hand and waiting for the baby drum. “How can they even tell? What the f–?”

You shift your hands around the globe of your bump, pausing every so often to feel for Duck’s movements. A tiny fist punching, or a heel kicking, or an elbow shoving right above your navel in a way that’s bordering on painful, but numbed by the sheer thrill of it.

And for a while, it’s all you do: play tag with your unborn baby, giggling when they respond to your tapping fingers and cooing voices.

Joel sits up, leaning on his elbow to talk to his kid; runs two fingers across your shirt like a pair of legs scaling a cotton covered hill. And he laughs, and you laugh at his laugh, as if he’s a kid himself again – tearing apart gifts on his birthday, gasping and throwing his head back with glee at whatever he uncovers.

“It feel weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.

“So fucking weird,” you tell him.

“Does it hurt?”

“More…ticklish, if anything. Might get kinda annoying, if they start doing it when I’m tryna sleep, or somethin’…”

Joel lowers his jaw to your stomach, whispering, “You know what to do, Duckie. Make your daddy proud.”

You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”

“Alright,” he says, splintered by a laugh. He pushes himself to his feet, swiping the bag of stars from your side. “Let’s get these up so you two can get some sleep.”

You groan as he pulls you upright, one last pat on your stomach, looking at you a second too long and a touch too meaningful. Too warm, too inviting.

It’s the calm before the storm, though you’re still stood motionless. Still trying to work out whether the tornado is moving away, or headed directly for you.

At five in the morning, Vanessa’s sister calls her.

“Heart attack,” Joel tells you a few hours later, the rustle of paper crinkling in your ear. The truck hums in the background. He speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Her dad always had a condition, but they thought they were managin’ it with medication,” another crinkle, and then, voice even more obscured, “but he got rushed to hospital durin’ the night, and…”

“Poor Vanessa,” you reply, nail drawing shapes on the curve of your bump in attempt to lull Duck into a more relaxed state than the sharp kicks they’re throwing at your ribs. Now big and strong enough to do considerable damage, your voice falters each time they swing. “Is she – son of a bitch – is she okay?”

“Shaken up,” he says, turn signal ticking over his voice. “She’ll be alright. She’s pragmatic like that. Problem is – they’re in Houston. Her whole family. So I guess that’s where the funeral’s gonna be.”

You swing your legs off the couch, heaving your awkward, nine-months-pregnant body to your feet – the irritating scratch of hunger suddenly gnawing at your stomach. “Yeah?” you say, waddling through to the kitchen. “So?”

“So,” Joel takes another bite of sandwich, “she has to – I mean, we have to…go. To Houston.”

“We?” You slot the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you fish out a couple slices of bread.

“Me ‘n Vanessa.”

“Uhuh,” you carve a knife around a jar of peanut butter, “you gotta be there for her.”

Joel sounds a little defensive. “I know. And I am. I’m goin’ to be. ‘s just – I gotta be there for you, too. For – for Duck.”

Your stomach swirls, a fire catching which lights your chest in a trickle of flame.

“You are. You will be. Houston’s only, like, three hours away.”

He sighs.

The turn signal fills the silence between you, between Joel and an appropriate answer. Clicking like the sound of a tennis match, his head spinning between his grief-stricken girlfriend, and the third-trimester mother of his child.

“I’m here,” he says, and you hear the squeal of brakes out front. “Give me a sec.”

The door pushes open as you sink back into the couch, balancing the plate on the planet beneath your breasts. Joel crumples his sandwich paper in his fist and lowers his hand over the back of the couch, scrunching his fingers over your belly as he passes.

“Thought you hated that stuff,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into your kitchen.

“I had a craving,” you say, ripping the first bite from your sandwich. “You made me hungry.”

He returns a minute later with a glass of water which he sets down on the coffee table in front of you. He lifts your legs, letting them fall gently in his lap when he collapses into the opposite end of the couch, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.

You tap his thigh with the ball of your foot and he turns to you, placing a hand over your ankles. A sticky paste of peanut butter and bread between your molars, you ask, “What’shup?”

Joel holds back a smirk at your chipmunk cheeks. “Just – just worried that you…you know, while I’m gone, is all.”

You scoff, gulping. “Come on. I am not gonna go into labor in the, what – two days? How long would you even be gone?”

He seems to wince at the thought, fingers sifting through his hair – a gray sweep sat casually over his left eyebrow; flicks following the curve of his ear towards the hinge of his jaw. “Less than that, if I can help it.”

“Joel.”

He turns to you, saying your name just as deflated in response.

“You have to go.”

He rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger massaging his temples. Crosses his arms and huffs like a teenager. “Well, I ain’t happy about it.”

You snort, unable to hold it in as you take another bite. “I ‘on’t think Vanesha’sh too happy about it, either, to be honesh wih ya.”

Joel’s jaw slackens, a choked laugh bursting from the back of his throat. He lifts a cushion and swings it in your direction. “Heartless. That’s heartless, you know that? Jesus, baby.”

He leaves on Saturday morning.

You stand on your porch, watching him shove a suitcase into the backseat of his truck, squinting in the sunlight as he stalks across your front yard. Joining you in the shade, he leans into you, shoving you lightly.

“Quit it.” Your hand locking with his, steadying yourself. Something in the back of your mind begging him not to let go.

And as if he can hear the thought: “I can stay. You know I can stay, right?”

“I don’t want you to stay,” you tell him, sweeping the hair from his forehead. “We will be fine. We’ll stay up late, eat junk food and watch TV; I’ll do audio description for Duck…”

He scoffs, glancing across the street.

“…and then you’ll be back home, back to buggin’ the hell out of us. It’ll be Monday before you know it.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”

“You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he shrugs, tongue in his cheek, “they’re half you.”

“Alright,” you click your teeth, turning away from the simper on his lips, “why don’t you just fuck off to Houston now, asshole?”

“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Uhuh. Here’s hoping you don’t break down, or get a flat, or get struck by lightning, or anything.”

“You’re so funny,” he whispers, leaning closer.

“Hm. Now go.”

His jaw turns, beard grazing your skin. And then his lips; soft and warm, damp when he kisses your cheek. A moment too long. And he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean back the way you both know he should. No, he lingers – his lips by your ear, eyes flitting up to the street to make sure nobody sees.

“Joel –”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t –”

“I know.”

But your arm is hooking around his neck, asking him to do it anyway, and his lips are lowering to yours, submitting to your request, and what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss lasts at least a few seconds too long for it to mean anything less than a don’t go kiss.

You pull away when you feel the wet dab of his tongue against yours, realizing with an ice-cold shock where you are, and who he is, and what’s happening. Realizing how fucking stupid it’d be for both of you, how catastrophic and terrible the outcome.

A one-night stand.

A one-night –

He leans his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling your cheek. “I’ll call you when we get there.”

Your arm loosens, letting him go.

Just – letting him go.

Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.

You arch your back into the couch, your swollen belly pushing forward. It’s an effort to get to your feet, what with the steady ache in your back all day, the weight on your front, and the fucking human being smushed into every vital organ inside you.

A deep breath feels like it inflates your lungs only halfway, Duck using the bottom half as a fucking ass cushion, and scaling the stairs takes another ten minutes – by the end of which, you’re slumped against the handrail, pausing before making off for your room.

You sink into the mattress, creasing the cool, smooth sheets. Duck stirs inside you, stretches out and throws a right hook against your bladder. You curse under your breath, hoisting yourself back to your feet.

“We gotta sleep, baby,” you hum, swaying back and forth with a hand under your belly. “Shh, ‘s okay. Take your fuckin’ fist outta my bladder, you little asshole.”

Whichever traits of yours and Joel’s have blended into the human cocktail growing in your uterus, you know one thing for certain: this kid has your stubbornness. The weight remains on your bladder, regardless of how much swaying, or pacing, or rubbing, or threatening you do.

You growl, wandering through the upper floor of your house in attempt to shift Duckie, or distract yourself, or, at the very least, tire the two of you out enough to fall asleep.

From the nursery door handle hangs a little wooden star, a tauntingly sleepy smile painted on it. You push the door open with two hesitant fingers, stepping into the still bedroom, the weak wash of streetlight meeting moonlight on the greenish walls.

You suck in a deep breath, floorboards squealing as you take your first step. Over the crib hangs a plastic mobile, soft plush shapes twirling slowly. The matching changing table slotted alongside it, a rocking chair over by the window.

You pad across a fluffy rug and lower yourself into the chair, tilting back and forth on your toes as you glance around one of the two rooms you and Joel have spent the most time in since that October morning bonded you forever. A baby duck ornament perched on a shelf above the dresser, its orange legs dangling. A multi-photo frame Joel’s mom bought you, both scans in the first two slots and the third empty, lying in wait.

Your breathing fragments, struggles, eyes slipping over to the baby clothes hanging in the closet. “You know, little Duckie,” you whisper, rubbing your bump and thinking back to Tommy’s words six months ago, “you are a pretty lucky kid.”

The hooded towel robe on the back of the door, the perfect size for a newborn. The framed prints sat atop the chest of drawers, waiting to be nailed to the wall: a rainbow, a frog, a starry sky.

“You got two houses. Two bedrooms, all to yourself. You got two parents who already love you more ‘n the whole world. And,” you gulp, “you got Vanessa. And she loves you, too.”

You glance down, watching the tiny pulse of movement when the baby stretches in your womb. Your hands scoop them up, as if holding them closer than they already are. As if already cradling them, forcing yourself to feel less alone.

Duck seems to quieten, to still; seems to consider what you’re avoiding. Reads between the lines, hears the words you’re not speaking.

Two of everything, you think, and I barely even had one.

The most evidence you have of being loved by anyone in your life is the house you live in. Four brick walls and three decades’ worth of belongings, more inheritance than memories. But they roll around like marbles – they echo against the walls when they hit them. There’s nothing binding them, no thread of love, or family, or anything real enough to hold it all together.

You’re the only living organ inside a skeleton’s cage. A lonely little heartbeat, making noise for no one to hear.

And that’s the way it has been, at least since you were eight. The absence of warmth and safety isn’t anything new to you – it left the second your parents did. The last scrunch of your mom’s nails on your head, the last kiss of her lips to your plump little cheeks. The passing over to your grandma, like you were cargo, like you were a box to be checked.

Maybe you found some distant flicker of heat in the way Joel looked at you, the day you told him you were pregnant. Maybe you saw the same glimmer of a flame that you used to see in your mom’s eye. The rosy smell of her perfume, the feel of her finger inside five of yours. Maybe, for the first time since you were a kid, you felt safe.

We’re gonna work it out, he said. I’m here. We’re in this together, alright? I am not running out on you.

Together. And yet, now, sat in your child’s nursery – a room built from scratch by Joel’s two hands and strung together by every beat of your heart – you’ve never felt more alone. The same two hands that are wrapped around Vanessa right now, consoling her, wiping her tears away, massaging her shoulders and sweeping her hair from her eyes.

And the same heartbeat which quickens now, fueled by an angry desire, an impulse scratching deep into your flesh to march all the damn way to Houston and tear the pair of them apart. Like he’s yours; like the way he touches you and looks at you and talks to you means anything more than his child growing inside you.

Like it’s you he’s touching and looking at and talking to, and not Duck. Like his attention won’t cease to shine on you, the second this little baby leaves your body.

And then, washing over the scorching hot sand of anger: a foam-lined wave of guilt. Of shame, for wishing for the breakdown of something that clearly makes the two of them happy. That makes Joel…happy.

He doesn’t owe you anything – he was never yours to begin with. Just one drunken night, a mistake until you noticed the two pale lines on the pregnancy test. And by that point, he was already hers again. You had missed him without even knowing it.

You sigh, pushing up from the rocking chair and reaching for a tissue from the changing table. Turning back, giving the room one last teary glance before closing the door, you sniff.

“You’re just…the luckiest little kid who’s ever gonna live.”

At one twenty a.m., cicadas chirping and trees rustling, the low breeze carrying the sounds through your half-open window – your back begins to ache. A blunt, gnawing pain. Feels like your period, and in your doze, you stuff a pillow between your legs and pray you don’t stain the sheets with a show of blood.

The realization comes over you as if that stifling breeze flips to freezing. You slowly come around, eyes peeling open as you think it over twice, then three times, then four. Duck shifts somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you’ve never felt them shift before.

“…No. Not right now, Duck. You gotta give me, like, twenty-four hours. Just – wait until your dad gets ho–”

A blinding pain interrupts you, the moonlit-blue room fading out of focus for half a second before you’re wide awake, clutching the bottom of your spine where you’re sure the kid just tore a fucking hole straight through your uterus.

“You’re a fucking dick,” you whimper, fingers clenching in tight fists around the bedsheets. “You’re a fucking – dick.”

One twenty-three. You go into labor.

#i think duckie is my favorite character i've ever written. that fetus has more personality than vanessa icl #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel #neighbor!joel miller #babydaddy!joel #tw pregnancy

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nonbinannytranny · 1 year

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if you’re considering gender affirming care go through planned parenthood. i shit you not they do not make you go through all the bullshit (hopefully not but may be depending where you are) the only things i had to wait for with them were a wait list (a week) and for the pharmacy to fill (took so long my doc at PP just gave me what they had in stock because they care).

again take care and have extra precaution in areas that are more conservative, but if you travel to your nearest city you should be safer.

i did not need a note from my psychiatrist, instead they sat me with a social worker to ask some questions. it ended up not at all being about if i’m “trans enough” but just how i’m feeling, my experience, allergies and medical history. then they sent me to the doctor who reviewed and assessed health risks and gave me informed consent.

i was then trained by a member of staff to administer my own injections, and was given a choice between every method of testosterone (if i went with the gel, there would be a six hour period after applying each week i can’t touch my cats and they are absolute WHORES who love snuggles and i didn’t want them to transition too, so if that’s important to you, take it into consideration)

it was so much easier than going through a GP, who tended to shrug off everything i said, and wanted to take as much time as possible while i’m suffering with dysphoria. i fully reccommend going through planned parenthood because it is discreet, has options for payment with and without insurance, and will absolutely refer to you with the correct pronouns and name every. time.

and this is not an ad. i’m just sitting here before my third dose feeling thankful.

#trans #transitioning #transition #ftm #mtf

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stsgluver · 3 months

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𝐒𝐍𝐀𝐏𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐏𝐓.𝟓 — gojo satoru

synopsis. there's nothing more romantic than travelling halfway across the world for the girl you love... even if it is two years late.

wc. 3.4k

tags. none really, yn is described as shorter than megumi, possible ooc for EVERYONE, lowkey forgot how to write halfway through, possible spelling mistakes and plotholes (pls still like my writing i beg)

a/n. im sorry i never really got round to answering the comments on the last post but i have added everyone to the taglist who asked. so i did write two endings but one was bad SO i stuck to this one only <3 i hope this is the right end to the series and thank you sm for the support over the last few months!! i will have a 'spin-off-ish' series focused on the students making the videos in the first place which i will add the link to on this chapter once it's up. this is for @ilovejugs69 ly pookie

previous part / series masterlist

“this is such a bad plan.”

megumi let out a small sigh, resting his head back on the leather of the plane’s seat. an economy seat – much to gojo’s dismay – but there hadn’t been much time to consider other options, bar gojo buying himself a personal private jet and hiring a pilot all in the space of less than an hour.

the dark-haired student clutched the arm rests as he felt his stomach churn in knots as the reality of their decision sunk in. it was a very last minute and muddled plan but gojo was desperate to see you again and megumi wanted nothing more than to have his family back – so when gojo offered to take them both to the other side of the world to find you, he agreed a little too quickly. spontaneity was not his thing and with each passing second he was remembering why.

gojo shuffled himself back in his seat, nose scrunching up in annoyance as he struggled with the small gap for his longer-than-average legs. if his height wasn’t drawing the pair any attention (which it certainly was), the uniforms and the sorcerer’s blindfold definitely were. he didn’t need his six eyes to feel the stares of strangers.

“i’ve never had a bad plan in my life.”

megumi scoffed at the declaration, rolling his eyes at the white haired sorcerer’s misplaced confidence. like it wasn’t gojo’s idea to send megumi on that mission alone that ultimately resulted in yuuji swallowing sukuna’s finger or his idea to prank nanami on his birthday that got both himself and the first years all detention.

“don’t roll your eyes at me, young man,” gojo lightly swatted megumi’s arm, wiggling one of his fingers in front of the younger boy’s face. “your mother will think i’m a shit dad and won’t come back.” megumi ignored the tightening in his chest at the casualness of gojo’s words.

“you are a shit dad,” he retorted, closing his eyes and willing the next seven hours to go by faster than they were. he didn’t hate flying, but he wasn’t the biggest fan, and the nerves that were building up alongside the nonstop chatter from the man beside him were definitely not helping.

gojo gasped and megumi felt him jostling in the seat next to him, he could only imagine the dramatics his teacher was pulling in public. it was best he kept his eyes closed.

“that wasn’t very nice. god, teenagers and their angst these days.”

megumi heard gojo mumbling loudly under his breath and there was no doubt in his mind that there was a cheshire grin on gojo’s face, daring him to take the bait and bicker like the mature adult he was.

however annoying he may have found him, megumi knew that gojo was just as nervous as he was. the two, however, were just polar opposites in all aspects. so while megumi just wanted to spend the next few hours trying to sleep and hope he’d have the courage to face you when he woke up, gojo wanted to play avoidance by teasing him as if they weren’t travelling halfway across the world for you.

when megumi didn’t respond, to gojo’s disappointment, a silence settled between the two. with his hands now stuffed in the pockets of his uniform and head almost on gojo’s shoulder, the dark haired sorcerer attempted to finally fall asleep.

“do you think she’s mad at me?” megumi asked quietly after about five minutes.

gojo hummed thoughtfully, looking down at the teenager almost asleep on his shoulder. “she has no reason to be mad at you,” he said in the most reassuring tone he could muster.

“she’s never messaged me back,” megumi countered.

“at least yours still go through.” gojo huffed lightly, an attempt at brightening megumi’s mood at the expense of himself but it only left both more unsettled at their predicament. he knocked his knee into the younger boy’s gently. “get some sleep, this is going to be a long flight.”

“if you just take a seat here, i will go see if ma’am is available. it’s so lovely to meet her family finally.” a woman dressed in formal attire gestured towards a small lobby waiting room with a bright smile.

there was no one else in there apart from one middle-aged guy with a briefcase, newspaper in hand. gojo thanked the woman, hand on megumi’s shoulder as he led him into the back corner of the white minimalist room.

the sun had set by the time they’d landed and found your office building – something that gojo had forced shoko to send him. he hadn’t even had a chance to tell her what they were doing before he’d gotten on the plane so after she had a go at him for leaving her out of the loop and not bringing her too, she sent across the necessary details with demands for regular updates.

“i bet she’s going to call security,” megumi sighed as he dropped himself down into the black leather seat, resting his head back against the wall behind him. between school and the plane journey, he’d been awake for nearly twenty hours and the stiff seat he was on felt like a pile of feathers. he was going to fall asleep before he’d even had the chance to see you.

gojo crossed one leg over the other, hands crossed behind his head. the teenager wanted to elbow him for his calm posture – he could have as well, he’d dropped his infinity the second the two had entered the building. the second the older sorcerer had stepped into the building he knew you were here, recognising the cursed energy that brought him a familiar comfort he’d missed. “why would she?”

megumi snapped his head in his direction, eyes opening to give him an incredulous look, “why would you say you’re her husband?”

gojo waved a hand dismissively, “i basically am–”

“was. several years ago.” megumi countered and gojo’s mouth dropped open at the audacity of his pupil to point out the obvious facts.

rolling up the sleeves of his jacket, gojo began to stand up and megumi was close to cracking a smile at his behaviour. the delirium of not sleeping was beginning to sink in. “okay, kid–”

“you’re here.”

gojo’s sleeves dropped just as fast as megumi stood up from his seat, both more alert than they had been all day. suddenly, the uneasy feeling megumi had had on the plane didn’t seem so bad, this was so much worse.

you’d barely changed since you’d left, bar your hair being a few inches longer. if the two looked closely enough at you, they’d realise you were just as wrecked with nerves as they were as you struggled to stop your hands from shaking.

when the receptionist had first come up to tell you that your husband and son were here to see you, your initial reaction had been to say she’d made a mistake… until the cryptic message shoko had sent you thirty minutes earlier started to make a lot more sense.

she was the only one you’d maintained regular contact with after you’d left. initially you had gone on a complete no contact with everyone, refusing to even acknowledge that you had a life and a family in japan. you were scared and you’d chosen the coward's way out by running. it felt wrong to still have strings binding you to a life that was no longer yours.

but you missed her and you worried constantly about gojo and megumi, so you’d slowly built up messaging her once a month to every few days just to know everyone was still alive.

you had desperately wanted to take megumi with you but you didn’t have it in you take him away from his sister and, despite how you’d laid into him about how even he had limitations, you knew megumi was safer with gojo than you. in america, you were vulnerable to curse users and curses alike without the protection of any other sorcerers or specialist schools to help you.

the three of you probably looked like idiots to the other man in the room, all staring at each other too afraid to make the first room. it felt surreal to all be together again. you were afraid your longing to see them again had reached a point of insanity, and they were afraid of spooking you if they got too close too quickly.

megumi was the first one to make a move, stepping around the rows of seats and the centre coffee table till he stood a metre from you. “hi.”

your hand covered your mouth as you had to tilt your head up slightly to keep eye contact with the boy you’d raised since he was only a fraction of your height. you may not have changed but megumi had – both his height and voice – and the guilt of leaving him behind was overwhelming.

“oh my god, you’re so much taller than me.” you moved closer to him to gently grab ahold of his arms as you took in how much he had grown. there wasn’t a day that had gone by that you didn’t regret and feel guilt for leaving megumi and you only hoped he understood why you left him so suddenly. taking a step back, you gestured to his uniform, “what’s jujutsu high like?”

the words were bittersweet. what had leaving achieved apart from heartache? megumi was still a jujutsu student and gojo was still japan’s lifeline. maybe you would live a longer life in america, but was the life you had now worth the one you’d left behind?

“it’s…” megumi hesitated before clearing his throat, “it’s okay. there’s two other first years, yuuji and nobara. they’re alright.” you smiled at his words, flashbacks of your own childhood crossing your mind as you remembered the innocence of your first year. it was fun being in a class with two prodigies, you were mini celebrities in a world of rich and powerful sorcerers.

“i’m glad you’ve made some friends, megs,” the nickname rolled off your tongue too naturally and if megumi closed his eyes, maybe he could pretend that you were all still in japan and you were just catching up after being away on a prolonged mission. you glanced to the other sorcerer in the room who had remained silent up until this point – although he had silently made his way over. “i’m going to go speak with satoru in my office and then can i take you out for dinner? to talk properly?”

megumi nodded a little too eagerly, “yeah, please. i’ll just wait here.”

“perfect. satoru?” the acknowledgement was all the strongest sorcerer needed to be following behind you, keeping a distance of several paces as you led him inside your office.

gojo rested his forearm against one of the large ceiling height windows in your office that overlooked the city. you had to be at least twenty stories up and the blaring of car horns was simply a hum, vehicles appearing as mini red and yellow dots on the busy roads below.

“nice view.”

it was the first words he’d uttered in your presence and despite him being the one to initiate the venture to you, he had no idea what to say. this was likely his only chance to convince you to come back and he may have already screwed up by waiting as long as he had.

“what are you doing here?” you asked as you pushed your door shut, leaving the two of you in the privacy of your small office. it was nothing special; a chair, a desk with paperwork piling up and no photos whatsoever. there was no trace that you even existed beyond these four walls.

“don’t i at least get an ‘i miss you’? i just travelled over ten hours for you,” he said lightly, trying to ease the tension in the room but your voice was no longer as soft as it was when you spoke with megumi. the teenager had done nothing wrong – he was part of the reason you left.

“it’s been two years.” he didn’t have to turn around to know that your arms were probably crossed in front of your chest, your head tilted to the side as you waited for him to explain himself. except he thinks his past offences of stealing all of the sweets before halloween were a little more forgivable than letting you leave.

his hand turned to a fist as he dropped it from the window, turning around to look at you properly. “i know.”

both of you stared at one another, neither of you speaking as you took the other in.

“you chose them over me,” you accused. them being both the higher-ups and the whole of jujutsu itself. you’d given him a chance to have a normal life – a natural life in which you’d grow old together and die of old age – and he’d chosen the short life where he’d likely die before he turned thirty.

“you knew what you were signing up for,” he said and there was no malice behind the words though they still frustrated you. he was right to an extent, he’d sat you down after you’d finished school, just before he’d taken in megumi and given you an out. you chose to stay, fully believing that the two of you had already gone through your worst.

“i didn’t realise i’d always be on the losing side.”

“we weren’t always losing–”

you stepped closer to gojo as you held out your hand, counting each disaster after the other with your fingers, “haibara died, we almost died, geto defected, we took in megumi and the tensions between your clan and the zen’ins got ten times worse. you said you wanted to change jujutsu society and what had we done? i never knew if you’d come home to me after missions, it made me feel sick.”

“how do you think i felt coming home to a note?” you could count on your hands the amount of times you had seen gojo angry – and while he wasn’t all the way there he was teetering on the edge as he frustratedly lifted off his blindfold, throwing it onto your desk. in the same way you’d been desperate for him to hear what you were saying before you’d left, he was equally as desperate for you to hear him now. to see that he was here. “megumi? at least geto left for a purpose, you just left.”

it was an unfair dig – geto had committed mass murder, after all – but similar to the one that you’d pulled on him two years ago.

you clicked your tongue as you tried not to make it obvious how badly that made you want to cry, holding your hands up in surrender. “was it so wrong to want a life where i didn’t go to work thinking i would die? to want a future?”

“you were my future.” he sounded sad as he uttered them, and it looked foreign to see the gojo satoru look so dejected. there were only inches between the two of you now and despite the fact he towered over you, he appeared so small as he continued, “was i ever yours?”

memories of your late teenage years and early adulthood play out as a montage: from your first meeting when you’d both gotten lost on the train to school, to the tears you spilled as you finished writing your note and closed the door to his apartment for the last time.

“of course you were.” your voice was shaky, no longer holding any bite. until the day you’d left, since you were sixteen, you’d never envisioned a life without him.

gojo’s hand reached out to push your hair back from your neck, the little white scars still tarnishing your flawless skin. it was taking all of your resolve to not collapse into his arms and have him hold you like you knew he would. you were sure you’d believe him this time if he told you he could protect everyone, that he was in fact able to be in six places at once and still come out on top. “come back with us please.”

“satoru…” you dragged off, looking away as you fought between listening to your rationale that reminded you that nothing had really changed and your heart that missed being in love.

“just come back,” he repeated, “are you going to tell me you’ve found someone else? that you enjoy your life here?” it was wrong and selfish, he knew it, to be convincing you the way he was – to even be here full stop – but he missed you and he wasn’t ready to let you walk away again.

“i can’t lose you.” hesitantly you pressed your hands to his chest. for a second he was scared you were going to push him away, but you didn’t, fingers tightening around the material of his uniform.

“don’t be silly and travel halfway across the country then.” his voice was just above a whisper now as he brushed his nose against yours. “hey, look at me properly.”

you complied without any hesitation – you always did when it came to him. two years of no contact but your body still reacted on muscle memory to the sound of his voice. never in your life had you ever seen eyes like his, of course you hadn’t, and you were still taken aback by the full blue colour as he gazed down at you.

“tell me you don’t want me to kiss you.” you did want him to. “tell me you want me to walk out of this room and not turn back and i’ll do it.” he wouldn’t have left without you.

“i missed you,” you whispered, and that was all he needed to duck his head down to let your lips meet. gojo’s hand slipped round to the back of your neck, tugging you impossibly closer as his tongue swiped across your bottom lip. you missed this, you missed him, and you were going to find it impossible to let go of him again.

only when your lungs ached to breathe did you force yourself to pull back from your ex boyfriend. gojo’s eyes were still focused on your lips and you didn’t doubt that if it were up to him, he’d be leaning to kiss you again. it was only the light push against his chest that held him back.

“what are we doing?” you asked, voice wavering from both the kiss and nerves. whilst there was no doubt in your mind that gojo was who you wanted, you had many reservations about reentering jujutsu society.

“about to ditch this place and go back to japan on a plane. all three of us.”

you brows furrowed together, “but–”

gojo held a finger up your lips, his other hand slipping into his back pocket, pulling out three plane tickets. “i already got your ticket, you don’t want it to go to waste do you?”

you lightly hit his arm and smiled up at him. he was grinning now and it didn’t need to be said aloud – he was yours again (though he’d never really stopped being such) and you were coming home. “that confident?”

“surprised you were able to resist me this long.” he pecked your cheek this time, a hint of tease in his tone like he hadn’t needed megumi to convince him to even enter your office building in the first place.

you let his joke slide with no rebuttal. “are you coming to dinner?” you hoped you hadn’t been keeping megumi too long.

“do you want me at dinner?” gojo asked.

you reached across to your desk to grab ahold of his blindfold and passed it to him. as much as you loved being able to see his eyes, you’d rather not be spending your first twenty four hours with him in bed complaining about a splitting headache. “i’m sure megs won’t mind. plus you can pay,” you added with a wink.

gojo raised an eyebrow, lips tugging up at the corners into a slight smirk, “oh so that’s the real reason why you missed me?”

taglist. @thefictionalcharacterssimp @hana-patata @mor-pheus @leathairs @sh0ek0 @maliakealoha @levisteeacup @g-kleran @stevenknightmarc @n1kimura @darliingyu @saturn-alone @splxtscreen @leah-rose03 @rinshoe @laurenzitaa @patricia142lilian @sabo-has-my-heart @wooasecret @dahliawarner @kysrion @dreamerdeity @mwah-chia @geromiegerald @arminsarlerts @maliakealoha @cherrypieyourface @k4romis @monsieurgucchi @bofadeezs @777userz @polarbvnny @chonkercatto @tenshis-cake @haitanibros0007 @ba-ks @liaurokodaki @urfavvirg0 @lofasofabread @r0ckst4rjk @vee-ai @aiikuraa @melileli0001 @rinshoe @vinivave @yell0wdreams @sukunasleftkneecap @malikazz243 @sad-darksoul @giannitaa @maliciousmace @name-insert @splxtscreen @kimvmarvel @ieathairs @janbannan @ja-zz @vangoes @starringz @ciscob1tes @theoriginaluzisimp @thirtykiwis @vivienne2000 @whydohumansss @purpleguk @simeon-lovergirl @missesgojosatoru @loveroftheoldestdream @mkaiiserr kazbrkker ancientimes thefirst-ofus animechick555 saccharinelixir seunnimg kookonsale

super sorry if ive missed anyone!

#snapshot !#gojo #gojo satoru #satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x yn #gojo series #gojo fic #jjk #gojo fluff #gojo drabbles #gojo imagines

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ad0rechuu · 4 months

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۪ ᝰ ۫ MY OH MY ୨୧

based on my oh my by girls' generation

SYNOPSIS. ━━━━━ Yn finds out that her whole relationship has been a bet. To get over her heartache her best friend Sunwoo convinces her to take revenge.

How you might ask? By breaking the culprits heart right back of course!

10jun23 | st. 31/12/23 / fn. ━━━━━ updates every tuesday, thursday & saturday (cet) | HIATUS

pairing. ━━━━━ Best Friend! Kim Sunwoo x Fem! reader (x Choi Yeonjun)

featuring. ━━━━━ the boyz members, kim chaewon, txt members + mentions of other idols

genre. ━━━━━ smau + written: humor/crack / fluff / angst / suggestive / childhood friends to lovers / college au / revenge relationship / relationship based on bet / slight slow burn

warnings. ━━━━━ timestamps/sm numbers/hair colors mean nothing, sexism/slutshaming, crude humor (kys jokes), mentions of food/sex/drugs/alcohol/cheating/mental illness, use of pictures of yn but only for reference, yn is a sone. more thorough warnings in the actual chapters, please let me know if missed something. this story doesn’t describe the idols in real life and is written with a dark skinned poc in mind!

notes. ━━━━━ the taglist is open, send an ask to be added. spam likes are fine but consider reblogging with comments of ur thoughts (not only on my work but on other authors work too! credits to the rightful owners of all the graphics. i’m not a native english speaker! and thank you to @ari-shipping-stuff for being my beta reader / writer <3

( please give this story lots of love & check out my masterlist )

PROFILES. ━━━━━ SONES INCORPORATED ᜊ DA HOMIEZ ᜊ MORE COOL KIDS ᜊ THE PLAYLIST

STEP 1. GET OVER HIM ›

ᝰ CH 000. prologue: THE NEXT BET

ᝰ CH 001. I H8 MEN

ᝰ CH 002. DON’T BREAK UP WITH THAT LOSER

ᝰ CH 003. THE PLAN

ᝰ CH 004. WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

ᝰ CH 005. *INSERT EVIL LAUGHTER*

ᝰ CH 006. ANNOYING BRAT FOR SALE

ᝰ CH 007. DON'T WORRY YOUR PRETTY BIG HEAD

ᝰ CH 008. NOT OVER HIM

ᝰ CH 009. CLASSIC SUNWOO-YN-BFF-DATE

ᝰ CH 010. THE NERVE AND THE AUDACITY

STEP 2. MAKE HIM FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU ›

ᝰ CH 011. STEP UP MY GAME

ᝰ CH 012. SASSY CAT EMOJI

ᝰ CH 013. A NIGHT ON THE TOWN W/ YN & WOO

ᝰ CH 014. GOOD NIGHT

ᝰ CH 015. HOBBIES FOR SUNWOO

ᝰ CH 016. GRAND DISCOVERY (YN HAS AN IDEA)

ᝰ CH 017. JUNS UNAPPROACHABLE AND COLD GF

ᝰ CH 018. HANGING OUT WITH MY BFS FRIENDS

ᝰ CH 019. BE HONEST WITH YOURSELF

ᝰ CH 020. DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME

STEP 3. BREAK HIS HEART ›

ᝰ CH 021. CODE ORANGE

ᝰ CH 022. I FUCKED UP

ᝰ CH 023. HITCH IN THE ROAD

ᝰ CH 024. CONSIDER AND MAKE SURE

ᝰ CH 025. WHAT MAKES THE HEART GROW WHAT?

ᝰ CH 026. BALLOON FLOWERS

ᝰ CH 027. REJECTION + ANEURYSM = WENT WELL

ᝰ CH 028. MAKEUP

ᝰ CH 029. BALLOON FLOWERS VERSUS ROSES

ᝰ CH 030. COMING SOON

ᝰ CH 00I. epilogue: COMING SOON

ᝰ CH 0II. epilogue: COMING SOON

ᝰ CH III. ASK THEM ANYTHING EVENT

ᝰ AFTER WORD

special thanks (& follow these awesome ppl). ━━━━━ to @yuyusuyu @kodzumo @tocupid @leo-seonghwa @seonghwaddict @felixsramen : i have to give you six an extra special thanks because you all motivated and supported me so much while i was stressing and being annoying, just so you know guys are my motivation! (the other message is also to you all ofc)

and to @yunstarz @nyukyujs @rieuvie @thelargefrye @i-luvsang @cybrsan @gyumibear @pocketjoong @jaehunnyy @nebulousbrainsoup @justhere4kpop @xpixie @atinycafe @brrrkdslek @phantom-webber @a1sh1teruu @starryunho @aestheticsluut @end0rchans @yourfatherlucifer @alixnsuperstxr @girls4cheol @cheollipop @mintgki @aoi-turtle @renstears @42e15 @alixnsuperstxr @mrowwww @hwaightme @paradiqms @starrysvn @tubatu-wari-wari @kitten4sannie @chokchokk @hee0soo @joong-of-gold @armysantiny @evilsailorsenshi @mundayoonimnida @aapplepii @juhakutie : first of all i don’t expect you to read or interact with this fic, you might not even stan the boyz or like this sorta thing but i tagged you all because of one reason and one reason only; to tell you that you all make tumblr such a lovely and inspirational place for me, whenever i see ur accs it brightens my day because i know what great ppl are behind them, i just wanted to say that i think that you are amazing and i want to use this post to thank you! happy new years and i love you everyone (and you who’s reading this)

my oh my © ad0rechuu, 2023. do not copy/repost.

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moonstruckme · 3 months

Note

so i read somewhere that sometimes a better response to someone struggling with depression is warmth, rather than positivity and i was thinking if you’d be interested in writing a bau!reader x spencer pre-relationship or established relationship whichever u prefer!! where he comforts a depressed reader having a rougher couple of days & is very gentle and understanding and warm towards her 💘

Thank you for requesting lovely <3

cw: depression

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 638 words

You’ve been completely useless through this whole case. You’d sat with the team during various briefings, gone along to view crime scenes and question witnesses, but your brain just wasn’t working hard enough to put anything together. Lately, the effort of cranking the gears is too much.

You’re considering leaving the rest of your paperwork for another day. You want to not be here so badly. You want your bed. You want to stop being a burden to the team that’s been carrying your dead weight for the past couple of days (and giving you increasingly inquisitive looks throughout that time), and to go home and sleep the weekend away.

It’s a testament to your fatigue that you smell the coffee before you hear Spencer approaching. Morgan would hand you your ass if he knew.

“Thanks,” you say, making an effort to smile at Spencer as he sets the plain ceramic mug on your desk. The coffee inside is barely brown, letting you know that he’s already loaded it down with cream and sugar the way you like.

“Seems like you might have a long night.” He leans back against your desk and braces his hands on either side of his hips, nodding towards your paperwork.

You shrug. “I don’t know, I’m thinking of leaving it for Monday. Strauss doesn’t need my report that badly.”

Spencer nods again. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah.” You blow gently on your coffee, wishing the aroma brought you the same sense of contentment it usually does. “Why?”

“You never let your paperwork sit overnight,” he says. “And you’re not eating as much, having trouble concentrating, looking tired all the time…” Spencer pauses, meeting your eyes. It’s an effort not to drop your gaze. He sounds like he’s been adding things up for a while. “Do you need anything?”

You smile again. It feels better this time, more genuine. “I’m just having a tough couple of days,” you tell him. “It happens to me sometimes, it’ll pass. But thank you.”

Spencer’s face smooths out and pinches all at once. For a profiler, he’s shockingly horrible at controlling his expressions. Or maybe he just doesn’t feel the need to around your team. You read him plain as text: relief at having an identified problem, distress at the lack of an easy solution.

You know he means well, but you can’t stick around to bear the weight of any more disappointment.

“I think I’m going to head out,” you do your best to sound calm, reassuring, as you gather your bag from beneath your desk. “See you Monday, Spence.”

“Wait.” You pause, but then Spencer’s falling into step beside you, grabbing his bag to follow you to the exit. “Do you want to come over?”

You look at him, surprised. “To your place?”

He nods. “Yeah, there’s a marathon of the Jurassic Park movies on tonight. We could watch them and order pizza, or whatever you want.”

A little laugh startles out of you. The sensation feels odd and atavistic, like a bubble popping in your chest. “You like Jurassic Park?”

“I like talking about how unfeasible it is,” Spencer says, pressing the button on the elevator. “Did you know velociraptors were about the size of a large bird?”

“...I did not.”

“Probably because you watched Jurassic Park.” He smiles, and you can’t help but copy him. “Really, I’m not attached to the idea of watching them. We can do whatever you want.”

The inside of your lip finds its way between your teeth, but Spencer glances down and you release it. “I’m not sure I can pass up the opportunity to witness that much berating,” you say. “How many are there?”

“Six, not including two short films or the animated series.”

“Will you hold it against me if I fall asleep?”

“Not at all.”

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mixvyu · 11 months

Text

★彡Parfum d’étoile

Scaramouche x reader smau

Y/N always considered Scaramouche as her rival, and grew to dislike him but her hatred for him can’t help but grow when they find themselves in the same group project. How will they be able to push through despite the fact that one detest the other and the other’s words are sharp and unfiltered ?

disclaimer ! - this is my first smau ever pls be mindful and i’m also open to constructive criticism

tags - college au, modern au, academical rivals to lovers, romance, scara is kind of a dick but that makes him hotter tbh

warnings - reader is refered using she/her pronouns, mature themes, swearing, sexual jokes, kys jokes, kind of kazuha x reader but it’s jst a little flirting at the beginning

status - on going [03.06.2023] (day-month-year)

playlist - music i listen to while writing

comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist <3

CHARACTERS -

- Y/N’s side

- Kuni’s side

EPISODES -

- episode one

- episode two

- episode three

- episode four

- episode five

- episode six

- episode seven

- episode eight

- episode nine

- episode ten

- episode eleven

- episode twelve part one

- episode twelve part two

- episode thirteen

- episode fourteen

- episode fifteen

- episode sixteen

- episode seventeen

- episode eighteen

- episode nineteen

- episode twenty

- episode twenty-one

- episode twenty-two

- episode twenty-three

- episode twenty-four

- episode twenty-five

- episode twenty-six

- episode twenty-seven

- episode twenty-eight

- episode twenty-nine

- episode thirty

- episode thirty-one

- episode thirty-two

- episode thirty-three

- episode thirty-four

- episode thirty-five

- episode thirty-six

- episode thirty-seven

- episode thirty-eight

- episode thirty-nine

- episode forty

- episode forty-one

- episode forty-two

- episode forty-three

- episode forty-four

- episode forty-five

- episode forty-six

- episode forty-seven

tba??

- epilogue I

- epilogue II

★彡 Taglist [open!]

@gekkow

#scaramouche #genshin #scaramouche smau #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #scaramouche fanfic #genshin x reader #scaramouche x y/n #idk what tags to use #this is my first time tagging please help #wanderer #wanderer x reader #wanderer smau #kunikuzushi #kunikuzushi x reader #genshin smau #kunikuzushi smau #★彡 navigation #★彡 parfum d’étoile

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thesunisatangerine · 6 months

Text

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part seven

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: mentions of death/dying

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 5k

A dull, stabbing pain throbbed in your right rib and you put a hand over it–you hoped to ease it somehow but it remained–as you replied, “I… I don’t know, Derek. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.”

The movement didn’t go unnoticed from Derek’s watchful gaze, especially when he was sitting right there beside you on the couch, and his blue eyes shone with the familiar question, ‘Are you okay?’ You answered him silently with a reassuring raise of your brows and a wave of your hand. Seemingly placated for the time being, he put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed gently.

“There’s no pressure. I just thought I’d let you know before I pass it on over to Jersey and before I inform the client she’ll go in place of you. But if you’re interested in just going to watch, we can arrange that, too.” Derek paused, opened his mouth then closed it, and he looked a bit unsure about the words he wanted to say.

Then he continued, “I… I think it will be good for you.”

The thought of returning back to the field, albeit for sporting coverage, still instilled anxiety in your stomach. Sure you had made enough progress in therapy to pick up a camera again without having a breakdown–you remembered crying out in relief when you did it for the first time after your last photojournalistic coverage–but covering the Olympics with tens of thousands of people present, one of them being Alexia?

It was painfully obvious that that was something truly out of your depth. You just weren’t ready.

But the thing was, would Alexia even care if she saw you there? You hadn’t spoken to or seen her in person in, what, fourteen months? What would she even say? What would you say? Considering that you were just a fling, you doubted that Alexia would even recognise you, much less care. The last time you were tempted to search up her name, you burnt yourself when you saw a candid photo of her and another woman. And the fact still stood that–and she said so herself, didn’t she?–you meant nothing to her.

Another firm refusal was poised on the tip of your tongue when a round of giggles that erupted from the backyard, carefree and full of glee, captured your attention. Through the open sliding door of the living room you found your daughter with her Uncle Robert, head thrown back in a heartfelt laugh at whatever her uncle was telling her with his animated gestures.

You smiled at the sight, chest immediately feeling full and warm.

“For the both of you.” Derek added and when you looked back at him, you found his focus directed to where yours was only a moment ago. You regarded the scene again, fiddling with the string on your wrist as you mulled his words over.

More than a year ago, you couldn’t even fathom imagining that you’d be able to behold a scene such as this. More than a year ago, you almost died–no, you did die–and the months that followed were nothing short of arduous, the first few weeks after you woke up even more so. It was as if the time between then and now existed on its own plane; you remembered it so vividly that sometimes when you sink into the darkest recesses of your mind, it almost felt like you were still there, and this–the now–was an illusion your lamenting mind had conjured to mollify yourself.

This almost felt too good to be real–too tranquil.

And as if awoken by the mere whisper of it, the memories pulled you away from reality and made a spectator out of you as you sank back into the most difficult time in your life.

From nothingness came the noises, followed by sensations, gentle in their intrusion at first before they made their presence more pronounced, rousing you finally.

There was a steady beeping and a gentle, mechanical hum coming from somewhere beside you and as the scope of your hearing widened, muffled footsteps and chattering registered not a moment later. Your mouth was parched but when you tried to swallow, a tightness in your throat prevented you from doing so and you groaned. Then you felt a dull ache along your right side, from the top of your shoulder, to your ribcage, and down to just by the side of your abdomen.

It took considerable effort to lift your eyelids but you managed. You found a grey ceiling to begin with but as your eyes fleeted through the room you were apparently in, you eventually found your mom asleep just beside your bed. She was curled in on herself, bent and tense, knees tucked close to her chin while her arm supported her head as a makeshift pillow against the chair’s arm. Even in her slumber, she didn’t look at peace: her brows were furrowed, the corners of her mouth tilted low, her lower eyelids looked red and raw, cheeks void of their usual carmine tint. From where you were, you could see the lines that had etched themselves on her face as if years had passed since you had last seen her.

She flinched as if a rough hand had jolted her awake, her eyes weary as she opened them at first. The moment she caught your eye she froze–she didn’t even breathe–before her eyes lit up with tears. Then she was beside you, enveloping your head in her gentle cradle as her tears fell on you, searing against your cold cheeks.

In that moment, you didn’t realise how cold you were until you felt your mom’s tender warmth and the comfort it brought. Emotion bubbled in your throat and you sobbed around the apparatus in your mouth for your mom’s presence. So enraptured were you by her grace that you didn’t even realise that the both of you weren’t alone anymore until a nurse urged your mom to step aside so the doctor could check on you.

You’d been slipping in and out of consciousness for the past twelve hours after waking up from an eleven-day coma, the doctor told you in a gentle manner as she assessed you. Satisfied with what she saw, she turned to your mom and gave her a reassuring smile. She said that your state looked promising, that the likelihood of you slipping back into a coma was slim, but you should expect to sleep more deeply–for more than twelve hours a day–during the next week or so due to the damage in your right lung and your increased brain activity. True enough, just the brief interaction and exposure to the stimulants had taken a decent chunk of your energy, and you were beginning to feel exhausted already.

The doctor and nurse left shortly after that and your mom stuck by your side. She clung to your hand, her fear that you would disappear if she even let go for a second as apparent as the tears in her eyes. Her grip was crushing you but even if you could tell her, you didn’t have the heart to do it because you saw how much she needed the closeness, the physical contact, how much it brought her relief so you let it be. And if you were being honest, the slight pain grounded you to her presence–to be present in that very moment.

The door of your ward opened again, the movement catching your attention, and in came your brother. His cheeks were red and he was heaving his breaths through his open mouth, blue eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. As his gaze found yours, his mouth closed in a tight line but not before a sob left his lips, chin shaking and brows furrowing which made the tears in his eyes to finally fall. He nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to your side, his arms immediately around your head as he sobbed out apology after apology against your temple.

Tears welled in your eyes and you longed to grab his face, to put your palms over his ears, and tell him that he had nothing to apologise for. Your heart broke and when you felt the warmth of your mom’s arms around the both of you and felt her own tears against your cheek again, a gravity pressed against your chest as the realisation of what nearly happened finally sank in.

You wept then as it hit you, sobbing into the arms of the people you cared most about in the world.

You cried in relief.

You cried in grief.

And you cried because you were alive to do it.

The next time you woke, a nurse stopped by to take out the ventilator tube from your airway and replaced it with a nasal cannula for your oxygen support. She said that depending on the rate at which your right lung would recuperate, you needed to be on oxygen support for six to eight more weeks.

Your throat felt raw from the extraction but the relief that came from it was very much welcome. You’d been itching to ask your family about what you missed and what exactly happened. There was an empty space in your memory where memories as to how you ended up in the hospital should be–at that point you couldn’t recall anything about the child, the gunfire that wounded you, the dreams; your mind was completely out of the loop.

And you did just that.

In response, your mom pursed her lips in a thin line, stern and stubborn as mothers often were when they got protective of their children, before she shook her head firmly.

“You heard the doctor, hon. You need to rest for now.”

You tried a couple more times that day, even with Derek, to gain some insight but your family remained resolute in preventing you from being stressed out. They reminded you that you had plenty of time to put the pieces together.

Then familiar faces jumped in your mind and the guilt blazed in you, unforgiving. How could you have forgotten about them?

“Derek. Where’s Jones and Gilda?” Tremors made the rawness of your voice all the more apparent, and you stared at you brother in apprehension. The monitor began to beep as it detected your accelerated heartbeat, and your mom was automatically beside you to hold your hand, brushing the hair on your crown to soothe you.

“They’re fine, sis. Breathe.” Derek replied quickly, patting your covered foot over the blanket. “Gilda fractured her wrist and Jones is actually on standby.”

You sighed, tension immediately leaving your body at the information. You nodded your thanks to your brother for at least putting your mind at ease by telling you that.

“That’s enough for today.” Your mom said sternly before she pointed at you. “You. Rest. Now. And you, zip it.”

Derek put his hands up, pulling his brows up and the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated manner, and at that, you laughed.

Despite your growing impatience over the days that followed, bits and pieces of your memory finally returned to you but not without some help. On one occasion your mom, albeit with a tightness in her voice as if the mere act of speaking about it brought her terrible pain, finally told you what happened after you lost consciousness.

She recounted what she’d been told by the first doctor that took care of you: how a returning convoy with a paramedic onboard heard the gunshots and managed to get to you on time. Any longer and they wouldn’t have been able to–she stopped to wipe her tears and tried to find her voice again–they wouldn’t have been able to resuscitate you when your heart stopped on the way back to camp. Your right lung had collapsed from the penetrating wound in your chest and, along with the ones in your right abdomen and shoulder, you’d lost a lot of blood already that by the time you were put under surgery, you slipped away again. This time, you very nearly succumbed to your wounds for good, and it was a miracle you came back–that the surgeon said you were lucky to have lived.

Derek put a comforting arm around your mom as she put her face in her hands, breaking down again. You ached to do the same but weakness still occupied all parts of your body so the only thing you could do was offer your words.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She straightened her back and wiped her tears away, seeming to have calmed down now but Derek continued to rub her back with a soothing hand and continued where she left off.

They found your press ID badge and contacted the photojournalism firm you were under. After receiving the news, Derek told your mom who–even though Derek told her to wait so he could go with her–flew herself out on the first plane there. He flew himself the next day after he sorted things out around the firm.

“If you’re here, who did you leave in charge?”

“Robert. Don’t worry, he’s fine. I may or may not have told him I’d break up with him if he messed up.”

Your mom gasped at that, scandalised, smacking Derek’s shoulder. “Derek!”

“What? I’m just joking!” Derek asked looking very much like a reprimanded child with his eyes wide in disbelief at being told off. You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at your brother’s antics but you knew that your future brother-in-law was very much capable of keeping the firm afloat.

“Poor Robert. You’re a menace, you know that right?”

“He knows it, sis, why do you think he’s with me?” He wagged his brows and you grimaced at the innuendo–the last thing you’d like to think about was your brother’s sex life. “Anyway, after I landed, Mom and I decided that we should move you to a different hospital. Farther away from the conflict zone. So we took your belongings there and now you’re here. Which reminds me, we have your rolls of film and camera at the hotel.”

At the mention of your camera, images flooded in: the explosions, the guns, the massacre, the blood… and the child. The child! Where was she now? Was she okay? What happened–

“What? What is it?” The sound of Derek’s voice, thick with apprehension, disrupted your thoughts.

“The little girl. I was with a little girl when I got shot. Derek, where is she?” The words gushed out of your mouth.

“I–I don’t know. They didn’t tell me anything about–”

“Derek, please. You have to find her. She’s probably still in the other hospital. I–Derek, I need to know if she’s alright. Please, Derek–” Tremors wracked through your body and your breathing deepened, quickened, every fiber of muscle rigid with tension as the gruesome scenes from that day played like a movie in your mind–the shadows and all the blood and… the beacon of hope–the future–that shone bright in those young eyes.

“Honey, listen to me. Breathe. Breathe.” You felt your mom’s warm hand brushing over your forehead before the sounds and the blurry figures in front of you registered in your mind. There was an incessant beeeping noise coming from the monitor and you didn’t realise a nurse had come in to help calm you down as Derek stood by the foot of the bed with his arms crossed, a hand over his mouth as he watched on with glassy eyes.

After the nurse had left and you’d finally calmed down, Derek sat by your side and took your hand in a gentle grip.

“Okay. I’ll do the best I can.”

You blinked slowly in gratitude and allowed yourself to drift off to another dreamless sleep.

“I think I found her.” Derek’s voice filtered through the room as he entered. You tensed and the instinct to sit up was only dampened by the weakness of your muscles, and the straps and tubes wrapped around you.

“Where? Where is she?”

“The paramedic who was there that day remembered you so he also recognised who I was looking for, thankfully. She’s still in the same hospital but she’s about to be discharged in a few days because they’re running out of space.” Derek began as he sat by the otherwise unoccupied chair beside you since your mom went back to the hotel to get some rest–you insisted for her to go. “Is this her?”

He pulled out his phone, swiped and tapped for a moment, before he held it out so you could see the screen. There, you found a familiar face and it was like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders to know that the little girl was alive. She looked thinner than how you recalled but the light in those eyes remained.

“What’s her name, do you know? Has she found her family?”

“Her name is Elisa. And from what I’ve gathered so far, no.”

Your heart ached as another image came to you, this time it was of the unconscious woman next to Elisa when you found her. What was their relation to each other? Were they family? Her sister? Her mother?

You chewed on your lower lip. “Is… is it possible to transfer her to this hospital? Only if she feels comfortable, of course.”

“Already on it. And I’ve already started asking around for information about her family.”

“Thank you, Derek.”

“What?”

You stared, not believing the words that just left your brother’s mouth.

It was a few days after Elisa was moved to the hospital you were in that Derek brought you the news. He was hunched over himself in the chair beside you like a weight was pressed against his shoulders, head in his hands, shaking his head as if he, too, couldn’t believe the words he just told you.

“They’re dead. All of them.”

And the universe screamed in harmony with the dead’s unheard agony.

During the weeks that followed, your schedule was routine; prosaic.

You were bedridden and sleeping for the most part of your recovery, mainly due to the delicate nature of your injury. You were told it was normal to feel fatigued most of the time and to feel the occasional chest pains but those should go away after enough time had passed. The lightheadedness and breathlessness, though, were a different matter: the damage was irreversible, your breathing now impaired for life, and the risk of experiencing a spontaneous collapsed lung event would forever be with you.

Your schedule was routine and so with that much time in your hand, you began to write.

Elisa’s therapy was going well, you heard from one of the nurses–as well as it could get for someone who had suffered the loss she had at the tender age of eleven. Physically, she was doing so much better. She’d put on a little weight after being transferred and after a few weeks since her initial arrival, she started visiting you and began hanging out at your ward.

During this time, the Women’s World Cup just began and you noticed the way Elisa straightened as she sat cross-legged at the foot of your bed, eyes raptly glued on the mounted TV in your room, animated and dynamic in expressing what she felt as the match unfolded before her. That was the exact moment you knew that Elisa loved football with a passion.

And so a sort of ritual was established, changing your routine and, once again, brought Alexia back into your life as you kept up with Spain’s matches, Elisa’s favorite team. Despite that fact however, you were grateful that Elisa could find reprieve in watching football even for ninety minutes from the ongoing turmoil and her grief.

It was Spain against the Netherlands when you asked Elisa a question. She was curled up beside you, eyes peeking through the blanket she’d wrapped around herself while your mom dozed off in the chair, brows pulled tight in concentration as she scanned over the players on screen. Maybe it was one of the universe’s cruel tricks or maybe it was a sign, but her answer caught you off guard and you wondered how a single name could have this much effect on you; how a name could disarm you completely.

“Who’s your favorite player?”

Without any hesitation and without even taking her eyes off the screen, Elisa replied with enthusiasm, “Alexia Putellas.”

As you watched Spain’s match against Japan with only Derek for company–Elisa had pouted when she found out she couldn’t watch the match live as she needed to go to a therapy session during that time–your brother suddenly exclaimed and pointed at the TV. The noise and the movement startled you, the monitor beeped loudly in response to the spike in your heartbeat.

Derek looked at you abashed, scratching the back of his head as he apologised. “Sorry. But it’s her!”

You looked at the person who he was pointing to: Alexia. You schooled your features and tried to maintain an even tone when you replied. “What about her?”

“She contacted us multiple times asking about you and your work a few days after you left to be here.”

At his words, you heart quickened and the monitor responded to the rise in the rhythm of your heart accordingly. Derek’s eyes flicked from you, to the monitor, to the TV where Alexia was still being filmed, and then back to you.

You cleared your throat, cheeks warm which you hoped your brother wouldn’t take notice of. “And what did you say?”

“That you were unavailable, of course.”

A pause.

“Wait, did you two–”

“No.” The sharpness in your voice nearly made you flinch as your firm gaze bored directly into the blue ones of your brother’s, hoping that he would get the message to drop the subject. Derek opened his mouth but closed it almost immediately. Then he sighed, turning his attention back to the game.

It wasn’t until several minites later that Derek spoke again.

“I have a feeling she’s the reason why you left Barcelona early. But I’m not going to ask. I just want you to know that I’m here when you’re ready to talk about it, sis.”

That night, what Derek told you kept you awake. Did Alexia really asked for you–was she missing you? Ever since you left Barcelona, not once did you let yourself give into the temptation but this new knowledge cut the last thread of your will. So you searched up her name but what you saw made you wish you hadn’t.

A photo of Alexia with another woman: Alexia with her sunglasses on, a black leather jacket over her bralette, and high waisted pants; an arm around the other woman’s shoulder who had her lips on Alexia’s neck and had a possessive hand over Alexia’s jaw. It was recent, you noticed, the article the candid photo belonged to.

You dropped the phone as your hand shook, and you stared up the ceiling. The lights from the passing cars and the nightlife outside created dancing shadows through the gap in the curtain. Closing you eyes, you felt a tear fall dawn and you stuttered out a breath as you reminded yourself.

She wasn’t yours.

She never was.

Yet still… you ached.

It wasn’t until the next morning did the dreams–the ones of your family, of your deceased parents, of Alexia–finally returned to you in vivid clarity. And the pain from the night before returned to you twofold.

Before you knew it, the Women’s World Cup ended with Spain emerging triumphant in the end as they blazed their way through the tournament. In spite of yourself, pride bloomed in your chest at the result knowing how hard these women fought–endured and resisted–in this competition and the fact that they did so while resisting their federation made their accomplishment all the more admirable.

An image of Alexia, weary and exhausted, materialised in your mind.

You remembered the way she dragged her feet as she entered the door, eyes downcast and hair ruffled, shoulders hunched forward. When she found you standing in the archway, she clung to you without a word and you felt the gravity on her shoulders, the pressure of being who she was–of being La Reina–settled against your bones. That night, the both of you ended up sleeping on the couch, Alexia’s head against your chest, your fingers threading through her hair to soothe her even just for a moment.

“You’re so strong, Alexia,” you’d whispered, kissing the top of her head. “You’ve carried so much for so long that sometimes it’s easy to forget that you have people on your side in this fight. You’re never alone, Alexia. Please don’t ever forget that.”

And as you watched her with her people on that stage lifting the trophy, the urge to whisper the same words returned to you. Even though you couldn’t, in your mind you did.

In your mind, the words echoed: I’m so proud of you.

Upon your insistence and with a lot of reassurance, Derek reluctantly agreed to leave you to return back to the firm. You promised you would video call with him every night to appease him so now, you were left with your mom and Elisa’s company to keep. But after being bedridden for nearing two and a half months, finally, you were excited to be moving around even if you were aided with a wheelchair.

When you began your physiotherapy, you couldn’t walk for no longer than fifteen minutes before you felt lightheaded. But as the weeks passed on and as you pushed yourself a bit more each day, little by little, you built up your tolerance. The next thing you knew, you didn’t have to be put in a wheelchair anymore, a small triumph but a triumph nonetheless.

The moment the doctor medically discharged you was one of the best moments of your life. But instead of going back home with your mom, you stayed behind as you needed to sort out one important thing.

Throughout your recovery, Elisa had been one of the constant in your life. The moment you knew she had no family left, your heart instantly knew what you had to do and the idea of adoption took root in your mind. You sorted out the paperworks, carefully explained to Elisa what you planned to do–that you wanted to be her legal guardian, sister, aunt, or mother; whatever Elisa wished for you to be–and gave her time to decide herself if she wanted to go through with it.

As you waited for the paperworks and for Elisa’s consent, you supported Elisa through her therapy sessions all the while you busied yourself with being immersed in as much of Elisa’s language and culture as you could out of respect for her family. Elisa was patient with you during the times you couldn’t quite accomodate the phonetics of her language, speaking slowly and enunciating the words multiple times until you got it.

A few months later, you walked through the airport with two passports, Elisa’s hand in yours, heading towards home. The road was not without difficulties, of course, and it took a long time but the fact that you were there was enough.

Even though the conflict abated just before your departure, the tension was very much alive and the cost forever unjustifiable; senseless, a transgression against those that paid for it: the dead and the ever-hungry living. For Elisa, months of therapy had helped–the first time you heard her laugh was truly one of the best moments of your life–but you knew that the wound would never truly heal, the cut too deep that even the sands of time would do little to fill it completely.

But as you looked into Elisa’s wide eyes, hope filled you as you saw it: that eternal flame that burnt in every person, passed to each other as one life touched another, a bright beacon in what seemed to be a never-ending night made from humanity’s long shadow.

A guiding light to a better future.

As the plane took to the early morning sky, as the sun peeked through the clouds to paint everything in its soft, golden glow, you made a promise. For as long as you live–for as long as Elisa would let you–you would do everything to preserve that light.

“And I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of you, but she still asks for you, you know? Sure, it’s through her agent or through her club’s PR department but it’s still her.”

Derek’s voice pulled you back from your memories.

Again, you fiddled with the string on your wrist. The more you thought about it, the more your reluctance grew. But when you looked at Elisa with her Barcelona kit, the number eleven and Alexia’s name bold and proud on her back, seamlessly stepping over the ball as her Uncle Robert tried to defend against her before she performed a rainbow flick that had the ball soaring past her defender, you knew then what your decision was going to be.

It would be good for her.

Your daughter’s love for football was there before you even met her, and it shook you to your core when you learnt that Alexia was her inspiration. She’d told you she loved football enough to pursue a career in it, a dream that was both hers and her parents–her remaining connection to them–a dream that you would do everything to preserve as long as your daughter wanted to chase it.

“Okay. I’ll do it.” You told Derek as you kept your attention glued to your daughter.

As if sensing your eye, your daughter looked over her shoulder to you, the light of the sinking sun made gold from her hair, and you watched her smile at you, dimples and all.

You smiled back.

Yes, that’s right.

After all, you did make a promise, didn’t you?

#ap11 #not proofread #mine #my writing #a/n: a 5k part for yall #also i wrote 7 revisions of this part cause i didnt know how to present it lol #also an extra round of apologies for any grammar/spelling mistakes for this one #hope you guys like this and would love to know what you think about the story so far #apologies for any grammar and spelling mistakes ill work on em later #woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 6 months

Note

If you're able to do requests here's one... Platonic Dōma x Toddler Reader where the little one is being cheeky and starting a game of tickle monster to only end up getting tummy raspberrys by they're guardian Dōma as payback

Fluffy Time w/ toddler Reader | Yandere Douma

Funny thing is I’m sure Douma isn’t actually ticklish so he’s fascinated by the reaction in the first place

So he loves when you initiate this for his own little curiosities

He loves you all the more

You just have him learning and doing all kinds of things

Not just blowing raspberries into your tiny tummy

As disturbing as it is for those aware of Douma’s true identity to realize this

Alot of his games with his beloved baby feature playful ‘eating’ the little one

Pretending to eat your little hands, your little feet, your chubby cheeks

He’s seen many others do it so its not bizarre

but there’s an added level debauchery considering the moment he settles you down for a nap he’s actually devouring a human or six

And he most certainly is teasing the victims who are aware in a sick joke of his

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere demon x reader #yandere platonic doma #yandere demon slayer #yandere platonic x reader #yandere x gn reader #yandere doma x child reader #yandere doma #yandere platonic douma #platonic yandere

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undercoverpena · 16 days

Text

let us pretend | masterlist

javier peña x f!reader* | javi masterlist

READ ON AO3 | SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

18+, MDNI | STATUS: WORK IN PROGRESS (no update schedule)

summary: peña has been back in Texas for all of five minutes, thinking he wants a simple life. but, when steve offers him the chance to gather information on a potential new player, he jumps at the chance. the only problem is, to do so, he'll need to go undercover with a female agent—and pretend to be her husband.

series themes: fake dating/relationship/marriage, forced proximity / sharing one bed, colleagues to lovers, eventual smut (we slow burnin' for jo), no use of Y/N, female agent has a nickname (sunny) for use undercover. btw, bad references to undercover work because I’m human. reader has a dad (see specific chapters). no physical descriptors are used / images in moodboard not representative. previously named hope they caught us, see notes at end.

CHAPTER ONE - TIE THE KNOT

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PSA POST ON HTCU -> LUP

dedication: the biggest thank you's to the my amazing friends @thetriumphantpanda and @psychedelic-ink for listening to me talk about the first time, for listening to me when i wasn't sure what i was doing and supporting me when i told them i was considering burning htcu to the ground and beginning again. the biggest kisses and hugs to @morallyinept for letting me waffle to her about my plans for redoing this and giving me the strength to reclaim this fic. i wouldn't have the strength to do so without both of you.

for chapter one, i've promised to do a tag list, here is the current list. if you'd like to be added, lemme know. (BE AWARE: the tag list won't happen after chapter one):

@texassmiller @wordywarriorwrites @iknowisoundcrazy @thundermartini @secretelephanttattoo @belliezz @picketniffler @thelightsandtheroses @sawymredfox @toomanytookas @auteurdelabre @grumpygrumperton @noisynightmarepoetry @missladym1981 @maried01 @livswayout @/casa-boiardi @/msjarvis

[im having some issues with tagging, hope tumblr fixes but]

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creamsickle-writes · 1 year

Text

Forbidden Fruit: Shanks x F!Reader

Tags: nsfw, Modern!AU, AGE GAPS (at one point he mentions he's old enough to be reader's dad), mentions of creampies/breeding, dirty talk, daddy kink, sex toys, and phone sex

Thank you @aces-sweetheart for making this post which inspired me to write this fic!

Click here for part two!

You were desperate.

After looking for a boyfriend for so long, you were getting frustrated. Boys at your college seemed dull to you, and online dating was a total bust; finding companionship seemed impossible for you.

You wanted something romantic, sure, but right now, you needed something more sexual. You hadn’t been laid in god knows how long, and the sexual energy within you had reached its bursting point.

You thought to yourself as you lay in bed; you could’ve used one of your many toys to get you off, but that was growing old. You wanted someone to be there with you.

You chewed at your lip, trying to decide what to do with your frustrated self.

Until an idea popped into your mind.

Maybe you didn’t have a companion, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t buy some services to replicate the experience.

Immediately you perked up and began searching for online cams and various male voice-over actors you could listen to.

But after looking at those, you decided that wasn’t quite right either…

That’s when you see a targeted ad about a phone sex hotline. You raised your brows; you had never considered doing something like that before… but the more you thought about it, the more appealing it sounded.

You clicked the number on the search engine page without even thinking it through.

You almost hang up, but you’re greeted by an automated voice.

“Welcome!” It cheerily rings, “You have reached The New World Chat Line! Please select one if you are interested in women, two of you are interested in men.”

You debate hanging up right then, but with shaky fingers, you select ‘two.’

The silence is loud, but eventually, you hear that automated voice again.

“Please select one of our many male operators to chat with!”

The phone begins repeating back various profiles that the men had recorded themselves. There were many different guys, each with their own list of kinks and physical descriptions. You chewed your lip as you listened; some were interesting but not enough to get you to bite the bullet.

That is, until you hear a deep, raspy voice.

“Hey there,” It starts, “You can call me Akagami. Uh, let’s see, I’ve got red hair, and I’m a little over six foot… I think I’m around six foot six?”

Your eyes bulged; he considered that “a little” over?

“I’m looking for sweet girls that like to play with older men. Real innocent, cute types are perfect for my style of play. I want to guide a girl, teach her everything from how to squirt to how to please me-“

You don’t need to hear anymore. You want this guy now.

Pressing ‘one’ on impulse, the phone begins to ring.

It doesn’t take long before there’s an answer.

“Hey there, sweet thing,” he says it with a familiarity that causes your body to heat up.

“U-Uh, hi-“ you want to smack yourself as your voice comes out way too squeaky and high-pitched.

He laughs on the other end, but you can tell it’s all in good fun, not out of malice.

“And how are you doing today, princess?”

“Uhm,” you pick at the hem of your shirt as you lay on your back, “I’m feeling a bit lonely. I wanted to talk to someone…”

You can hear the smile in his voice, “Is that right? So you decided to talk to me? I’m flattered.”

“Mhm…” you trail off, not sure how to get the ball rolling.

But fortunately for you, he’s a natural.

“Honey, you sound a bit young,” he starts, “How old are you?”

“O-Old enough!”

He chuckles, “So you’re a younger girl.”

Your face burns bright red. Were you seriously so obvious that he could read you so easily?

“Hm, don’t worry, your little secret is safe with me.” He purrs it into the phone, and your body shivers at his tone, “Is this your first time calling for this kind of thing?”

“Um, yeah…”

He chuckles lowly, and your heart skips a beat, “Don’t worry, we can talk about anything you want. It can get sexy, it can get sad, hell, you could just tell me about your day; I’m all ears.”

You smile a bit at his words, your nerves starting to disappear.

“Well, I called because, like I said, I’m kinda lonely…” you pause as you debate what you want to say, “I’ve been trying to find a boyfriend but no luck…”

You hear him “aww” as he listens, and you talk a bit about your dating struggles, how college has been challenging, and how you’re up to your limit with how sexually frustrated you are.

“Things can be rough at your age. I remember I had a hard time when I was in college…”

“How old are you?” You chirp up, and he laughs.

“Curious? I’m 40 now.”

You hummed, “You’re old enough to be my dad.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, “I kind of figured that.”

“It’s kinda…” you swallow, unsure how to finish your sentence without dying of shame.

“Kinda what?” He pushes, and you can practically hear his smirk, “Go ahead.”

Your core lit up at his words, “Even though you’re almost twice my age- no because you’re almost twice my age… it’s really getting me worked up.”

He growls, “Yeah? You like fantasizing about older guys?”

“I-I do-” you whimper, “My dad has a friend… I’ve always found him attractive…”

“Sounds like you’ve always had a thing for older men.”

“Always.”

He groans at that, “Dirty little girl… don’t you know it’s girls like you that make things so tempting for guys like me? We want to take advantage of cute things like you who have no idea what you’re getting into…”

You bite your lip, “But I want you to take advantage of me.”

“Fuck-” he hisses, “Alright, I don’t know if I can take the idle conversation anymore, princess. You’re making me so hard right now.”

You swallow, working up the courage to make the first move, “Can you tell me how hard you are? Please?”

Your core flutters at the grunt that comes from the other end of the line.

“It’s getting really hard, baby. My pants feel so tight right now just listening to your sweet voice say such dirty things.”

He groans, and your ears perk up at the sound of fabric shuffling in the background. Your heartbeat accelerated at the action.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to relieve any discomfort that grew between your legs at his words.

And with that, there’s a click from the phone.

“Hello?”

“To continue, please enter payment information.”

Shit. Your free minutes ran out.

You scrambled to grab your wallet on the bedside table and fished out your card. Quickly, you punch in your credit card info before the phone rings again.

A warm chuckle greets you, “Did I lose you?”

“Yeah-“ you sigh, “I needed to enter some card info.”

You can hear the smile in his voice, “I see… don’t worry, I kept your seat nice and warm for you~”

“Thank you,” you laugh, “I appreciate it.”

“Yknow,” he starts, “I bet a slutty little thing like you has a bunch of toys to play with. Why don’t you take one from your collection and use it?”

“O-Okay.”

You whine as you remove your hand from your cunt and get out of bed, pulling out a box from underneath it. You pull out your favorite clitoral vibrator and a basic dildo. You describe to Akagami the toys you’ve chosen.

“Good girl,” he purrs, “Try easing that dildo inside first…”

As you lay on your back, you spread your legs, teasing your hole with the silicone tip. You whimper softly before pushing in and gasping at the intrusion. You’re plenty wet, so the toy slides right in, bottoming out to the suction cup base.

“I-It’s in- “

“Good, good.” He hums. “Turn on the vibrator now. Make sure it’s on the lowest setting, alright?”

You adjust so that you’re holding the phone between your shoulder and cheek, your dominant hand turning on the vibrator and placing it on your clit. Even though it was only on the first setting, the buzzing made you jump.

“God, I can just imagine your flustered body writhing…” he laughs, “You said you’re in college, right? Don’t you have roommates you’re worried about?”

You bit your lip, “She won’t be back for a while… I think.”

“Oh? You think?” He teases, “Now you’ve got me thinking about if I was in your dorm room with you…”

“W-Wh-” you try to get your words out, “What would you do if you were here?”

“Mm,” he drawls, “first, I’d kiss my precious princess. Swipe my tongue over your lips before playing with your tongue.”

Your face grows hot, and you wonder what his tongue would taste like. Does he drink? Smoke? Your tongue darts over your lips as you ponder.

“And I’d play with your tits… squeeze them and play with your nipples that I bet are so hard right now.”

You use your free hand to pull at your nipples, which are just as stiff as the older man speculated.

“A-And then what?”

“Eager, are you?” He stifles a laugh, “I like that….”

“Just for you, Daddy.”

A silence lingers, and for a while, you’re worried you might’ve made him uncomfortable.

But then he speaks.

“You know, a lot of dorms have security. And even if yours doesn’t, other students will likely see us…” You press your lips together, wondering where he’s taking this, “You think they’d think I’m your father when you lead me to your room? That our relationship is innocent?”

Your eyes flutter shut as he continues, “Or do you think they’d know I’m just there to use your younger body? That I’m just a perverted old man fucking a college girl?”

“I-I-“you stutter, tossing your head back, “I don’t know-“

“Turn up your toy, princess. Let Daddy hear your moans.”

You obey his command immediately as if he’s placed a spell on you. Your finger clicks the button on your toy again, making the vibrations grow stronger.

“Oh, Daddy-” you sharply gasp, “I need your cock- how big is it? Tell me-“

“Around eight inches when I’m this hard, princess.”

Your mouth watered.

“Never had a dick that big in me before…”

He chuckles, “No?”

“It’s probably too big-“

“Daddy will make it fit.”

You moan openly, your cunt squeezing the dildo inside you at his words. Even though he didn’t give you permission, you turned the toy up one more notch. You bit your lip, knowing you’d get in trouble if he found out. Over the sound of your toy, you hear wet noises coming from his end.

“Would you let Daddy fuck you raw, princess?” He grunts, “Would you let him creampie your little pussy?”

“Yes-“you breathlessly gasp, “Y-Yes, I want it-“

“Mm,” he moans, “You answered that quickly. You could get knocked up, you know.”

As you approach the edge, your breathing goes shallow, “Don’t care, just need you to claim me. I need you to own me-!”

“Fuck-“he draws it out, “I’m gonna make it so you only want Daddy’s dick. None of those little boys at school will be able to compete.”

You whimper and arch your back as your toy happily buzzes away, stimulating you in all the right ways. Your clit throbs and pulses as the toy surrounds it, and your insides tighten around the other toy.

“I’m so close-“

“That’s good; turn up your toy one more notch.”

“I-I can’t-“

He hums, “A toy that only has two settings? That doesn’t sound right… did you turn it up without permission?”

Your voice trembles, and your legs shake, “Yes, Daddy…”

“Naughty thing,” he tsks, “I’ll allow it this time, but only because we’re both so close-“

Your eyes shut tight as the pleasure overwhelms you. As you approach the end, your legs begin to quiver, and your heart rate is off the charts. Your body tense as your feelings become too much to bear. You needed to cum.

“Daddy, I-I need to cum!” You whimper, “Please let me cum!”

“Ngh-“He grunts, “Cum for Daddy. Squirt your cum all over your cute fingers*

Your vision goes dark as you cum. Your body seizes, and your toes curl as your back arches off the bed. Your chest heaves, and you hear a low growl from the other end of the phone, “That’s it, that’s it, princess. You sound so pretty when you cum for me.”

“Daddy,” you moan helplessly, “Cum for me too.”

Akagami’s breath grows ragged as he gets closer, “Don’t worry, princess, Daddy isn’t far behind-!”

He lets out a low groan when he cums, and you bite your lip, listening to him. After a few moments, everything grows quiet.

“I’ll call you again Daddy. Let’s play again soon, okay?”

“Of course, baby. I would love to guide you through another orgasm.”

And with that, you hang up the phone.

#shanks x reader #red haired shanks x reader #red haired shanks #shanks #one piece #one piece smut #x reader #cream's fics

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eco-lite · 10 months

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I’m once again returning to do god’s work by bringing you delightful moments from Spock’s World by Diane Duane.

[Text ID: “Spock was bent over [the Science Station], making some adjustment. ‘Readout now,’ he said, straightening and looking over his shoulder at the large, shaggy-fringed rock that was sitting in the center seat. Some of those glittering fringes stroked the open circuitry of the communicator controls in the seat’s arm. ‘Point nine nine three,’ said a scratchy voice from the voder box mounted on the rock’s back. ‘A nice triple sine.’ ‘Nice?’ said Spock. Jim raised an eyebrow: you could have used Spock’s tone of voice to dry out a martini.” End ID]

There’s a Horta crewman on the Enterprise now and they’re great!

[Text ID: “Still working on her doctoral thesis, Jim thought. Uhura was busy working on improving universal translator theory, mostly by taking the old theory to pieces and putting it back together in shapes that were causing a terrible furor in academic circles on various planets. Jim vividly remembered one night quite a long time ago when he had asked Uhura exactly how she was going about this. She had told him, for almost an hour without stopping, and in delighted and exuberant detail, until his head was spinning with phoneme approximations and six-sigma evaluations and the syntactic fade and genderbend and recontextualization and linguistic structural design and the physics of the human dextrocerebral bridge. The session had left Jim shaking his head, thoroughly disabused of the idea (and ashamed of how long he had held it) that Uhura was simply a sort of highly trained switchboard operator.” End ID]

Uhura continues to be a total badass and is amazing at what she does.

[Text ID: Chatroom title in all caps: “COMMON ROOM OPINION, INFORMED AND NON- RANTING AND RAVING PERMITTED NAMES NOT NECESSARY” Regular text: “It was one of the places he came to find out what his crew was thinking. Messages did not have to be attributed to a name or terminal, but they could not be private. The office of the common room system operator rotated through the crew, offered to various members on the strength of their psych profiles in areas like calm reaction to stress and anger. The common room syops tended to be closemouthed and dependable, the kind of person that others refer to as ‘a rock.’ (Once it had actually been Naraht, to the amusement of just about everyone.) Here tempers could flare, awful jokes be told safely, suspicions be aired, rumors be shot down. The common room was sometimes a peaceful place, sometimes a powderkeg. Jim never ignored it.” End ID]

The Enterprise has a dumpster fire chat room that has just as much shitposting and vitriol as twitter.

[Text ID: “Jim bowed over her free hand. ‘It’s been too long,’ he said. ‘It’s good to be back,’ Amanda said. ‘And in the middle of a party as well.’ She looked a little wry. ‘A little entertainment will be pleasant before the deluge.’ Sarek’s eyes flicked to Kirk, a considering look. ‘My wife speaks figuratively,’ he said, ‘in the tradition of her people. Deluges are not common on Vulcan.’ ‘My husband speaks circumspectly,’ Amanda said, just as dryly, ‘in the tradition of his.’” End ID]

Amanda and Sarek are as charming as ever.

[Text ID: “Jim was mildly surprised to see that to his other rank tags and decorations, McCoy had added a small, understated IDIC. ‘If I didn’t know you better,’ he said, ‘I’d think you were going native. When did you get that?’ ‘Today in the gift shop, when you were looking at the snowball paperweights with Mount Seleya in them. Tackiest things I ever saw.’ ‘Yes,’ Spock said; ‘they were imported from Earth.’ ‘You be quiet. We can’t let these people leave the Federation, Jim. At least not until they teach us how to make tasteful souvenirs.’” End ID]

Just this.

[Text ID: “There was Sreil, the burly, brown-haired biologist from the Academy, and T’Madh, a little bright-eyed woman of great age and curiosity, a computer programmer; and her son Savesh, who when asked what he did, said, ‘I am a farmer,’ with a sort of secret satisfaction that hinted he thought his job better than any of the more technical ones that the people around him held. Jim had to smile; the thought of a Vulcan farmer was slightly funny, even though there naturally had to be some. But the image of a Vulcan in coveralls, chewing on a stalk of hay, kept coming up and having to be repressed.” End ID]

I love Savesh the Vulcan farmer!

[Text ID: “’Jim,’ he said, ‘the best translation of nehau would be an old word: “vibes.” The feeling-in-your-bones that something gives you. It’s highly subjective.’ ‘Right. Go on, Savesh.’ ‘Well, Captain, I have heard numerous Vulcans say that losing the Federation and the Earth people would be no particular loss, because they had bad nehau, and that could not fail to affect us sooner or later.. But I must tell you that I find your nehau not objectionable at all; pleasant, even.’ End ID]

Vulcan wanting to leave the Federation because the ~vibes~ are off.

[Text ID: “His grasp of dialect and idiom as amazing for anybody, off-planet or on. He once reduced the President of the United States—then a ceremonial post, but one much loved by the people who lived within the old borders—to tears of laughter at a state dinner, by delivering a learned dissertation on computer data storage technology in a flawless Texan accent. The lady was later heard to propose an amendment to the Constitution to allow off-worlders to hold high public office, so that she could have him for her running mate in the next election.” End ID]

I would give anything to hear Sarek do a perfect Texas accent.

[Text ID: “—but when Amanda became annoyed over what she perceived as his smugness about being right, her eyes would flash and she would become splendidly insulting, usually in bizarre Anglish idiom that Sarek found as refreshing as it was annoying. She caused him to laugh out loud for the first time in many years when she told him, after a disagreement over the translation of the word for war, that he should only grow headfirst in the ground like a turnip. Later that month, when he was right about something again and made the mistake of not immediately down-playing it, she issued him with a formal malediction, wishing that the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind orphan children might pursue him so far over the hills and the seas that God Almighty couldn’t find him with a radio telescope. Sarek laughed so hard at that that he entirely lost his breath, and Amanda panicked and started to give him cardiopulmonary resuscitation, which was useless, because his heart was somewhere other than the spot on which she was pounding. It took him nearly an hour to recover: he kept laughing. He had never been cursed like that before, not even by union leaders, and it was very refreshing.” End ID]

This dynamic is perfect, no notes.

[Text ID: “The next night they sat in the Rec Deck again, in the middle of a large impromptu party that was going on around them by way of celebration. The sense of relief in the ship was palpable. A group of about a hundred crewfolk, mostly human, had surrounded Spock earlier in the evening and sung ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow,’ accompanied by twenty crewmen on kazoos. Sarek had been given champagne.” End ID]

I really hope the TOS Enterprise has crew performances like on Next Gen. This kazoo band needs to be heard! Also, I can perfectly picture Spock’s annoyed-but-tolerant expression as he resigns himself to the kazoo serenade.

Thank you @dianeduane for making me laugh!

#star trek #star trek tos #spock’s world #diane duane #star trek books #star trek novels #spock #jim kirk #leonard mccoy #sarek #amanda grayson

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insomniumstella · 1 year

Text

stuck in the middle (1) | bucky x avenger!reader

summary: Steve’s silly joke happened to inspire the best, or possibly the worst, idea Wanda had ever come up with — send James Buchanan Barnes and y/n on an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Hawaii. the problem? they cannot stand to be around each other.

warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, explicit language, alcohol consumption, sarcastic!bucky

word count: 4,050

taglist is down below (please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list!)

WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE masterlist

series’ SPOTIFY playlist

Wanda had never considered herself too lucky, but she had not been entirely unfortunate either.

She’d often get the last croissant at her favorite coffee shop or find money in every little corner of the compound — abandoned lockers at the gym, behind the coffee jar in the pantry, in the pocket of Tony’s pants that one and only time he had asked the girl to wash them for him.

Wanda could remember the day she had won her first contest vividly. The anxiety at the pit of her stomach, the crinkling of paper as she tore open a brown envelope, the pure joy when she had found out about receiving a pink toaster oven. That fateful day had forever been burned into her memories.

A couple of weeks later, she had entered a second competition after accidentally stumbling upon it in a random magazine and won again and again until Wanda, getting all sorts of things for free, became a running joke at the compound. It had been no different after a major travel company had announced a contest for a free vacation in Hawaii months ago, she could sense, before she had even opened the oversized box Maui Dreams had delivered to the Avengers’ headquarters.

Wanda had been right; she had not exhausted her luck yet.

“Bucky, I’m sorry!” She threw the soldier a sheepish glance before dragging y/n out of the training facility that afternoon. Wanda had paid little mind to James, and if looks could kill, she would’ve been six feet under.

It was only when the two girls had reached the compound’s kitchen did y/n notice that Wanda was still in her pajamas, holding a bright pink paper slip. The redhead’s expression was a mixture of anxiety and bewilderment, and y/n couldn’t decide which one she’d prefer to experience first if neither wasn’t an option.

“Training with Bucky is a nightmare, so thank you for the temporary rescue, but,” she gestured to the paper Wanda was holding before getting a water bottle from the fridge, “what’s this, and why is it making you upset?”

“This,” Wanda held up the CONGRATULATIONS: HAWAII AWAITS! letter, “is a note granting me a free vacation in Hawaii.” She chewed on her lip, staring at y/n. “Hawaii!”

“Yes, Hawaii.” She nodded, unsure as if one wrong word would cause Wanda to lose her temper.

“This,” she waved the paper in y/n’s face, “is a free pass for a week in paradise, and I cannot go! I read their terms and conditions and, shit, I even emailed them, but,” heavy accent laced itself around her words, “they’ve decided that for the reason that Vision is a robot, and I’m a foreign weapon of mass destruction we cannot go.” She spoke mockingly, rolling her eyes. “They worded it differently, but it seems ridiculous nonetheless.”

“Modern problems require modern solutions.” She offered Wanda a half smile, trying to make a joke out of the situation. “Besides, they might’ve been right about the destruction part of the email.” She added in a much quieter voice, referring to the complex of buildings her teammate had recently destroyed.

It had been purely an accident, a blunder of magic most would've had a difficult time controlling if one was to ask y/n. However, it had been a pure catastrophe if one was to ask the American government.

“It was an accident, and the houses were empty.” The redhead cocked her head to the side, face painted in faux shock at y/n’s accusations.

“Offer the trip to Steve. Heaven knows Captain Rogers needs a break.” She finished the water bottle, throwing it into the trash. “We can talk later, but I must get going.”

James Buchanan Barnes was undoubtedly still waiting in the training facility, and, though y/n had little desire to finish training, she couldn’t bail again. Besides, James had been beating her ass at hand-to-hand combat the past few weeks, and she’d be everything she had always despised if she gave him the satisfaction of giving up that easily.

“I did.” The guilty undertones in Wanda’s tone stopped y/n in her tracks, and she glanced at the redhead from over her shoulder. “I signed up the two of you for the vacation.”

Bewilderment burned in y/n’s eyes. “What?!”

“Pack your bags.” The younger girl chuckled, leaning against the bar. Her smile was everything but innocent. “The plane leaves tomorrow evening.”

The woman tried arguing, she did.

As soon as James had dismissed her from training, she had been running around in meek attempts to locate Steve, and even when she had finally succeeded, Wanda’s story proved to be true. The schedules had been cleared, Steve’s bags had been packed. It was suspicious, way too suspicious — the Steve she had known for almost ten years already, wouldn’t have willingly signed up for a vacation. It was an all-expenses-paid vacation in Hawaii, yes, but everything had appeared too perfect for it to be true.

She found herself on the plane the next evening nonetheless because if The Captain Rogers agreed to it, she could see herself tanning topless, a Moscow Mule in hand, as well. The universe must’ve heard y/n’s prayers and decided to bless her with a miracle. Thank you, universe, she thought, sipping on a vodka soda the flight attendant had given her as soon as she sat down in the business-class seat. Though the airplane could never compare to the luxury of Tony’s private jets, which dripped with excessive luxury, it was far better than flights with the team, for this flight had no bickering or shouting. I need more of these, y/n decided when a nearby passenger kept slamming their backpack into the overhead bin, I need more vodka.

“This compartment must be full. Perhaps you should try the compartment next to it?” She softly suggested, flipping through the airline’s in-flight shopping catalog.

She loved boarding first for the copious amounts of space in the overhead bins because the loss of storage was the sorrow passengers who boarded last suffered.

“What the fuck?” Bucky gawked at her before giving the backpack a final push and deciding to shove it underneath the seat when it didn’t fit. “Where the fuck is Steve?” His loud voice earned judging glances from the people with kids in the row ahead of them, but he paid the family no mind.

“James?!”

Devil himself sat beside y/n, his perplexed expression matching hers. No, no, no, Steve wouldn’t.

The woman had been overly excited to meet Bucky in all his glory after the court had declared him innocent. And, sure, he had stabbed her the first time they met, but y/n had been willing to put the past behind the pair and start fresh. Everyone deserved a second chance, or everyone except Bucky, she had determined, when he had been nothing but an asshole for the last five years. It had never been a ‘James hates everyone’ issue, no, it was a ‘Bucky hates y/n’ issue. If he was determined to make her life a living hell, she was more than happy to return the favor, declaring war.

“Did you put him up to this?”

“What?”

“Did you switch places with Steve?” He repeated in a far bolder and louder voice.

She could not comprehend the words that rolled off of his tongue. Why would she, the woman who had recently replaced his almond milk with whole milk, knowing he’d suffer immensely, but doing it anyway just for the fun of it, ask Steve to go on a vacation with James?

“Yes, sergeant, I begged Steve for a week in paradise with the great James Buchanan Barnes.”

The soldier raised a brow, digging into his back pocket to retrieve something y/n deemed as a brick — an old, barely usable cellphone Bucky used for his personal endeavors. She peeked at the contact list of three whole people and snickered to herself. Steve, Sam, and his therapist were the only numbers he had saved. Though it did not come as a surprise, it was amusing to witness.

“Sir, please put the phone away, we are preparing for takeoff.”

His head shot up at the sound of the flight attendant’s voice. James glanced between the insufferable woman in the seat on his left and the woman with a pleasant smile standing nearby, carefully choosing his next battle.

“There’s been a misunderstanding.” He grinned apologetically, but closed the flip phone. “I just need to make a quick call.”

“The plane door’s open,” y/n shrugged, pretending to look unbothered as if Bucky’s appearance on the plane wasn’t the most horrifying of problems, “you could let me go on the trip alone,” she paused, pretending to be in deep thought, “I’d be distraught, of course, but it’d be nothing a little Hawaiian sun and a martini couldn’t fix.”

Bucky scoffed at her. Was she really that stuck up to believe she was the only one in need of a holiday?

James wouldn’t outright admit it, but he desperately craved a break from the stress of high-stakes missions, frequently occurring chaos in the compound, from y/n, who had ruined his last Wednesday by switching his almond milk to whole milk. He had stayed up in the bathroom until midnight, missing out on a potentially incredible date. It would've been his third after James had gotten his mind back and y/n had wrecked it, prompting a stream of angry messages from Jennifer, a bartender at a local bar.

“The door is actually closed, ma’am. Please fasten your seatbelts and turn all devices on airplane mode.” The flight attendant’s smile faltered for a second. “Would you like me to bring you another vodka soda when we’re in the air?” She questioned, gesturing to y/n’s empty plastic cup as an offer for consolation.

“Make it double, please.” She nodded eagerly, the appalling realization of James and her being stuck on an airplane to Hawaii slowly creeping in.

The soldier threw an unamused glare in the girl’s direction, "if you throw up-“

“Oh my,” the annoyance in her tone was evident when she spoke, “that was one time, James,” she pushed a finger into his chest, “It was Halloween, and I wanted to outdrink Steve, and-“

“And I don’t care.” He shuffled in his seat for a more comfortable position. The plane was suddenly too hot and too cramped for James to stomach. “Just don’t throw up and, this one you might find difficult executing, stop talking to me. It’s bad enough I got tricked into getting on a plane with the most aggravating woman alive.” The words dripped with poison, firm and calculated. The former sentence was harsh, but it was his truth.

“When we land, you could stay at the airport,” she turned to face him, her knees bumping against his half on purpose, half because of the tight space between them, “and get on the next flight to upstate New York.”

James sneered, “sounds like a plan. I sincerely hope you’ll exceed at completing it.” If anyone was to catch the next flight to NYC it would be y/n, he’d make sure of it.

She studied him, hoping her deadly stare would frighten the soldier, yet he didn’t move, make a sound, or change facial expressions. He remained entirely cool on the outside, and it infuriated her.

The next time her knees bumped into his, it was deliberate. “I need a vacation.” If James wanted to, and he did, he would’ve purposely mistaken the comment for a plea. A plea for sympathy from none other than y/n, the woman who never begged people for anything.

“As do I.”

“This is only the beginning then, princess,” she snatched the phone from his hands, aggressively flipping it shut from when he had turned it on after the flight attendant had left his sight, “this monstrosity is old enough to be a safety hazard, and it definitely does not have airplane mode.”

“Good. Perhaps it’ll kill us both and put me out of this misery.” He hissed, capturing y/n’s wrist.

She almost hoped it would.

“Honeymoon?!”

“I might have twisted the truth slightly,” Wanda’s voice sounded distracted over the phone.

“Slightly? I’m on a fucking honeymoon with Bucky Barnes, Wanda.” She could see Bucky through the glass windows from where she was standing in the smoking area outside of the hotel.

“Mmmh.”

“They’re putting us in the Lovers’ Suite as we speak. There’s probably going to be rose petals everywhere.”

“First, calm down.” Wanda switched the iPhone to her left side, holding it in place with her shoulder and cheek as she painted her nails.

Though she wouldn’t admit it, hearing the betrayal in y/n’s voice was the highlight of her week. She loved the girl, and if it came down to it, she’d die for her, but the situation was amusing at the least.

Steve had been the first person to find out about Hawaii, and when he made a seemingly silly joke that she should send Bucky and y/n on a honeymoon, a plan had been born.

“Second, you love roses.” A foolproof plan of Steve and Wanda to help the idiots notice what they had been blind to. “Besides it’s just for one week.”

“One week with Bucky Barnes is one week too long.”

“Please send me photos of you two at the beach.” The redhead chuckled.

“There will be no photos of us at the beach,” she replied, her tone dripping with poison, “I hope you know that I will forever hate you.”

“Don’t blame me. I didn’t know Bucky would show up instead of Steve.” Wanda lied through her teeth.

She had known about the ordeal that would unfold. In fact, she had masterfully orchestrated it all. It was y/n’s fault for believing Captain America would choose a vacation over missions and meetings he had been scheduled to attend.

“Steve better sleep with his eyes open when I get back.”

“I love you!” Wanda hung up the phone before y/n could get another word in.

“Shit.” She cursed under her breath when the phone suddenly became silent.

The soldier’s sickeningly charming smile was the last thing y/n expected when she strutted up to the reception desk.

“Darling, would you mind showing your ID? It’s the final thing we need to check in.”

She raised a brow at James, confused. “What?”

He threw her a brief, unimpressed glance before softening his eyes and gesturing to the woman. “Aaliyah has the room ready early, but she needs both of our IDs to check us in. It’s mentioned in the rules of the contest.”

The contest Wanda had used to trick her. May she burn in Sokovian hell.

“Yes, both parties must present their IDs. It’s simply a formality.” Aaliyah chimed in. “Our staff always get informed of the winners’ names. It’s the only way to redeem activities, meals at the à la carte restaurants, and special discounts.”

“Would a driver’s license work?” She asked, rummaging through her purse before sliding a random ID over the counter.

“Of course!” The receptionist’s smile was too bright and too happy for nine in the morning, y/n decided, but then again, it was Hawaii, so perhaps people functioned differently here. “Is this your first honeymoon?”

“It is!” She answered too quickly and without giving James a chance to speak. “We’ve just been too busy to notice as time flew by. Today’s our fourth wedding anniversary.” The words fell out of her mouth quicker than y/n could stop them, and she winced at the lie.

“Congratulations! I’ll have a romantic dinner arranged for tonight. Would seven work, or should I schedule it at eight?”

She had been entirely wrong. The universe cursed her — the tipsiness from the vodka was wearing off, the week in paradise turned out to be a faux honeymoon, and the random ID, she had provided hurriedly so as to not arouse suspicions on why a regular traveler carried that many driver’s licenses, was issued under the name of none other than Amelie Barnes. The ID had never been a problem until today when it incriminated y/n as Bucky’s wife and became the ultimate punishment for all the sins she had committed against the soldier.

Perhaps I should clean out my wallet sometimes.

“We wouldn’t want to cause any trouble, Aaliyah.” He awkwardly patted y/n on the shoulder. “You must deal with hundreds of honeymooners every day.”

“Nonsense. It’d be my pleasure.”

“The flight was exhausting,” James tried again, “we’ll probably enjoy a drink or two and call it a night.”

"It's fine, really." She chimed in, stepping further away from James and his awkward touches. "We want to order room service anyways."

"Yes!" He agreed, glancing at y/n. "A burger sounds divine." The timber of Bucky's voice was utterly unconvincing.

"Scheduling a dinner? It sounds too tiring and too long of a process." The woman offered Aaliyah a foolish grin, resting her elbows on the reception desk and propping her head in her hands.

She had attempted to sound unbothered, but her delivery of words had been quite ridiculous. She appeared eccentric, stupidly staring at the employee through panicked eyes. I am not his wife, he is not my husband. Please, woman, do not arrange a romantic dinner for the two of us tonight.

Unfortunately, the receptionist did not turn out to be a mind reader.

“It's not," she narrowed her eyes before her tightly pursed lips switched into a smile, "seven it is then! Toro Toro is our finest restaurant and will be perfect for a passionate anniversary celebration.”

“Great.” Bucky muttered under his breath.

She slid two pamphlets over the desk, “One of the pamphlets is a map of the hotel, and the other is a list of honeymoon activities. Couples massage seems to be the fan favorite.” She typed something on the computer before pushing the IDs and two sets of room keys in their direction, “Brody will lead you to the suite. Welcome to Hawaii Mr. and Mrs. Barnes.”

“I’m not going to the dinner.” James slumped into the couch.

The room was spacious and elegant, and, her intuition had been right, covered in rose petals. A bottle of champagne stood in a bucket of ice on the coffee table, a generous fruit basket and a note next to it. She landed on the opposite side of the sofa, picking up the postcard to read it.

Welcome to Hawaii — paradise awaits. We wish you a passionate and blissful honeymoon. The mea inu (drinks) are on us!

“Fine by me.” She let out a strangled chuckle at the irony of it all. “Do you think the receptionist was in on it?”

“Aaliyah?” James reached down to pop the champagne open. “She might be on something, that much I can say, but,” he took a sip from the bottle before pouring himself a glass and then, after a second of hesitation, begrudgingly poured y/n a glass too, “to think Steve would set her up is a reach.”

“Wanda would. She knew about the flights and the honeymoon package, and,” y/n got silent and took a big gulp of champagne when a sudden realization set in, “what were the rules of the contest?”

“I’m not Google on legs, y/n.” An aggravated sigh slipped past his lips.

She craved to spit a sarcastic comment at James but refrained against it.

“What if we have to pretend to be a couple? What if the contest is designed in a way that a pair of friends or strangers cannot redeem the prize, and we’ll have to pay for everything? Tony would skin us.”

“The receptionist mentioned something along the lines of people scamming the contest’s company, but this is utter nonsense. There were five winners in total, they couldn’t possibly monitor each pair.”

“They could take away the activities.” She raised a brow, finishing her drink. “Bye, bye scuba diving.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, we are,” the word got lost in his throat as James made a disgusted face, “a couple as of thirty minutes ago. In fact, we’re celebrating our fourth wedding anniversary.”

“The ID was issued a little over four years ago, Barnes.”

“And? You just had to run your big mouth and get us a reservation for a romantic dinner, didn’t you?”

“I panicked!” She raised her voice, finding a way into the bedroom. It was a monstrosity compared to the living room, decorated with not only rose petals but Hershey's chocolate kisses and candles everywhere. “The driver’s license I pulled happened to be under the name of Amelie Barnes, she saw it was issued a little over four years ago and most likely assumed I had changed my name soon after our wedding.”

“The wedding we never had.”

She had been wiping roses off the bed and onto the floor, emptying a pair of heavy suitcases on the satin sheets as soon as it was clean.

“It’s not like I could’ve snatched the ID and presented another. Perhaps she recognized you, the infamous Winter Soldier, but I, if you need a refresher,” the woman disappeared into the balcony when James came into the bedroom, “work under disguises.” Her voice was almost a whisper in the morning’s wind. “I’m the Avenger without a name.”

Nick Fury had imposed a great deal of strength and a great deal of sorrow upon y/n when she had finished S.H.I.E.L.D. training. She had excelled in many areas, but lying was her forte. The woman had once loved to be a ghost story, to embody a superhero without an identity, especially when fellow Avengers couldn't show faces in public without getting recognized. All good things come to an end, she had learned when the lies had become a burden, bleeding into her personal life, and y/n had found herself largely alone. James, a man she despised, had more genuine memories of y/n than her past lovers ever would. Over the years, it had evolved into as generous of a problem as it had been an opportunity.

“This is bad.” Bucky followed after her. “We cannot be seen together.”

“As if we usually are.”

“I’m being serious, y/n. Forget about the money. What if someone recognizes me and connects the quite obvious dots that you might be working for the Avengers as well?” James leaned on the balcony railing, too close to y/n for her enjoyment.

The woman stayed silent, enjoying the view. The sky was stained with various hues of blue, lighter than the endless ocean ahead of them. It was nothing short of breathtaking, glorious even. Hawaii was truly a paradise on Earth with its sandy air and pleasantly warm sun, whose rays gently caressed her skin.

“Officially you are retired. The public isn’t aware of your affiliation with Avengers.” She reminded. "Amelie Barnes is the wife of a retired officer, nothing less, nothing more."

There was a chance they could run into a former HYDRA agent or a politician the Avengers had tried and failed to lock up, but the chance was too slim to become a burden. Perhaps we could make this work, she thought and stole a glance at Bucky. She would stay on her side of the hotel while he would stay on his, and if need be, they’d pretend to be a couple without getting noticed by these vacationing villains James referred to. It had happened before, once, when Sam had a genius idea of catching an arms dealer at an upscale club in New York City. James had kissed her then, and much to y/n’s surprise, she hadn’t stopped breathing or dropped dead. They had caught the trafficker and went on their merry ways — Bucky continued to exhaust her ass at training, and y/n had switched his conditioner to body wash amongst other, less innocent, endeavors. Much to her dismay, his hair continued to stay shiny and, in Wanda’s words, quite fabulous.

“Yes, sergeant, villains just happen to vacation at The Maui Resort.” She poked fun at his obnoxious concerns, disappearing back into the bedroom.

As of now, there was only a single problem y/n needed to resolve.

Should she suggest James sleeps on the floor or in the marble bathtub?

TAGS:

@legohe4rts

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky imagine #bucky series #bucky barnes series #bucky x you #bucky x reader smut #bucky x reader series #bucky barnes x reader series #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x Female Reader #insomniumstella #Where Dreams Go to Die #where dreams go to die bucky #where dreams go to die bucky x reader #Bucky Barnes x female reader

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starsofteal · 2 months

Text

A Lesson and Love

Halsin x Tav // Halsin x Reader (GN) Summary: An accident in the forest leads to an injured child and a rattled Tav—cue daddy Halsin to the rescue. A/N: One of my favorite things to imagine are these little vignettes of life after the events of the game, when Halsin and Tav and all the children build a life for themselves in Thaniel’s realm. I love the idea of Tav coming into a more parental role after a life of high adventure, and how out of their depth they feel, especially when it appears to come to naturally to Halsin. And, of course, I’m a sucker for Daddy Halsin just as a concept. Warnings: broken arm (not graphic), fluff (is it hurt/comfort if it’s just physical pain and not emotional angst lol?)

The sun filters through the tree canopy of the forest just outside Moonrise Towers. The echoes of children’s laughter surrounds you as you relax against a sturdy tree trunk, catching your breath.

You had coaxed the children into their favorite game of chase—not that it took much convincing on your part—in a desperate attempt to rid the children of as much energy as possible, hoping it would make for an easier bed time tonight—a foolish hope considering how endless their energy seemed to be these days.

Not that you mind the extra energy. No, in fact, after everything you had been through, nothing brings you more joy than this life you’ve carved out for yourself: surrounded by children and their boisterous laughter, in a safe haven serving to provide hope and safety to all who need it, and then, of course, there’s Halsin.

Halsin, who you had forged such a deep and lasting connection with over your journey, who shows you the true definition of love and selflessness every day. The love you had found with Halsin will always be the greatest treasure to come out of your ordeal. You’d go through it all a thousand times over again just to end up here, in Thaniel’s Realm, with Halsin, and all the many charges you gained along the way.

The very charges who seemed determined to send you to an early grave.

“Nathaniel, be careful!” You admonish from your spot on the forest floor. The young boy, hardly more than six, makes his way up an oak tree, climbing onto a limb with a carefree dexterity that could only come from a child who had been spending far too much time out in the forest with Halsin.

“I am being careful,” Nathaniel quips back, slowly rising to his feet to grab onto an even higher branch and lifting himself up on it.

“That’s high enough.” Your voice has a final note of warning in it as you rise to your feet. “Come down from there, now.”

“Aww, that’s no fun.” Nathaniel pouts, but ultimately acquiesces, turning his body and kicking his feet over the edge of the branch to begin his decent.

The accident unfolds before you as if in slow motion, but you’re utterly helpless to intervene; feet frozen in place. Nathaniel releases his grip, but his foot just barely misses the lower branch, sending him barreling towards the ground. Your heart stops. A sickening crunch sounds out as he hits the ground, arms out trying to break his fall. There’s a heartbeat of silence before Nathaniel’s wail pierces the air.

You’re at his side in seconds, crouching low to the ground. The other children swarm in around you, their cries of concern and fear adding to the din.

“Back up, now please,” you order, not unkindly, assessing the damage in front of you while also trying to maintain an aura of calmness. A quick observation tells you that Nathaniel’s arm is definitely broken, the crunch you heard earlier serving as its own confirmation, but other than that, plus a few bumps and bruises, he seems okay. The relief is overwhelming.

“Nathaniel, sweet, come here,” your voice has a soft, calming tone to it that seems to have an instantaneous effect. The small boy doesn’t need to be asked twice, scrambling into your lap and holding his injured arm close to his chest. You hold him close, pressing a kiss to his temple, as his cries quiet to low whimpers.

“Cana and Ava,” you call out to the two eldest girls in the group. “I need you two to go find daddy Halsin, okay? Be quick, but be safe.” The pair nod eagerly before dashing off, and you send up a quick prayer to the Oak Father they hurry.

The rest of the children watch on as you continue to soothe Nathaniel, rocking back and forth. More than a few are shedding sympathy tears, the rest in various shades of distress.

“He’ll be okay,” you soothe the group. “But this is an important reason we have to follow rules, even when they’re not very fun. They’re there to help keep you safe.” A ripple of nods tells you they’ve more than learned the lesson and its one they won't be quick to forget.

“Go on,” you nod to the clearing, “go play. Daddy Halsin will be here soon.”

The children reluctantly sulk back to the playing area, though their spirits are too down to continue the game of tag with the same ferocity.

“You’re being very brave right now, Nathaniel,” you murmur, looking down at the child in your arms. He looks so small, and you feel your heart break in two. Nathaniel presses his head up against your chest and sniffs, wiping his nose on his tunic with his good shoulder.

“I’m sorry I climbed up high,” he whimpers, fresh tears falling from his thick eyelashes.

“Oh hush, hush, hush, none of that,” you refute. “The important thing is that you’re safe. A fall from not much higher could have been far worse. Daddy Halsin will be here soon, okay? Just keep being brave, can you do that for me?” You feel Nathaniel’s nod against your chest, and you continue your rocking.

Finally, you hear the thunder of footsteps running through the forest. You turn your head just as a large brown bear bursts into the clearing, two children atop its back. With practiced ease, they slide off, landing softly on the grass and joining the rest of the children who watch in awe as a burst of bright, magical light erupts. The bear disappears, Halsin standing in its place.

“My heart, what happened? Are you okay?” Halsin’s eyes are wide with panic as he takes in the sight of you on the ground, Nathaniel curled around his injured arm in your lap.

At the sight of daddy Halsin, Nathaniel’s tears start up again with vigor. “Daddy Halsin,” he wails. “My arm.” His sobs wrack his tiny body, and you wrap gentle arms around him, starting your soothing rocking again.

Halsin crouches low, getting on one knee. “Now, now, my little adventurer,” his voice is low and gentle. “Let me have a look.”

Nathaniel leans back against you, carefully exposing the broken and swollen limb, a deep bruise already blooming across the surface. Halsin hums in acknowledgement as he examines the limb.

“Hold very still for me,” he warns before closing his eyes and raising a hand sheathed in golden magic. His hand hovers above Nathaniel’s arm, causing Nathaniel to bury his head in your chest. “You’re doing such a good job,” you whisper to the boy, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

The glow of Halsin’s magic fades. “There, how does that feel?”

Nathaniel perks his head up and gives his arm a tentative wiggle. “Wow,” he marvels, his eyes growing wide. “It doesn’t hurt anymore!” Jumping up off your lap, he throws both arms around Halsin’s neck. “Thank you daddy Halsin!”

Halsin’s strong arms wrap around the child, and the sight nearly brings tears to your eyes. “Of course, my boy,” he replies. “Try to be more careful now, promise?”

“I will, I promise I will,” Nathaniel hastily replies, already wiggling out of Halsin’s arms and eagerly chasing off towards his adopted siblings.

Halsin chuckles as he takes a seat next to you in the grass.

“Well, he got over that quickly,” you joke, leaning into his side as he wraps a strong arm around your waist.

“These children are strong, resilient. They’ve been through so much at such a young age. It’ll take more than a broken bone to keep them down, I’d wager.”

You hum in agreement, absentmindedly picking at a few blades of grass. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” you murmur.

Halsin says nothing, just pulls you closer, holding you even tighter. “I’ll always be here, my heart.” His warm lips press against your temple.

“You’re so good with them, Halsin. You always know what do to, how to act, what to say.” You can’t stop the sigh that escapes your lips, rustling the small pile of grass blades you’d compiled.

Halsin’s brows furrow. “What is it, my heart?”

“It’s nothing,” you attempt to shrug off his concern, but he knows you all too well.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” he urges. “Please.”

One look in those green eyes has you giving in. With another sigh, you pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin atop them. You keep your eyes on the children playing ahead of you as you attempt to sparse apart your thoughts and feelings.

“When Nathaniel fell, there was a moment where I just…” you pause, gathering your breath. “I just froze. I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified. And then I heard him cry and my heart broke into a thousand pieces. There was nothing I could do. I failed him.” You bury your face against your knees.

Halsin nods his head in understanding, letting your words sit in the air for a moment before nudging you with his shoulder. “Would you like to hear my perspective?”

You pause for a beat, before giving a slight shrug of your shoulders.

"I saw you taking charge of the situation. Your fearless heart, your sharp mind, willing to do whatever it takes to take care of the people you care for. You’re relentless in the heat of the moment, whether it’s on the battlefield or here in our home. I saw Nathaniel in your arms; I saw you providing a sense of safety and comfort at a time when he was scared and in pain. You were everything he needed in that moment.”

Halsin’s words of confidence stir you and you raise your head up to look at him.

“I was so scared,” your words are barely above a whisper, a confession. “After everything we’ve been through, I thought I was beyond ever being scared again. But he looked so small crumpled up on the ground.”

“You’re not alone with those feelings, my love.”

At that, you offer Halsin a quizzical expression. “You? I feel like fear isn’t even in your vocabulary.”

“Me? A stranger to fear?” Halsin chuckles. “My heart, as soon as the girls told me there was an accident here in the forest…” He trails off, his voice taking on a somber pitch. “There aren’t words for the way my heart stopped.”

You place a comforting hand against his arm, the thick bands of muscle briefly tensing and relaxing at your subtle encouragement.

“I raced here as fast as I could. It wasn’t until I had you and the children in my sights that I felt I could finally breathe again.”

Halsin covers your hand with his own, a soft smile on his face. “I think perhaps the drawback to living such an idyllic and wondrous life such as this, is that we have so much more to lose now than we ever had before. And there is a fear in that. But I know that this magnificent journey of ours is only just beginning. There is so much more joy to come.” With that final sentiment, Halsin presses a kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips against your skin radiates through your entire body, and you tilt your head up to meet his lips with your own.

A chorus of “ewwws” and “yucks” erupts from the herd of children now gawking at the two of you, and Halsin doesn’t bother to hold back his howling laughter.

“To be continued at a later time, my heart,” he murmurs in your ear before pressing another kiss to your cheek and rising to his feet to join the children in play. His grabs two of the closest children in his arms, lifting them up high off the ground. Their squeals of delight pierce the air, and the rest of the children clamber over one another for their own turn.

You smile, leaning back against the oak tree, letting the warm rays of the setting sun graze your face, as you take in the beautiful view before you.

#halsin #halsin silverbough #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #halsin x oc #halsin bg3

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nolita-fairytale · 10 months

Text

burn your life down | chef luca x fem!reader | chapter five

summary: you and luca finally talk about what happened the night of the ballet -- and finally have a chance to clear the air.

warnings: fluff, eventual smut, eventual angst not use of y/n, conversations about divorce, slow burn, baby, second person pov, swearing, danish inaccuracies, very little connection to the world of the bear.

word count: 3k

a/n: let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist!

part four | masterlist | part six

You’ve been avoiding his calls all day.

After Luca bid you goodnight on Thursday, you’d practically sprinted upstairs and into your apartment, slamming the door behind you while wondering what the hell was wrong with you?

You’re too stubborn for your own good, you think to yourself, recalling the moment – the one where you could’ve kissed him but you didn’t – between you and Luca. You stood there, too paralyzed to make a move, yet unable and unwilling to walk away from him.

Luca had given you space most of yesterday, save for a text later in the evening, but the fact that today is Saturday, the day he almost always comes into the restaurant, is not lost on you. Instead of dealing with it, you’ve been hyper focused all day, choosing to bury your head in work as you run lunch service with Mathilde, more than grateful that business has run at a steady pace today.

It’s not until you hit a stop, forced to pause after a few hours in between the lunch and dinner rush, reaches a lull. Your brain is suddenly inundated with too many thoughts: was this it? Had you scared him away forever? Did he think you were a total freak considering you’d practically run away from him after he’d said goodnight?

“So are we going to talk about it?” Mathilde presses you, ripping you out of your thoughts with the sound of her voice. You look her way, noticing that her lips pursed in sheer annoyance at your avoidance mechanisms.

Your face falls, unable to carry this solo for much longer, letting out a sigh of resignation because you know she’s right.

You can’t run from this – from your feelings, from Luca – forever.

“Yeah,” you give in. “Yeah, okay.”

“What the hell happened?” Mathilde hisses as she approaches you. “I mean, he’s gorgeous, he’s cultured… he took you out to the ballet, and you like him!”

“I don’t know,” you huff, disappointedly. “I just-, I think I got too caught up in my head. It’s like one minute I was really jazzed at the idea of being on a date, let alone a date with Luca, and the next I’m just… I don’t know… totally psyching myself out and pushing him away.”

“Merde,” she swears in French this time.

“Fuck,” you sigh, at least releasing a little of the pent up pressure you’ve been holding onto all day.

“Babe, I know that holding all of this,” she begins, gesturing wildly towards you, “gives you a certain edge in the kitchen… but I can’t imagine it’s good for you.”

You send her another look – one that says ‘fuck off because I know you’re right’ this time.

“I don’t know what to do, Mathilde,” you confess, your eyes pleading with her for some advice.

She turns to you, this time with a much more serious expression as she says, “Luca seems like a really great guy. Maybe you should just tell him all of this.”

You nod slowly as you process. It’s not that you haven’t thought about it – it’s not like it’s a new concept to you – you were married once, after all. But the idea of being vulnerable like that, showing someone new your whole hand feels really scary. You know it’s the thing you need to do; it’s the kindest, most honest option that you have – and you know that Luca deserves just that: kindness, transparency, the truth.

As you continue to think it over, the only words that come to you are:

“I told him that I wasn’t in love with him anymore – with Joe. When he asked.”

“Luca?”

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t a lie. Was it?” Mathilde questions you carefully.

You share your head, growing more and more certain in your answer.

“No, of course not. It’s not that. My hesitation has never been about Joe. It’s-, it’s about me…” you explain, finding the right words in the moment. “... about my heart.”

Mathilde places a gentle hand on your shoulder as you share a knowing look as she listens.

“What if I do this? I mean, what if I jump… and it’s a horrible mess… and I ruin a good thing with a really great guy because I’m not ready?” you ask, shining a light on your biggest fears.

She takes a beat, thinking it over, before crossing her arms over her chest, as the two of you stand side by side, leaning up against a stainless steel prep station.

“Then you do,” she answers, as if it were that simple. “And you figure out the rest. You’re only human after all.”

You chuckle, playfully rolling your eyes at Mathilde’s not-so-friendly reminder.

“Here’s an idea,” she starts back up again, catching your attention as you glance sideways to look at her. “What if you jump? And it’s the best thing you’ve ever done? What if it’s worth it?”

You take a deep breath, letting her words sink in, letting yourself feel the possibility that this could also be the best thing you’ve ever done too. But before you can say anything in response, Jesper comes back into the kitchen, calling for you.

“Hate to break up the slumber party, ladies, but can I borrow you for a moment, Chef?” he asks, making it clear that he’s talking to you. You and Mathilde exchange glances as Jesper nods through the open kitchen to where Luca waits for you in the dining room. You open your mouth to say something, but instead, you just nod, murmuring a ‘yeah, of course,’ quick to follow Jesper out of the kitchen.

It’s impeccable timing, really, you think to yourself, that you were just contemplating the possibility that this could be something you could do.

You could jump, you remind yourself, if you really wanted to.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper as soon as you see Luca.

“Hi,” he smiles warmly in return, causing Jesper to look from you to Luca, then back to you again.

“I’m just gonna-,” he starts, searching for an excuse.

Only, he doesn’t have one, so Jesper simply excuses himself before disappearing into the kitchen to find a place where he and Mathilde both can pretend to do something when really eavesdropping.

Jesper’s abrupt and clumsy exit seems some of the palpable tension, earring a laugh from both you and Luca.

“I thought-,” he begins as you simultaneously say, “I’ve been meaning to call-.”

“Sorry,” he says with an apologetic half smile.

“No I’m-. You go first,” you encourage, blushing on a little as the two of you clumsily dance around each other.

Luca takes a breath, reminding himself that it wouldn’t be this weird if there wasn’t something between the two of you – that he hasn’t been imagining this – not even a little bit.

“I hope that it’s okay. That I’m here,” he finally says, his voice steady and even.

“I-, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” you ask him, suddenly insecure about the fact that he felt he needed to ask in the first place.

“I just-, well I thought ehm, maybe you’d need some space. I didn’t want to ehm, you know… show up here if-, even though it’s Saturday because it is your place and I wouldn’t want-,” Luca tries to explain, stopping and starting again and again.

“Luca, no I-,” you say, before pausing, swearing to yourself under your breath as you mutter. “Shit. Fuck, I-. Goddamn, you really are fucking perfect.”

“What was that?” Luca asks, only catching the swearing part at the beginning and the ‘fucking perfect’ part at the end.

“Um…” you trail off, looking around you.

As you catch Jesper and Mathilde ducking behind a shelf out of the corner of your eye, and a few of your waitstaff hurrying to make it look like they’re busy and not listening in, you realize that you and Luca have managed to earn the attention of some very curious onlookers.

“Do you want to step outside for a moment?” you ask, gesturing towards the front door.

“Sure,” he nods, letting you lead him to a spot outside.

You make sure that you're both as out of sight as possible, staying far away from the broad windows that line the front of your restaurant.

“Hi,” you say again on an exhale.

“Hi,” he says back, simply.

“I’m glad you came. I know I-... I should’ve called, or- or texted you… after Thursday,” you begin, nervously, eager to own up to the very big part you’ve played in the lack of communication.

“Yes. You should’ve,” he repeats, his eyes catching yours as you nod in confirmation.

It’s good – that he’s not going to let you off the hook – and while you like it, you like that he has boundaries, you’re disappointed in yourself as you say:

“I’m sorry.”

Luca sighs, shaking his head as he immediately counters with:

“No, I’m sorry. I mean, yes, you should’ve called. Or at least texted. But I should’ve been clear in the first place that Thursday…” he trails off, almost as if he’s mustering up the courage to say what he needs to say.

“... that Thursday was more to me than our regular excursions. That it was a date. To me at least.”

“Luca-.”

“I wish I would’ve told you – made it clear in the first place – so you knew what you were getting into,” Luca finishes, carefully watching for your reaction. There’s something so honest in the way he goes about this conversation, and you sure as hell feel like you could take the proverbial jump right fucking now.

“I appreciate that. Really, I do…” you start, before trailing off again. “But I-. This isn’t on you, Luca.”

“How do you mean?” he asks you, his expressive brows knitted together, as if you’d just spoken in tongues.

Here goes nothing, you think to yourself.

“I-. This has been great. I mean… I really like spending time with you,” you start, anxiously, instantly realizing that it sounds like you’re breaking up with him. “Fuck, I-.”

You let out a frustrated groan as it seems you’re having an impossible time getting out what you need to get out. You take a breath. And a beat, before continuing.

“And I’ve really liked this… hanging out, getting to know you… borrowing your books. I-, I just… we’ve got such a good thing going and I really don’t want to fuck this up, you know?”

He sighs your name this time, looking down for a moment as you add:

“I’m-, I’m afraid that… I’m going to fuck this up.”

“Yeah. I know,” he answers, heavily. “I-, I am too.”

“And then Thursday night, things were so, so good, and I-, I panicked and I feel terrible because… you don’t deserve that. You don’t.”

Luca takes a beat as he listens. He’s not sure what exactly that means, but he reminds himself to stay on track, stay the course and make sure that he says what he came here to say to you.

“It’s alright,” he reassures you, softly, taking a step towards you. “I don’t want you to feel like… like you have to feel a certain way just because I-.”

“No, that’s not it! That’s not-, that’s really not the problem,” you interject as you struggle to explain yourself, unsure of where to even begin. You take a step towards him this time too, your voice softening as you continue. “Luca, I don’t feel obligated to feel… any kind of way just because you-.”

“Because I?” he questions you.

The silence his questions leaves goes on a few beats longer than you expected, and you realize that he’s waiting for you to fill in the blank.

“Well, I don’t know,” you pause, a shocked look on your face as one of you waits for the other.

“You didn’t-, I never let you finish your sentence so,” you ramble aimlessly, immediately bursting out into a fit of laughter as you realize that neither of you are getting anywhere.

Luca laughs too, joining in on the much needed reprieve.

The two of you exchange glances, and one more shared laugh, before settling in once again.

With a crooked smile spread across his lips, Luca can take a hint, realizing that he may need to take the lead on this one.

The way your name sounds on his lips is so heavenly, so divine, so soft that you know you’ve got it bad, as you scramble for a way to tell him everything that you’ve been feeling.

“May I?” he asks, in reference to taking the lead.

“Please.”

“I just came here to tell you… I want to tell you…” he corrects himself, taking a step towards you.

“... that I really like you. I really like spending time with you. I like that you get me out of the kitchen in search of something different. And I think that your mind, even though incredibly neurotic, is absolutely brilliant. And if what you need is for us to be friends right now, I want that. We can… slow all of this down. All you’ve got to do is talk to me.”

It feels like time fucking stops, and the world goes black and white for a moment, then full color all at once as you hear the words coming out of his mouth. Your revelation comes rushing in, clear as day – that this man cares so deeply for you and that maybe, your heart could be safe with him. Unsure of how to deal with the grace and compassion Luca is showing you, you’re only left with one question, as it falls from your lips like a boulder.

“How?”

“What?”

“How do you always have the right thing to say…” you ask him, your voice caught in your throat as you finish your question. “... when I only have the wrong things to say?”

Luca opens his mouth to say something you’ll never hear, as you choose to completely throw caution to the wind.

Perhaps the question was rhetorical anyways.

You’re not sure what’s coms over you, but instead of words, you only have actions left, and the only thing that will remedy the situation is to do the thing that you’ve been panicking over doing since Luca showed you into the pastry room at AOC. You charge forward, reaching out for him, and he’s right there with you, meeting you halfway as you eagerly press your lips to his.

You can feel all the blood in your body rush through you as your lips connect. Your heart flutters. Your head spins. It’s the kind of kiss that people write sonnets about – write love songs about. It’s almost three months of simmering tension, finally allowed to reach its boiling point. You pull away, just for a moment, uttering out a breathless:

“Holy shit.”

Luca laughs with a shake of his head as he agrees with a, “Yeah.”

You exchange a look, and a laugh, before kissing him again.

And this time the kiss is a hello, it’s a new beginning, it’s a ‘thank god I met you.’

This time, Luca pulls away, reluctantly releasing you as he does.

“It’s not that I don’t like this,” he begins, using all of his restraint to put this on pause. “I really, really do, but… I’m kind of getting mixed signals here.”

“No, no, I know,” you apologize, turning as you hear your name called, swearing under your breath again as soon as you see Mathilde peeking her head out of the front door.

“Oh… my God! I am so sorry, I’ll just-, except for we need you to-, she calls after you, stumbling over her words as soon as she realizes what’s going on between you and Luca.

“Nevermind it can wait!” Jesper exclaims, poking his head out of the front door as well, before dragging Mathilde back into the restaurant.

You and Luca exchange another laugh.

“They’re… something,” you chuckle, with a shake of your head.

“Good wingmen,” Luca adds, mirroring your previous exchange with his coworker.

Returning his focus to you, Luca shakes his head incredulously, considering this is not the way he thought this conversation would go. He grins as he takes you in, but knows that this is time limited. He’d noticed the curious staff of your restaurant that he’s come to know and love doing their best to pretend they weren’t listening in on your conversation earlier. They know exactly what’s going on here, so if they felt the need to interrupt, Luca knows that you’re most likely needed back in the kitchen.

He shifts his weight in between both of his feet, taking a small step back as he states:

“We’re gonna have to talk about this.”

“Yes,” you agree, your declaration certain.

“But right now you have to go,” Luca continues.

“Right now I have to go,” you echo as confirmation. “Later. I promise. We’ll talk. Tonight?”

“Yeah ehm. Not to be… presumptuous. But my place is closeby. We could… perhaps talk. Tonight. There?” Luca suggests, trying to downplay the fact that it sounds like he’s asking you to come over for a booty call.

It’s certainly not his intention, considering he’d just offered to slow things down, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it.

“Yeah. I’ll text you,” you agree, suddenly nervous again. “When I’m done here. If you’re still up.”

“It’s a date,” Luca agrees, deciding to move in towards you again.

You nod, taking another step towards him so that you can kiss him again.

“Oh, and Luca?”

He hums in response, his eyes flickering from yours to your lips because he really can’t wait to kiss you again either. .

“I should be-. I want to be clear,” you begin, deciding to be brave in this moment.

He raises an eyebrow.

“I really like you too,” you say, before standing tall on your tiptoes, and pulling him down to you for, this time, a see-you-later kiss.

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a/n: ummm hi how are we doing is everyone doing ok?!

#chef luca #will poulter #luca the bear #the bear season 2 #the bear headcanon #luca x reader #the bear hulu #the bear fx #the bear fanfiction #chef luca x reader #pastry chef luca #burn your life down

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