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watchmegetobsessed · 3 years

Text

ANOTHER TITLE

a/n: personally i’ve been waiting for this part to come since the beginning lmao, so here is the proposal finally!! it’s like so fluffy, almost disgustingly, but i just couldn’t help myself

pairing: Sebastian Stan X Reader

word count: 1.8k

This fic is part of the LITTLE ONE series, but can be read as a simple oneshot as well! Find the masterpost of the series HERE!

masterlist

(gif is not mine)

You’ve been eating like a hormonal teenage boy these past weeks and you know it needs to stop and held under control, but you just can’t help yourself. It’s like your stomach has become a black hole that needs to absorb any and every food that’s home, you’re constantly snacking beside the large portions you eat three times a day, there’s always something you’re craving, the shopping list on the fridge is changing every hour because you think of something else to eat.

Luckily, you haven’t gained that much weight besides the noticeable bump that’s your baby in your belly, seems like your little girl does need all the food and she uses it instead of letting it all get stuck on other parts of your body, so you’re fine for just now.

Sitting on the couch, watching some kind of soap opera, you’re snacking on an entire jar of Nutella this time, shamelessly stuffing your mouth with the sweet, thick stuff, pretty sure that nothing will be left of it by the end of the day. Sebastian is away again for his second filming that was scheduled even before you found out you were pregnant and he messed around with it a little, shortening it once again and you just visited him last weekend. Now that you are pushing the end of your second trimester, your bump is quite evident, not something you can hide easily, so when you showed up on set with your boyfriend, you didn’t even try to cover it up, knowing well someone would spot it sooner or later. However everyone on the team has been so respectful, keeping the news to themselves, because no headlines have been made about your pregnancy just yet, keeping the secret even longer. To be honest, you’re surprised it hasn’t been discovered sooner, you thoughr someone would catch you out and about and see right through your baggy clothes and sell the news to the tabloids, but now you are in the sixth month and no one knows a thing.

Your phone chimes next to you, a text from Seb and you hum to yourself happily, putting the jar aside to grab the phone and see what he wrote.

“How are my two favorite girls doing? Miss you a lot!”

He even attached a silly selfie of himself in hair and makeup, he looks adorable with the clips in his hair and some kind of patches under his eyes. Like a real beauty guru.

Grabbing the Nutella, you place it on top of your bump as you move the phone to a lower angle and take a selfie that makes your bump look even bigger, the jar on top and you grinning widely at the camera as you snap a picture and send it to him with your reply.

“Enjoying our third snack of the day at 11 am! Miss you too, can’t wait to see you next week!”

He reads the message right away, his reply coming just seconds later.

“Look at that bump! You look gorgeous, baby! Can’t wait to see you too, have fun with your sister today, love you lots Xx”

Since he has left you’ve been trying to keep yourself busy so you don’t miss him too much and you’re also using these weeks to spend as much time with your friends and family as possible, knowing well once the baby arrives you won’t be going out that much for a while, nestled up in your home, learning the ropes of being a mother. Today you are meeting up with your sister, she is taking you out to this alleged new, quite fancy restaurant you haven’t heard about before. She claimed that it’s really exclusive, so you don’t have to worry about being photographed or bothered, but she also told you to glam yourself up for the occasion. It’s gonna be some nice sister time, something you haven’t been able to do in a long time.

You take the assignment seriously, doing your hair and makeup the best you can and you decide to put on a flowy maxi dress with a soft, knitted cardigan, very much going for a kind of cottage core vibe. Leaving just in time you text your sister that you’re on your way, putting the address into the GPS and heading out of town, because the place is near the beach. She texts you back that she’ll meet you there and so your short little road trip begins. Sitting in the car you’re listening to one of the many playlists Sebastian has made for you and the baby, he likes to play them at home, humming the songs under his breath, hoping to start educating your little girl in the field of music as early as possible. You have to admit he has a good taste, so you don’t mind it at all.

As you follow the instructions of the GPS you find the place that’s supposed to be your destination, but it doesn’t seem like a restaurant at all, more like a mansion of some kind, a very expensive looking if you are being honest. There are no other cars, no sign of other people so as you park at the front you call your sister.

“Hey, I’m right outside, but I have a feeling I’m at the wrong place? It doesn’t look like a restaurant.”

“Oh, don’t worry! You’re at the right place! I’m a little late, but I’ll be there soon, just go inside, they are expecting us!” she assures you, but you’re still not convinced.

Ending the call you approach the entrance and for your surprise the heavy doors open before you could even knock or find the bell. A man in a tuxedo appears in front of you, smiling warmly at you.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

“Uh, yeah,” you nod, a little shy and confused.

“Please, follow me,” prompts as you walk inside and the two of you start crossing the grandiose hall of the building.

At this point you are sure it’s not a restaurant, but you have no idea why your sister wanted you to come here. You want to ask the man if you’re even at the right place, but he called you by your name so he was expecting you, this has to be the place where you’re supposed to be. More and more questions pile up in your head as you follow him out to the backyard, a gigantic, flower-filled garden that’s straight out of a fairytale, a path leading down to the beach where there’s a dreamy little pergola with even more flowers and fairy lights and as your eyes fall on the figure standing in the middle of the pergola, you immediately gasp.

Because surrounded with all the flowers and lights, there is Sebastian standing in an elegant suit, smiling widely at you as the man next to you helps you down the stairs before you start walking down the path to him.

Tears are flooding your eyes, because you already know what it is, but you can’t believe it’s really happening. He was so sneaky, he got home from filming earlier and even made your sister play along to surprise you, he is such a romantic soul, no one can change your mind about that!

“You’re not in Atlanta!” you tell him when he is finally close enough to hear you. He chuckles sweetly, taking a few steps forward to meet you sooner, his hands finding your waist as you cup his face in your hands, pulling him down to kiss you right away.

“No, I’m not, baby,” he smirks, his hands sliding to your belly, gently stroking the sides as you wipe your tears away, but there’s no use, because the next moment, he steps back a little, just enough so that he can get down on one knee and you’re crying again when you see him pull out a little velvety box from his pocket.

You were expecting it. You knew he would propose before the baby arrives, but you just didn’t know when and how, but he surely outdone himself with his little surprise.

“My Love, Y/N,” he starts after a deep breath, his hands finding yours and you can feel the shaking, but you’re not sure if it’s coming from yours or his. Probably both. “I’ve spent the best years of my life with you and I haven’t been the same man since the day I met you, but in the best way possible. You are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met and I’m so lucky that you did not only choose to be with me, but you are now carrying our baby under your heart as well, out little one who is equal parts of you and me, though you’re doing ninety percent of the job here,” he adds with a chuckle, making you laugh through your tears. “I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you the moment you were so badass on your first date, kissing me when I didn’t have the balls to do the first step, but I’m glad you did. I fell in love with you right then and there and the same thing has been happening every day, over and over again since then. I know we went a little out of order with everything we had planned,” he smirks, glancing down at your bump before his blue eyes find yours again, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, so I have a question for you.”

He pops the lid of the box open, a gorgeous, brilliant diamond ring coming to your vision, sparkling in the warm afternoon Sun so perfectly, it takes your breath away.

“Y/N Y/L/N, will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?” he asks, clearly nervous, even though there’s no doubt about your answer, you’ve told him plenty of times before that you want to marry him, but still, it’s a huge moment in both your lives.

“Yes, yes, yes!” you nod eagerly as you both start laughing in relief, his shaky fingers tagging the ring out of the box and sliding it to your finger gently, before he brings your hand to his mouth and kisses the ring.

Then he finally stands up and you basically throw yourself into his arms, kissing him like your life depends on it as he kisses you back with just as much force.

“I love you and I can’t wait to call you my wife,” he sighs pleased against your lips.

“Mm, another title in the line? Girlfriend, baby mama, fiancé and then wife,” you giggle giddily.

“You missed one,” he cocks an eyebrow at you slyly.

“Which one?”

“Love of my life.”

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed it!

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan fluff #sebastian stan blurb #sebastian stan oneshot #sebastian stan one shot #sebastian stan fiction #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader

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silhouetteofacedar · 3 years

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Pearl, Ch. 4: Sea Legs on 7th

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

It’s only a ten minute walk from the bureau to the courthouse, but Mulder is starting to regret not insisting they drive.

Scully’s having a rough day, if her sallow face and pursed lips are any indication. She’s uncomfortably quiet.

“You alright?” Mulder asks, hovering over her as they walk.

“M’fine,” she answers, because that’s all she ever says. “Just queasy today.”

“Let me know if you need to sit down for a minute,” he says, and she bristles.

“We have an appointment to make, Mulder,” she reminds him. “We’re almost there anyway.”

Mulder’s stomach is unsteady too; not from chemotherapy, but from nerves. They’re applying for their marriage license today.

It’s happening, it’s all happening, and all he can do is shorten his steps to match Scully’s pace as they walk. She senses this and starts walking faster in response. Scully has an incredible talent for pushing Mulder away in the smallest ways possible, telegraphing with her body that she doesn’t need his help or his pity or his accommodation.

And yet they’re heading to the DC Marriage Bureau. Funny, that.

Scully’s face is clammy by the time they enter the Moultrie Courthouse.

“Hey,” Mulder says softly, drawing her aside, “Scully, you don’t look too good.”

“Thanks,” she says stiffly, digging around in her purse and pressing a tissue to her lips.

“I mean… I-I think you should go home. We can do this another time.”

She shakes her head carefully, taking a deep breath. “We’d have to walk back to the office either way, Mulder. I’ll be fine. Do you have any gum or a mint, by the way? Something I can suck on. It… it helps with the nausea sometimes.”

Mulder rummages through his jacket pocket. “Just sunflower seeds,” he admits, “And… a nickel.”

Scully holds out a hand, and he places a few seeds into her palm.

“Thank you,” she says tightly, placing the seeds in her mouth.

In sickness and in health, Mulder thinks, giving her shoulder a squeeze. Her body feels rigid beneath his hand.

They file their license request without incident or fanfare, and Scully’s stride is clipped as they head back to the office.

Halfway up 7th Street, she stops walking abruptly and steadies herself with a hand against the rough brick of a building.

“Don’t ask me if I’m fine,” she whispers before he can say anything. “Just give me a moment.”

She takes a few slow, deep breaths. “Okay,” she says huskily.

“Shall we walk? If you need to lean on me, you can,” Mulder says gently.

“Despite how I feel right now, the world isn’t actually tilting sideways,” she replies. “I can walk on my own.”

He feels like a kicked puppy trailing after her, but dammit, she’s sick and being stubborn and his heart is turning to pulp beneath her low-heeled pumps and their names are next to each other on a piece of paper a quarter mile behind.

And Dana Scully, doctor and scientist and meticulous planner, manages make it all the way into the little basement bathroom before being sick.

Sometimes Mulder waits outside the restroom for her, to hand her a cup of water and make sure she’s alright; but today she’s spiky and tense and radiating that she doesn’t want him near. So he waits in their office, loitering by the filing cabinet, flicking through folders and pretending not to worry about her.

She walks into the room a few minutes later, and Mulder takes one look at her face before dropping the act.

“Scully,” he sighs. “Please. Go home.”

She looks up at him with watery eyes. “It’s just the chemo,” she rasps.

“Dana,” Mulder says, crossing the room and clasping her shoulders. “You need to rest. I can manage alone for the afternoon, I promise. You finished your report, our license application is in, things are stable.” He changes tack, infusing his words with forced levity. “Go sleep it off, have some tea, watch shitty TV. Play hooky for me, okay?”

She’s silent, then he feels her deflate under his palms. “Fine, I’ll go,” she says hoarsely. She clears her throat. “But I’m going make arrangements with an officiant when I get home, because-”

She abandons her sentence, and Mulder drops his hands to his sides. Because time is ticking, he thinks. He can read it on her wan, pinched face.

“I’ll stop in at a jewelry store on my way home, get us some rings,” he offers, wandering behind his desk and nudging his chair awkwardly with a knee.

Scully ducks her chin in an abridged nod. “I doubt we’ll have much need to wear them outside the ceremony, so they don’t have to be anything special. Plain bands are fine.”

Mulder nods. “I’m on it. What’s, uh, what's your ring size?”

She looks up at him, blinking. “I- I don’t know,” she admits. “I’ve never had occasion to find out.”

Mulder purses his lips in thought before leaning down and opening one of his desk draws. He digs through a clutter of office supplies before finding a ball of string. “C’mere,” he says, beckoning her over. “Give me your hand.”

She holds her left hand out, and he loops the end of the string around her ring finger, pinching the cord where it overlaps.

“Do me a favor and cut it right there,” he says.

She grabs a pair of scissors out of the pencil cup on the desk and snips the string, leaving him with a short piece the circumference of her finger.

“Good enough?” he asks.

“It’ll have to do,” she replies.

Mulder hadn’t put ‘shopping for wedding bands’ on his bingo card for 1997, and he’s admittedly out of his depth. The guy behind the counter at the little jewelry store on Prince Street in Alexandria isn’t helping his confidence.

“You want a wedding band?” he says, sizing Mulder up with a once-over. His eyes pause on Mulder’s tie for an uncomfortable two seconds too long, and his nostril flare with what could be disgust.

“Yeah, uh, one for me and one for my partner- fiancé,” Mulder stumbles, correcting himself unnecessarily. “Nothing flashy.”

Picking out his own ring is as easy as pointing at a plain gold band and slipping it on his finger. It fits well enough, and the jeweler packs it away into a tiny box.

Mulder feels somewhat ridiculous handing a jeweler a tiny piece of string and saying ‘this is how big my fiancé’s finger is’. The look the man gives him doesn’t ease the feeling.

“I can’t guarantee correct sizing with this,” the jeweler cautions, gingerly holding the string between two pinched fingers as though it’s a live, writhing worm.

Mulder shrugs. “I’m, uh, sorry, but that’s all I have to go on.”

The jeweler huffily wraps the string around a ring-sizing mandrel, and Mulder thinks he catches the man rolling his eyes. What a dick.

“Alright, so according to this highly sophisticated piece of string, she’s a size six,” the jeweler says flatly. “That’s the average size we carry for women. We can resize most ring styles for you later if it’s the wrong fit.”

“Right, thanks,” Mulder mumbles, scanning the glass case for a suitable ring.

His eyes wander over to slightly higher-end territory, and he immediately sees It.

It’s a simple ring, a thin gold band with a single pearl bracketed by a trio of tiny diamonds on each side.

He has a sudden vision of Scully tucking her hair behind one ear, wearing those delicate pearl stud earrings he secretly loves, and he feels a slosh behind his kneecaps at the image.

Fuck it. She deserves something pretty.

“I’d like that one,” Mulder says, pointing to the pearl ring in the case.

“That’s a promise ring,” the jeweler informs him. “A bit subdued for an engagement.”

“We’re a subdued couple,” Mulder replies, pulling out his wallet.

We.

Scully gave him no budget; and besides, this was his gift for her. That’s how tradition goes, right? Man buys woman ring. And from the sour look on the jeweler’s face, this ring isn’t even that expensive.

The man snaps the little velvet ring box shut and puts it into a crisp bag with the other box. “Will that be all?” he drones.

Mulder holds out his debit card. “I’ve done enough damage for one day.”

#my fic #pearl #msr #txf fic #xfiles #cancer arc #secret marriage #marriage of convenience #in which scully gets sick and mulder buys rings #tw nausea #check out my twitter if you wanna see The Ring #or maybe i'll post it here too

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yannasunflower · 7 years

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Concrete Flower ~ Chapter 2 am I stagnant or moving forward?

Sakura had already been awake for an hour when her alarm went off. She slammed her hand down on it, glaring at the red number that told her it was precisely eight in the morning. She had her first class at ten and she was going to need at least a half hour to find the damn classroom in the maze that was her school.

But first, she lay, staring at the pale sunlight filtering in through the blinds. Tiredness dragged at her bones, nearly convincing her to stay in bed until she died. Her bed was so warm, so comforting.

Groaning, she rolled herself out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of coffee and swallowing two mouthfuls, ignoring the way the hot liquid scorched her mouth and tongue. Without adding sugar or milk, she made her way to the shower, managing a half smile at the soft sounds of Ino's snoring. She reminded herself not to hum in the shower; waking Ino up sooner than she wanted to be awake was punishable by death. She was not eager to be on the receiving end of her wrath so early in the morning.

After her shower, she sipped at her coffee as she pulled shorts and a simple t-shirt on. She checked her reflection, frowning at the dark circles under her eyes before dabbing some concealer on. She didn't really want to look like a zombie the first day of school, after all.

Double checking that she had her keys, she shut the door behind her an hour later, cursing at how suddenly bright it was outside. The heat of the day was already settling in and she sighed at the prospect of another hot day. Making a mental note to remind Ino to keep the blinds closed, she started down the stairs, careful to avoid falling.

The walk to campus was pleasant enough. The sun was unforgiving on her head and she made a mental note to buy a hat some time that week to spare her poor scalp. She took sips of her cooling coffee, wrinkling her nose at the too-warm drink but still swallowing for the sake of the caffeine. Her sleep had been restless, disturbed all night by tossing and turning. The unfamiliar dark room and new sheets that didn't quite smell like anything yet seemed to be enough to throw off her sleep schedule. Before she knew it, her alarm was going off and she was forced to face her first day of classes.

Once on campus, she hurried to find her class, trying to adopt a somehow nonchalant fast-walk and also attempting to not look like the clueless first year that she really was. Achieving these two things at once turned out to be impossible. Finally, with only 15 minutes to spare until her class, she gave it up and asked a passerby for directions. The girl was friendly enough, pointing out the building – one she had passed three times, of course – and warning her that the stairs in that building were particularly small.

Sakura released a breath of relief when the air conditioning swept over her in the hall. She jogged down a few twisting hallways, thanking the signs that told her which classrooms were down which halls, and nearly wept with relief when she saw her room's numbers.

She was still ten minutes early, so she dropped into an empty seat near the front and took a few minutes to cool down and sip at her water. The lecture room was somehow even cooler than the hall just outside. Soon enough, she had goosebumps, and she thanked Deidara for the tip he'd given her at the karaoke bar.

"Bring a sweater to your classes. Professors like to keep the rooms cold enough to freeze you, yeah. No joke."

She'd been skeptical, considering how hot it was outside and Deidara's apparent penchant for drama, but had grabbed a light sweater on her way out that morning nonetheless. Turns out, Deidara had been right. She made a mental note to thank him as she shrugged the sweater on.

Sakura pulled out her notebook and pen, finally glancing around at her peers as the hall began to fill more steadily. Most had computers out while others fiddled with their phones or just stared ahead blankly. Eyeing the computers, Sakura wondered if they were a better alternative to her own note-taking strategy. She had a laptop back in her apartment and no doubt typing out notes on a computer was quicker, but she learned better when she physically wrote things down. She was also nervous to lug her computer around with her on campus all day. Humming to herself, she began formatting her notes, folding the paper carefully as she kept an eye on the time.

Ten minutes after their class' start time, the professor still hadn't shown up. Sakura shifted in her seat uncomfortably, the restless whispers of the other students growing louder every minute that went by. She was slightly annoyed by her own panic earlier; what was the point of being so early when the professor themselves was going to be late?

Finally, nearly fifteen minutes into the class, their professor strode in. He was a tall man with grey hair that contrasted with his relatively youthful face. Well, it looked youthful from what she could see, anyway. He wore a mask that covered most of it, strangely enough. He took a moment to set up his own battered laptop and begin projecting a rather basic PowerPoint on the white screen before he turned to face them.

"I am Professor Hatake. Please, call me Kakashi. If you have any questions about due dates, test dates, projects, or what have you, consult the syllabus. If you have any questions regarding my policies on late work, consult the syllabus. If you have any questions regarding my policies on missed lectures, consult the syllabus. If, for some reason, you are not intelligent enough to comprehend my simple syllabus, you may go to your TA with these questions. Do not bother me with them, I will ignore the e-mail and I will ignore you."

He smiled at them and Sakura felt the bizarre need to laugh. His voice was clear despite the mask covering his mouth and acting as a barricade between it and the small microphone he had clipped to his shirt.

"This is a relatively simple class. Read the text, attend the lectures," he emphasized, narrowing his eyes. There were a few giggles that faded quickly as he continued.

"You get out what you put in. Now, let's begin."

And so, university began.

Sakura had been warned that professors in university were unlike high school teachers. They didn't care. They were a no-nonsense, strict lot that weren't going to hold anyone's hand and were definitely not going to make things any easier. She realized that everyone who had told her this, was absolutely right.

Her math teacher was a great bear of a man, with a mane of white hair and broad shoulders.

"Do not come to me for questions unless you've tried every other option," he warned. He had told the class to call him Jiraiya and was giving them a summary of his syllabus. Sakura was quickly coming to learn that professors really loved their syllabus.

"This is university. Which means it's time for you guys to start figuring shit out."

She'd smiled nervously at the small joke. Because she had a feeling it was going to be reality sooner rather than later.

She learned later, in her last lecture for the day, that her professors thus far had been angels compared to what lie ahead for her. While Kakashi and Jiraiya were stern, they had also cracked jokes and helped put their students at ease.

"You first year is a confusing time," Jiraiya had informed them with a grim smile.

"But if you work hard, you'll become a better person from it."

Sakura's chemistry professor, on the other hand, was a demon woman.

When she had swept into the lecture hall, hazel eyes hard and red mouth pursed into a straight line, the class fell silent immediately. Sakura instinctively sat up a little straighter, never taking her eyes off the woman as she began speaking.

"I am Doctor Tsunade. That is how you will refer to me. Not Professor, not Miss Tsunade, and no, I do not accept Doc either. You will call me Doctor or Doctor Tsunade."

She paused, surveying the silent, breathless class for a moment before she continued. Sakura had looked her up, of course. Tsunade was a legend on campus and in hospitals. A renowned cardiac surgeon, she had been the first female Chief of Surgery in the biggest hospital in Japan; her teaching was a side job and somehow the woman still managed to publish research after research every year. Students came from all over the world to learn under her. Sakura had been surprised to see her teaching a first year class, but alumni on the forum Sakura had scrolled through had warned she did it for the sole purpose of cutting down numbers. Tsunade was known for weeding out the weak and she started with first years, the easiest prey on campus.

"Every year, I look for students with potential. Most years, I am disappointed. If I come to remember your name by the end of the semester, you can consider yourself a student with rare potential. If I request you to be put in all my classes by the end of the second semester, your peers can look to you as a rival. And if I personally extend an invitation for you to be one of my TA's by the end of your third year, your peers will see you as a god."

Sakura felt her chest tighten, her breath shorten. Fantasies of her, in a white coat, learning from this legend, being acknowledged by her, filled her head. She nearly didn't catch Tsunade's next words.

"The number of students this has happened to is precisely one," Tsunade said with a feral smile. Her bared teeth glinted in the light. A hunter who knew exactly how to discourage her prey. A collective breath was released by the class and students looked at each other, bewildered, fearful.

"My classes are difficult. Do not email me for faster grading, I barely have time to eat. You brats are my lowest priority class. You're first years, nobodies. The upperclassmen will eat you alive at the first hint of weakness. I will eat you alive. The medical field is for the strongest of the strong, for the ambitious, the smartest, the best. I will not go easy on you because this is your first year of university. I will not go easy on you because you are young. My classes are difficult and it is because they are difficult that your potential, or lack thereof, will be exposed. If you have the determination, my classes will challenge you, they will help you grow, flourish."

Sakura was leaning forward in her seat, mouth slightly open. She could almost eat Tsunade's words, could taste them on her tongue. The woman looked around slowly, eyes hovering ever so briefly on Sakura's face before they moved on.

"Welcome to your life. Do not disappoint me. The lecture will begin now."

Sakura sat on a bench, filling out her planner carefully, triple checking the four syllabus papers spread across the bench next to her to make sure she had the dates correct. She only had one project that semester, thank whatever gods existed, but she had a crowded schedule of tests and assignments due to make up for it. Her eyes scanned over the required readings, face paling as she mentally calculated just how much she would be reading every week.

"I'm gonna die," she muttered to herself, checking the time on her phone as she closed her planner. Tsunade's class especially had the equivalent of about a book a week, and the readings increased in quantity as the semester went on.

Sakura would be drinking a lot of coffee.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Ino.

school is hard and unfair!

Sakura snorted softly as she typed her message back.

It's only the first day, Ino-pig.

Her phone buzzed again, but this time with a text from an unknown number.

Art club is TODAY in just 20 MINUTES can't wait for you to meet everyone!

The text was ended with a superfluous amount of emojis and it wasn't very hard for Sakura to guess who the sender was.

She mulled over her possible responses for a moment before sending back a simple text.

Already on my way.

Finding the building and room for art club was somehow easier than for her classes. Of course, Deidara had given her very specific directions and had even drawn her a map the night before on a napkin in that karaoke bar. The building was a little smaller than the others, slightly more run down. The paint on the walls was peeling in some places and there were cobwebs in the corners. The lights were dimmer and the AC didn't seem to work quite as well.

Sakura peeked into other classrooms, seeing what looked like Dance Club practicing in one room and half-erased history notes in another. She guessed this building was where most of the clubs gathered and the classes that weren't sciences or business were held. She wondered briefly at the more run down state of it before realizing she had almost walked past her door.

As she reached out to push it open, it flew open with a bang and Deidara's face was suddenly beaming down at her, blue eyes wide and sparkling.

"You made it, yeah! Did you find it okay?"

Before she could reply, he had whisked her into the classroom, shoving her to the center of the room and throwing his arms out in front of him, fingers spread to gesture to her.

"Everyone, welcome Sakura," he declared triumphantly.

Sakura managed to wave, too dazed to really absorb anyone's greeting.

"Deidara, you go overboard," a deep voice murmured from the door. Sakura turned her head to see Itachi Uchiha lounging in the doorway, shoulder pressed to the frame in a strangely elegant pose. Anyone else would look lazy; the elder Uchiha made it look fashionable.

"Silence, Uchiha," Deidara growled, hands on Sakura's shoulders. "I'm excited and I want everyone to welcome her warmly!"

Sakura frowned at Itachi, confused by his presence. He paid no heed to her, instead choosing to bicker with Deidara quietly as the other club members began to step forward to introduce themselves.

A girl stepped forward first, blood red hair strangely familiar though Sakura couldn't quite place it. Her unvoiced question, however, was answered merely seconds later.

"I'm Uzumaki Karin," she introduced herself, in a much quieter tone than Deidara. Her red glasses glinted in the light. "Welcome to Art Club."

"Uzumaki?" Sakura blurted. Horrified by her lack of manners and tact, she covered her mouth with her hands, green eyes wide.

"I'm guessing you know my idiot cousin?" Karin replied smoothly, paying no heed to Sakura's awkwardness. "Yellow hair and a big, loud mouth?"

"That's the one," Sakura sighed with a roll of her eyes.

"An unfortunate relation," Karin sniffed.

Sakura narrowed her eyes. Karin's chin was lifted, her eyes sharp behind their glasses, thin mouth drawn into a straight line. Her hands were behind her back and she regarded Sakura coolly, eyes dragging up and down Sakura's body until they finally came to rest at her face, no difference in their warmth.

"I'm Vice President," she informed her seriously.

Sakura nodded.

"Thank you," she murmured.

The others introduced themselves, their names and faces blurring by Sakura until nobody was left. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief as the introductions ended and she was allowed to take her seat at last. Itachi settled next to her and she focused on not breathing in too deeply; his cologne or body wash or whatever it was smelled way too good. It was unfair, really. She just wanted to bury her nose in his shirt and inhale.

She flushed, embarrassed by her train of thoughts, attempting to focus on Deidara's speech instead.

"New year, great change!" he claimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he did. "You'll observe that Itachi has chosen to grace us with his presence once more; he's just here to observe so if you have any questions, bring them to me."

Sakura turned questioning eyes on Itachi, who smiled effortlessly at her.

"Deidara asks Kisame and I to pose for them sometimes," he informed her, lacing his fingers together and bringing them to the back of his head before leaning back in his chair. Every movement he made was completely unfair, graceful and poised and much too perfect. Sakura felt herself bristle at it, instinctively shying from it.

"I see," she replied curtly. She turned her head back to Deidara, who was writing that day's inspiration on the board. It was a simple word, one that made her stomach churn uncomfortably.

Love.

"I thought I'd start with something easy this year," Deidara said cheerily, placing his marker down and turning to beam at them.

Easy? Sakura thought, feeling her hands begin to shake and her skin grow clammy.

What the hell did she have to draw about this? Love was foreign to her; any love that didn't include her mother or her friends was practically nonexistent to her. She couldn't have identified romance if it smacked her in the face, something that Ino teased her for mercilessly.

While she panicked, Itachi glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, noting her suddenly pale complexion.

He opened his mouth to say something, interrupted instead by Deidara, who appeared out of nowhere and placed a hand on Sakura's shoulder, somehow understanding her need for comfort.

"Love comes in many forms, yeah?" he said with a smile. "Think about what it is to you."

Sakura breathed through her nose, accepting the plain paper and simple pencil from Deidara. She'd nearly forgotten that she'd joined to improve her sketching skills – and to appease Ino. She thought carefully for a few minutes, hands hovering over the paper, tracing imaginary shapes, filling in colors only she could see. Finally, she set the pencil to the paper, beginning her sketch carefully, breathless.

She was unaware of a certain Uchiha's dark eyes on her as she worked, seemingly emotionless even as they watched her intently, not missing a single movement. For lack of something better to do, he observed her, interest piqued by her friendship with his brother and apparent lack of attraction to him – an odd occurrence. He wasn't the boastful type but it was simply a fact: women tended to be attracted to him. Itachi's eyes traced the way her hair fell behind her ear, pink and soft-looking, draped over her shoulder and spilling down her back. Her pale, long legs swung restlessly beneath the table as she worked, mouth moving as she drew, pulling into a concentrated frown or frustrated purse of the lips. Her hands moved slowly but steadily, carefully outlining what looked like a loaf of bread to him. Her fingers were long and slender, grasping the pencil gently and she hummed to herself quietly after a short while. Itachi couldn't tear his eyes away from her.

Years later, he would tell people, This is when I fell in love.

Because he did, in that moment. Watching her hands move and her face contort and her body quietly adjust to her mental rhythm, he fell in love.

Sakura remained blissfully unaware, however. She was focused solely on her drawing, suppressing her mounting frustration with it. It was so average, so plain and simple. But it was all she had so she kept working, trying not to growl as she did so.

Half an hour later she leaned back, frowning. It looked off to her and she had no idea why. She wiped at the smudges on her fingers absently, chewing on her lower lip. Deidara appeared in front of her, fingers tracing her drawing as she stretched, taking distant notice of the fact Itachi had not moved from his spot beside her. He didn't look the least inclined to relocate either. Sakura ran a hand through her hair, huffing. She hated being watched as she worked.

"Why the bread?" Deidara asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"My mom's a baker," she explained after a beat. For a moment, she had forgotten why she'd chosen to draw what she had. "Whenever I had a bad day or for my birthdays, she'd make me a loaf of this nut bread I really liked. It always made me feel…happy."

Her words were halting, tongue stuttering over them. Her hands flapped uselessly in front of her as she attempted to explain without really explaining. How could he understand that the bread was merely a small apology, a gentle reminder that her mother loved her, despite the past? How could she describe the way her chest tightened when she ate it, the way it turned to ash in her mouth as she consumed the whole loaf, thanking her mother as she did so? How could she tell him all this and then say, "I stopped liking this bread when I was nine years old." It didn't make any sense, not even to her. But every year she ate it and hugged her mother and loved her tired, weary mother. And every year she told her she couldn't wait to eat it again.

This, she thought, was love. Silent apologies and nearly invisible sacrifices. All things small and quiet and unheard.

Itachi watched her, eyes and face as immovable as ever. Irrationally, Sakura wanted to throw cold water on him, if only to see some kind of change of expression in him.

The exact opposite of Deidara, who was now looking over her work with a critical, expressive eye. The hand that was not tracing her drawing was twisted in his long blonde hair, twirling the ends as he frowned at the drawing.

"Your shadowing," he suddenly said, using one long finger to gesture to the corner of her drawing. "It's off; with a pencil, you don't need to apply a lot of pressure. Let me show you."

He began to draw on his own blank page, explaining all of his steps as he went, eager to teach to an equally eager student. Sakura leaned forward to watch, forgetting Itachi's existence as her entire world became made of art.

When the clock turned four, Sakura rubbed at her eyes wearily. The page in front of her had begun to blur. She couldn't remember the last time she had focused so intently for so long on her drawing. It was Deidara's fault, really. He had essentially rambled the hour away, giving her an entire lecture and completely adjusting her original sketch. Sakura clutched it desperately as she moved to put it in her backpack. It had come out half-decent for once. Her mother's hands still weren't quite right and the bread's proportions were off. But it was a start.

Next to her, Itachi cleared his throat, gently. She stopped herself from gasping, having entirely forgotten he was there.

"You live in the same building as Sasuke, right? Is it alright if I walk with you? I have something I need to drop off to him."

Sakura nodded numbly, shoving her planner into her backpack and standing unsteadily. She tried to ignore the insinuation that he had asked where she lived, that he had thought about her outside their one interaction. Sakura waved a quick goodbye to Deidara, who flashed her a brilliant smile, and she started her trek home. Stepping outside, she was grateful the day was staring to cool down, even marginally. She had drank all her water and wasn't keen on trying not to pass out from heat stroke in front of Uchiha Itachi.

"How'd the first day go?" Itachi asked as they started walking. His hands were tucked into his jeans' pockets, and he walked easily, lightly almost but surely. After failing at coming up with different synonyms for how he walked, she realized he was actually waiting for an answer.

"Oh, um, good. I think," she stammered, cheeks flushing. "I have Tsunade for chemistry so we'll see how that goes."

Itachi let out a low whistle.

"I knew someone my first year who had her class. It was brutal. I think they were close to being hospitalized during finals," he admitted. He ran a hand through his stupidly perfect hair, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Sakura swallowed, forcing herself to turn and not think about his mouth.

"Yeah, she has that reputation," Sakura muttered. Her stomach churned at the thought of the amount of work she would be given. The image of the six page syllabus was burned into her brain, haunting her.

"Good luck," Itachi said. It was genuine, accompanied with a gentle yet real smile and Sakura couldn't help but smile back.

"Thank you," she replied simply.

Their walk was quiet and uneventful, save for their hands bumping together and Sakura awkwardly stuttering about a million apologies. She was gratified to see the tips of Itachi's ears were pink, at least, as he struggled to assure her it was fine.

When they got to her building, she started up the stairs, praying she wouldn't start panting halfway up. They got to the second floor no problem, Sakura sweating minimally and uttering a thousand silent thanks for it.

"Sasuke's is the fourth door down to the left," she informed him, using an arm to point. "I'm a floor above so this is where I leave you."

"Thank you," Itachi answered distractedly. He started down the hall, turning to wave at her.

"I'll see you next week," he called.

Her brow furrowed in confusion and he mimed painting. She laughed suddenly, surprised by the sound even as it escaped her. Art Club. Of course.

"See you," she replied, giving him a small wave and even smaller smile in return.

She started up the rest of the stairs to her floor, feeling somehow lighter than before.

Ino had always had a certain penchant for drama and gossip. Even so, Sakura was unprepared for the rather intense interest Ino attached to her dealings with the elder Uchiha.

"Think about it Sakura!" Ino cried, arms waving emphatically over her head. She was on the floor in front of the couch, the bottle of sake resting on the table. Sakura regarded her from the couch, legs tucked beneath her, waiting patiently for Ino's next stroke of genius. Her cheeks were rosy, probably having to do with the sake she had downed, a precious commodity swiped from her father's liquor cabinet.

"Why would he keep going to Art Club if he isn't even interested in drawing? He's not one to be self-absorbed with his looks, so he can't be constantly modeling. He can't draw, he's busy but still makes time for a useless club," Ino listed the rationale, ticking them off on her fingers as she went. Her voice grew louder with each point, teal eyes wide.

"He's interested in you!" Ino finally concluded with a wave of her hand. "That's gotta be it."

Sakura was shaking her head before Ino even finished her sentence.

"No way, Ino-pig, you're blowing this completely out of proportion," she argued, throwing back another shot of the sake.

"For all we know, it could just be a favor to Deidara or something. Chances are after next week, he'll stop coming," she reasoned. She was sure her words were a little slurred but she didn't care. Itachi had left her shaken and her classes had left her stressed to the point of tears. She avoided her mother's phone calls, choosing instead to drink with Ino and rant. Somehow, the conversation had taken a rather unexpected left turn and Sakura tried desperately to veer it back on track.

"Tsunade is a devil lady," Sakura growled into her cup. Ino burst out laughing.

"Does she have horns?" Ino asked with a hiccup.

Sakura laughed at the image.

"No, but she should," she replied grandly, arms outstretched. "She should be queen of the demons!"

Her declaration was met with peals of laughter from Ino. Sakura giggled with her, both of them starting at a knock at the door.

"Who is that?" Sakura mumbled, staggering to the door. Nothing like standing to make her realize just how drunk she was.

Peering out the small hole, she recognized Naruto and Sasuke, both looking absolutely murderous. Sakura sighed. Those two would really kill her one day.

After some fumbling, she managed to open the door, waving them in quickly.

"Come, come," she slurred. "Join our future failures club."

"Not the right name," Ino frowned. Sakura just blinked at her.

"The hell is the right name then?"

"You're drunk," Sasuke stated bluntly. Naruto looked on the verge of just about dying from laughter.

"Yes, and you're observant Sasuke-kun," Sakura answered petulantly, drawing out the last part of his abhorred nickname. She enjoyed the way his lips twisted into an expression of disdain, his eyes narrowing.

Naruto sat beside Ino, helping himself to the sake. Sakura sat as well, gesturing to Sasuke to join them. She took another drink, enjoying the burning that made its way through her stomach, right down to her toes. She relished in the fuzziness, in the way her problems seemed so far away just then. What were essays and tests? Who was Tsunade? What did it matter?

She could understand how alcohol made people want to throw their lives away. She wanted to throw her life away. What life was it, anyway?

"A good one," Sasuke said bluntly. Sakura realized belatedly she had said something out loud, though she wasn't sure exactly. Ino lay down, stretching out on the floor and moaning.

"Please, don't give me an existential crisis," she whined. "I'm too drunk for this."

"I'm just saying. You're in school, you have a future, you have a good life," Sasuke defended himself, swiping the bottle to take a drink himself.

Sakura regarded her mug, frowning, inhaling the smell of alcohol and Ino's perfume.

"Bullshit," she finally muttered.

"What?"

"I said," she repeated, enunciating the words clearly. "That's bullshit."

She was met with two blank stares and one confused one in Naruto's case. She continued, grabbing the bottle from Sasuke as she did.

"Achievements don't constitute a good life," she clarified.

"What does?" Sasuke challenged. She snorted, waving her hand in his direction.

"Depends on you," she replied.

"Cop out," Ino sniffed. Sakura glared at her, drinking more. It was growing harder to focus and she struggled to keep talking somewhat coherently.

"It does," she argued. "Think about it. For us, living a good life might be going to college and getting a good job and getting married. For others, it's about having kids. Or traveling the world. Or helping people, I don't know, normal shit you know?"

She never cursed unless she was drunk, and she was definitely drunk. Nonetheless, she plowed forward, enjoying the full attention her friends were giving her.

"But it's not always about achievements or what have you. You need," she floundered for a word helplessly, arms waving emphatically.

"Substance," she finally called out, smiling at her triumph. "Trophies and medals aren't substantial."

"What is?" Naruto asked, face beginning to color as the alcohol settled in.

Sakura took a moment to consider his question, pouring herself another drink as she did so, avoiding Sasuke's dirty look that clearly told her she'd drank enough.

"Tell me when you figure it out," she finally said, swirling the liquid in her cup. Suddenly, she didn't fell much like drinking.

"Because I have no clue."

#yanna speaks #text #naruto #my writing #itasaku #fanfic #concrete flower #chapter 2 #pls let me know what you think!!

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theindifferentdroid · 7 years

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A Captain and a General [Phasma x fem!reader]

Summary: An early morning encounter with Captain Phasma has you suspicious about her intentions with you.

A/N: This is a fic pairing Captain Phasma with a female reader. This is my first time trying out this pairing, so please let me know how it is, or if there’s anything else I should do differently in the future.

Word count: 2,000+

Captain Phasma's regimented schedule had her up before the rest of the base. Her everyday ritual had her awake promptly at 4am when she began to ready herself, getting dressed and musing over the day's work. She enjoyed the quiet and not having to hear the bustle of the others on the ship moving around. If she was running early, she'd even disassemble and reassemble her blaster, just for practice.

Polishing her helmet, her head snapped towards the door, her blonde hair falling into her face. Footsteps. She heard footsteps in the hallway at this ungodly hour. She placed her helmet down and swept her hair behind her ear as she approached the door, leaning over to shorten herself and look through the peephole.

She waited as the noise got closer, impatiently anticipating the figure whose boots were echoing down the hall.

As the image came into view, Phasma held her breath. "Y/N," she whispered as she stood up to collect herself.

Her thoughts raced quickly. The first time she saw you from across the mess hall, she knew you were different. She knew you were like her. Ever since then she had always tried to catch glimpses of you wherever she could. Eventually, the two of you had interacted every so often, relaying plans and bits of information the higher your rank became. She admired your professionalism that had mirrored her own, but always noticed how friendly you were with her, opposed to others on the ship. How quickly you had risen though the ranks had only further piqued her interests.

Just the other day, Phasma had managed to make you laugh after she felt confident enough to make a joke in your presence. She was thankful for the helmet that day, relieved you couldn't see how flush she had become. As much as it went against everything she knew, she wanted more than a formal, professional relationship. And she swore you did too. Now was her chance.

Your heavy footsteps echoed through the sleek, empty hallway. It was early, but you were wide awake and ready for the day. It was your first day at your new position – General. Stars, you loved how it sounded. You had been generously granted the position after your predecessor had, frankly, made a few missteps.

And this promotion came with the obvious perks, but you were keen on the one you could flaunt immediately. You had a brand new uniform. The charcoal color was much more flattering on you than your old, teal uniform had been. And the boots. Your old ones had become worn down, and you hadn’t bothered to trade them out. But if these new ones weren’t the best. In combination with the new pants, they made your ass look great. As the boots clipped along the hallway, you felt in charge. Powerful. You walked rhythmically, your chin raised slightly and your hands clasped behind your back.

A door down the hallway behind you swished open and slammed shut, rather quickly, interrupting your peaceful train of though. You rolled your eyes. You were not prepared to deal with anyone just yet this morning.

Continuing to walk down the hallway, you suddenly heard footsteps synching with yours, not getting any quieter. You decided to slow down, the second set of footsteps mimicking your pace yet again.

You sighed, growing agitated, and stopped in the middle of the otherwise deserted hallway. The footsteps proceeded briefly, then stopped.

Now, there was a looming presence towering behind you, and you could only imagine it to be one of two people on the ship.

“Can I help –,” you began, interrupted by your hat being knocked off of your head. A groan escaped your lips, whether you meant it to or not. The morning had been going so smoothly until this point, and you would make sure someone would pay for this.

As you bent over to pick up your hat, a loose strand of hair fell into your face. You had worked so hard on your hair this morning, making sure it was in the perfect bun, sleek and straight. You had to look perfect. You were a General now – a General. Frustrated did not begin to explain how you felt now. You took one last deep breath before turning to face the unlucky individual who had dared to cross your path.

Immediately you felt your face flush and raised your hand in an attempt to wipe the embarrassment away. The mirrored chrome figure towered over you. Your heart fluttered, then sank. This was not the Commander, as you had originally suspected.

“Nice hat,” the accented, metallic voice stated. The voice modulator tried its best to translate the chuckle that followed.

You straightened your posture, as if to make up for your shortened stature. “Captain, that was incredibly inappropriate,” you retorted, pursing your lips to hold back a smile.

Captain Phasma’s shoulders dropped and her features twisted under her mask. This wasn't the friendly woman she had recently grown to like, the person she finally convinced herself to flirt with now.

The two of you stood there quietly as seconds passed, the hallway eerily quiet. “I – my apologies, Y/N.”

“It’s General, now, Captain,” you simply stated back. You bit the inside of your cheek, wanting to take back your words. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to freshen up.” You dramatically gestured with your hat, nearly cringing at how you had become so stern in your nervous state. You needed to bail. And quickly.

As you turned on your heel to leave, Phasma's gloved hand grabbed your shoulder. Her touch made your heart sink again.

Phasma removed her hand as soon as she saw your eyes looking for hers in her visor. She couldn't quite read your expression, but she wouldn't give up now. She pointed behind her and down the hallway. “Follow me.”

As much as you knew you should protest, you didn’t, and once she turned her back to walk down the hallway, you finally smiled.

Her body, as tall and broad as it appeared in the armor, seemingly floated down the hall. You weren't sure you had ever recognized how gracefully she moved before.

She stopped suddenly and turned around to face you. As she removed her helmet, her short white hair flowed down around her face. Finally, you got to look into those deep blue-gray eyes. You had only seen her once before without her helmet – in the training room showers, where you had obviously avoided any form of eye contact. And it surprised you how easily she removed her helmet in your presence now. You began to understand what was happening, and you weren't sure how to feel about it.

Phasma was flirting with you.

She punched in a code to the room and opened the door before you realized where you were.

“Excuse me, Captain. Your quarters?”

Phasma entered her room and placed her helmet on her desk, while you shyly stayed out in the hall, frozen from your recent revelation.

“You needed to freshen up, no?” She seemed so casual, comfortable. You envied her.

You took in a shaky breath and looked each way down the hall, confirming it was still deserted. Looking back into Phasma's room, your eyes met. She lightly smiled and waved her arm to invite you in.

"I suppose."

She closed the door behind you as you stepped in. The distance between the two of you was almost nonexistent, her having situated herself between you and the door. She pointed over your shoulder, her shiny arm passing right by your face.

"Bathroom is in the back." You both knew where the bathroom was, the living quarters on the ship all having the same layout. But Phasma couldn't help nearly putting her arm around you.

You moved quickly to the bathroom, not wanting to overstay your welcome, and also not wanting her to see the way your cheeks were blushing. You closed the door behind you when you realized she had been following you. You needed a moment. Or two.

You let out a deep sigh as your back slammed against the door. The metal was frigid against your back, even through your uniform shirt. Taking a few more deep breaths, you tried to calm yourself. How had you become so flustered so quickly? It had been ages since you felt this way about anyone. Surely no one on the base had ever given you this much trouble. Until recently, you hadn't even paid much attention to the Captain, but you had begun to be increasingly more friendly with her as of late, and she with you. Maybe it wasn't just female camaraderie driving this relationship. The thought of mutual attraction made you panic even more.

You distracted yourself with fixing your hair, replacing your hat to its rightful place and pinning the loose ends underneath, making sure your bun was secure. The reflection in the mirror looked terrified, so you forced yourself to soften your features and look amicable, having recalled your rather harsh behavior in the hallway minutes ago. Even under your makeup, your face was still beet red, and you exited the bathroom against your better judgment.

Phasma was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed above her chest, but you walked right past her not being able to face her and headed for the door.

"Y/N," Phasma called out.

You turned to face her, the heat building up in your cheeks again. You much preferred the sound of her voice saying your name, regretting correcting her earlier. You knew Phasma was too intelligent to have forgotten your rank already. No, this was personal.

You raised your eyebrows waiting for what she had to say, feigning disinterest, but knowing your complexion was likely betraying you.

She approached you, stopping a few feet away. "I would quite like it if you accompanied me to dinner tonight."

Your lips parted as your mouth fell open.

"Are you asking me on a date, Captain?" You tried to maintain a professional conversation, but you felt the corner of your lips upturn. You couldn't hide it anymore.

"If it's alright with you, then yes, I believe I am."

The two of you stood in silence so quiet you wondered if she could hear your heart beating out of your chest.

"I'd like that," you managed to say with a shaky voice.

Phasma beamed, her pearly smile lighting up her face.

You looked down quickly, distracting yourself with your new boots. "I should go now." You turned towards the door. "Thanks for the hospitality."

Phasma hurriedly ran past you to open the door. She tried to make a straight face, but the smile crept back. "My pleasure." She gave you one last smirk before replacing her helmet. Even with her face obscured, she still appeared giddy. Your heart skipped a beat knowing you were the reason she was like that.

As the door opened, a pair of troopers passed, and you froze where you stood. Sensing your nervousness, she gently nudged you into the hall and quickly shut the door behind the two of you. Her masked head gave you a nod, then she proceeded down the hall opposite the troopers as if nothing had happened.

You mindlessly followed the troopers the opposite way, trying to determine what had just happened. You had a date. With Captain Phasma. Your confident demeanor had diminished almost instantly; she had reduced you to a bundle of nerves. Your boots drug along the hallway, unsure of how you were even walking at this point.

“A word, General?” Phasma questioned. She spoke up from a length down the hall, as if she hadn't just spoken to you.

What could she have forgotten? you thought.

You stopped and turned your head to the side, body still facing down the hall, trying your best to be casual, unsure if you could even look at her again just yet. “Yes, Captain?”

Out of the corner of your eye, the blurry silver figure approached. Phasma paused and removed her helmet swiftly, the troopers having safely turned the corner out of sight. You stood still.

You felt warm breath on your neck. “Your ass looks great, by the way.”

A shiver went down your spine as you stood up straight and closed your eyes.

Phasma flipped her hair before replacing her helmet. “General.” You swore you heard a modulated chuckle from underneath the mask.

“Captain.”

Part 2

#captain phasma x reader #captain phasma x fem!reader #phasma x reader #phasma x fem!reader #star wars #star wars fanfiction #my writing #captain phasma #phasma

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wolfdenlin77-blog · 6 years

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A Father's Day at the Field of Dreams

Music, Movies & Moods is a regular free-form column in which Matt Melis explores the cracks between where art and daily life meet. This time, a father and son go the distance to a ballpark in the cornfields of Dyersville, Iowa.

“You want to have a catch?”

It's a question my father and I have asked each other thousands of times. Many, many times when I was very young and less often as I left boyhood and quickly grew to be my father's height and taller. For a few years there, I'm sure it must have been one of the furthest questions from my mind, our ball gloves tucked away in the garage somewhere, dusty and out of sight. But leave it to life – and the little bits of wisdom we happen to grab hold of along the way – to send us back to the good, simple things. Out of college, in love, in debt, and trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life, I started asking that question again. As did my father. The best part about this particular question is that both of us know what the answer from the other will be: yes, always yes.

“You want to have a catch?” comes from Field of Dreams, of course, though fathers and sons have been saying it, or something similar, long before Kevin Costner ever started hearing voices, plowed over his corn crop, and turned the clearing into a ball field. Usually, when we ask this question, it means a trip out to the backyard or a local park. This time, though, it meant a trip to Dyersville, Iowa. That's about three and a half hours from my Milwaukee home. Add to my father's trip – at the wheel beside me – eight and a half hours from our family home in Pittsburgh. But that's him: have son, will travel.

The Kinsella Farmhouse - Photo by Matt Melis

Dad had asked the question this time. He's been a retired chemical engineer for a few years now and has started to figure out who he is without a full house and a daily commute. He chairs a local charitable foundation, jogs with a club twice a week, goes to movies, and give tours of PNC Park, where the Pittsburgh Pirates call home. (He can tell you things like where the park's reddish warning track dirt comes from. Incidentally, dyed volcanic rock from Utah.) When he visits me in Milwaukee, he's started taking extra time to travel along the coast of Lake Michigan, visiting decommissioned lighthouses. I bought him a certified U.S. Lighthouse Society membership – like a passport book – that can be stamped at each site he visits. “You're official now, sailor,” I told him. I'm a smart-ass.

The free time has also allowed Dad to add to his bucket list – some of which inevitably involves my mother, sister, or me. One evening last winter, we were on the phone together, and I could tell that he was nervous about something. Finally, he asked me if I'd go to the Field of Dreams with him, hedging against disappointment by saying it was only an idea and not a big deal. Clearly, he had forgotten that the answer to the “catch” question is always yes. I agreed immediately and teased him for being nervous. “I thought you were going to ask me to the prom,” I ribbed. Like I said, a smart-ass.

Ghost Player in the Kinsella Kitchen - Photo by Matt Melis

The night before we drove to Dyersville, we watched clips of Field of Dreams on YouTube. If you haven't seen the film, its lone intent, I'm convinced, is to make grown men cry. (I feel the score sneaking up on me as I type.) Costner's protagonist, Ray Kinsella - a cash-strapped rookie farmer with a hippy wife, tomboy daughter, and crippling regrets - receives a second chance to get things right with his deceased father. To make that happen, dead ballplayers walk, time unravels, and the universe, for once, connects all the dots. As, say, a 24-year-old, I scoffed at the solipsism and supernatural bent of the film. At 34, I know that more miraculous things happen each and every day for less meaningful reasons.

The road that leads to the Field of Dreams has been paved to accommodate “people coming.” The back road we took after making a wrong turn - a beaten path topped with crushed limestone that serpentines through cornfields and dairy country - somehow felt more appropriate. As I fumbled to hit play on the video on my phone queued up to say, “If you build it, he will come,” we saw the farm step out of the distance. The light poles, the cornstalks, the ball field, the lean right up to the Kinsella farmhouse that looks no different than it did nearly 30 years ago. To drive up to the ball field feels like stepping out of the corn in the film – to all of a sudden find yourself in a very different place, a place that feels magical if only for being so very out of place. It's the proverbial needle, the diamond, imbued with a wonder so strong that it makes you forget about the haystack or rough you've searched through and endured to find it.

Spotting Shoeless Joe - Photo by Matt Melis

My father and I toured the Kinsella farmhouse. A tour guide named Clarence, dressed as one of the “ghost players,” told us everything we'd ever want to know about the production and pointed out the care that had gone into preserving the location. I watched Harvey play on a small, black-and-white television in Ray and Annie's kitchen, learned that Ed Harris (Amy Madigan's husband) had been “The Voice,” and stared out the same window Ray did when he first saw Shoeless Joe Jackson standing in shadows on the dark ball field.

Ray Loves Annie - Photo by Matt Melis

All the while we were there, a couple dozen adults and children found seats in the bleachers or a position on the diamond. Dad and I found a patch out near the corn in left field and lobbed a few back and forth. I thought about his father, who died a few summers ago just a couple months short of 102 years old. He had come to this country illegally to escape starvation in Greece and become a citizen after serving in the military. He fell in love with baseball in 1960, the year Bill Mazeroski and the Pittsburgh Pirates shocked the Goliathan New York Yankees led by Mickey Mantle. Dad had taken him to Pirates spring training years ago and still tells the story of his 90-something father darting across an outfield to get a souvenir batting practice ball. For his 100th birthday, he had been the guest of honor at a Pirates game at PNC Park. Dad saw his father on the day he died, a couple hours before he passed away during a nap. As we tossed the baseball back and forth, I thought to myself, they got it right. And baseball had been a large part of that.

Playing catch in a cornfield takes your mind to places like that. Field of Dreams is about a father and son getting it right in the end; it's about second chances and the opportunities that can present themselves if someone will only take the first step. Watching fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, rotate across the field, take their swings, and pose like the ghosts emerging from the corn, I thought about how the same field that reunited Ray and John Kinsella onscreen was now allowing so many parents and children to get it right the first time around. Like my dad and his. Like my dad and me.

Field of Dreams Souvenir - Photo by Matt Melis

I thought about a lot between chatter as I took my turn driving home, leaving the Field of Dreams in our past. I'm now the age my father was when I first started sizing him up as a boy: using his leg as a yardstick to measure my growth, recognizing his daily arrival home by the crunch his pickup truck made as it climbed our gravel driveway, and learning what his large hand looked like clutching mine. It was also around that time I first overheard my father mention his holy triumvirate of successful travel: making good time, using correct change, and grabbing a bite to eat. We've joked about it for years, but not more than a week ago, I made a line of six or seven cars wait at least two minutes in a drive thru as I fumbled in a cupholder for seven pennies that turned out not to be there. The cashier rolled her eyes. Dad would've smiled – and kept looking for those pennies.

One thing I do struggle with is the decision I've made not to become a father. The thought that the game ends when Dad walks off into that cornfield, so to speak, saddens me sometimes. I feel like I have a great many innings left in this arm, far more than anyone can burn through merely as a son. But that falls on me then to find new fields, new games, and new ways to express love for others. That's what “a catch” is, after all. It's a way to say, “I love you,” even when the words struggle to come out – that is, when they need to come the most.

Grinning Ghosts - Photo by Matt Melis

The words were never a problem for Dad and me, though. No matter how trying life could be, there was never anything between us that a few words over a catch couldn't fix. I'm thankful we've gotten it right so far and continue to do so by doing things together like going to play catch in a ball field built in a cornfield in the middle of nowhere in Iowa. While the games of catch may be fewer and farther between these days and shortened in both distance and duration, I know that they still matter and what they will mean to me even when I'm my father's age.

I imagine myself as an old man out in a cornfield, a park, or maybe just my backyard and hearing that familiar question call out: “Want to have a catch?” If I turn quickly enough, maybe I'll just catch a glimpse of Shoeless Joe Jackson, my grandfather, or Dad or hear the sound of a ball popping a fresh-oiled mitt. To me, that'll be a bit like Heaven. A dragging arm but no regrets.

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