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iamsherlocked1479 · 1 year

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Admit it

Word count: 1.9k words

Description: Sherlock believes that lingerie is pointless so y/n decides to prove him wrong, no matter the costs.

Warnings: 18+, very angsty, BJ, P in V sex, choking, slut shame

A/N: this is my apology for not posting as much hope you like it! But chapter 11 is about halfway done atm.

“I don’t get it!” Sherlock shouted at the television screen, jolting you awake with his movement, you had fallen asleep on him again, which of course he didn’t have a problem with.

“W-what now?” You ask dazed from your sleep

“These adverts look at those women.” He pointed to the ad you had seen thousands of times for a designer company showing off their new lingerie.

“Its just an ad?” You say confused, this is your punishment for letting him get to intrigued in the reality tv shows you watch, his attempt of proving he could be a normal boyfriend.

“Yes but I don’t get why lingerie is so amazing.” He turned to you

“Because its a way to feel pretty, seductive almost.” You laugh

“But you don’t need lingerie to look beautiful.” He added

“You know you should use that line more often.” You laugh

“I really don’t understand society.” He sighed and turned his head back to the screen.

“So you wouldn’t care if i wore something like that?” You ask

“I prefer you in nothing, we both know that.” He squeezed your thigh

“No but its meant to make their partners want them more. A treat i would say.” You thought how you ended up explaining the use of lingerie to your boyfriend who was very much experienced by now in the arts of physical relationships with you.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does.” You laugh “its like when you wear that purple shirt that’s slightly too tight for you” you smirk as his brow raises

“That actually explains a lot.”

“Never mind the show is back on.” You point to the screen

“You’re just going to fall asleep again.” He smiled

“Would that be a problem?” You ask

“Never.” He added, and as usual he was right. You woke up the next morning in you shared bed trying to work out how you’d gotten there but then remembered your conversation from last night, maybe he would like it if you wore lingerie. You hadn’t exactly tried that before, you knew he was probably out on a case so you got dressed with your mission clear. Finding the perfect lingerie to seduce the great Sherlock Holmes, who also happened to be the man who never had physical relationships with anyone, in a physical relationship with you.

You started out with a few common clothing shops with nothing really taking your fancy so you decided it would be better to look in the expensive shops, like the one from the advert. You browse the isles being amazed by the different styles and colours in all shapes and sizes before finally seeing the perfect set.

On a mannequin in front of you was a purple laced bra and panties set. It was almost the same colour as his shirt so you knew it would be perfect, the bra was lace and obviously see through and the panties would fit your figure just right.

It was early evening by the time you got home, and Sherlock’s violin could be heard throughout the apartment. He smiled when he saw you, but didn’t stop playing. It was obvious whatever case he was on was really toying with his mind mind.

“I’m just gonna take a shower.” You yelled not expecting a reply, it was time to put your plan into action. You showered and washed your hair, whilst also performing for the various bottles of shampoo that probably wished they didn’t need to hear the same verse from careless whisper three times over. You towel dry your hair enough so it wouldn’t be dripping wet, without getting too frizzy the next day and slipped on the lingerie. And god it was perfect, there was no way in hell even Sherlock holmes could deny you didn’t look good, you weren't one for loving yourself too much but this made it difficult.

You left the bathroom wearing only the lingerie and Sherlock was still playing, but upon hearing you enter the room he began playing a careless whisper mocking your singing.

“Was I really being that loud?” You laugh

“I’ve heard worse.” He still hadn’t turned around, dam his stupid mind palace.

“So what case are you stuck on?” You ask moving to the kitchen and ignoring the severed human limbs to make tea.

“A soldier was murdered, found dead in the shower, no way in, no way out and no signs of a struggle. Just dead, it appears as if a ghost killed him.” He still hadn’t turned around, god he was arrogant sometimes.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” You ask

“Yes and is there any biscu-.” He stopped and finally laid his eyes on you. Your back was to him, your ass clearly showing.

“Everything okay back there?” You smirk

“W-what are you wearing?” He asked, you could have swore you heard a gulp.

“Oh this little thing? I picked it up today. What do you think?” You tapped the tea spoon on the cup and turned around, he watched your every move as you entered the living room. You place the tea on the table and walk over to him, now he was intrigued. It was time to play your game. “Sit please” you push him back into his chair and he falls back with a huff his eyes scanning every part of your body.

“I- I think its n-nice.” He watched as you teased him moving your hips as you turned around allowing him to look at everything.

“But you see I’m not sure about it, could you have a closer look?” You step towards him, and place yourself in his lap straddling his legs, with your chest in his face, his hands slid up your legs towards your hips, but you pushed them away. “Ah ah, remember I thought you didn’t see the point in clothes like this. In my opinion i’d say they’re pretty effective.” You could feel him twitching beneath you,

“Maybe they are helping a tad bit.” He shuffled in his seat trying his best to do as you said but he wasn’t going to admit you were right.

“Pitty, I thought they were working.” You began circulating your hips, grinding yourself against his growing length, letting out small moans of pleasure. You watched as he gripped the arms of his chair tightly at the sensation of you rubbing against him. You moved your hands to his chest and unbuttoned his shirt. His fingers moved closer to you tracing along your leg, but you stopped your movements and tutted. “Admit I was right and maybe I’ll let you touch.”

He grunted frustratedly he wasn’t one for admitting he was wrong, but here you sat in his lap grinding against him and he couldn’t even kiss you. “Shit” he sighed “fine you were right” you smiled at your win and pushed your lips against his and began moving faster.

“I can’t help myself around you, fuck baby.” He trailed his lips along your neck going in between the crevice of your breast with his tongue, he pulled down the straps of your bra and pulled your tits free. He took one into his mouth, nibbling the nipple slightly while gripping the other with his hand.

You gripped his hair pushing him further into your chest letting out more moans edging him on. You pushed your soaked cunt harder on him, making his cock rub against your clit beginning to causing the knot in your stomach to grow tighter, growing closer to your release. He purred into your chest as your wetness soaked through his trousers, which grew ever tighter with your work. You couldn’t hold it back any longer your hips jolted as you came,

“Oh fuck Sherlock yes, fuck you’re so hard its s-so good.”

“Mmm fuck i can’t wait any longer.” He stood up and carried you through the hall towards your bedroom, his lips still locked to yours as he kicked the door open and carried you to the bed. He dropped you there watching as you knelt below him, wiping the hair stuck to your sweaty forehead.

“Want your cock, baby, I need it.” You whimpered as you unbuckled his belt. You pulled down his boxers and watched as he moaned as you licked a stripe down his length before gently sucking on his balls as your hand pumped him slowly. His head knocked back with a sigh of relief as you reached his tip again, and slowly began bobbing your head down over it, working your tongue around him before sinking down a little farther. You tried your best to swallow around him he helped by pushing himself in gently letting out deep moans the further you got. His hip’s jolted again as you pulled back and worked on the tip again, he was becoming too sensitive and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. He pushed your mouth away and brought you to his gently gripping your throat.

“Don't think I forgot you wouldn’t let me touch you, I won’t let that go unnoticed. I’m going to make sure you can’t walk for a week.” He pushed you onto the bed and positioned his frame over you, he practically ripped off the panties and entered with a hard thrust causing you to yelp and grip to the bed sheets. He pushed hard into you the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room accompanied by your moans, you clawed at his back as he fucked you

“Look at you so cock drunk, you think you can parade yourself around like a little slut in my apartment and get away with it. Do you?” He asked

“N-no.” You whimpered, leaning your head back as your back arched

“No what?” He grabbed your chin making your eyes level with his dark blues

“N-no sir.”

“Good.” He flipped you over and knelt over you, slowing his pace, taking more time to push harder into you. “Now say you’re sorry.” He slapped your ass, hard smiling as a pink gleam appeared

“I’m sorry.” You whimpered

“Good girl, now we can enjoy this.” He sped up his pace and placed one hand under you, his thumb rubbing your already swollen clit. The pulse of you clit sent waves through you as you squirmed, he fucked you hard through your orgasm

“Oh fuck, sherlock just there, thats right!” Your voice was muffled as you buried yourself in the sheets pulling them from the corners.

Sherlock groaned, he loved the sight of you being this way around him, so cock drunk you couldn’t even hold yourself up. He too was reaching his end the way your pussy clenched around his cock was enough to set him off, spewing thick white ropes deep inside of you and collapsing onto you.

He took a moment to cat his breath, his cock still inside you before pulling himself off the bed,

“Looks like you need another shower.” He held out his hand as you turned and sprawled onto the bed

“I can’t, too tired.” You say breathlessly

“I told you you wouldn’t be able to walk.” He smiled while wiping the hair stuck to your forehead.

“Hmm” you groaned as your eyes fell closed. Sherlock fixed the sheets around you before wrapping your body in a cover and allowing you to sleep. He showered before going back to his violin, this time thinking only of you. Though he would never tell you, maybe just this once you were right.

#bbc sherlock #benedict cumberbatch #sherlock holmes x reader #benedict cumberbatch x female!reader #sherlock x reader #sherlock smut #smutty #sherlock bbc #y/n x sherlock #i am sherlocked #sherlockedit #spotify

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yenqa · 7 months

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POEMS IN VERSE(S)

sypnosis — you meet jay randomly on a subway, and soon your conversation turns into more than just the silly poem book he’s reading

warnings — profanities, mentions of insecurities, angst, they’re so gross (in a “i’m jealous” way), food/eating/drinking, lmk if there are any more :)

pairing — jay x fem!reader

word count — 3.8k+

yen’s note — i worked very hard on this and i’m pretty happy with this so i hope u enjoy :) also this is a scheduled post

Spring Break, 2019

You counted down the amount of days it would be until you turned 17.

17 was the golden age—Or at least it was supposed to be. But the thrill of turning a new age was over by the next 15 minutes. Your big smile that had originally been processing the newfound year of your life slowly dropped, as your age didn’t really matter much to anyone else than your mom or dad.

17 was when you first realized that people didn’t really care as much as you thought they did. No one would care if your hair was slightly frizzy and tangled from the light wash of rain or the fact that you enjoy reading and writing poetry.

You realized no one cared, but it was hard to stop believing it.

So, you brought a hairbrush around, or quickly hid your journal and pen anytime someone got close to you.

You’re still 17. And you still felt like how you felt 15 minutes after midnight. You felt dull. Washed-out. And the rainy season hasn't helped enlighten your mood at all.

You decided to take an impulsive day trip south, to the buzzing city of Seattle, and also wanting to take a break from everyone and the life you knew. You rushed to the subway, the tote bag that hung on your shoulder had collided with your body every step you took.

You stand right in front of the entrance, scanning the cart to see one empty seat. Sitting down, you address your surroundings, trying to read if maybe it would be a better idea to stand.

Next to you was a man around your age. Silently reading a book with a familiar cover. Staring at the book longer than you realize, you can see the man next to you no longer focused on the book, but you.

“Oh—I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to be staring, I just recognized the book, Lee Jieun right?”

You almost dreamily sigh every time she’s mentioned. Lee Jieun had been your favorite author for longer than you can remember, one of your favorites by her being the one the unnamed man happened to have been reading.

“Do you know her?” He asks.

Looking up at you he jerks his head to the left, his light brown hair moves out of his eyes revealing his full face. You almost forget to answer the question, busy goggling at the sight of him. His eyes laid in yours, awaiting your answer patiently.

“Yeah, I-um she’s one of my favorites actually.”

His eyes subtly check you out, you quickly realize how stupid you must’ve looked with the amount of frizz in your hair from the light drizzle outside. Slowly but not too obviously, you bring your hands up, brushing through whatever you could. Explaining to the man that the book he was reading was one of your favorite poem books. Accidently sharing that you look up to her poems and hope to have the ability to write and share your writing as inspiration for others.

He listens intently, before asking, “You write?”

Your ears grow warm as you answer every question he asks. An unusual thing that happens to you. The conversation grows into each other's lives. And you feel as if you know every part of him as he continues to talk.

Park Jongseong is his name but his English name is Jay. His favorite color is green. He likes fashion and cooking. He enjoys autumn and poetry as much as you do. He’s allergic to cats—which is a shame considering the amount of cat hair over your bag that you discreetly try to brush off while he’s talking. His favorite ice cream flavor is Pistachio and he’s not a huge fan of mint chocolate.

You’d usually argue that mint chocolate is the perfect flavor for a hot summer day but you keep quiet, just this once.

Something must’ve snuck into your brain and rewired it because you don’t seem to mind him knowing that you write. In fact you even offer to let him see your works. He reads each word intently, as if it was the most shocking news of the year.

His favorite is the one you spent the most time on. But it didn't feel as if it was your best work. You didn’t keep quiet about that fact, you hesitated to even let him read that page, but the one line seemed to have piqued his interest. Almost as if his eyes had been glued onto the small stanza.

Together we’re complete

Our perfect harmony

is truly beautiful.

You were always one to believe in soulmates, or finding someone that perfectly fit next to you. Like the final piece to your complicated puzzle. Your belief often appeared in your writings. Hoping that maybe one day, you’ll meet the missing piece from your board. That day hadn’t come yet. But you were counting down the days just as if you were about to turn 17 again.

“I like that line. What does it mean?” He asks.

“I don’t know, it just sounded right.”

That’s a lie. You know exactly what it means to you. But even as comfortable as you had felt with Jongseong. It was something too personal to share.

If you could name anyone who was the biggest sucker for romance you would name yourself. But it’s been 17 years, and you don’t even think that it was a possible option for you. Sure, you hoped to find your soulmate. But your soulmate could’ve easily been a truly platonic one. And you were losing hope for any romance coming your way. Writing about romance made you feel as if the small ball of hope was still there, and you just had to wait for the right time.

Those 17 years had told you that you couldn’t be loved. No matter how hard you tried, or even begged. This epiphany randomly hit you in the middle of buzzing parties or small group hangouts, the thought of nobody ever loving, let alone liking you constantly consumed you. Constantly bringing down your mood. That’s why you’re so fond of the idea of soulmates. Because soulmates are perfectly perfect together, and that's ensured by the universe.

He lets out a chuckle, with an understanding nod. Skimming through the small notebook you handed him.

“Why are you heading to Seattle?” You ask as he finishes, placing the notebook neatly in your bag. His mouth parts slightly, carefully choosing what to say. “I’m just taking a day trip, wanted to go explore alone.”

A small smile breaks out of you. “Would you want to travel around Seattle together?”

Jongseong lets your smile grow onto his lips, accepting your bold offer.

The conversation ends and he reopens his book, continuing the page he was on. The ride still had at least thirty minutes to go, and you didn’t want to use all your phone battery now.

You glance over to his book, cursing at yourself for forgetting to bring something to do other than play the stupid games on your phone. He silently reads as your head moves to his shoulder, laying it down and reading with him. You can feel him flinch ever so slightly, his shoulders relax before he moves the book over to the middle of you two, not uttering a word while doing so.

“Thank you,” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you’re not sure if he even heard it until he responds.

After around 45 minutes the subway comes to a stop and you tap Jongseong, pointing at the moving text on the sign to show you that you’re at your destination. He hastily picks up his stuff, grabbing your hand and walking out the doors.

“Where do we go?” You ask, looking around for any sort of sign that states the direction.

“Just follow me, I've been here a few times.” His warm hand leads you through the busy people trying to get in, pushing through the loads of people heading towards the small amount of doors in the cart. Jongseong looks back every so often, making sure the hand he’s holding isn’t a ghost. Your eyes lock, and you show him a small smile of appreciation. He smiles back, raising his eyebrows before turning back around, leading you through the clusters.

Finally, you walk up the stairs, stepping into the daylight. Still hand in hand, you use your off hand to cover your eyes from the shade. “Didn’t think it would be so sunny after all the rain this month,” You squint at the bright sky, looking over to Jongseong. He’s rummaging through his bag, pulling out a small box, opening it to reveal sunglasses. You chuckle at how prepared he is, until he places the sunglasses on you.

Your stomach erupts in butterflies as your mouth parts slightly, a smile grows on his face. “Oh no, keep them. I don’t need them” You hastily take off the sunglasses, handing them to him. He takes them, putting them back on you. You’re about to protest when he says. “Stop—just take them. I want you to wear them,” He mumbles.

You smile at him, “Thank you Seong.” The nickname comes out naturally, like you’ve known him for years. He smiles, looking away to hide the growing redness of his cheeks. You let out a breathy laugh, covering the bottom half of your face to hide the flustered state you’re in.

“Where do you wanna go?” He asks with a shy smile still planted on his face. You shrug, answering, “I have no idea. Do you have any ideas?”

His smile becomes less shy and somehow forms into a slight smirk “I have an idea.” his hands encase yours once again, and he whisks you two off to the unknown direction.

The walk is around twenty minutes, but it goes by quickly. While you two are racing to see who can hit the crosswalk button, you notice the crowds of people around the big red letters stating, “Seattle’s Farmers Market.”

You squeal, a hand coming up to cover your mouth. “I’ve always wanted to go here! You’re like a mindreader, Seong.”

With his other hand he pinches your cheek, squeezing your hand and leading you to the entrance. The growing crowd of the market pushes you to bump into each other every so often, you both laugh it off, placing your attention to whatever shop you’re checking out.

Coming across a tropical fruits stand, you start looking around, picking up a tray every so often. Not realizing the missing warmth from your hand, you scan the selection of fruits. Picking up a Rambutan, you move the tray around, trying to see if the fruit will be worth the price. You’re eye level with the fruit until you feel a tap on your shoulder.

You whirl around, to see Jongseong. A big grin planted on his face as he revealed why he’s smiling so much. A bouquet of tulips, wrapping in brown paper with twine wrapped around it waiting for you to take. But you’re frozen—Did he really just buy flowers for you?

He thrusts his hands out towards you, gesturing for you to take them. You let out a giggle, taking the brown wrapped plants out of his hands. “Gosh you’re so sweet. What did I do to deserve all of this?” You ask, the corners of your mouth slowly upturn when you look at the flowers, admiring the arrangement of light pink tulips. “Can’t I spoil you?” He responds smoothly, not letting you respond before linking your arms and heading to the next stalls.

Passing—What felt like hundreds of stalls, your feet started to cramp up. Both of you decide to take a break and sit down, finding a cafe nearby. You order for the both of you and pay—Which he strongly protests but you feel too bad for him spending too much money on you. Sitting down you let out a sigh, finally letting your feet take the much needed rest.

You two make small talk, talking about your favorite shops or something you wish you had bought. When the barista calls out your name you shoot out of your seat, exchanging a glance with Jongseong before walking over, thanking the lady and grabbing your drinks.

A wave of comfortable silence washes over you two as you try your drinks, glancing out the huge window by your table. You watch as families, couples, or just one person pass by that window. Trying to figure out something about them as they quickly pass by.

After an hour of quiet conversations of whatever intrigues you, you decide to leave the cafe. Dinner time was approaching and you wanted to beat the rush. Surprisingly, you both quickly decide on a restaurant to go to, a nice restaurant that perfectly suited your cravings. During dinner you exchange numbers, not being able to wait for the next time you’ll see each other.

The sun starts setting when you both decide to go home, walking to the subway station hand in hand. Paying for your fare you both head on the subway, sitting down next to each other. A yawn washes over you, laying your head back and closing your eyes—It’s not like you’ll fall asleep right?

It’s a shame that you did fall asleep. You feel yourself being gently shaken awake by Jongseong. You lift your head up from his shoulder, looking around the subway.

“Your stop is the next one. Can’t have you half asleep walking home.” He chuckles, you rub your eyes. Trying your best to stretch with the little space you have. “Thank you Seong.” You yawn, letting out a small smile.

He nods, inviting the smile from your face onto his. The subway comes to a stop once again and you look at him with a slight sadness. Planting a chaste kiss on his cheek you let out, “I had fun today, Seong. Let’s do it some time again, yeah?”

“Okay,” He says, smiling. “Text me when you get home okay?” You salute him, walking away with a lovesick smile on your face.

Jongseong holds the same one, still feeling the linger of your kiss on his cheek. He lets his hand touch his cheek, embarrassed by the amount of warmth that flooded his cheeks.

Spring, 2021

It had been around a year and a little over a half since the two of you had even talked.

You don’t know if he got a new number or randomly ghosted you. Even though you had met a bunch of times after, it seemed like he realized that he didn’t like you as much as you thought he did.

You should’ve expected it, I mean—It’s not like anybody could like you that much.

Sighing, you open the messaging app. Typing something in his chat before deleting it. Scrolling up to your old messages.

You hated the fact that you missed him even though you never even dated. You hated the fact that you thought you could be something more than just a failed situationship. You hated the fact that you thought someone could prove you wrong and that someone could love you.

But, of course. All good things came to an end. And what seemed to be like the only good thing in your life, completely ghosted you. You like to believe that he got a new number and forgot to tell you, or lost his phone and had to get a new sim card. But it still hurt.

So, everytime you thought of him, you reopened those messages, trying to reiterate the happiness you felt while texting him.

Looking down to the bottom of your phone you see the empty textbox, mocking you for opening the chat once again. You decide, What’s the harm in messaging him? Maybe he just missed your last few. Clicking on the textbox you type slowly, carefully thinking about your words before sending it.

hey, are you still there? didn’t take you for the type who ghosts girls

You sigh, deleting the text quickly. Looking over to see the ungodly hour of the night displayed on your clock you place your phone down, tucking yourself nicely under the blanket, praying to every god that maybe, he’s okay.

Autumn, 2022

“Have you heard Enhypens recent album? It’s so good!” Hanni exclaims, changing the music playing in the background to listen to the album.

“This is like a few months old, but anyways—Shout out is the best song ever, you should play that song.” Minji answers. They both look at you, asking for your opinion. “Who’s Enhypen?” You ask, eyebrows furrowing as you look up from your phone.

Minji scoffs, “My seven boyfriends. Listen to this song! Isn’t it so good?”

You listened to the background, bopping your head to the upbeat guitar in the instrumental. The lyrics were sweet, and meaningful. Even though you quit poetry, words still had lot’s of meaning for you, and you loved when they found significance in songs. One guy’s voice sounds so vaguely familiar, you brush it off. You probably just saw a clip of him singing a while back and didn’t remember. Getting to the second verse you pay much attention to the lyrics. Your jaw drops hearing one of the lines.

“What’d he just say? Can you rewind a few seconds Hanni?” You ask and she shrugs, opening her phone to go back a few seconds.

Listening to the same verse again you hear those awfully familiar lyrics.

Our perfect harmony

Is truly beautiful

You know those words like the back of your hand. You wrote these exact words in a poem two or three years ago. Could this be a coincidence? Probably, right? You’re too consumed in your own thoughts to hear both of the echoes of your name, following with Hanni asking why.

Slowly pulling out your phone, you quickly search “Enhypen” into the bar. Looking at the members you scan the faces. Looking at them all you see—

Jay.

That’s Jongseong.

No way, it can’t be. Clicking on his link you’re met with a collage of images. Your body seems to be moving faster than your mind because immediately you scroll down to read the small box of information about him. Oh and of course his name is Park Jongseong too but that's a coincidence, right? Switching apps, you open a selfie you and Seong took on one of your few dates.

You feel as if your eyes will shoot out of your brain, blurting out “I know him.”

Minji and Hanni both exchange weird looks, “You know who? Enhypen? Letting out a hesitant nod, they both rush over to see Jongseong’s information box on your screen. Switching apps to show them the selfie, then each side by side. “Y/n, you know Jay? As in Enhypen’s Jay?” Hanni gives you a bewildered look. You turn your head up to see Minju sharing the same one. Blinking profusely, you try to figure out how this is even possible.

“Yes! Remember the guy who ghosted me like two years ago? That’s him!” You exclaim, aggressively pointing to a picture of him. Minji’s mouth opens, forming an “o”. You all sit in silence processing this information.

Breaking the silence, Minji scoffs, “You’re telling me you had a situationship with Jay Park?

Another long silence follows, you all try to process the fact that the one you deemed as “the one who got away” was globally famous. Maybe he realized his worth, and left you. Maybe, he didn’t bother contacting you because he secretly disliked you. Or maybe he—

“Y/n, he’s coming to Seattle.”

You whip your head to the incoming voice. Instead of seeing a face, you see a phone, straight in front of you listing tour dates. You grab a hold of the phone, making sure you read the words right. “Seattle, Washington. 9/28.”

“They’re coming in a week?” You exclaim, eyes not leaving the phone for a second. Hanni rushes over and you all huddle around the phone. Your breath quickens as you process even more information. And you felt like your brain was about to explode, he would be. in city? in a week?

Hanni practically screams, shaking your shoulders harshly. She seems much more excited than you did, blabbering about how you would reunite and fall in love again. Rolling your eyes, you hand Minji back her phone. You start to question every life decision you had made in the past three years. Would he even remember you? What if it’s a different Jongseong who just happened to have the same name and look exactly like the Seong you once knew? Would you even run into him for the few days he’s there?

These thoughts circle in your brain as you lay down in bed. You thought you were over him—you weren’t even anything to begin with. Maybe it's the quickening beat of your heart to the thought of him , or the smile you hold in whenever you look back at your texts, or maybe even the loneliness you felt after him that keeps you going.

Autumn, 2022

The light breeze engulfs your body. Even though the sun seems to be blinding everywhere it’s still as chilly as ever. Looking at everyone’s outfits on the sidewalk you realize how stupid you look. Fully clothes but with sunglasses covering your eyes. Was it a necessary choice? No—but you realized that after you had left the house. It didn’t matter anyways, you could just take them off (you weren’t but it was still an option).

Taking your lunch break you walk to the cafe around the corner from your building. Recognizing the cafe as one you visited a few years ago. You ordered the same drink you did three years ago—also ordering a sandwich to eat. You sit down at a table two tables away from the one you once sat at. Placing down your sunglasses you glance around the cafe while waiting for your food.

Noticing a man in a baseball hat and a mask, you squint trying to see his face. Giving up seconds later and observing someone else. Eyes latching onto the pretty barista making your order. Watching as she quickly makes your sandwich and starts on your drink, not wasting a second to spare.

“I think those sunglasses are mine?” The masked man comes up to you, taking off his baseball cap. You get a better view of his eyes, recognizing the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles.

“Jay?” It’s barely above a whisper, but he still hears it.

He pulls down his mask, showing the face you once knew three years ago, but much more mature now. “Y/n, can we talk?” He sounds nervous, almost jittery. Constantly looking around at the strangers walking by.

“Yeah, of course.” The light tone of your voice calms him down every so slightly, sitting down in front of you with a lopsided smile.

Never in your life would you have thought you’d meet a celebrity that actually wanted to talk to you, And never in your life would you expect it to be him. Seong—Your Seong, sitting in front of you, carefully selecting every word he utters to you. The one who always knew what to say, can’t seem to get the right words out.

taglist : @jwnghyuns @ja4hyvn @trsrina @redm4ri @badmuni @yeokii @enhastolemyheart @softpia @s00buwu @ox1-lovesick

hope u liked 😍

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zepskies · 6 months

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In Bad Weather

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized/Latina!Reader || Sam Winchester x Eileen Leahy (background)

Summary: You and Dean tackle the biggest possible monkey wrench in your relationship yet: could Chuck have been manipulating you two all along?

[Set in S15 - "Fix It" for season finale]

AN: I had to finish the finale (maybe?) of this story verse before the end of Hispanic Heritage Month. 😘 This is the third installment of "Midnight Espresso!"

Song Inspo: “We Made It” by H.E.R. (<- On repeat. Seriously if you haven't heard this one, you'll thank me later.)

Word Count: 7,600

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smutty smut, angst, hurt/comfort, body insecurity, body appreciation, heartache, followed by the fluffiest fluff…

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Al Mal Tiempo

Dean can’t remember the last time he woke up quite like this.

“Shit,” he grunts, clenching fists into the sheets.

He hears a muffled giggle underneath them.

He’s lying on his back, one knee starting to bend as he jolts on reflex. But familiar hands are holding down his thighs, as even more familiar lips caress him through his sweatpants.

Dean raises up the blankets and sheets to see your slightly frizzy-haired head pop up. Your playfully mischievous eyes meet his.

“Hey,” you greet him.

He raises a brow at you, smiling incredulously. “Hey.”

You then give him an annoyed look. “Do you mind? I was working on something.”

You try and cover yourself back up with the blankets, but Dean tosses them down your body. He wants to see you in that tank top and those little shorts. He's already getting a nice view of cleavage, no bra, and you’re straddling his thighs. His knees slide up to press against your ample behind.

“I do mind, actually.” His voice is still coarse with sleep. He clears it a little, and he smirks. “I was getting some good Zs in. You know, before I was interrupted.”

Your hands glide smoothly up his thighs, your nails catching on the fabric. You tilt your head at him.

“You really want me to stop?” you ask. Dean can’t readily respond, because he felt the shape of your words against his dick.

He moans, his eyes closing, fingers gripping the mattress under him when your mouth and tongue continue to outline the shape of his cock through his pants.

“I think I could finish you just like this,” you tell him, and still, your lips never leave him. “Or…maybe I’m feeling generous.”

Your nails hook on the waistband of his old sweatpants. The elastic has practically no give as you pull down the hem and expose his risen length. Shooting him one more smile, you let your hands glide across his sternum and hips before you finally take his waiting cock into your mouth.

You love the sound of Dean’s voice, especially when you have him like this. His hand buries in your hair, tangling in the curls.

“Fuck, baby…” he mutters.

That’s kinda the idea, you want to say, but your mouth is preoccupied. Your lips and tongue move over him slowly. And soon your hands join to wrap around the base of his cock, stroking whatever you can’t take fully in your mouth.

You know he’s enjoying himself when his hand tightens in your hair. His breathing becomes labored, but still too steady for your liking.

You decide to pick up the pace. In your mind you think of a song to keep a good rhythm.

Devórame otra vez, ven, devórame otra vez…

Que la boca me sabe a tu cuerpo. Desesperan mis ganas por ti…

“Wait, wait,” Dean says, guttural in his throat. He stops you for a moment with his hands on your shoulders. You look up at him in confusion, but you oblige him.

“What’s wrong?” you ask in concern.

“Nothin’.” He shoots you a weary, lopsided smile. “Just thinking I want to have enough mojo to give you a good morning too.”

You snort. Mojo. This man.

But you shake your head. “You’re the winner today, baby. I just wanna make you feel good.”

It’s been a long year. You all had dealt with Michael taking Dean from you, at least for a while. Now Michael is gone, thanks to Jack, and they’d managed to reunite Jack back with his soul…but there’s still Chuck to deal with. It hangs over you all like a malevolent cloud.

So you want to help Dean take his mind off all that, just for a little while. And maybe part of you thinks that if you love him that much more, he won’t despair as much over how Chuck has been manipulating the brothers Winchester…basically their entire lives.

You shouldn’t have been surprised, however, when Dean grasps your arms and tugs you up until you’re level with his chest. His hand finds your cheek, brushing his thumb there, then slides into your hair.

He smirks. “We can both be winners.”

A smile spreads across your lips, just before he pulls you into a kiss. Passion grows one into many, with hands disappearing under each other’s clothes to remove them.

Strong hands part your thick thighs further, and long fingers find their way down between them. First teasingly along the seam of your pussy, then slipping inside to get you ready for him.

Your face buries in his neck as you moan encouragements into his ear, not all of them in English. By now, he’s learned a lot of what you whisper in Spanish. It still makes electricity spark down his spine, no matter what language you’re speaking in.

He knows when it’s time when the warm inner walls of your core are slick and gripping his fingers tight. But when he removes them, you shudder.

Both of you are breathing hard by the time he actually lines himself up inside of you. You use his shoulders for leverage, and the pads of his fingers circle insistently around your clit as you slowly sink down on his cock.

A keening cry escapes from your throat, while his free hand grips hard on your ass.

“Ah, fuck,” he grunts. Your walls are already fluttering around him, squeezing him like a vice.

You pant for breath. Your loose hair falls around both of you, shielding you from all other thoughts and sensations other than this.

“You feel so good,” you breathe, shifting your hips experimentally. “Always so good.”

Dean nods, and you know what it means: For me too.

He sits up and crushes you against him, bare breasts against his chest. (He loves the feeling.) He wraps an arm around your back and twists, until you’re underneath him and laying against his pillows. He encourages your thighs to stay wrapped around his waist as he begins to pound into you.

You breathe a short laugh. “Can’t let me stay on top?”

Dean grins. He grabs your hand and manages to press a kiss to your palm in between strokes. He knew what you were trying to do earlier, by taking care of him, but he can’t help it. He’s a giver.

And he knows exactly how to give it to you, shifting the angle of his hips to have you arching underneath him, gasping, clinging to his arms.

Thanks to your earlier treatment, that about does it for him. He can’t stop himself from a shuddering release inside you (praise be for birth control, you think), but he still makes sure you come with him. He strokes your clit at the same time as his last deep strokes, and soon your voice washes over him as you call his name.

Afterwards, Dean rests his forehead against your shoulder, laying a kiss above your breast. He just woke up a few minutes ago, and he’s already tired.

“Okay. I need a damn nap,” he pants.

A giggle pours out of you. You rub his back soothingly.

“That’s what you get for doing all the work,” you tease. “I tried to help you.”

“Help with what?”

Both you and Dean freeze at the sound of Jack’s voice. He’s just opened the door to your bedroom like you two hadn’t expressly reminded him about privacy.

You yelp in shock, and Dean’s face screws up in a glare as he reaches back fast for the closest blanket to yank over you both.

“What the hell!”

“Oh…sorry,” Jack says, shielding his own eyes. “Sam just wanted me to tell you that breakfast is ready.”

“You didn’t need to tell them right this second!” Sam calls from down the hall.

“Knock, man! We knock on closed doors in this house!” Dean says. House. Bunker. Whatever.

He adds, “Or better yet, when my door’s closed, you give it a five-foot perimeter. Understand?”

Jack nods quickly and flees the room. “Sorry!”

The door slams shut behind him. Dean shakes his head. You can almost see the fumes coming out of his ears. You’re embarrassed and blushing, but you’re also biting your lower lip to stop yourself from laughing.

Dean looks down at you.

“It’s not funny. He needs to fuckin’ learn,” he says. His brows are still furrowed, but his mouth twitches upwards. “Should’ve locked that damn door.”

You reach up and twine your arms around his neck. Your lips get tantalizingly close to his.

“You’re still balls-deep inside me,” you remind him, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. “It’s kinda funny.”

Dean’s lips purse. He doesn’t want to smile, but you’re making it difficult. Your hands slide down his chest, toying with his nipples as they go. You press a kiss to his throat. Meanwhile, your thighs squeeze his hips, reminding him of where he's still deeply buried. You smile when he utters a faltering sound.

"You tryin' to start something else I'll have to finish?" he teases. You give him a playfully narrowed look.

"Sure you got the mojo?" you toss back.

Raising a brow, Dean shifts out of you a few inches, just to push his half-hard cock back inside. You moan a bit, brows furrowed when the move stirs a tremor of arousal in your core. He hardens up fully at the sound, at the feeling of you clenching around him.

He smiles. “Well, well. I’m thinkin’ Round 2 after all.”

You smirk up at him and give his ass a nice little smack. “Then it's my turn for a ride.”

With a huff, he lets the twist of your hips and soft hands push him onto his back.

In the aftermath of Round 2, both of you are spent before you’ve even gotten out of bed. It’s a rare lazy morning where you don’t want to be bothered with another hunt, or even getting dressed just yet.

You have the cover of the warm sheets and blankets. Your back rests against Dean’s side, up against the headboard. His arm is wrapped around you, his hand intertwined with yours as you play with his fingers.

He’s catching up on Dr. Sexy MD, but you’re admittedly lost in thought. You bring his hand to your lips, and you just hold it there.

Dean glances at you and finally notices your contemplation. He strokes a thumb over your ring and pointer fingers.

“You okay?” he asks.

When you register his voice, you merely nod. But Dean isn’t convinced.

“Baby,” he presses.

It finally earns your attention. You look over at him, and you realize that he knows you too well to be fooled. You sigh, in a way that has Dean pausing his show and giving you his full attention.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asks.

With your free hand, you rub at your eyes and cheek. “Sam and Eileen. My heart just fucking breaks for them.”

You’re thinking about what happened a couple of weeks ago. After learning that Chuck manipulated Sam, who found the spell to bring Eileen back to life, she just…left.

Part of you wants to be angry with her; you love Sam like he’s your own brother. But you understand her as well. Being tied to Sam and Dean Winchester is like being tied to twin hurricanes. You’ve just been in this for far too long to let go of them now.

Dean nods at your admission, but he doesn’t have an answer for you. He hurts for his brother too. Part of him even feels a little guilty, having what he has with you, when Sam’s bit of happiness just keeps slipping out of his fingers.

“Maybe they just need some time to sort themselves out. Cooler heads and all that,” he says.

Time. You hope that’s all they need. However, it also makes you wonder about other things.

“That’s not it, is it?” Dean asks. He’s watching you shrewdly, and your lips thin into a line.

“Dean, what if…”

“Yeah?”

You hate yourself for even thinking it, let alone saying it. But you and Dean had survived this long on honesty, above all else. You can’t hide this from him anymore.

“What if Chuck manipulated us too?” you ask, in a small voice.

Dean’s face slackens. His hand releases yours, and he turns to face you more fully.

Emotion begins to clog in your throat and burn in your eyes.

“What if you and I would’ve never met if…” Your voice trembles, unshed tears clouding your vision. “And even if we did, would you still have kissed me that night? When we got back from that hunt—”

“Hey,” Dean protests, but now that you’ve begun, you can’t stop yourself from spilling your latest insecurities—the ones you’ve been holding onto ever since Chuck revealed himself as the villain of the whole world.

“I mean, what am I?” you ask. “Just the diversity casting in Chuck’s story?”

“Don’t you say that shit to me,” Dean angrily snaps.

You gape incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“You fucking heard me.”

You feel how tense his body is, but your temper snaps just as well.

“Oye, mira ver,” you warn him.

You’ve levied that at him enough times that he knows all too well what it means.

“Watch it, my ass,” he retorts. “You should know better than that.”

You frown at him, but he reads the thread of insecurity in the downturn of your lips, in your eyes that are starting to shine with tears. That always breaks him down.

Dean sighs and reaches for you then, cupping your cheek and brushing a thumb tenderly at the corner of your eye. He’s even angrier at Chuck for making you doubt yourself…and doubt him.

“Come ‘ere,” Dean says.

You hesitate, but you go willingly back into his arms. You turn over and let him gather you against his chest. You rest against him. Your head tucks under his chin, and your leg slips between both of his.

“I love you,” he says, and his voice rumbles above your head. “That’s it. That’s all that matters.”

You bite your lip. “But—”

“No buts,” he says. Though his lips slowly tug at a smile. “Well, not that kind anyway.”

He gives your bare ass a playful squeeze under the sheets. You huff in amusement and swat him back.

“Ya, coño. Enough,” you say with a laugh. “I probably have bruises back there.”

He just grins. “So you get what I’m saying?”

You let out a sigh. You push back enough to see his face, and you give him a soft smile.

“Yeah.”

Dean nods, but he still sees the worry in your eyes. He tries to stamp down the rest of your insecurities with a kiss, slow and deep.

You break away from him after a while to ask, “Ready for coffee?”

Dean sighs through his nose, but he hums in agreement.

“Will you make it how I like?” he asks.

A smile breaks across your face.

“Café con leche?” you offer.

He nods. “Yeah, please.”

“So polite,” you remark with a raised brow. “What a change of pace.”

His mouth edges into a smirk. When you turn to get out of bed, he makes sure to give your ass one last smack. You jump a little with a yelp, but he catches your smile in the mirror above the dresser.

Dean watches you shake out your curls and get ready for the day. You spend a lot of time blow-drying and straightening your hair, but he likes it like this too. Natural and wild.

He likes that you wear the “dream catcher” (formerly known as your hole-ridden Journey shirt) a lot less. He likes that you’ve stopped feeling the need to wear anything to bed at all, if you don't feel like it; that you’re more comfortable with yourself. Comfortable with him.

But your smile drops. Dean sees the gears of your mind continuing to churn as you get dressed.

He has a feeling, despite his best efforts, that you’re still not convinced about the Chuck thing. And while Dean won’t admit it, that cuts him deep.

Three years ago…

Las Cruces, New Mexico

The first time Dean met you was, of course, in a bar.

It didn’t take all that long for him to notice you, if he remembers right.

You’d agreed to play pool with some guy who also speaks Spanish with you, and you seem genuinely into the game. So much so, that you don’t seem to notice how the guy is eyeing you.

Dean doesn’t like the way the man’s gaze drags over your every abundant curve. Yeah, he’s been doing the same thing, but he likes to think he’s a little more classy about it.

He’s sitting at the bar with a half-drunk beer in his hand, watching the game out of the corner of his eye. He’s so invested that his beer is already flat and unpleasant, but when has that stopped him before?

…But then, Dean notices what you’re doing. You’re playing possum, making bad shots on purpose. His mouth curves behind his beer.

Little minx.

Until you sweep the guy for all his money, that is.

Dean watches the show in amusement. Secretly, he notes appreciation for the tight jeans, V-necked top and ankle boots. The red lipstick is the same shade as your manicured nails, and it all works well for you. The fullness of that pretty mouth would certainly work well for him.

He catches the way you sweep your hair out of the way, and the deceptive concentration in your eyes when you line up a shot on the second round. Your first turn.

You then sink each of your cue balls expertly, without missing one.

The swindled man gets mad, shouting at you in Spanish. You reply to him calmly as you lean on your cue stick. He gets even louder and reaches for the money, but before Dean would’ve intervened, you stab at the man’s foot with the cue.

Your quick and clever hand gathers the money that you won, but because you seem to be kind at your core, you leave him thirty bucks for “gasolina” while he holds his foot.

You surprise Dean further by joining him at the bar.

“Good game,” he says, giving you props with a smile.

You give him a smile back. “Thank you. Want to join me for another one?”

Your English is smooth, and so is your voice. Dean raises a brow at you.

“Even though I saw your little takedown there?” he asks. “Think I just saw all your moves.”

You laugh a little. “Not all of them.”

Was that a bit of flirtation in your eyes? Dean’s smile deepens into a smirk.

“But don’t worry,” you say. “I know how to play fair.”

He hits you with a bit of charm, lowering his voice with (he thinks) just the right amount of flirtation back.

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

Your smile deepens too, despite your blush.

Cute, he thinks, before he follows you back to the scene of the crime. AKA: the nearest pool table.

Dean wracks up the billiards and sets up a new game. You hand him his cue, and he gestures at you.

“Winner goes first,” he says graciously.

“Hmm, thought you were gonna say ladies first,” you reply.

“That too,” Dean says. “I’m a gentleman, after all.”

You snort in response. “I’m sure you are…”

“Dean,” he supplies. He earns your name by the time he sinks four balls in a row.

You sigh as you level him with a look. You seem to realize that the two of you are more than evenly matched.

“Don’t worry,” he says, shooting you a grin. “I won’t take all your money.”

And yet, when it gets down to it, he misses his last shot by a hair.

You watch him suspiciously when you two make it back to the bar.

“You wouldn’t have thrown that last shot on purpose, would you?” you ask.

Dean ducks his head and smiles, somewhat liking the fact that you caught him red-handed. You’re smart.

“Now, what kind of gentleman would I be to take your ‘hard-earned’ cash?” he asks. It earns a burst of laughter from you, with the shine of your teeth.

“You could buy me a beer though,” he shrugs.

“Wow. Okay, Señor Smooth,” you tease. Though you get the bartender’s attention and get him a fifth of whiskey instead, of the good stuff too.

Dean considers asking you out right there. Sam is waiting back at the motel, but Dean is willing to book another room just to get you to himself for the night. And if possible, for however long he’s in town.

“You know,” you say after a while, halfway through your Long Island iced tea. “The thing you’re hunting? It’s not a garden variety spirit…it’s El Duende. Creepy hobgoblin, basically. I’ve been tracking it from three cities over.”

Dean is figuratively (and almost literally) set back on his heels. He tilts his head at you, furrowing his brows.

“You’re a hunter?” he asks.

You laugh at the look on his face. “I saw you and another mountain man at the police station earlier…though nice look on the FBI get up. Think your ID guy could hook me up with a new CIA badge?”

Dean smiles. This is gonna be fun.

Now:

People were starting to disappear.

Billie, the new Death, was doing this. Dean was convinced. And Sam thought everyone from the Apocalypse world (and others who shouldn’t exist in this world) would be on her list. Ultimately, you all couldn’t save anyone. Not even Eileen.

You and Dean both comforted Sam on that terrible night. Though he was still distraught as he decided to organize the other refugees with Jack and Donna.

You stuck with Dean in his plan to raid Death’s library for Chuck’s book; the only thing in the world that told the story of how he would meet his end.

You chose to back up Dean in his plan, but really, neither you or Castiel thought it was a good idea to poke the bear known as Billie. Not for a book that none of you could read, except for Death herself.

But now here you are, in Death’s library, watching with worry as Dean holds Death’s own scythe against her.

“I didn’t hurt your friends,” Billie grits out.

“What?” Dean asks.

She laughs humorlessly. “You’re in the wrong place, Dean.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“People are gettin’ gone. I’m guessing it’s Chuck,” she says. “And that means, you’re just wasting time.”

Her hands are braced against the weapon poised at her throat. She already has a stab wound in her shoulder. She tells him that the earlier wound he gave her has festered. It’ll never heal. Eventually, it’ll kill her.

But she intends to take you, Dean, and Castiel with her.

Billie becomes the hunter, following the three of you back through the portal into the bunker. Dean’s hand is so tight around your arm, making sure you’re keeping up with him and never falter. Castiel does his best get you and Dean to safety. And after he wards it against her with his own blood, only the old dungeon is safe for you all.

For now.

Billie pounds on the door, over and over. She’ll break through the warding eventually.

You grab onto Dean’s sleeve, just to hold onto him. He brings you close to him in a protective embrace. You see the panic in his eyes as his mind scrambles to find a way out of here, knowing deep down that there’s nothing any of you can do. Castiel is nearly powerless. You’re all trapped.

“That wound is killing her,” Cas says. “We might be able to wait her out.”

His gaze is on the floor, though he briefly looks up at Dean. He shakes his head.

“And if we can’t?”

“Then we fight.”

Dean shakes his head. He pulls away from you to lean against the wall.

“We’ll lose,” he says. Your heart breaks at the way he looks, shame-ridden and defeated. “I just led us into another trap…all because I couldn’t end Chuck. Because I was angry, and because I needed something to kill, and because that’s all I know how to do.”

His eyes are red and burning. Yours swim with tears of dismay. You want to correct him as he continues to vent, speaking with a certainty that it was Chuck all along.

Dean looks at you then, and at Cas. He’s close to tears when he says they should’ve stayed with Sam and Jack. That everyone was about to die. And he can’t stop it. And he can’t stop Billie when she breaks through that door.

You don’t know what to tell him to ease his guilt. All you know is that despite everything, you made your choice to support him in this. To stay with him.

You made your choice a long time ago, you realize.

“Wait,” Cas says. His blue eyes burn with realization. “There’s one thing she’s afraid of. One thing…strong enough to stop her.”

Dean’s eyes widen. Cas uses what strength he has left to push you and Dean away, and he summons the Empty.

Dean pulls you further along with him as the formless void coils up like ink through the walls and cement floors. It drags Billie into its darkness, but it claims Castiel with it, as it once promised it would.

After the angel gives up his life, you and Dean are holding each other against the wall, on the ground, shaking and each rocked to the core.

You’re able to break out of your shock sooner than Dean, who just saw his best friend die.

You kneel beside him while he sits, and you hold him to you while you cry. He can’t speak, but you know his guilt is eating at him.

His phone rings, startling you both, and it’s Sam. Dean can’t answer it. He covers his face, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if that could stop the ache in his chest. You press a kiss to his hair, his temple.

“He saved us, Dean. It’s not your fault,” you tell him. He shakes his head. You know he doesn’t believe you, but when he grasps your arm, his hold is desperate.

“It’s me,” he says. His voice is shaking and ragged. “Everything I do turns to shit. Everyone around me pays the price. That’s just how it is…if you were smart, you’d hightail it as far as fucking possible from me.”

Your breath gets trapped in your lungs. Your heart feels like it’s shattering.

“Dean…baby, look at me,” you say with a sniffle. You gently hold his face, and he lets you raise him up. Your eyes are bright with new conviction.

“No one," you tell him, "not even Chuck can force me to love you the way I do. And not a damn thing can stop me from staying with you.”

Dean has tears burgeoning in his eyes. You caress his cheek, rough with stubble he’s let go too long.

“There’s a saying. Al mal tiempo, buena cara,” you tell him. His face shows a glimmer of confusion. “At bad weather, put on a happy face. It means even in difficult times, there’s still a reason to keep going. Right now, you are my reason.”

Dean considers that. He squeezes your arms unconsciously, as if grounding himself in you.

At the very least, he’s grateful that he’s not alone. And after a moment, he nods. You press a kiss to his cheek, and then his forehead. His eyes close at your comfort, your affection. He doesn’t think he deserves it, but he accepts it anyway.

“Come on, let’s get you off the floor,” you say. You start to help him up…but your body stills. You feel a strange prickling across your skin.

Dean notices the shift, with growing unease in his gut. He grips you tighter and calls your name in concern.

Your gasp is the last bit of your voice that Dean hears before he watches you turn to dust in his arms.

Buena Cara

Last year…

It’s the morning after you and Dean shared a midnight espresso. The morning after your first kiss, your first confession, and your first time.

He wakes tangled up in you, and the sheets, which are somehow tied up in knots around his legs and yours.

“What’d you do here, woman?” he asks.

His voice is still gruff with sleep, and he lays on his stomach. You giggle almost silently next to him. You’re lying on your back with the sheets somehow covering up to your chest. One of your legs is tangled with his.

“Nothing,” you claim. He snorts and moves closer. His lips find your shoulder, lazily burning a path downwards. But when he grips the sheet and tries to expose more of you, you grasp his wrist on reflex.

Brows furrowing, Dean glances up at your face. You’re biting your lip, and he sees signs of insecurity in your eyes.

“You haven’t seen me in the daytime yet,” you joke. Yet another one that isn’t really a joke, Dean realizes.

He really wishes he could find your goddamn ex and bash his skull in. Because Dean would like nothing more than to just spend the rest of the day in this bed, mapping out the smooth expanse of your tan skin.

So he slips his arm underneath you. You utter a little squeal in protest, but he manhandles you until you’re resting on his chest, bare skin against bare skin. You look down at him with fondness, touching his cheek. Dean stares up at you with a reserved frown.

“What’s it gonna take, huh?” he asks. It’s like you don’t believe he wants you, even now.

You bite your lip as your fears creep in behind your eyes, like black ink coiling in your mind. That he just likes your personality. That maybe he just wanted to try something “different” with you, a thicc-thighed, fat-assed Latina, instead of the petite, slender girls you’ve seen him go after in bars.

“You could have anyone, Dean,” you point out.

Dean’s frown deepens, his brows furrowing. His hands lower on your back, squeezing the curve of your waist and soft hips.

“Anyone’s not naked in my bed,” he says. His voice is stern and matter-of-fact.

You attempt a smile, but he’s not convinced. He blows out a breath and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Your ex sure did a number on you, didn’t he?” he remarks.

Your eyes widen. The more you think about it, maybe he did.

But maybe it wasn’t just him…

You tear up and blink against them, trying not to let them fall. You had thought you were happy with your curves. You really did.

You didn’t realize you had internalized so many of these negative thoughts about yourself, but here Dean was, forcing you to confront them. You’re grateful, but you also don’t know what to say.

Dean’s brows draw together. He holds your cheek.

“Okay. It’s all right. We’ll work on it.” He kisses your forehead. He also wipes a tear from your cheek. “Don’t cry, baby.”

A laugh gets choked in your throat. “You should know this about me by now. I’m a crier.”

“Yeah, you’re also rockin’ a bit of sex hair,” he says, tangling his fingers further in the wily strands. “My kinda woman.”

You sigh through your nose. This man.

You can’t help but smile softly. The tip of your finger traces his jawline, down to his chin.

“Want me to make some coffee?” you offer. “I can have you try a cortadito with breakfast.”

“What’s that?” Dean asks.

“Two shots of espresso, warm frothy milk on top,” you reply.

“God, two shots? It’s a wonder you ever sleep,” he quips. “But I do like the sound of frothy. I’ll whip us up some eggs.”

“And bacon?” you ask.

“Of freakin’ course, bacon.”

With that agreement, you two slowly get out of bed, shower, and go to the kitchen, where Sam looks bleary-eyed and annoyed at the kitchen table with his coffee mug. But he doesn’t have it in his heart to truly be mad at you and Dean.

“I’m happy for you guys,” Sam says wryly. “Just, next time, put a sock on the door or something. So I know when to break out the ear plugs.”

Now:

Sam finds Dean sprawled on the dining room floor the next morning after Castiel has died, and you have disappeared, along with everyone else on Earth.

Dean is surrounded by empty beer and liquor bottles. Sam’s heart clenches as he starts to help his brother.

“All right, let’s get you off the floor,” he says.

In his words, Dean only hears your voice. He shoves Sam off him and stumbles into the kitchen.

There Jack is starting to wash dishes. He takes your little cafetera coffee maker from the stove, preparing to dump the old grounds. Dean grabs it out of his hand.

“Leave it alone,” Dean snaps. He slams it back on the stove where you left it.

Jack is wide-eyed, but Sam gives his brother a patient warning with his eyes. Dean ignores it and heads for his room.

“Sorry,” Sam says on behalf of his brother.

Jack shakes his head with tears in his eyes. “It’s okay, I…I understand.”

He already misses you too. You’d become a kind of older sister to him…and Castiel. Well. Cas was the father Jack will never have again.

Sam agrees with a nod, clapping Jack comfortingly on the back.

Sam ventures down the long halls of the bunker to Dean’s room. He pushes the cracked open door, and sees his brother sat hunched on the edge of his bed, hands bracing on his knees.

Sam walks in, swings Dean’s desk chair around, and sits down across from his brother. He rests his forearms on his knees and waits.

When Dean eventually looks up with red-rimmed eyes, Sam’s heart breaks a little more. For Dean, and for himself.

“We’re going to end this,” Sam promises him.

“We tried to give Chuck what he fucking wanted,” Dean reminds. “We offered to end ourselves, man. He wouldn’t bite. He won’t bring ‘em back.”

Dean’s voice cracks at the end there. Sam takes a deep breath, and lets it out just as slowly.

“We’ll figure out a way,” he says. “We always do.”

“That’s just it,” Dean says, with tired, glassy eyes. “I don’t think we can do it this time.”

Sam’s throat tightens. “Then I’ll believe for both of us.”

By the time Chuck is done snapping his fingers, Sam, Dean, and Jack are the only people left on Earth.

Until they encounter the Michael of this world, formerly trapped in the cage. They hatch a plan. And even though the angels don’t cooperate, they manage to play straight into the real plan.

Jack is the ace up Team Free Will’s sleeve, and as it turns out, that bomb inside the kid (made of the first Adam’s rib) was good for something. The nephilim absorbs the power of Lucifer, Michael, and ultimately Chuck himself.

Jack is the one who saves the world.

Before Dean leaves with his brother and Jack, away from that grassy cliffside in Lebanon, he turns to Chuck.

“Answer me this. Did you…” Dean says, struggling with how to formulate his question. “Meeting my girl. Was that us? Or was it just another manipulation?”

Sam watches his brother with concern. He sees the way Dean’s hand is already itching for his gun. Chuck is human now, and Sam knows how tempting it would be to truly end it.

Chuck himself is still prone on the ground, sitting up with wariness behind his eyes.

“I didn’t tug on that thread, actually,” he admits. “Made sense to let you have a glimmer of happiness, something to hold onto. To fight for.”

Then he looks up at Dean with a tremulous smirk pulling at his lips.

“But I did wait for the perfect moment to dust her, didn’t I?”

Within seconds, Dean’s gun is slipping into his hands with the safety cocked back, the barrel lined up for a straight shot between Chuck’s eyes. Sam barks a warning, but Dean doesn’t altogether care. He’s furious, sneering at the former god who cowers like the coward he is.

“Dean?” Sam calls to him. It’s a question and a warning all at once.

Dean’s mouth works, quirking at a humorless smile. He cocks the safety back in place and lowers his gun with a shaking hand.

He stalks back to the Impala and doesn’t look at his brother.

The only three people left alive in the world ride back into the empty streets of Lebanon, Kansas.

When Jack snaps his fingers, it’s like this little planet is reborn.

Suddenly, it’s filled with life. People walking their dogs, their kids, hailing cabs, nearly rear-ending each other’s cars in traffic while texting. It’s like the chaos never happened, and equilibrium is restored.

Even the shaggy dog Dean found last week bounds up to him. He bends down to pet the dog’s furry head, scratching behind his ears. Dean’s going to actually have to come up with a name for this thing now.

And yet…

In a world full of color, Dean still just sees gray.

He and Sam say a bittersweet goodbye to Jack, who ascends into Heaven. Dean can only hope the kid has a good WiFi signal if they ever need him again, like if he can’t find…

The forgotten cell phone in his pocket buzzes on a ring. He shares a wide-eyed look with Sam, licking his dry lips before he reaches into his jean pocket. He flips the phone over and finds your name across his caller ID.

With a shaking hand, he swipes his thumb across the green button and raises the phone up to his ear. He can’t even make his voice work right away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to.

“Dean?” your beautiful voice greets him.

His lips pull at a tremulous smile. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You let out a relieved breath.

“Oh, thank God. I’m here at the bunker. Where are you?”

Dean wants to quip that Chuck had nothing to do with it, but he humors you.

“Not too far,” he says. He gestures to a smiling Sam, and together they haul ass back to the Impala.

“Promise?” you ask. Dean grins.

“I’ll be home before you know it.”

Once again, you’re tangled up in the bed you share with Dean. Almost every morning without fail, he teasingly grumbles as he tries to free his legs from the knotted sheets.

“What the hell did you do here, woman?”

“I didn’t do anything,” you refute. Though your giggle betrays your guilt while he continues to struggle. “You’ll just have to stay in bed then.”

You drag him back to you, and it’s not unpleasant to be welcomed back to the soft warmth of your body.

“We’ve got some monsters waiting,” he reminds you.

“They can wait,” you say, and ply him with a lazy morning kiss. It heats up in passion as your hands slide under his shirt…

But of course, one of said “monsters” predictably starts banging at the bedroom door. It opens a crack, revealing a head of light brown hair and tearful hazel eyes.

“Mo-oooom! Cari keeps hitting me after you told her not to,” cries your son.

His older sister stomps behind him, so he ducks into the room to flee from her, heading for the bed and jumping into your arms.

Dean sighs, hiding his disappointment. You give him a secret smile while brushing back your son’s hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. To Dean, you gesture with your eyes at the doorway, where your nine-year-old daughter peeks in. She eyes her little brother in annoyance.

Tattletale, her face says.

“Caridad,” you call to her in your sterner mom voice. “Come here, please.”

Cari is most definitely a daddy’s girl, and she beelines for her father. He picks up the nine year old and settles her on the bed, tucked into his side.

“Robbie’s a crybaby,” she says.

“No, you are!” Robbie cries indignantly. He tries to push her, but you grab his hand and push it down to the bed. Dean has to do the same with Cari when she tries to pinch her brother.

“All right, all right, enough,” Dean says, with all the authority his own father once had. “Can’t we all just have one morning in peace?”

That’s when Dean’s phone rings on his nightstand. He sighs and answers it, and it’s Sam, asking what time you and Dean plan to come over his house today for the Fourth of July barbecue.

“Give me a couple hours to wrangle the kids,” Dean replies. He has to curl an arm around Cari so she won’t throw another pillow at her brother.

“Tell Eileen I’m bringing the dessert,” you chime in, calling to Sam in the phone.

“You got that?” Dean asks his brother. A moment later, he reports back to you with a nod.

“He’s wanting the fluffy cake thing,” Dean says. “The sweet one with the lil’ cherries on top.”

“Tres leches?” you supply with a smile.

He nods again. “Yeah, that one.”

“Not a problem, but let’s get them cleaned up so I can start baking,” you say. Though you grunt as a small bare foot kicks at your side.

“Hey!” you reach for your daughter’s arm. “Ya, that’s enough. Te calmas, o te calmo. Los dos, coño.”

Dean snorts, watching his children now wrestling each other in the middle of the bed despite your best efforts to keep them apart.

“Easier said than done,” he mutters. He hangs up with Sam and then surveys the familiar chaos in front of him.

“All right, you guys want to see your cousins?” Dean bribes. The kids actually pause and perk up at that.

“We’re going to Uncle Sammy’s house?” Cari asks.

“Yep, so quit screwin’ around. Let’s up and at ‘em,” Dean says. “Brush your teeth and wash your face, then meet me downstairs for breakfast.”

“Can we have Cap’n Crunch?” Robbie asks.

“No, Raisin Bran,” Cari insists. You have to laugh a little, reaching out to stroke her cheek. Your daughter surely is a special sort of child for genuinely liking Raisin Bran.

“Fine,” Dean agrees to both with a nod. “Get to it. Come on, let’s go!”

He claps his hands until the kids are up and out of his bed, running to the door.

“Don’t run!” you warn them. “Caridad Marie Winchester, stop pushing your brother, or you’re not going anywhere.”

The door hangs open as the sounds of small feet patter down the hall, accompanied by childish giggling and yelling. You sigh and lean back into the pillows, closing your eyes.

“I’m already tired. Why did we have two of those?”

Dean smirks and leans over to press a kiss to your forehead. You keep him close with a hand in his shirt.

“If I remember right, having the first one was so much fun, you just couldn’t keep your hands off me,” he teases.

“Is that what happened? I seem to remember some tequila and cajoling involved,” you smirk, cracking your eyes open. You pull him to you and kiss him thoroughly.

Both of you try not to lose track of time, but in the ten years since retiring from hunting, learning how to be civilians, true partners, and parents, you’ve become pros at stealing the small moments for yourselves.

“Come on, babe. Don’t you want Cari to have a little bro?” you mock in his deeper voice. “They’ll protect each other, be each other’s best friends.”

Dean chuckles at your interpretation of him, giving a teasing yank to one of your stray curls.

“They will, one day. Sam and I didn’t really get each other until later on.”

You smile at that and raise your hand to the beard he’s trying to grow out. You remember him teasing Sam for sporting a “ferret” on his face, once upon a time. But it seems that both Winchester brothers are well-suited to the lumberjack look.

“Maybe we can get Sam and Eileen to keep the kids tonight,” Dean suggests.

You like the sound of that. Cari and Robbie take any chance for a sleepover with their cousins.

You run a hand down his chest. “You’re saying I’m going to get all this to myself tonight?”

He grabs your hand and kisses it. His gaze holds a familiar heat that makes you smile. Your fingers wiggle teasingly in his grip, which curves his lips as well. Your wedding rings gleam in the lamplight.

We don’t have time now, but we will later, his gaze promises.

So with a sigh, he releases your hand.

“All right, lazy. Time to get a move on,” he teases. He then points at you. “Good face.”

Buena cara. Your smile deepens as you start to rise out of bed. It’s become his thing with you, starting the day with a good face.

Nowadays, you don’t often have a reason not to.

“I’ll make coffee,” you offer, as you do most mornings. The one time Dean tried to make it your way, he burned the bottom of your coffee press.

He tosses you a smirk as he pulls on a new shirt. He then digs in his side of the dresser for a pair of jeans that don’t have jelly stains, imprinted on with small fingers.

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” he agrees. “I think today’s a two-shot kinda morning. What do you think?”

You sidle up behind him at the dresser and swat him on the ass. He jolts a little, making a rumbling sound as he eyes you in your little black nightgown. It’s a warning, not to start something you two won’t have time to finish.

“Sounds about right.” Bracing your hands on his hips, you lean up on your toes so you can rest your chin on his shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror. You smile.

“Two cortaditos coming up.”

AN: Aaaand I am soft. 🥹 I've been wanting to get to this for a while now. If you like it, let me know! ❤️

Some more Spanish translations for ya:

This is a callback from "Devour Me" with “Ven Devórame Otra Ves” by Lalo Rodriguez.

Devórame otra vez, ven, devórame otra vez… Que la boca me sabe a tu cuerpo. Desesperan mis ganas por ti…

Translation:

"Devour me again. Come, devour me again…

Because my mouth has the taste of your body. My lust for you is exasperating."

“Te calmas, o te calmo. Los dos, coño.”

Translation:

“Calm down, or I’ll calm you down. Both of you, damn it.” [😂 I think every Latina mom has spouted this at least once lol.]

Read From the Beginning:

Want to go back to the beginning of this series? Start with "Midnight Espresso":

Summary: You’ve never taken Dean’s flirting seriously…until he asks you for an impromptu Spanish lesson.

▶️ First Story: Midnight Espresso

Series Masterlist

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420

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steviewashere · 2 months

Text

Laughter Like a Kiss on the Lips

Rating: General CW: Steve Harrington has Lackluster Parents (Not Terrible, But Not Amazing Either) Tags: Established Relationship, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Dialogue Heavy, Making Promises, Reflecting on the Good Parts of Childhood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Laughter, Tickling, Ticklish Steve Harrington For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is wanting to know everything about what makes up the person you're in love with, even the difficult stuff."

💕—————💕

They’ve been laying on the carpet of Steve’s living room for the better half of an hour. Sprawled, loose, listening to one another breathe. The day’s been a long one. Early work shifts, car breakdowns, a short and resolved argument. It’s just been rough.

Debriefing usually results in this. Silence and floor. Closed eyes and steady chests. But Eddie, the restless jumble of energy he is, begins to hum. Not something he’d usually go after, at least that’s what Steve believes. Isn’t heavy. Isn’t loud or dark or saturated. Light. Effervescent and warm. Like sun rays cascading through a stain glass window.

It’s almost country, funny enough. Again, at least that’s what Steve thinks it is. He’s not the most versed when it comes to music. Sure, he knows about jazz and pop and early rock, blues and all. He’s aware of all that and some more indie things that Robin likes to shove down his throat when they’re driving out somewhere. But Eddie’s not one to steer far from his usual course, so this humming music he’s got going on, it’s new yet welcomed to Steve.

“That’s new,” he points out.

Eddie stops and his head shifts against the carpet, hair lightly scraping. He’s gonna be a frizzy mess, but Steve adores taking care of it at the end of the day. A questioning hum emanates. But neither of them open their eyes.

“The song you got stuck in your head,” Steve notes, “it’s a new one.”

Chuckling, Eddie mumbles, “Ain’t that new.” Steve hears him turn on his side. His voice closer against the shell of his ear, facing towards him then. “Something from when I was growing up.”

“Wayne like country or something?”

Eddie scoffs. “It isn’t country, Stevie. It’s bluegrass. Different kind of folk, babe.” A hand settles on Steve’s chest. His thumb rubs in circles where Steve’s heart is. “‘Nine Pound Hammer’, but it’s Merle Travis’s version. Mom was from eastern Tennessee, the Appalachian region. Lots of folk songs come from the Appalachian people.”

Steve opens his eyes and lolls his head to look directly at Eddie. They softly smile at each other. “She sing that to you?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” Eddie murmurs. “More so heard it on her records. She wasn’t the best singer, not to speak ill of the dead. But—“ He sucks his teeth. “—Yeah, she’d sing. Dance to it, too. Dad came from Tennessee, too, but moved up to Indiana when he was a little kid. Didn’t stop him from pursuing a failed music career or women. He sang to her, what she liked, played it on his acoustic.”

Steve hums. “Music is your family’s world, isn’t it?”

Eddie chuckles again. “Well, it got my parents together. And they had me. So, it’s kinda like god in a sense. The life bringer.” He sighs. “What about you, Stevie? Got any songs from your childhood?”

Thinking back, no not really. His parents have always been very distant from one another. Not necessarily away from him, but the crumbling of their marriage lead to the rusting of the bridge that connected the three of them. There isn’t any rich storytelling within the Harrington name either. Nothing like a cute little meeting at a bar on the outskirts of town. Or even something where they went from high school rivals to close friends to lovers and then back to strangers.

No, his parents were forced to meet over a business deal meeting. Forced into a marriage neither of them wanted. And they made love in the dark. Steve was conceived in a dark bedroom where only their stuttered breaths could be heard. And they didn’t look after one another. Didn’t take care of each other, not like Steve does with Eddie and Eddie does with Steve.

So he shrugs. “No,” he answers honestly.

“Really?” Eddie incredulously questions, “Nothing at all?” He sits up on one of his elbows, eyes wide down at Steve. “That feels hard to believe.”

“You wanted to know, so I’m telling you. It’s not a pretty story.”

“What isn’t a pretty story? The birth of some song that reminds you of being a little kid?”

“I don’t—There isn’t anything that takes me back to being a little kid. I hated being a little kid. The story’s ugly anyway.”

“Tell me,” Eddie quietly pleads. “Tell me even if it’s shitty, I wanna know.”

He has to really think hard on this. Still, there’s no music. No movies or plays or anything of that nature. Books felt like an obligation, too, when they were teaching him how to read. There was bible study and church Sundays and his starchy, stiff outfit. His mom and her spit slick thumb and his unruly eating habits. Manners taught and hands slapped.

There’s not much good, unfortunately. But, something nice comes to mind.

“My parents didn’t like each other. I don’t think they really knew how to do that,” Steve starts. “I was just kind of a product of that, I guess. Like I was the trophy to complete their gauntlet. They dated and they bought a house and they got engaged and they got married, they had me. Forced dating, though.” He rests his own palm on the back of Eddie’s hand. Scratching dully at his skin. “But, as much as they hated being near one another, there was this one thing they did constantly. That they included me in on.”

Eddie hums. “Sounds promising,” he whispers. “What’d they do, babydoll?”

Steve squeezes Eddie’s wrist. Pulls away and runs his fingers through the ends of Eddie’s curls. “They did each other’s hair. They did my hair, too.” He eyes the frizz that he knew would eventually make itself known. Raking over the pattern of Eddie’s curls. The rough, choppy cut to his bangs. He adores Eddie’s hair. “It was kinda funny. We’d all be topless—sans like my mom’s bra, y’know because the hair would get on our shirts anyway?—and we’d huddle in the downstairs master bathroom. As big as this house is, that room is fucking small.

“I’d sit on the counter. In my sleep shorts, hands wrapped around the soft tummy of this brown teddy bear my mom got me, socks on my feet. Butt on the edge of the sink. Feet kicking around in the open air. I liked to sit in front of my dad.” His hand gently rests on the side of Eddie’s neck, eyes remaining glued to the spot. He’s never shared this before. Kinda wants to remain lost for a while.

Continues, “He has this very thick handlebar mustache. He’s always had it. And as my mom stood behind him—trimming up the top of his head, raking her fingers through with mousse—he’d take his own shears to his ‘stache. Would shape it up, stretch his lips down, raise his eyebrows in focus.

“It made me laugh. And he’d kinda chuckle. But when he was done?”

Eddie’s still smiling at him. He can feel it. His own face must be doing the same. “What’d he do, sweetheart?”

“He’d set his shears to the side and he’d—“ Steve chuckles. “He’d tickle my ribs! The bastard would turn his attention to me, crinkle up his eyes in sadistic laughter, and shove his fingers in my ribs. It was stupid, but I liked it. And obviously, it made me laugh. I used to honk-squeak. Like super loud.” He takes a deep breath, and on the exhale his smile wisps away from him. “It’s the only time we really laughed together. It’s the only time I felt like—Like I was their kid. Not some object to show off. Now I just do my own hair. I miss that time, those feelings,” he quietly admits.

Above him, Eddie gently coos. A soft sound. But when he finally chances a look, there’s a mischievous glint to his eyes. Mirth. In one swift motion, Eddie is straddling his hips, cold hands under Steve’s t-shirt, rucking the clothing up, and jabbing his fingers into his ribs.

Steve tries to shove his hands away, but can’t help the way he surrenders. Curling in on himself, smile stretching across his face, nose scrunching with his laughter, the kind of laughter that leaves him gasping and honking and squeaking. Just like it was when he was a little boy. The sensation leaves him breathless and squealing, slapping at Eddie’s chest. Still smiling and wonderful when Eddie relents.

“And there he is,” Eddie whispers. “There’s Steve Harrington. Smiling at me all gorgeous. Can’t believe you’re ticklish, baby. That’s adorable.”

A half-hearted slap lands to the center of Eddie’s chest. “I told you that with confidence. Don’t use it against me.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Eddie swears. “Eye for an eye. I gave you my love for bluegrass, you gave me the joy of your laughter.” He leans down into Steve’s space again. His body yin-yang to his own. A hand petting over Steve’s hair. “You know what we get to do now?”

Steve gives him his own questioning hum.

“We get to combine. Make our own good memories. Tell each other our tainted stories. About your insufferable parents and my criminal dad and my long-gone mom. About your cold house and mine that was consumed by fire. I’ll melt your ice, you’ll douse my fire. And we find you a song that’ll remind you of the start of this. And you take care of the frizz in my hair.” He kisses Steve’s forehead. Murmuring against the skin, “I saw you eyeing my ends. You ain’t discreet.”

In response, Steve laughs once more. He sighs and leans up into Eddie’s space, a soft kiss square on his lips. Pulling away, he whispers, “To new beginnings.”

“And to happily ever afters,” Eddie promises.

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddielovemonth #day 4 #mild hurt/comfort #fluff

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starz4mk · 6 months

Text

Bad days.—(Miguel O’hara x Blk!Fem!Reader Fluff🧸)

“Fucking hell.” You said as you entered work. You really didn’t wanna go since you weren’t too fond of the idea of being Miguel O’Hara’s “right hand man.” You didn’t even get that much sleep last night, but you’re 2 year into this. You should’ve thought about that instead of fiending over a hot, muscular vampire dude. You get to your destination and sit down in the chair next to the one and only, Miguel O’Hara.

“You’re late.” He said with a stern voice. You rolled your eyes, you were wayyy too tired to deal with his sassy ass attitude.

“What an immaculate observation.” You hissed, sarcastically. He thinks because he’s older than you he can act all tough and boss you around. Like you’d let that happen. You started typing on the computer in front of you as Miguel sighed in frustration.

“Your life you be way easier if you didn’t always talk back.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. You furrowed your eyebrows, putting on a stank face when he said that. Who the hell did he think he was talking to?

“Don’t even start that. You talk back more than everybody in the spider-verse combined, yo sassy ass.” You crossed your arms, leaning back in your chair. You watched as he turned his head towards you, that familiar nonchalant face meeting your irritated one. He hated your attitude, you hated his, it was a neutral feeling.

“How many times do I have to remind you to set your alarm, Y/n?” He sighed, his voice sounding a bit passive-aggressive. You can confirm you forgot to set your alarm, but you were pretty busy yesterday.

“I was busy, Miguel.” You snapped back. “I just had things to do before I went to sleep, you know my family always needs me to do somethin’” He raised an eyebrow, his face taking a curious expression.

“Like?” He questioned as he turned his attention to you. You knew he was gonna say that. You yawned, stretching your arms out.

“Girl, let me tell you.” He scoffed with a small smirk at your choice of words. “My uncle’s car broke down, so I had to go get him. And, guess what?!” You ranted. This was very amusing to Miguel, making his smile grow and for his to turn all his attention to you, and only you.

“What?” He said smugly. He rested his chin on his hand, which was propped up by his elbow. You were definitely enjoying the attention from the fine man in front of you, but you were still fixated on the story.

“That crackhead was all the way in CANADA. I had to drive an entire hour just to get to that old man!” You complained, rolling your eyes for what felt like the 6th time this morning. “I love that man with all my life, but I really wish someone else did that.” You huffed, fiddling with your frizzy braids. You really gotta take those bitches out. Miguel, on the other hand, was definitely enjoying himself. He looked you up & down as he listened to your story.

“Wow, such an eventful day.” He said with a snarky tone. You acted offended, putting a hand on your chest.

“That’s not the only thing that happened!” You huffed, still in a jokingly manner. He leaned in closer, crossing his arms and leaning forward so they were on his knees.

“Then tell me, Amor.” Those words sent a shiver up your spine, making your face feel warm and heart race. Your knees were almost touching his making him mighty close to you. Damn, that’s hot.

“Well.. I also had to babysit my 3 cousins, which was a nightmare.” You giggled a bit at the thought of you having to run after a 5 year old while carrying a 1 year old. You think Miguel felt your energy since his smile widened a bit. “I have a BUNCH of stories from yesterday. Just some family things.” You sighed. He put his hand on yours and looked up at you, locking eyes. All you’re seeing right now is space and opportunity. His face was closer than it should be. He wasn’t smiling anymore, but his face was still as mesmerizing as always. You swear you could almost feel his breath brush against your lips.

“You should really talk to me more, Y/n. It might not seem like it, but I enjoy your company. Though, your attitude is more than annoying, you’re a great partner in crime.” That was unexpected, but it made your heart bounce off walls like a toddler after trick-or-treating. You thought you were just like a sidekick type of thing to him, but hearing him call you his partner-in-crime, awakened an entirely different understanding. You were good at hiding facial expression, but your actions, not so much. You squeezed your thighs together and fiddled with one of the braids that always got in your face. You felt so captivated that it was nerve-racking.

“I- I really appreciate that.. Thank you, Miguel.” You smiled. You felt so delusional at that moment. You wanted to lean in, just close enough for him the hearts in your eyes. You were just about to start beating yourself up for it until you felt his cold hand on your cheek. He had that small smile that always crossed your mind 24/7. Maybe working with Miguel won’t be so bad.

#miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o’hara x black reader #female!reader #black!y/n #no smut #fluff #black reader #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara fluff

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venusvity · 2 months

Text

IN WHICH ... The House We Built Is Made of Paper and Sticks.

FEATURING ... JUNG YOONAH + KANG JUWON

TRIGGER WARNINGS ... Suggestive. Mentions of grooming, Cursing, Crying, Arguing kinda? They have an intense conversation. Mentally Ill Characters.

WRITER'S NOTE … This is 2.5k so technically long enough to be a piece instead of a drabble but I didn't feel like making a header sdfksnfks anyways, it's a follow up to this piece because they've been scratching my brain recently. Not proofread btw! rbs, comments, and asks are always appreciated ♡

Despite his doubts, Yoonah did go home that night. She sat pretty on their couch and waited for him to return from work. It must’ve been exhausting, she thought. Jiho told her that Jinhwa made them move their entire practice room to the Mydol building without help from movers. Juwon must be tired but Yoonah isn’t. Yoonah is wide awake and feels like a tiger that’s been circling her enclosure for hours.

“Baby?” Juwon calls from the entryway of their apartment. Yoonah’s eyes flicker up at the TV in front of her, blinking with a quiet sigh through her nose as she rubs her palms on her bare knees. She turned her head towards the hall, and hearing his footsteps made her lips curl inward.

When Juwon steps into her line of vision, she looks up at him with dearie brown eyes. Juwon looks tired like Yoonah guessed he would, his long black hair frizzy and in his face and eyes unreadable as he forces a smile at her. He’s not happy to see her like he’s pretending. She can tell when he’s actually smiling verses when he makes himself do it for appearances. She hates how much he cares about appearances but it’s a part of him she’s learned to love, forced herself to look past because she loves every other aspect of him. She loves Juwon so much it hurts.

“You didn’t go out?” Juwon asks, sitting beside her on the couch like nothing is wrong. Yoonah stares at him blankly, taking in how red his cheek is from earlier. A bruise is blossoming there right above his cheekbone; a nauseating yellow begins to form on his usually tan skin. Silently, Yoonah shakes her head, feeling a sense of guilt take over her the longer she stares at his cheek. Juwon nods empathetically, putting a hand on her knee. His touch makes her blood run cold and a lump form in her throat. His touch was once a great comfort to Yoonah, bringing her out of her lowest lows and taking her to her highest highs, but now she can’t stand it. She wants the warmth back. She wants the comfort. In just the few hours they’ve been separated, she already misses what they had.

Not breaking her silence, Yoonah reaches up and takes his bruised cheek into her palm, causing Juwon to flinch softly before relaxing into her touch. Yoonah just stares at him, waiting for him to say something, to start the conversation they need to have, to say anything to mend what he’s done or at least start a fight––Something. She wants him to say something. Her eyes go from vacant to desperate the longer the silence hangs in the air, tilting her head at him hoping it prompts him to speak. It’s a silent plea she hopes he hears.

Juwon swallows, leaning in and resting his forehead against hers, shutting his eyes once they’re inches apart. Yoonah blinks at him, breathing getting heavier when she feels tears tug at her eyes. The silence is beginning to suffocate her, making every breath feel like it’s her last. Her eyes blink quickly to take back her tears, but it only makes them spill over in big droplets on the couch, soft thuds being heard when they hit the fabric and sink in.

“I didn’t want to,” Juwon whispers finally but keeps his eyes closed. He can’t look at her, and it makes her feel like sobbing. “I just–It’s complicated.”

“You hate him more than I do,” Yoonah says, matching his tone with a strained voice. “Why? Please, try to find a way to tell me. Please.”

Juwon sits up with a deep breath through his nose, lifting one hand to rest on her thigh. She swallows, her dark brows knitting as she drops her hand from his cheek to rest atop of his tattooed hand. Patience is something Yoonah has always struggled with—everything around her moves at lightning speed, but Juwon. Juwon is slow and cautious. He always looks both ways before crossing the street; he nearly misses the exits on the highway because he takes so long to merge, and he takes forever to finish his meals. He is the only thing in her life she’s ever got to take her time with. It makes it all the more painful.

“I knew why he was doing it. It was like he was trying to–” He squeezes her thigh as he struggles to find the words. Yoonah is glad his eyes are still shut because she looks less than enthralled by how his answer is going. He pauses, then says, “–make it last longer. He wanted to break me in there.” Yoonah feels her heart sink. The thought of Jinhwa and Juwon in the same room together, especially an office, makes her nauseous. Jinhwa said a lot of horrible things to her in his office; he would lock her in there for hours with him while he worked, and she just sat in his lap like a doll. His office was hell for Yoonah by the end of their relationship. Juwon swallows, shaking his head softly.

“It was like I had something to prove to him. Like, I wasn’t scared of him. I’m not scared of him.”

“I know you’re not,” Yoonah assures, even if she doesn’t believe it. “You should’ve talked to me first. A warning would’ve been nice, Juwon.” He nods at her words, pulling back to look in her eyes, still nodding.

“I should’ve. I should’ve, and I’m so sorry I didn’t, baby. I’m so sorry,” Juwon insists, his big brown eyes looking at her desperately as he leans forward for their noses to touch. Yoonah pulls back just slightly out of hesitance. There is still a nasty feeling in her stomach every time Juwon gets close to her, but she swallows it down and squeezes his wrists, eyes flicking from his eyes to his lips and then back to his pleading eyes.

“I don’t know if I can move on from this,” Yoonah admits, “It’s so deep, Juwon. This cut so deep I-I can feel it in my soul. Like, you were the last person I ever expected this from and-and it’s like I'm suffocating. It’s like he’s two steps away from walking in our house and it freaks me out. This freaks me the fuck out.” Tears fall down Yoonah’s cheeks again as she expresses everything she let out through violence earlier. Juwon nods in understanding again, which only seems to make the ache in Yoonah’s chest worse. He knows, and he still did it.

She grabs his face with both her hands, jerking him towards her and making his eyes widen slightly. She whispers, "I can never get away from him, even with you. Do you not get how that kills me?" Juwon stays silent, his eyes still wide. Yoonah lets go of him, her hands dropping into her lap before she stands from the couch with a deep breath.

“I’m going to bed. You can-” She motions towards the couch then the bedroom, blinking hard a few times as a grating sound plays in her brain that leaves her itching for a fix of something she hasn’t had in years. It makes her shut her eyes tightly, blinking at the floor when she starts to see shapes behind her eyelids.

“Sleep with me if you want. I know you’re tired.” It’s an awkward way to leave things but Yoonah hasn’t been the most personable person lately. The internet won’t let her forget it, and neither will Iseul. As she walks to the bedroom, she can hear her boss’s voice demanding she smile more, telling her to use a softer tone of voice, to stop being such a bitch when the cameras are on. There are so many aspects of Yoonah’s life that feel like they’re crumbling in on her. She doesn’t know what to do. She’s never felt so low before. It feels impossible. It’s just one thing after the other, and she can’t stand it.

Without a word, Juwon follows Yoonah into the bedroom, his heart heavy with the weight of her pain. He watches her as she sits on the edge of the bed, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The room is filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of Yoonah's ragged breathing. Juwon hesitates for a moment before moving to sit beside her, his presence offering a silent comfort.

Yoonah finally turns to look at him, her eyes filled with a mix of exhaustion and desperation. Blindly, she takes his face into her hands again, pulling him in to kiss him messily. She doesn’t care for precision or tact; she just presses her lips to Juwon’s to feel something. Juwon doesn’t seem to care, wrapping his arms around her waist and chasing her lips with a soft groan as he pulls her chest flush against his. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, climbing into his lap as her lips desperately chased his.

Their kiss deepened, each movement filled with a longing for connection and solace. Juwon could feel Yoonah's pain through her touch, her breath hitching against his lips as if trying to expel the weight on her chest.

As they finally pulled apart, Juwon gazed into Yoonah's eyes, seeing the unspoken words that lingered between them. With a tenderness that made Yoonah feel sick, Juwon whispered softly, "I love you, baby. I love you so much.”

Yoonah doesn’t want to hear it. Her eyes shut tightly as she shakes her head, trying to catch her breath before she slams their lips together again, hoping to shut him up. She can’t bear to hear his voice. All she wants to hear is his breathing and to feel him beneath her. Yoonah presses her chest against his, making him fall back with a soft groan. His hands are in her hair, on her waist, up her shirt, and tracing her spine with the tips of his fingers.

Yoonah pulls her shirt over her head, beginning to feel like she’s going into autopilot to reach that high. Juwon sighs blissfully at the sight of her skin, his rough hands sliding up her stomach before pulling her down by her waist they’re chest to chest. He kisses her neck, wet lips attaching to the sensitive skin and making her jaw drop in a silent moan, digging her nails into his hips. Juwon's hands move down her back, pushing her hips against his as he deepens the kiss. Yoonah's body arches, pushing herself further into him as her hands scramble to push his shirt up.

Juwon pulls the fabric over his head with ease, taking a deep breath as he takes her face in his hands again to pull her down to collide their lips once again. Yoonah lets out a moan into his mouth when their lips are locked once again, feeling her heartbeat begin to pound in her throat. Despite her rapid heart rate, her mind is falling into a vegetative state that makes her feel as if she’s about to fall asleep.

Yoonah drags her lips from his to brush across his jawline to his neck, hearing him take a sharp breath of air as her lips pressed against the skin. Juwon’s fingers dig into her hips, dipping them past the waistband of her shorts before pulling back to rest on her waist again.

“Yoonah,” He whispers but she doesn’t lift her head. She scatters kisses across his chest, eyes shut as her lips take in the feeling of his skin against them. He’s always been warm and soft. Juwon took such good care of himself, it’s something Yoonah loved about him. His hands move to the back of her head as her hands slide down to his hips to pull at his sweatpants.

“Baby, hold on,” Juwon clears his throat, guiding her to lift her head despite the fact she doesn’t want to look at him. Even as she lifts her head, she doesn’t open her eyes, feeling his hand on her cheek, pulling her skin gently with his palm as her hair cascades like a dark curtain to the side of her face. She feels him lean up to try and look in her eyes but her eyes stay shut.

“We don’t have to–”

“We have to,” Yoonah whispers, feeling his forehead bump hers but all she sees is the darkness behind her eyelids. “It’ll fix it. It’ll help.” She wishes she sounded stronger, more confident in that belief, but she sounds weak and desperate.

“Baby,” Juwon sighs, pushing her hair back and out of her face. There’s a silence that Yoonah knows he’s using to try to figure out what to say to that. It makes Yoonah pull out of his loose grasp, finally opening her eyes with a sigh. “That’s not why we should have sex.” He says like she should know that because she does know that but it still feels like jab in the ribs.

“It’s the only way I can even think about being with you right now,” Yoonah tells him, looking at him for the first time in what feels like hours. Juwon looks hurt but doesn’t say anything, just stares at her with brown eyes that Yoonah doesn’t know if she loves or hates. “I love you,” Yoonah says through a tight throat, wrapping her arms around her exposed torso as her eyes get hot. She sniffs as she grabs his shirt to cover herself, shaking her head as an overwhelming sadness fills her entire being, making it impossible to keep it together.

“But I feel like I’m dying. I don’t know. I-I-I don’t know what to do,” Yoonah admits as fat tears fall from her eyes and onto his chest, causing her to climb off his hips and onto their bed. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, looking at him for only a second before down at the sheets.

“We’re–You knew. You know. You know, Juwon. You’re–You’re supposed to be the only one who doesn’t hurt me and–and you hurt me–” Her voice cracks, and it makes her stop talking, shaking her head and letting herself lay down. This is too embarrassing. Yoonah can’t keep this going. There’s nothing left for her to say, nothing she can get out coherently, anyway. She feels she’s cried enough for today, spilled enough of her guts for the entire year. All she wants now is silence.

All she wants is peace.

#╰ * VENUS : scenarios ⧽ burn it to the ground .#ficnetfairy #fictional idol group #fictional idol community #kpop fanfic #idol oc #kpop oc #fake kpop oc #kpop au #idol au #kpop addition #idolverse #oc girl group #bts addition #fake kpop girl group #fake kpop idol #oc kpop group #stray kids addition

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queengiuliettafirstlady · 2 months

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The gentle stag Lovely surprise

Fandom: Ikemen Prince

Pairing: Keith x MC

Tag: Established relationship Birthday Fluff

Word Count : 725

Author’s Note: A special birthday deserves a special surprise, like a kiss from his lover that awaited his return admiring the country she take as their home. As soon as he comes back they did not shy away from confessing their feeling to each other, basking pleasantly in the warm hug of their love. 🥰

Side Note: All the images were found on Pinterest-Google and I was unable to find the source, please if any of you know the owner tell me and I will provide to give the artist the credit for the image.

Tag list

@kissmetwicekissmedeadly @aquagirl1978 @violettduchess @atelieredux @klutzyroses @randonauticrap @thewitchofbooks @princess-pray-a @judejazza @itsmyara

You can find me on AO3 as QueenJuliet 😊

Thank you for everyone who will like, reblog, or comment please be gentle with me english is not my first language so please do not leave rude comments I apologise for eventual errors I hope you will like it 😊

It was a frizzy winter morning, one of those she would have desired to spend snuggled in the covers, but duty calls and so she was up so early, waiting impatiently for the return of her husband.

She stifled a yawn leaning in the softness of the sofa lazily admiring the town stretching before her eyes, each corner bustling with noise while the early birds sang a sweet melody, she would have never got tired to listen to, chirping happily as they flied carelessly around the trees, chasing one another in the shy tepid rays of the rising sun,

The roads were filled with chit chats and clatter of horses' hooves on the cobblestone, a suffused music came from the vast land of the countryside, a shepherds’ song followed by the tingling bells of the animals with their verses seemed to accompany the song.

The sweet aroma of bakery and cooking wafted in the frizzy air of dawn, eliciting her an idea or two about certain recipes she desired to bake with him, even though she already pictured the mess the palace kitchen would have been in after they finished.

A scenario that was not unlike to happen, as it already had, making her giggle at the image of his lovely husband grey's hair covered in flour as he looked at her like a puppy caught in the rain, knowing far too well she would have hugged him and reassured him with ever so sweet kisses ... and later when they were alone in the bedroom even more than that.

A smile raised to curl her lips as soon as the pleasant scent of musk and wood reached her nostrils, the same perfume she would have recognized amidst a thousand, affection wrinkling her eyes as she turned to greet him.

"Welcome home."

"I am sorry to have woken you up so soon, you could have slept a little longer."

"Thank you but I wouldn't wish it any other way, or else I would have missed the spectacle the dawn was."

His ever gentle fingers adjusted the velvet jade shawl around her shoulder as he took a seat next to her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close as she nuzzled into his chest.

A rush of boldness ran in her as she raised her face to cup his face in her hands, staring in his gorgeous amber eyes glimmering with surprise as she leaned to brush a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"Happy birthday Keith."

The smile curling his lips was so bright and pure she felt an urge to steal that ray of sun only for herself, but he moved first melting his lips on her in a sweet slow kiss they savoured each other with.

Favourite flavour because to them both their love tasted like Home.

Reluctantly he pulled away, brushing his finger ever so gently over her cheek leaving an achingly tender kiss on his forehead.

"Thank you. It is now you are here with me."

His smile mirrored her own, while his eyes reflected all the love and devotion he felt for her alone.

Swiftly he took her in his arms, laying with her on the bed determined to show off his love to her until the stars would have come out again, solitary audience to that spectacle that was their alone to indulge in behind closed doors.

Gently he pulled away looking straight in her eyes, losing himself in the contemplation of all the affection reflected in them as he bent over to brush his nose with hers revelling in her soft giggles.

"I love you so ma douche biche."

"I love you too mon cerf, all of you."

His heart burst with warmth at the unconditional love spreading from her words, but he did his best to convey his own happiness wrapping his arms around her as they basking a little longer in their soft hug, brushing gentle kisses on her hair making her giggle, music he would have never fog tired to listen to, feeling his heart swell with affection as she nuzzled in his chest.

That day he would have made more than sure to show the depth of his feeling to her, his one and only Queen, deepening that feeling that bound their heart together for nothing was stronger than the mighty power of love.

#ikemen prince #my writing #ikepri #ikemen prince keith #ikepri keith

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mezzomorendo · 15 days

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- appearance hcs

Zack is slightly different from how canon makes him look, especially in remake/rebirth. Most notabtly:

He has tan skin, and is proud of the fact he never burns. Though he does get a bit paler when he's in Midgar, he's still quite a bit darker than a native Midgardian.

As he ages, he lets his hair grow out. It's at it's longest in his main verse, where it reaches his mid back. When he's able to properly take care of it, his hair is actually fairly wavy. It's not quite curly, but pretty close. It used to be incredibly frizzy growing up. These days, he frequently ties it up to keep it out of the way.

He does have top surgery scars, but they are harder to see post-Last Stand given he has dozens and dozens of bullet hole scars across his chest.

There are four wing tattoos on his back. Two white ones on the left side of his body, and two black ones on the right. They represent Angeal and himself (white wings) and Sephiroth and Genesis (black wings).

His eyes do actually glow in the dark, akin to birdblacksocialclub's comics. It's really freaky to those who aren't expecting it. He frequently forgets that they do that and consequently scares the daylights out of people who encounter him in the dark.

#ooc; classified soldier files {headcanons}#this will be updated as i go along

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wyn-n-tonic · 2 years

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I got a lot of really lovely asks about Frizzy last night and I've been having quite a few really lovely conversations about them and how the book is going for a while so I wanted to talk about them for a minute to, just like.... give you guys the proper update you deserve.

Long post so... behind the cut.

First and foremost, I'm really grateful to everybody for the patience you've given me as I work through this. Not only has it been difficult and blocking to walk away from what their story was in order to turn their story into what it is becoming but I've had a lot going on. My depression sends me into really horrible bouts of writer's block and between a really stressful job and moving and other stuff, the thought of writing at all has been terrifying because I don't want to mess things up. But especially these idiots because I love them so genuinely. So... let's get into it.

Lizzy is staying Lizzy, 26 - 27 over the timeline. She's 5'6/5'7 and still feels awkward in her body. She had these big plans for herself that got derailed and she ended up in a not great situation and ended up calling her brothers to come get her. She's been back in Raleigh, NC, for two years at this point to get her life back on track and, despite formerly being really great friends with Frankie, that's no longer the case. She doesn't know him. She doesn't speak to him. The only time she sees him is when he's around her twin brother since her older brother lives in Washington DC.

Danny (26 - 27), Lizzy's twin, is a firefighter by day and a cagefighter by night (literally what his Tinder profile says). Ladies man but not really. Kind of comes off as a douche but in that goofy, endearing way not in the predatory, frat boy way. He likes baseball and bad beer. Extremely unmedicated ADHD.

Robert (Rob/Bo) (32) is Lizzy's older brother. He works for the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History. Loves dinosaurs, books, grilling, a nice cocktail and his husband.

Leo (33), Rob's husband, is an anesthesiologist who does Doctors Without Borders now that he meets the requirements. His hope is to take two to three months (minimum requirement of availability for anesthesiologists for DWB is 8 - 12 weeks) every year or two to put forth his services.

Gabriel Francisco (30 - 31) is Rob's best friend, how he met Lizzy and Danny and Leo. He always wanted to be a pilot like his dad and grandfather who were in the Air Force but they both made it clear to him that they would not accept him joining the military because, "What would our sacrifices have been for if you just repeat the cycle?" Went to school for aerospace engineering, works in aircraft design. His grandfather, Emilio, died and he's been struggling a lot with that as well as having just broken things off with his girlfriend a few months previously to the start of the book. Feels an intense amount of responsibility for everybody around him but doesn't ever really let anybody else in.

New characters:

Matt (Lizzy's ex boyfriend. Danny stole every remote to every device in the house when he moved Lizzy out).

Jen (Frankie's ex girlfriend. She hated his connection with the Millers and called them bad influences on him. Called him Gabriel or Gabe even though he hated both of them because, 'Frankie is so juvenile and you're a grown man.').

Frankie drives a 2008 Ford F-250 (dark blue) and, yes, there is a certain scene in the back of the truck that is staying.

Story starts with a certain kiss in the kitchen.

Frankie's house is pretty bare, no decorations or paint. He only has it because he wanted to show his grandfather, who was dying, and his father that he had 'made it' and could take care of himself at a very young age without struggling the way they did so that when he does have a family, he doesn't have to struggle more.

Currently being written in first person with half of the chapters following Liz's thoughts and half of them following Frankie's because the story is both of theirs.

I'm making really good progress on it now and I'm doing my best to get this to you guys in 2023.

#frizzy verse #o writes

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cryptophasiac · 1 month

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nine people you’d like to know better tag

shoutout and major thanks to sarah @souryogurt64 for tagging me :)

last song: heart factory by sleater-kinney

fav color: lavender

currently watching: the 100. i heard the ending sucks but im on season 3 rn so that’s a later me problem

sweet/savory/spicy: yes. it depends on my mood which one i want more at a dif time

relationship status: cursed to singlehood for the past three straight years and foreseeable future

current obsession: obvi i’m forever saddled w fob obsession and it continues to ruin my life. besides that ive been really into octavia e butler’s parable of the sower verse since i just got the sequel to the first book. also im doing research for my undergrad thesis on amulets for protection in pregnancy, birth, and child rearing in the ancient egyptian delta 1090 BCE-300 CE. so that takes up a lot of mental space lol

last thing you googled: ‘sock curls how to’ bc i always wake up with super frizzy hair so im trying a new technique to make it easier to deal with in the mornings

tagging: i tagged more than nine ppl sorry lol also don’t do it if u don’t want to

@spinmagazine @lakemichiganlolita @petefromarma @xpennytrickx @judasisgayriot @tofeelnomorebitternessforever @fobyuri @k1d1c4rus @foliejpg @buildarocketboys @oldestmovieieversaw @telegraphavekiss @lipspressedclose @truebluemagician

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coeurdastronaute · 2 years

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Winter Olympics I

“Some might call you royalty.”

“I don’t know if that’s fair at all,” the hockey player chuckled and shook her head, bashful and honest as ever.

Her dark brown hair was still damp from the shower after practice, and would inevitably turn into a frizzy mess, but Lexa Woods sat behind the table with her name on a little placard and grinned at the reporters gathered for media day. Talking about herself was never something she felt particularly good at, not even when she was in high school and a classmate asked for a quote for their school paper. She’d gotten better, but she hated it consistently. It almost seemed like a punishment, to be good at something and have to talk about your shortcomings and successes.

“Your father is coaching you, and your brother is playing on the Men’s National Team. Your grandfather won gold in the ‘64 and ‘72 games, bronze in ‘68. Your dad won his own gold in ‘88 and ‘94, not to mention two Stanley Cups as a player and one as a coach. Your mother was a medalist in speed skating. Aden is on the hunt for his first gold, after getting silver last games. AND your cousin is competing in snowboarding for the first time. Do you feel the pressure at all to live up to that legacy?”

“Well, I hadn’t thought about it much until now, so thank you,” Lexa nodded and took a deep breath, earning a few chuckles from the room. She pushed the hair away from her face and smiled softly, almost dream-like at the microphone. She was well-versed in how to survive these types.

“I think hockey is in my blood. I grew up with some of the best minds and teachers I could ever want. It’s definitely daunting, to think about my lineage, but it’s not just me out there. We have a great team who I know can go all the way. Now, if you want to talk about rough, try being the coach’s kid on an Olympic team.”

The group laughed as she chuckled nervously and regained the stiffness to her spine. It wasn’t a joke. She’d been bred for this. But what the reporters failed to understand was that she was used to the pressure, as if she was always walking on Jupiter, if that were possible. Her air was different than her teammates’. Her air was thick and weighed her down, but she was used to it.

“Did you think for even a moment of representing your mother’s home of Canada?”

She nodded thoughtfully as she considered it. She hoped Aden was getting these stupid quiestions. She hoped Anya was getting pelted with zingers about legacy. But probably not. She was the youngest.

“I love Canada. I spent a lot of my childhood here, and my grandparents are still here. I’d be lying if I say it hadn’t crossed my mind, to honor her. But we were born and raised in the States. I’ve played with some of these girls since we were twelve. I knew where I was supposed to play. I’d like to think she’d understand.”

“Are you going to make it to see Anya’s competitions? She’s favored to finish in the top three in both events.”

“As if she would let me miss it. I know Dad and myself are hoping to catch some of Ade’s games, too. It becomes a lot busier of an Olympics when your entire family shows up for no reason.”

Not to be known for her humor, Lexa left them with some smiles and thanked them for their time. She’d be answering similar questions again the next day, and the day after, and probably for a week once the Olympics ended, no matter what the result actually was.

“There has to be a heap of pressure on you to perform and win. What does that feel like?”

Fucking great, would you like some on your shoulders? She thought to herself sardonically with a little, bitter grin.

“I feel the pressure to perform well, as do all of my teammates. I play a team sport. We fail and succeed as a team. I put enough pressure on myself to play up to their level. I’d say we have healthy expectations on us, and I feel pretty confident speaking for everyone, that we’re ready to exceed those.”

It was generous. She felt safer looping things back to the team, but everyone knew the truth. Lexa was doing suicides on her birthday because she had a bad game when she was fourteen. She knew pressure. She was forged in this fire.

After a few handshakes, she returned to the locker room to snag her bag and make sure she’d emptied her locker. In just three days, she’d be unloading it in Vancouver, and it still didn’t feel quite real. They weren’t wrong, that she was descended from Greats-- capital G, greats. It was expected of her to win a medal. And she was suddenly very close to it finally starting.

With a deep breath, she smiled and adjusted her bag on her shoulder, ready to make it home. She caught the picture tacked up on the locker and was glad she had. Instantly, her body relaxed and she stared at her mother’s photo. It was her favorite, slightly tattered from the constant moving and being dragged from college to teams to cities to places. But it was lucky. Sometimes, people were kind enough to tell her she looked like her mother. This picture made Lexa almost believe it.

But there she was. A little older than Lexa was currently. Hair wild and nearly curly but unable to be completely tamed beneath the toque, the sun dipping behind her near the pines that were weighed down by fresh, heavy show. Lexa could almost smell the picture. She was caught, frozen, mid-laugh, a sound Lexa could almost nearly chase and bring back to herself if she thought and focused hard enough.

Lexa felt too big, sometimes. Her mother was always lithe and dainty. She had a bulk to her from training so hard. She yearned for a bit of softness to her body instead of calloused hands and scars.

“I thought I missed you,” her father’s voice rang out, deep and clear. She shoved the picture in her pocket and slammed the locker. “You looked good out there today. The wrist okay?”

“Yeah, feels fine,” Lexa nodded.

Her father had always been her coach. Now, it was just official. Tall and sturdy, he had the build of a bruiser, and the nose to match. His cheeks were bristled with two days worth of growth, a habit he’d developed since her mother died. He was broad, with the black of his hair getting a little more salt than it’d had before. Aden had his jaw and eyes. Lexa was her mother’s daughter, from the tint of her hair to the slope of her cheeks.

“Don’t let them get into your head, okay?” he sighed before itching the back of his neck. “You have just the right amount of pressure on you, and you’re going to carry this team to a win.”

“I know.”

“I would have coached Canada if you’d gone there, you know?”

Lexa bit back a smile, her face screwing up a little to the left as she bit her lip.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Would have hated it the entire time, but I would have.”

“My wrist is fine. Are you all packed?”

“Just about. Aden said the foods alright.”

“Good.”

He nodded to himself, still growing more accustomed to coaching a room full of women, still growing accustomed to speaking with his daughter about things off of the ice. It wasn’t that he was cold or even lost. He was just a man of few words and feelings. He did used to laugh more, but that was a different time and place.

“Did you want--”

“God, there you are. I’ve been waiting in the lot for like twenty minutes. Hey Uncle G,” Anya breezed in, snow sticking to her coat and hat. “You’re not allowed in here.”

“I’m the coach.”

“It’s a womens’ locker room.”

Lexa’s father looked at his daughter and pled for some kind of help.

Two years older, and smack between Aden and Lexa, Anya was the sister she never knew to want, and the best friend she couldn’t shake. Even though her sport was something her father couldn’t take seriously, he also had a soft spot for the louder, more assertive of the pair. But Anya trained hard, and even her uncle was proud of what she was doing.

There weren’t many people who spoke to Gus Woods the way that Anya did. Lexa liked that it made him more human, sometimes, the cracks in his stoicism.

“I’ll see you up there, Dad,” Lexa smiled and pushed her cousin back toward the door she’d just blown through.

“No drinking. This is game time. You have to be focused. Both of you!” he called as they hurried toward the waiting car.

“He acts like he didn’t play in Game Four hungover,” Anya rolled her eyes. “Were you going to ditch our dinner?”

“No, I was just caught up. Media went longer than expected.”

“Oh, the whole legacy thing again? Honestly annoying. Thank goodness I stayed off the ice.”

“You’re lumped in, too.”

“I’m not a Woods.”

“Woods-adjacent is just as bad,” Lexa reminded her as she popped her truck and tossed her bag inside before slamming it.

“Isn’t that the truth.”

The pair shared a smile before Lexa climbed in, excited to be done with practice, to let her body heal, to take it easy and prepare over the next few days. She had commitments, picking up her clothes and uniforms, more media stuff, more pictures, more all of it. But she had Anya, and Aden would be around. Even with the head that was heavy from the imposed crown of her family’s legacy, Lexa leaned back against the seat of the car and smiled.

It was going to be an adventure, and her mother had warned her to have as many as she possible could in her life.

XXXXXXXXXX

While she never considered herself particularly outgoing, Lexa felt that this was the time. This was her time. She was having a great start to a career, the youngest on her team for the national roster, and she was doing what she loved. There was an uptick in confidence that came with people taking her picture all of the time, too, as weird as that was. She might have envied other women’s bodies, but she appreciated what hers was capable of, especially surrounded by other athletes who also understood.

“You have really pretty skin. And hair,” the stylist decided as she surveyed Lexa intently in the mirror. There was a small smile on her lips and Lexa blushed at the compliment. “Hottest hockey player I’ve ever seen.”

Lexa laughed and ducked her head despite the fingers that rooted themselves near her scalp. It felt so nice, she didn’t want it to stop ever in her life.

Maybe it’d been too long since she let someone touch her. There was a girl she saw a few times a few… weeks? No, months? Ago. It fizzled pretty quickly though.

“I probably shouldn’t have said that,” the stylist sighed and shrugged. “But you are certainly a surprise.”

“I don’t know, I’ll take as much help as you can give me,” Lexa smiled at her, self-deprecation was her favorite form of communication. “I never thought I’d have to be on a billboard.”

“You, my dear, do not need any help. But I will do what I must.”

She was short, shorter than Lexa by a good amount. She blushed, when she put something on Lexa’s lips. She teased Lexa when Lexa moaned slightly as her hair was pulled and tamed better than she was able to do on most days. Lexa flirted, or at least she thought she was flirting. She was rusty and bad at it. Notoriously bad, according to her teammates. The Scorer Who Couldn’t Score as a title she couldn’t quite shake, even when she was able to score. They had more fun teasing her for being hopeless.

“Oh wow, looking good, Lex,” Anya saddled up beside her mirror. “You’re a miracle worker.”

“Jesus there’s two of you. Are you related?”

“Cousins,” Lexa informed her as she stood. “I got all of the talent.”

“I got the brains and the looks, naturally,” Anya tossed her hair slightly with a grin. “And charm and vivaciousness, and charisma, and the quintessential je ne sais quoi that really defines me as a person.”

The poor hairdresser just looked between them and gawked. Lexa felt a little more confident because of it and she wanted to thank her for that moment.

“Thank you for your help,” Lexa smiled and nodded at her before tugging her cousin toward the production area where they were beckoning them.

The only made it a few steps before Anya gave her a look and wiggled her eyebrows.

“Was I interrupting a moment? It looked like a moment.”

“It wasn’t a moment.”

“Are you going to get her number?”

“I’m going to get this shoot done with and then fly with you to Vancouver before we miss the start of the Games.”

Anya looked over her shoulder again, not at all discreet, angling to get a better look at the stylist, nodding her approval, returning the mischievous smile to her cousin. Clad in her jersey and with more make up on than she would ever have in a game, Lexa shook an assistant’s hand and waited for their instructions.

But Anya was a dog with a bone.

“You dated Cos, for what, like all of college and even then some after, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And what did she do?”

“Please, Anya, just… drop it.”

“She moved across the country and broke up with you because it was too hard. And what have you done since?”

Lexa heaved and heavy sigh and rolled her eye, lulling her head to the side because she didn’t want to have this talk, not that it was much in the way of pepping her up at all. She looked at the collection of athletes for someone she knew, but her teammates were still in hair and make up, where she refused to look again.

“I date.”

“You go on a few dates and then use work as an excuse to never talk to them again.”

“But I’m trying.”

“Half-assed.”

“Whatever. Let me win a medal or bring shame to the family, and then I’ll find a suitable bride to bring home.”

“You should learn to multitask. We’re going to a village for three weeks full of women in the best shape of their life. Most will have accents. It’s like a smorgasbord of opportunity for you.”

“Oh, is that what you’re going to do for the entire games?” Lexa teased, knowing full well her cousin was determined and focused. It might have been genetics from her mother’s side, despite what her father would want to think of himself.

Anya shrugged, her grin coy as she surveyed some of the international talent making their promos and doing their pictures for chevrons and such.

“I can multitask.”

Before she could press any further, a mousy PA approached and asked them to follow her toward the set to prepare next. She knew there was no way she wasn’t photographed with Anya. The story was too good. Lexa looked toward her teammates, more excited to be part of the team, to show them that it wasn’t just about her. The Promo department didn’t care though.

Lexa was never one for the spotlight. She played a team sport because she loved being on a team. She had lifelong friends, to this day, who were on her teams. She still had a group chat with college best friends. She was friends with competitors and those alike. She wasn’t good at doing it all on her own. She lived for the thrill of being on a smoothly oiled machine, lifting up others, taking shots when it was on her. She liked being their hope, she liked counting on them.

This was all different. She was singled out because of her bloodline more than her skill, which she resented. She worked hard, and so did her team.

“Oh, they’ll let anyone in here,” Anya laughed loudly before turning on a smile.

“Fancy running into you, Jansen.”

Lexa was still looking around at the crowd, trying to figure out if there was any truth to what her cousin said about multitasking. She wasn’t terribly good at finding anyone to keep around. Instead, she caught a bit of an accent and turned back to find the bluest eyes she’d ever seen in her life.

“It’s so good to see you,” the stranger looked away after just an instant only to launch herself at Anya.

“What do you say, one, two punch again?”

“There’s no one else I’d rather do it with.”

Only when they pulled apart did Anya follow the stranger’s look toward her cousin. She looked between them and patted her shoulder.

“Clarke, this is my cousin Lexa. She follows me everywhere, even to the Olympics. Lex, this is Clarke Griffin, my sworn nemesis and training partner for the past what, entire life?”

Clarke, the beautiful stranger with the pretty blue eyes smiled warmly and nodded a hello while Lexa tried to remember how to breathe. This was the Australian snowboarder Anya had hated at first, her competition, until she won her over through support and friendly competition that made them both better. Even as competitors, they’d spent most contests hanging out. Lexa never thought to ask more. She only ever watched Anya, and even now, she hadn’t seen her perform in person in years.

“I think I know who Lexa Woods is,” she grinned and held out her hand. “Hard to believe you share the same gene pool. Is she adopted?” she nudged her head toward Anya who rolled her eyes.

“Our moms were sisters.”

Lexa shook her hand quickly and smiled, her eyes not moving at all from Clarke’s face.

“That’s why I never put it together,” she nodded. “You should talk about your much more talented family more often, Jansen. Make yourself cooler.”

“Shut up,” Anya sighed and half hung on Clarke’s shoulders. “When did you get in?”

“About an hour ago. Still haven’t seen my place. They wrangled me right here, and now,” she looked over there shoulders and waved at a pair across the warehouse. “We’re due for team meeting. We’re going to have a few drinks at the hotel after the ceremony. Stop by for a bit.”

“I think I could be persuaded. Bellamy here?”

“You know he is,” Clarke grinned, eyeing Lexa once more. “You’ll come too, Woods?”

Lexa smiled and nodded. They held a look for a few seconds longer than polite and Lexa felt her lips tug into a smile, against her will, against her notice, honestly. It didn’t seem quite right, that she could train for her entire life for this moment, just to forget everything because the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen appeared out of thin air, as if conjured from nothing but air and magic.

“Bring your team if you’d like. We should all get acquainted. You know, brotherly love and whatever else this represents.”

She had a grin to her cheek, and a dimple. Lexa turned and watched her walk away as she shed the heavy winter coat, the big snow pants making the shirt seem tighter to her frame, and it was… it was a wonderful frame. Anya pushed her jaw shut before Clarke turned back around toward them.

“It’s BYOB, so make sure to come prepared.”

She was gone, absorbed a moment later. Lexa cleared her throat and refused to look at her cousin as their names were called by the photographers.

“God, Lex, she’s my competition here.”

“You wanted me to multitask.”

She knew Anya was rolling her eyes and smirking. Lexa blushed and cleared her throat. She could multitask.

XXXXXXXXXX

There was a bit of luck and magic to the fact that Lexa was able to walk through the opening ceremony with her family. Aden, a solid four inches taller than her, waving and brimming with enthusiasm, excited to show her everything he could. Her father, with his arm around her shoulder or patting her brother’s back, realizing a dream he never allowed himself to have, but now completely adored.

Somewhere else, her cousin was in the Canadian congregation. Somewhere else, an Australian snowboarder lurked with a singular dimple and a bikini picture that Lexa had all but memorized after lurking through her social media. Maybe it had been a while since she’d “multitasked” as Anya liked to call it. Maybe she had devoted herself to training at the expense of a personal life. She hadn’t felt that itch in a few months, but now, Lexa felt like a first grader with chicken pox. She felt like camping and falling into poison ivy. She felt an itch and she couldn’t reach it.

Even though her entire uniform was perfect and patriotic, Lexa still wore her mother’s scarf. It was important. It was something she needed, because it was her entire family.

“What do you think? Everything you imagined?” her father grinned as it all ended.

“Better.”

The team swelled around them and Lexa mingled, smiling as her friends snapped pictures and posed videos and generally enjoyed the moment they’d all trained for their entire lives. Half of the team was veterans, the other half newbies. It was a perfect balance, and Lexa knew from practice how well they fit together. She felt the electricity in the air, the eagerness to compete, the faint taste of finally whetting her appetite.

Her father interrupted with one of his piercing whistles until he had their attention.

“Alright, ladies. We have gym at eight tomorrow morning,” he bellowed toward the team. “I’ve been coaching long enough to know that whatever you might plan for yourselves is not as important as getting rest and preparing. Film is at noon. Ice session is at three.”

There was a collective groan.

“I know, I know,” he held up his hands. “The audacity to want to train a winning team. You’re all adults. Make your decisions accordingly.”

Lexa gulped as her father gave her a hard stare. She looked away and sighed. It was already ten. Two hours wouldn't kill her, she decided. And her father wouldn’t know the difference.

“Our first game is in two days,” Coach continued, surveying his team. “Savor this moment.”

From her spot in the crowd with her goalie, Em’s, arm over her shoulder, Lexa smiled and did just that, hoping to remember every second of it.

She felt two very strong pulls on her entire being, her father’s heavy requirements and her mother, whispering in her ear to have fun. She could multitask, she told herself once again.

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cdyssey · 1 year

Text

Good Mood Day

Summary: It's a classic Schemmenti good mood day. (It's been a while.)

CW: Adultery Mention; Hospice Mention

AO3 Link

—

When Melissa gets to the teacher’s lounge that Wednesday morning, she’s in a damn near perfect mood.

For starters, her hair laid across her shoulders nicely for the first time in days when she was getting ready this morning. (It’s been a frizzy mess from all the rain lately—unbearable to even brush, much less stylize.) And the ball just kept on rolling from there.

She won thirty dollars from a scratch-off that’s been gathering dust on her kitchen counter for about a week now. As she was driving, she heard on the radio that it’s Teacher Appreciation Day at Dunkin’ Donuts, so she picked up a discounted half-dozen for her and Barb to share—two chocolate, two glazed, and two lemon-filled, just how they like ‘em. She got to school early enough to scoop her favorite parking spot near the west entrance. When she was walking to her classroom, Raniya, that cute lunch lady with a beauty mark just below her left eye, winked at her as they passed in the hallway and said that she looked smokin’ hot. Was that a new leather jacket?

All of this before the first bell has even rung.

It’s going to be a good day.

Melissa can feel it in her bones.

As she doctors her coffee in her favorite Keep Calm and Tucci On mug, she even sings a little—a few verses from “What the World Needs Now.”

The answer, of course, is love, sweet love.

It's the only thing that there's just too little of.

Yeah, she may not have the surest singing voice in the world—(for instance, she sounds nowhere near as sweet as Barbara)—but after twenty-odd years of doing silly song time with her kids, her vibrato ain’t half-bad, and a crooked smile unwittingly rises to her lips at the quiet joy of the moment, the precious simplicity of it.

“No, not just for some, but for every—"

Before Melissa can complete the line, though, there’s a loud thud to her immediate right, and all of the nerves in her body trill in sudden and aggravated alarm. She jumps violently, her knuckles slamming against the ceramic mug, and scalding coffee sloshes over the rim and onto her hand.

“What the hell? The fu—” She hisses painfully, snapping her head to the side, her fists already clenching in preparation for a brawl, but the unexpected sight there stops her short.

Makes her breath hitch.

Barbara Howard, as elegant as ever in a patterned button-down, pressed slacks, and gleaming pearls, is standing in the doorway of the teacher’s lounge, her plump mouth wrenched open in a perfect ‘o’ of surprise, one of her manicured hands resting just above her stomach.

Her heavy planning binder is on the floor, loose papers from it strewn everywhere.

And her eyes—those beautiful brown eyes, so darkly and delicately lashed—are bright with unmistakable tears.

Whatever Melissa instinctively feels of anger just as quickly dissipates, reforming itself into wrenching and total concern, a knife’s twist in her gut, a thickness in the column of her throat.

“Barb?” She takes a dramatic step forward, cradling her stinging hand with the other. She doesn’t give a damn about that. Barbara is crying, Barbara is hurt, and that takes precedence to any pain she might be feeling. “What’s wrong? You okay, hon?”

“You were singing again,” Barbara croaks instantly, her voice throttled, clearly choked and choking still.

And Melissa can only stare, suddenly feeling naked and so exposed beneath the magnitude of that watery gaze, beneath the scrutiny of the harsh, fluorescent lights. She shifts her weight from boot to boot, color rising to her cheeks.

Unbearable heat.

“Yeah?” She asks, finding it hard to keep the defensiveness from her tone, habitually approaching conversations with her guard up, her hackles raised. "So?"

“Oh, forgive me, Melissa,” the other teacher laughs shakily, and with her free hand, reaches upwards to briefly swipe at her eyes. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. It's just... that you haven’t sung in a while now, not since, you know…”

But she trails off awkwardly as realization simultaneously surfaces in Melissa like a forgotten wound, still there—always, perpetually, maybe even forevermore. It's just not necessarily one she expends much energy actively thinking about anymore when the undercurrent of her pain is her most constant and devoted companion, slinking after her like a chain. She clenches her throbbing hand all the tighter, completing the impossible sentence in her head.

She probably hasn’t sung since her nonna passed away a little over ten months ago.

And, hell, maybe even well before that if she’s being completely candid with herself.

If she's being honest.

Since she and Joe so acrimoniously divorced three years ago, fighting over everything from their seasonal hockey tickets to the possession of the damn toaster.

Melissa blinks rapidly as tears threaten to form in the corners of her own eyes.

Has it actually been that long?

Has she really been so markedly lost?

Hollowed out and demolished—clearly, emphatically, so goddamn destroyed?

She can readily see the answer to each and every one of these awful questions in the depths of Barbara Howard’s shining eyes.

Yes and yes and yes.

“Oh, um,” she rasps, unraveled, immediately undone. It overwhelms her that Barbara has paid attention enough to articulate what these past few years have done to her, the specific way that they have registered in her body. She apparently doesn't sing anymore. She didn't even know that about herself. “Guess all my dominoes finally lined up the way I like ‘em today. I got us donuts.”

She gestures weakly towards the small orange box on the counter as Barbara seemingly regains control of herself, primly stepping over her fallen binder and towards the kitchen sink. She grabs a clean washcloth from one of the overhead cabinets and makes quick work of both dampening it with cold water and ringing the excess back into the steel basin.

“And, uh, I scored my favorite parking spot,” she rambles on, still blushing, because it’s her best defense against melting into a puddle on the tiled floor. She doesn’t know why she feels the need to justify her happiness, only knows that it's utterly necessary that she does.

Perhaps to preserve what's left of her beaten and battered dignity.

Or maybe, even more simply than that, to let Barbara know she’s gonna be okay now.

She can stop worrying about her.

God knows her best friend has worried about her.

Incessantly.

Powerfully.

And so damn stubbornly, never once giving her the opportunity to completely wallow in her own misery, always at her house with some homemade dish or another, insisting that she text back, reminding her to take her Prozac, lacing their hands together in the break room every single time that Melissa has been on the fine edge of breaking. It'd all been too goddamn much—her husband, his affair, her nonna layin' in that hospice bed, the constant fights with Kristen Marie about that very fact, the bitter devastation and the waiting game of watching the woman who practically raised her slowly deteriorate, day by awful day.

“And my hair," she continues, swallowing painfully, "it kinda looked good today, so I—“

But Barbara thankfully shuts her up by pressing the cool rag against her now-reddened forearm, fingers gently curling around her wrist, her thumb resting against Melissa's pulse point. The kindergarten teacher is so close now, only inches away, and Melissa can count the glossy pearls that are strung around her neck, could reach out if she wanted to—(she sometimes wants to)—and touch the smooth plane of the other woman's cheek.

“A classic Schemmenti good mood day,” Barbara murmurs with all the tenderness in the world.

And it’s everything to her, this look, this attention, this perfect and radiant love. It’s profound, and it's simultaneously harrowing. Melissa doesn’t remember the last time she felt so present in her own body, and that exhilarates her as much as it guts her, knowing that she's finally found her way back again and suddenly realizing how long it's taken her to arrive.

Years and years and years.

She swiftly glances away, unable to bear the weight of that visceral dichotomy, a coward even.

"Sorry that it's been a hot minute," she mutters, only dimly aware that she's apologizing for something that absolutely wasn't in her control. It's a long-ingrained habit in her to just go ahead and accept the blame if that makes the emotional discomfort go away all the quicker.

It always worked with Joe.

But Barbara definitely isn't Joe, and she doesn't let her get away with it, gently reaching out with her free hand to push a strand of hair away from Melissa's face, those dark knuckles skimming the flushed skin of her cheek, drawing her attention back to her with a softness that she has never been able to entirely defend herself against.

"Believe me, sweetheart," she smiles, and it's a crooked, imperfect thing on her plum-colored lips. Not artful, not meticulously arranged, as many of her other smiles seem to be.

"It was well worth the wait."

#work wives #melissa schemmenti #barbara howard #s: abbott elementary #reginianwrites

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