#how to make thermos flask

[humanpurposes]

Mine All Mine

Michael doesn't have a lot of friends, nor does he want them. Now he thinks he might have found his perfect match, and he has no intentions of letting her slip away

Main Masterlist

Michael Gavey x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, Michael Gavey being a little shit (affectionately), possessive behaviour (yk the drill here)

Words: 7k

A/n: This ended up leaning into more of a cuter side, I definitely wanna do something creepier with him at some point! Also available to read on AO3.

He gets to the room early, before the tutor has even arrived. It’s his first tutorial of the year and his first ever at Oxford. He stands straight with his head up and his hands unmoving, a picture of neutrality. He has his problem sheet in his satchel and runs through the questions in his head, not because he needs to, not because he doubts himself, but simply because he can.

He doesn’t even like maths all that much, but he’s always been good at it. He had considered doing something a little less straightforward, physics or economics, but then what would be the point in getting into Oxford to be anything less than perfect?

He knows his tutor’s name from his schedule, Stephen Breyer. He arrives only a few minutes later and they go inside. The tutorial room is small, with three of the four walls covered in bookshelves. In the centre of the room there is a table, an armchair on one side and a small sofa on the other. 

Michael takes the seat closest to the door. It puts him in a slightly more direct line of sight with Stephen. It also means his tutorial partner will inevitably have to climb over his legs to sit down and the thought amuses him.

“How are you finding it so far?” Stephen asks, unpacking a thermos flask and a notebook from his bag.

“It?” Michael repeats.

Stephen pauses and looks at him, slightly bewildered. “Well, the course, the college, Oxford. All of it.”

“Right,” Michael says. He takes his time taking out a pencil and his problem sheet before placing them on the table. He sits back against the sofa and rubs his lips together in thought. 

He supposes it’s been exactly as he had expected. Lectures have been fairly straightforward, Lincoln college looks the same as it had in the prospectus, and so far, most of the people seem insufferable. So many of them have no sense of urgency, no drive to truly succeed because to them, Oxford is a rite of passage rather than an earned privilege. He’s met maybe one person he’d consider worthy of his time, and even then, Oliver Quick is only a literature student. He might as well get a degree in overthinking.

Stephen is looking at him like he is still expecting an answer. Michael stares back. He’s never been one to bother with smalltalk. 

“Alright then,” Stephen says, then nods to the empty place on the sofa. “Do you know if–”

The door opens and a girl walks in, closing it gently behind her. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, eyes flickering around the room and settling on the space beside Michael. 

He’s seen her before, in lectures, in the dining hall, walking around the college with her little group of friends. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were all Cheltenham girls by the way they talk and dress in the stupid outfits rich girls wear to make themselves seem like normal people.

He watches her as she walks towards him, the awkward little smile she gives him before she steps over his legs. 

“Sorry,” she says again, falling onto the sofa. Michael almost winces at the sudden jolt of movement and the faint scent of a sweet perfume drifting from his left. “Had some trouble finding the room.”

“You’re right on time,” Stephen says, “we haven’t started yet.”

She’s better at the smalltalk than he is. She has a constant smile on her face and a bright look in her eyes, already having plenty of humorous anecdotes to share, despite the fact it’s only their second week. 

As they go through the questions on the sheet, comparing calculations and answers, Michael is horrified to find that he’s a little nervous. His throat feels dry and he can feel his heart pulsing in his chest. It’s her fault, he thinks. Everything about her is distracting, the sound of her voice, the satisfied little hum she makes when she realises she’s got another question right. Her black tights, the way her skirt rides up her thigh when she crosses her legs.

He wants to think she’s vapid, a pretty face dressed up in black boots and a denim jacket, but to his dismay, all of their answers are the same, down to every detail in their calculations.

That is until they reach the last question. It’s terribly complex and he had almost struggled with it. Almost.

He steals a quick glance at her sheet and notices their answers are different. Because she’s missed a step, he realises. He feels a smile creeping across his lips.

He proudly goes through his working out, delighted at the surprised look on her face as she goes over her own sheet.

“I got something different,” she says with a shrug.

Stephen invites her to talk through her answer. Her voice is quieter and softer than it was before, but not as defeated as he’d like.

“She has you beat there, Mr Gavey,” Stephen says.

It’s like being punched in the gut. “What?”

“Overextend yourself a little,” he explains, drawing a line through the last few calculations on his paper. “Make sure to read what the question asks of you.”

His blood is boiling and his fists are clenched. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been wrong. A dangerous impulse in the back of his mind wants to scream his throat raw and tear his paper to pieces.

Then he feels a warmth settle over his knuckles. She’s placed her hand over his.

“It’s a compliment, really,” she says to him.

He looks up at her, only more infuriated by the gentle expression on her face. But he knows better than to let anger get the better of him. It will only leave him feeling ashamed. So he forces a smile and nods. “Thank you.”

She smiles too, sweet and reassuring. 

He can’t bear the humiliation. Once they’re dismissed he packs up quickly, practically storming out of the room before she even has a chance to stand up. 

He spends the rest of the day in his dorm, looking over the same problem and pulling at his hair, because now his mistake seems glaringly obvious. How could he be so useless? So careless as to not even read the fucking question properly?

His room is on the second floor, overlooking the quad. There are always people around, walking between classes, sitting on the grass, their voices and the smell of cigarette smoke rising and drifting in through his window. He hates it. He hates the noise, the distraction.

But as he goes to close the open window he spots her. It’s only for a moment. She’s walking towards the library with her hands in the pocket of her jacket and her backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s not with any of her preppy friends, in fact she looks rather solemn. 

He feels a slight twinge of guilt in his gut. Perhaps he had been a little unfair to her in their tutorial.

He keeps noticing her, especially at meal times and during lectures. Whenever he enters a room he finds himself searching for her, and if he cannot find her, he waits for her to appear. He plays guessing games with himself, waiting to see what outfit she’ll wear, the pretty mini skirt or a pair of faded blue baggy jeans. If she’ll be with her friends or if she’ll be alone.

He never approaches her. He waits for her to look at him, and once they’ve made eye contact she’ll smile at him.

He likes watching her, and comes to the conclusion that she is charming and polite, but not overbearing, and that’s what's so intriguing about her. She knows how to talk to people, even the most insufferable of their peers, but she’s not nearly entitled enough to truly be one of them.

It’s a Friday evening the next time they actually speak. The library tends to be quieter at this time and he has a textbook to look over before his next lecture. Only, when he goes to find the book, he discovers the last copy has been checked out a matter of minutes ago. Fucking typical.

He goes to stalk out of the library, debating whether or not he can be bothered to ask Oliver if he wants to grab a drink in The King’s Arms, when he sees her.

She’s alone, with her chin in her palm, writing in a notebook as she looks at the textbook open in front of her. He’s willing to bet that’s exactly the book he needs.

He approaches her slowly, waiting for her to look up and notice him, but she seems utterly absorbed in what she’s doing. Only when he puts a hand on the back of her chair and leans over her shoulder does she react to him.

He sees her jump when he gets too close. “Jesus Christ!” she hisses, clutching her hand over her chest.

“Sorry,” he mutters, still hovering over her. “Did I frighten you?”

She hums a laugh but composes herself quite quickly. She turns her head to look at him. “I’m guessing you want the book?” she says, her breath fluttering over his cheek.

He straightens his back so he can look down at her. “Will you have it for long? Only I think I’ll get through the reading quite quickly.”

“Oh yes of course, you’re a genius, right?” she says with a grin.

Irritation scratches under the surface of his skin, hot and restless. That’s how he usually introduces himself, but it’s the truth. 

“We could just share,” she says, gesturing to the empty seat beside her, “that is, unless you don’t think I’ll be able to keep up.”

There’s something exciting about the way she holds his gaze, the hint of a smile on her lips.

She offers to go back a page so he can catch up and admittedly, he skims through, only writing down a few notes before he tells her to move on. He can find the book again if he really needs to.

He has to lean over his left arm rather significantly to read the book properly. She notices this, and pushing it closer to him, shuffling her chair over to follow. They’re close enough that he can smell her perfume again.

“None of your little friends around then?” he asks quietly, so as not to disturb the other students.

“What?”

“That group of girls,” he says, “I’ve seen you sitting with them in the dining hall.”

She brings her chin back to her palm but doesn’t look up from her notes. “They live on my floor. I don’t need to spend every waking moment with them.”

“Touchy subject?” he asks, perhaps a little too hopefully.

His heart leaps in triumph when she looks up at him. “No. I’m just not sure I’d count them as friends, necessarily.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Not my kind of people,” she says.

“Why not?”

She frowns briefly. He thinks she might scold him for being so direct, for asking so many questions, for being too intrusive. But she doesn’t.

The textbook is forgotten. She tells him about the village where she grew up, a sad little place by the sounds of it. She spent most of her schooling surrounded by the same twenty or so kids.

“For a long time, I knew there was something people didn’t like about me,” she says. “I didn’t understand why. I was never rude or cruel, I just kept my head down and did my work. The other girls told me I was a freak, the boys used to tease me, pull my hair, tear pages out of my books. Mum said people hated me because I was clever. Dad said I should stop complaining. So I did.” 

He can’t help but draw a comparison to himself. He can feel it when he meets someone new, the inherent distrust, the sense that there is something inherently unlikeable about him. In a way he likes that people are unnerved by him because at least it’s something he can control. He has never been one for friends or common ground, a consequence of being the smartest person in every room.

He watches her intently as she tells him about a private school a few miles outside of her village, a proper posh place, Victorian buildings and sprawling estates. For her, it was her one chance of escape, and while her parents worked hard to make ends meet, the only way she was going to get in was with a scholarship. So she worked for it, got all A*s in her GCSEs, started at the posh school, and from there, set her sights on Oxford.

“You’re rather deceptive,” he says.

She smiles at him. “It’s not like I lied. Were you expecting a daddy’s money brat?”

“There’s enough of them about,” he says.

She huffs a laugh and rolls her eyes. “Fucking tell me about it.”

They start to make a habit of studying together, at first it’s by coincidence, and then she gives him her number so they can organise themselves more effectively. They meet at the library every Friday to share a textbook or go over problem sheets, in preparation for their lectures. They even start to meet before their tutorials together, to compare answers and make sure neither of them are left out. Sometimes they go for coffee after their classes, and branch off to chat about things that aren’t maths.

He tells her about the grammar school he went to, that most of the boys there were rugby playing morons. He tells her about his family, his mum, his dad, the family cat that’s been around longer than he has. He tells her about his summer, running numbers for his uncle’s accountancy firm.

She tells him about the posh school, that starting at a boarding school was like being thrown into a different universe. Sure, she had been the odd one out and got the odd “povo” comment, but it was the first place where she had felt like she didn’t have to be ashamed of her own intelligence. She learnt how to fit in, to the point where he can’t tell if she actually likes her preppy friends or if she just puts up with them for the sake of it.

He starts to wonder if he could consider her a friend. He likes that she’s smart and sharp, the slight air of competition when they compare notes or go through a problem together. He likes challenging her, making her second guess herself, watching the way she squirms and tries to hide that she’s flustered. Just once, he thinks it would be fun to one-up her, but of course, she never slips up, and she never makes a mistake.

On Halloween she mentions a party at Magdalene College being hosted by one of her old school friends. Of course he’s sceptical. Hanging around a bunch of stuck up posh kids, who no doubt will all be in slutty costumes and getting off on each other’s egos, isn’t exactly his idea of fun. Although, part of him is intrigued to see her in a different setting.

So he agrees to meet her outside her dorm at 10pm exactly. He doesn’t bother with fancy dress, opting for jeans and a black jumper so that he can just fade into the background. 

She appears with some of her preppy friends. They’re all in pastel dresses of differing colours, matching wings strung on their backs, glitter on their cheeks, a little pack of fairies. She’s in white mini dress that floats around her thighs as she moves, more like an angel.

She introduces him enthusiastically to the girls, already giddy from their pre-drinks, pink gin and rosé. None of them seem that interested by his presence and he grunts in response. 

She links her arm through his as they walk over the cobbles, through the maze of ancient buildings to the dorm where the party is being held. She talks about everything and nothing. She tells him who’s going to be there, who’s been uninvited but might show up just to stir shit, how many girls are going to be there and that they’re all going to be trying to get into Felix Catton’s Calvin Kleins.

“Are you going to get with anyone?” she asks.

He makes a sound of disgust.

“Come on, Michael, live a little!” 

He shakes his head. “I don’t think– I don’t know–”

She puts her hands on his shoulders and turns him to face her. “Have you kissed anyone before?”

He swallows thickly. It’s not something he’s ever been ashamed of before, now it feels like a weight crushing down on his chest. “No,” he says, simply, determined to remain indifferent.

“Get with someone tonight!” she says excitedly, “just for the fun of it, we’ll find you someone good.”

He hates the idea, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell her. Perhaps it seems like fun to her, but to him it seems like an impossibility, and he thinks he’d rather have the consistency of being unwanted.

The party itself is loud and sparsely lit by neon lights. He starts off on bottles of beer to ease himself into it, but seeing everyone else is doing pills and white lines, he thinks he might need something stronger to get through the night, especially when she keeps getting distracted. The angel is quite the social butterfly and insists on saying hello to everyone, even the people she’s never met. 

He finds himself in a common room and reaches for a bottle of whisky and a cup when he spots her. She’s leaning against a wall, wings discarded on the floor beside her. A tall boy, wearing nothing but jeans, a pair of feathery costume wings and a horrible Carpe Diem tattoo on his forearm, has his hands on her waist. She’s smiling and giggling into his neck every time he goes in to kiss her. Of all the girls Felix could go after.

His skin feels tight. He fears if he keeps having to watch this little display he’ll retch his guts up, and yet he’s utterly hypnotised by it, the way she had her arms around his shoulders, the way her fingertips trace the base of his neck. And fuck, he’s never seen her look so beautiful.

He ends up downing the rest of the whisky straight from the bottle and most of the night becomes a blur after that. At some point he thinks he starts trying to talk to one of her pastel fairy friends. He doesn’t catch her name, and he wouldn’t care to remember it anyway. She plays with his glasses, tries them on and giggles hysterically. He thinks she must be completely off her face, considering the look of utter disgust she had given him at the start of the night.

Somewhere in the noise of the party she throws her arms around his neck and they sway clumsily to the overwhelming bass of the music. He thinks he feels her lips graze his cheek, his jaw, his neck, but where he can help it, he keeps his eyes on his angel. Felix has one of her legs around his waist and his hands halfway up her skirt. 

Fuck this.

He pushes the nameless girl off him and storms over to put an end to the scene before him. He grips Felix by his shoulders to pull him off her, grabs her by the arm and drags her out of the dorm. He doesn’t look back to see if Felix protests, he’ll probably find some other throat to stick his tongue down. 

She tries to shout over the music. “Where are we–”

“I’m tired,” he snaps, bringing his face in close to hers. He gets closer than he means to, pressing his nose and his forehead against hers. He’s breathing fiercely, he realises, desperate to contain the full extent of his anger, his jealousy. “I want to leave.”

She stares back at him with parted lips, and nods.

He feels better the moment they’re outside, away from the disorientation of the party. He takes deep breaths of the night air, cold and sharp in his lungs. He snatches off his glasses, runs his hands over his face and his hair to find himself drenched in sweat.

His angel tucks herself in against him, under his arm, huddling her arms around herself and shivering.

“Do you want my jumper?” he says. His voice and the words on his tongue feel strange. His limbs feel weightless as he pulls it off and helps her into it. 

“Hmm, thank you,” she says dreamily, clinging onto his arm as they stumble back to Lincoln College. He burns where she touches him, her fingertips digging into his skin. He loves it, and hates that her hands were on someone else before him.

“You were getting rather cozy with Miranda,” she says.

“Who?”

“Lilac fairy costume,” she says, playfully hitting his arm. “Did you kiss her?”

His heart sinks. He presses his lips together but she doesn’t seem to pick up on his annoyance. “No,” he says with a tight jaw.

“Oh no,” she says, looking up at him with a comically sad pout. 

“It’s not important,” he says.

“It’s your first kiss! Or should have been your first kiss. It’s important. Did you at least have a good time before you got tired?”

“No,” he says, “your friends are all imbeciles.”

They walk the rest of the way back to her dorm in silence. He makes sure she has her keys, holds her face between his hands and tells her to drink a whole glass of water before she falls asleep. 

She leans into his touch with a sleepy smile. “Yes, yes, I will,” she whines.

The sound stirs a wanting in his stomach. Suddenly his heart is beating faster than it ever has before.

“And call me if you need anything–”

“Would you want to kiss me?” she asks.

His eyes flicker down to her lips. His hands are still cupping her cheeks. “What?”

Her eyes are wide and alert. “I just mean, I could be your first kiss, if you wanted to.” She places her hands on his wrists, tracing her fingertips over his skin, along his forearms. It’s such a simple touch, and yet he can feel it driving him slowly insane. 

He imagines her hands running over the rest of his body, down his chest, his stomach, teasing over the growing hardness in his jeans.

“You’re drunk,” he whispers, terrified of how desperate his voice might sound.

She rises onto her toes, inching her face closer to his, drawing her nose over his cheek. “So?” she says, lips brushing over his skin, “I promise it’ll feel good.”

Their lips find each other in a simple movement. It’s easier than he thought it would be, following the movements of her mouth, letting his hands fall from her face and rest on her waist. He can feel her breathing, the little hums she makes as she kisses him and runs her hands through his hair.

He decides, in that moment, that she is perfect. She is bright and beautiful, passionate and kind, soft and sharp, everything he wants for himself, the only person he has ever felt a need for. That need burns through his bloodstream, goes straight to his head and makes his mind hazy. It tightens in his gut and only makes that wanting feeling in his chest feel emptier. His heart races, his trembling hands graze over the thin, silky material of her dress.

His glasses come askew. He feels her smile against his lips and it feels good. Really fucking good.

His hands clench into a firmer grip on her waist. He needs to keep her close, to touch her, feel her, know she wants this as much as he does.

Only she’s slipping away.

Her hands come away from his neck and the cold night air stings his skin in her absence. She pulls her head away, not abruptly, but that’s the pain of it. He leans forward to chase her lips but he has no choice but to let her go in the end.

She looks up at him with a vague smile. “See? It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Nice in the moment. Pure torture that he’ll have to spend the rest of the night clinging onto the memory, only able to imagine how good it felt.

After that night he cannot escape the thought of her, when he’s in his lectures, when he’s in the library, when he’s walking between classes, when he’s in the dining hall. If he’s with her he cannot help but notice every little detail about her, her clothes, her hands, the colour of her nail polish, every micro expression, every word, every laugh, every sigh.

And when he’s alone, he can’t help but picture her in that white dress, the sound of her voice, the feel of her lips. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like to run his hands over every inch of her skin and make her a breathless, whining mess. When he’s in his dorm, it’s inevitable that his hand will end up dipping into his boxers, stroking himself until he spills over his knuckles with a grunt or a whisper of her name.

He’s never known himself to be so distracted.

Worst of all is the rage that comes with the wanting. He hates walking into the lecture hall to see her chatting to someone else, seeing her with her preppy friends around the college or drinking with that old school friend in the King’s Arms. None of them deserve her. None of them. Does she even realise it? How long before she loses herself, before she decides she doesn’t need him?

He knows he’s not a sentimental person. He doesn’t have a lot of friends nor does he want them. People have come in and out of his life, but this girl is different. He feels a draw to her, a hunger that he can’t satiate with his own imagination. She is everything he wants for himself, and he has no intentions of letting her slip away.

As Michaelmas terms comes to an end, the colleges and libraries are covered with garlands and wreaths. Despite the lingering worry in the back of his mind, Michael is rather happy with his collection of outcasts, though poor Oliver Quick seems rather unhappy at being a designated Norman-No Mates. 

He finds it easier to get her attention as the term and the workload progresses. They’ve had tutorials and summative assignments, and she’s finally starting to struggle. 

And then there was the incident about the scholarship. One of the preppy friends let slip that she wasn’t paying for her tuition fees or her accommodation, likely done out of jealousy after she’d gotten close to Felix at the Halloween party. He was there for her with a perfectly good shoulder to cry on when half the girls in her dorm started teasing her for it.

He tells her that she doesn’t have time to get distracted with parties or friends who won’t help her succeed. 

He’s sitting at a table in the library, ready for one of their Friday evening study dates. She’s late but soon hurries in, pulling off the thick red scarf she has wrapped around her neck and shrugging off her denim jacket.

He has the textbook open at the right page and places a Crunchie in front of her when she sits down.

“Did you know there was a college Christmas party tonight?” Michael asks as she takes down her notes. “We’re NFI, apparently. Not fucking invited.” He’d checked his pigeonhole, and Oliver’s for good measure. 

In the corner of his eye, he sees her look up from her notebook. 

“As if we’d actually want to hang out with those vapid cunts,” he says, laughing to himself. He turns his head to check if she’s laughing too.

She doesn’t look very amused. “Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me,” she says.

He pauses, hovering his pencil over his worksheet. “You got an invitation?” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” she says, “I was chatting with some of the literature guys the other day, you know Farleigh Start–”

“What the fuck were you talking to him for?” He asks in a voice like ice.

She stares at him with wide, almost accusing eyes. “What, am I not allowed to talk to anyone besides you?”

“They’re not worth your time so stop acting like a fucking bootlicker” he hisses. “They’re all self-obsessed and cruel, and I don’t know why you’re so desperate for their approval.”

“Desperate,” she echoes.

The silence of the library is screaming at him. He has an awful feeling in his stomach, like he’s done something wrong, like he’s pushed a little too far.

It’s Halloween all over again. He can feel her slipping away, and he can’t reach out for her, can’t hold onto her and make her stay where he wants her. He curls his fists as he feels his body start to tremble.

“I guess I won’t waste any more of your precious time then,” she says sharply as she starts to pack up her things.

“No,” Michael utters. He reaches his hand up as if to stop her but she stands up, out of his reach. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She throws on her jacket, wraps her scarf around her neck and turns around, glaring down at him with sad, glassy eyes. “I need to get ready,” she says. “Enjoy the rest of your night.” Then she sweeps out of the hall with a cold rush of air and a slam of the doors.

Michael groans and lets his head fall into his hands. How had he managed to fuck up that badly? 

He can’t think about the problems on the sheet in front of him, or think about the reading from the textbook. All he can picture is her in some skimpy dress, letting some sick trust fund baby put his hands all over her. It makes him want to tear his hair out. 

He stays there until the evening has turned to night, until any other stragglers have left the library, to attend this stupid Christmas party or to make their own fun.

He can’t understand why she keeps trying to befriend the people who would abandon her the moment they got bored of her, the very same people who shamed her for her scholarship. 

He’d never leave her, never let her feel anything less than worshipped.

When he finally packs up his bag he finds himself walking to her dorm. A few girls are leaving as he arrives at the building and he easily slips in while they’re busy chatting. He knows which floor she’s on, and then all he has to do is find her name on one of the doors… and there it is, under the number 205. Perfect.

He glances up and down the hall. It’s deathly quiet. He wonders how many students have already cleared out of their rooms, how many will be at this party, at the pub with their friends.

He can hear music on the other side of the door, a voice singing softly to a song he doesn’t know.

He brings his knuckles up and taps four times against the wood.

She seems happy when she opens the door, but her face falls when she realises it’s him.

He buries his hands in his pockets, keeps his chin down as he looks up at her. “I need to talk to you,” he says.

She sighs and purses her lips, but steps aside enough for him to come into her room. 

It’s not as neat as he imagined, but it’s cosy. There are photos and posters all over the walls, clothes strewn everywhere, an opened makeup bag on the floor by the mirror, pieces of paper and used mugs on the desk. His eyes are drawn to her bed, to the colourful comforter tossed carelessly over the duvet and the pile of mismatched pillows. It smells like her perfume, and something else that is distinctly her.

A red dress hangs on the front of her wardrobe, her outfit for the party, he guesses. For now she’s dressed in her favourite pair of baggy jeans and a tank top, her hair slightly damp and her skin dewy.

She sits on the edge of her bed with her legs crossed. She doesn’t prompt him, but he knows what she wants to hear.

He stands in front of her, his knees almost touching the bed. He tries not to look at the cut of her tank top, the way it clings to her torso and teases the swell of her breasts.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “You were right, I was being unfair.”

She looks up at him, furrowing her brows and catching her lip between her teeth, like she always does when she’s thinking. It makes his stomach drop. 

“You can be cruel too, you know that?” she says, “and so full of yourself, but you hold it against everyone else you meet.”

“But I’d never lie to you,” he says, “and I’ve never pretended to be someone I’m not.”

She keeps frowning. “Neither have I.”

He hums a laugh. He can’t help but reach for her, taking her chin between his fingers. She doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t question it when he gently strokes his index finger over her cheek. “Silly girl,” he says, “you care too much about what people think of you. You’re smarter than that, but you’re happy to hide it.”

Her breath hitches as tilts her head further back and lets his thumb drag over her lower lip.

“Michael,” she utters, pressing her palms against his chest, but not enough to push him away. Her hands grip at the collar of his jumper and she nudges her nose against his.

He doesn’t know where the sudden recklessness comes from. Perhaps it’s in the way she said his name, the way her eyes are gazing up at him, but every part of him feels hollow. 

He leans in closer. “Why bother? Why do you want to dumb yourself down when I could just fuck you stupid?” 

She leans in to kiss him and he indulges her, letting his hand settle against her cheek as they clash together in a mess of lips and tongues. It’s more frantic than the night of the Halloween party, wetter, clumsier.

She comes up onto her knees, snaking one of her hands down to the hem of his jumper.

“Have you fucked a girl before, Gavey?” she says between their kisses. He can feel her smiling.

“No,” he says, practically tearing his jumper and his shirt off, “but I’ve thought about it a lot.”

“Anyone in particular?” she says, palming over the bulge in his jeans.

“Who do you fucking think?”

His hands are on the buttons of her jeans, ripping them open, dragging them down her legs before she’s on her knees again. He slips his hand between her legs, against her clothed centre and she ruts against him like a bitch in heat.

With his other hand he grabs at her waist, impatiently pulling her tank top over her head to reveal a lacy black bra underneath. He can’t stop himself, planting firm, desperate kisses over the flesh of her chest as he undoes the clasp.

He tosses her bra aside and takes one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking and circling his tongue over the sensitive bud. He loves how she whines for him, how she runs her fingers through his hair and pulls when it feels good.

And then her phone rings.

She sighs in frustration before she shoves Michael away and crawls over to the table by her bed. 

Michael groans at the loss, wanting nothing more than to grab her and pull her back across the bed. “Who is it?” he asks, adjusting his glasses.

“Could be Farleigh, or one of the girls, I said I’d meet them before the party–”

That’s all he needs to hear. In an instant he’s on top of her, pinning her wrist to the mattress so she can’t reach her phone, legs on either side of her body as he presses her down.

She writhes underneath him, unintentionally grinding her rear into his crotch. She tries to turn her head over her shoulder, but it’s hard when she’s caged in underneath him. “Michael! What the fuck are you–”

“When are you going to get it into that pretty little head that you don’t need them?” he says, letting his lips brush against the shell of her ear. He feels her shudder, feels her heartbeat racing against his chest.

“I know I don’t need them,” she says.

“Hmm,” he says, leaning back to undo his jeans enough to free his hard and eager cock. I’m not convinced.”

He takes his time pulling her panties down her legs, kneads at her thighs and her ass, pulls her hips up and parts her legs so he can get a look at her slick, glistening cunt. He’s almost fascinated by it, drawing his thumb through her folds, noticing how she reacts to his touch, the sounds she makes, the way she fists the bedsheets when he gets close to her clit, but just enough to keep her on edge.

“I could be so good to you,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to her shoulder, “so fucking good, so why do you act like you don’t need me?”

“I do,” she breathes, interrupting herself with a light moan when he presses firmly against her clit. “I do need you.”

“There you go, you’re starting to get it,” he coos, circling over her most sensitive spot with the pads of his fingers. He may not have the practice but he has the knowledge, and he needs this to feel good for her.

She responds beautifully, sighing and rocking her hips against him, and she just melts when he presses the tip of his cock against her entrance.

He has to push harder than he expects, pausing when she gives a little yelp of what sounds like pain, but she assures him she’s fine.

He grabs her hip for leverage, hissing through his teeth as he pushes in deeper. She’s so tight, so wet, so warm.

“You can move,” she says, letting her head fall against her arm. “Please, I need it.”

He starts slowly, focuses on the drag of his cock through her, the way she stretches around him, but he can’t hold back for long. Once he finds a rhythm he gets a little more reckless, snapping his hips against her rear, keeping his harsh grasp on her flesh as he fucks her into the mattress.

Her moans are heavenly and obscene. She’s given up struggling but she’s trying to look at him, trying to touch him but she can’t. She calls his name and it sounds so pathetic but so endearing.

He chuckles lowly to himself. “Silly little slut, didn’t know what she was missing, did she?”

“No,” she whines. He can feel her clenching around him and he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to last. “Fuck, Michael, it feels so good…”

He pulls out of her, only to turn her back and slam back in. Suddenly she’s all over him, running her hands down his torso, wrapping her arms around his neck. She has her face buried into the crook of his neck, grazing her lips, tongue and teeth over his skin. 

It feels good to have her close, but he’s still not entirely satisfied. 

He pulls away to hold her down again, one hand on her throat, the other on her stomach. “Mine.” he huffs as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. “All mine. Fucking say it.”

She places her hands over his, urging him to hold her tighter, press harder. “Yours,” she utters, “all yours.”

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, and feels her respond to his voice, cunt fluttering, back arching, another whine sounding in her throat— maybe she likes that. “My clever little girl.”

He feels her come undone around him, back arching as he lets out a breathless moan, practically squeezing him to his own release.

He pulls out and with a few strokes of his hand, paints her belly and her thighs with his spend.

She’s trembling, smiling, reaching out to touch him again, grabbing at his wrists and pulling herself up. She guides him to lay back in the bed and straddles him, tracing her finger over his lips, his jaw, along his nose to push his glasses up for him. He can hardly see through them, the lenses fogged up and smeared with sweat.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” she says.

“Yeah,” he breathes, pawing at her hips, watching his cum as it drips down her body. He can feel a sense of pride swelling in his chest, the arousal in his gut starting to tighten again.

He gasps when she drags her wet cunt over his already hardening cock. “You.. want to go again?”

She tilts her head, looking down at him with that familiar excited look in her eyes as her mouth spreads into an eager grin. “You’re adorable,” she says, tracing her fingertips over his chest, down the lines of his abs, to the trail of thin hair on his navel.

She leans down, reaching between them to take his cock in her hand, moving with agonisingly slow strokes. When he tries to protest she silences him with little more than a peck on his lips, before she trails down to his throat. “I stand by what I said, Gavey, and you’re not leaving this bed until we’ve taken that ego of yours down a notch.”

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

#michael gavey #saltburn #saltburn fanfiction #michael gavey fanfiction #michael gavey fanfic #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x oc #michael gavey x ofc #ewan mitchell #michael gavey smut #my fics

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unexpected 50

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, pegging, Lloyd being the worst, post partum, csection, suicidial ideation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your promise to Lloyd is empty. You have no great urge to see Andy again. You’re embarrassed at the thought. Even a bit guilty as you accept that any sliver of excitement he brought to you has flown away. The return of your husband drags you back down to earth in the most desolating way.

You swipe away another notification. You don’t know how to reply to Andy. It doesn’t seem right to tell him over a text. Still, you can’t bring yourself to face him. Your last two conversations haven’t been exactly productive. How many times can you tell him this was never meant to be anything more than sex?

That’s when you feel rotten. You used him the same way you’ve been used. Just a release, a thing to make you feel better about yourself. Worse, he’s a widower. He’s lost so much already and now you’re toying with him. That’s hardly fair.

You sit with Luna on the floor. Getting down there was hard enough and you don’t want to ponder how you’ll get back up. She lays on her mat, raising her head to look around. She’s still needy but you see her changing. Maybe she sees the same in you with how she stares at you.

There’s a knock at the door. You brace yourself. You already know it isn’t Lloyd, he would just barge in. You know he hasn’t changed at all. Luna’s head bobbles as she tries to look around and you call for whoever it is to enter.

“Hey, we goin’ on that walk?” Harlen asks as he enters, already half-dressed for the dipping temperature. You notice the metallic red thermos in his hand, “I was hopin’ to get out.” He present the capped container, “got us some hot chocolate even.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” you make yourself smile, “yeah, that might be a good idea.”

“Here, let me help,” he sets the thermos down and crosses the room, offering his hand to haul you up.

“Go on, get ready,” he bids as he grunts, bending to pick up Luna from the floor, “oh, she gettin’ heavy.” He stands straight, “I need the workout anyhow.”

“I have a suit for her. Thermal,” you explain as you search the dresser against the nursery wall. The last few nights you’ve spent sleeping in the glider chair, your own fortress in a castle not your own.

“You let me worry about that,” he nears, rocking Luna in one arm as he takes the insulated outfit from you, “go get something warm on. You gotta take care of you too.”

You look at him. You nod. He’s the only man you can’t bring yourself to argue with, maybe because he’s the only one who’s ever really cared. You love that about him but it makes you think of your own dad and how he would rather his flask than to spend a single birthday with you.

“Right,” you surrender, “I won’t be long.”

You leave the nursery and head down to the guest room. The door is already unclasped but you don’t think much of it until you enter. You find Lloyd sat on the foot of the bed with the little crescent moon toy Luna likes so much. His eyes flick up as you sigh.

You ignore him and go to the closet. You take out an old sweatshirt and dig out some jeans from a drawer. You feel him watching you. You hear him get up and come closer as you take out a pair of wool socks.

“Gonna be Christmas soon enough…” he says.

“Oh shut up,” you snarl.

It’s his turn to sigh. He angles around to stand beside you, facing you, and puts the toy on the dresser. You walk away from him and he follows you towards the bathroom door. The very idea of him seeing how he ravaged your body, the stretchmarks and the loose skin, repulses you. You won’t give him that victory.

As you try to close the door in his face, he forces his foot between it and the frame, “you have to talk to me eventually. She’s my daughter. I have a legal right–”

“Why did you come back? I know it’s not because of her,” you lean on the door. He’s just as strong as ever. If he really wanted to, he could overpower you.

“You,” he says. “I was always going to come back–”

“No, no, no. Lloyd, enough lies. It’s over. You know that. Whatever made you want me, I’m not it anymore. So whoever you were out fucking, go back to them. You won’t get anything from me.”

“I didn’t–”

“Fuck. Off.”

You stomp his toe and he recoils. You take the opportunity to slam the door and flip the lock into place. You keep your hand on the door and catch your breath. You hear him on the other side, lingering, the friction of his touch dragging down the other side.

“Peaches…” he says.

You scoff and push away. You go to the counter and put down the armful of clothes. You look at yourself in the mirror. You don’t even feel bad for yourself, you feel worse that Luna has to call someone like him a father.

🍑

You meet Harlan downstairs. He has Luna bundled up and helps you get her strapped into the baby carrier that hooks over your shoulders. It’s much easier than the stroller, if not a bit of a strain on your back.

He tucks the thermos into the large pocket of his coat and opens the door for you. He trails you outside into the brisk air of late autumn. The chill nips at your cheeks and nose as you adjust Luna’s hood to make sure she’s cozy.

“Thanksgiving soon. Dot was talkin’ bout it,” he says as you walk down the long driveway, “she talkin’ a lot lately. Driving me a bit crazy.”

“Oh,” you raise your brows dully. You haven’t said much to her. You resent her for all those weeks of sticking up for her son and her tune hasn’t changed, “yeah, maybe… get a turkey.”

“Ha, come on, what are we gon’ do? Sit down for a family dinner? She just wants peace but she won’t acknowledge the battle,” he puffs as he takes out the thermos and untwists the cap. “Here?”

He offers you a drink first. You stop awkwardly to sip from the brim and thank him. He takes a gulp of his own and hums.

“Not too bad,” he comments, “was of a mind to add some whiskey but we’ll save that for later.”

You chuckle and shake your head. You set off down the sidewalk, keeping a hand on the bottom of the carrier as you make slow progress. It’s the sort of cold that wakes you up. It reminds you of the day you met Lloyd and you scowl. A year. More than.

As you come to the end of the street, someone turns the corner. You don’t pretend to be surprised as Andy approaches. He wears a navy cap, his hair poking out from the hem, and his cheeks are rosy above his thick beard. He smiles as he nears, even as his eye twitches.

“Morning,” he greets brightly, “how’s little Luna?”

You slow as he glances at the baby in her harness. You sway with her as she babbles.

“She’s good,” you answer as Harlan clears his throat. You sniff as you try to roll the tension out of your shoulders, “oh, Andy, this is my… dad, Harlan. Harlan, Andy. The neighbour.”

“Sir,” Andy smiles and offers his hand, “nice to meet you. You must be so proud of your daughter. And granddaughter. A beautiful pair, huh?”

“Beaming,” Harlan shakes his hand gruffly, “couldn’t ask for anything better.”

“Well, uh, I was actually gonna pop in. I found some more baby stuff and thought maybe you could use it,” Andy rescinds his hand, tucking it in his jacket pocket. “I could watch Luna if you want. Give you some time off.”

“Oh, Andy, that’s sweet but… I got all the help I need,” you peek over at Harlan. “I appreciate everything but I hate to take advantage of your kindness.”

“It’s no problem. Really. I don’t mind,” Andy insists, only girding himself as his eyes flit to Harlan and he squares his shoulder, “just putting it out there.”

“I’ll… I’ll keep you in mind,” you utter awkwardly.

Harlan’s silent. You don’t have the courage to look at him. You can feel the tension radiating off of him. He’s shielded in that cool stoicism that once made you feel so small.

“Well, you know my number,” Andy shrugs, “I’m sure you can figure out how to reply to my texts,” he steps forward, gazing at Luna as he coos, surprising you as he bends to kiss the top of her head, “buh bye, Luna.” He grins, his eyes meeting yours as he stands at his full height, “pretty, just like mommy.” He nods and looks past you to Harlan, “try to stay warm out here.”

Andy struts past as you step aside. You hesitate before you continue on, quiet as Harlan lets a hum roll up his throat. He clucks and cranes to peer over his shoulder.

“That’s him?” He asks. You can only nod, staring down in shame. “Ah, well… you keep space from him… for yourself. Man’s got something ‘bout him…. Something off.”

“I… I’ve been ignoring him so…”

“No, no,” Harlan intones, “no, ain’t nothing ‘bout you.”

You stroll on, the uneasiness in his timbre crawling over you in goosebumps. You look down at Luna and run your hand up the back of the carrier, embracing her a little closer. Andy could be a little overbearing but he’s harmless, right?

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #andy barber #andy barber x reader #drabble #series #unexpected #au #the gray man #defending jacob

[magicalrocketships]

I adore your deaged max AU! Curious if while max is small, if daniel and him celebrate any holidays together? How does max feel about them? Do they establish any traditions? :)

I don't think this version of Max is particularly excited by Christmas, but he does like lights, and being with Daniel, so I've combined them together for them to have a little outing of their own. And because I personally love lights in the middle of winter.

This follows on - with a few days unaccounted for (because I haven't written them, but they've been staying with Christian and Geri) - from this part I posted yesterday. Max was a tiny toddler but now he's back to being seven.

(this link shows the stuff I’ve already posted in chronological order if the tag isn't working.)

Happy holidays, pals. 🧡

The day after New Year's Day, Daniel takes Max to visit an Enchanted Light Trail. It's only on for another couple of days, and a lot of local schools have gone back today so it's quiet when Daniel parks the car. It's already mostly dark, and Max, seven years old again and interested, almost stumbles out of the car. He's in his new wellington boots, with a puffy winter coat that Daniel has to spend two minutes talking him into getting zipped up. Then a scarf and a hat and gloves. Max is unconvinced by them all, especially the gloves, but when he sees Daniel wearing a pair too, he concedes to keep them on.

He slips his hand into Daniel's, and asks if it's going to be loud. Max doesn't always like loud. He's not loved sharing Daniel with the other people in Christian and Geri's house over the past few days, and he is not quite over being left behind with Monty and a babysitter when Daniel and the others went to the Red Bull New Year's Eve Extravaganza. So: a little treat that's just for Daniel and Max together, alone, now that Max is back to being seven.

"Not loud," Daniel says. "Just lots of nice lights, and a place to see animals, and we can have hot chocolate." He shoulders his backpack, which also has a thermos flask of tomato soup and some bread and butter in little pieces in a lunch box. He's learned from experience that Max will experiment with experiences more than he'll experiment with unfamiliar food in unfamiliar places. "But I've brought tomato soup too."

"Okay," Max says, only semi-dubiously. He's so serious sometimes. Daniel lets him think through whatever he's thinking about as they wander through the car park and up to the little ticket booth. He'd bought tickets for them online, so he only has to wave his phone screen at a bored teenager who wishes them a desultory happy new year to be given a little trail map and a token to get through the gate.

Daniel lets Max feed the token into the entrance gate, and then they're inside the farm park, and at the start of a path lined with trees wound with hundreds of tiny, coloured lights. The branches are also lined with lights, and even Daniel is almost floored by how pretty it is.

"Oh," Max says, in sheer unadulterated wonder.

Daniel for a single, desperate second, wants to cry. Every moment with Max might be his last. It had been awful enough when he'd been sitting next to a little chunky three year old Max a couple of days ago, and he'd had to squeeze his eyes shut and almost couldn't bear to open them again in case it was a grown up Max sitting next to him, desperate to get away from him.

But it was this Max, Daniel's Max, his seven year old, his favourite seven year old on the planet.

It doesn't mean grief doesn't sit, tentative and yearning, on the edge of everything he experiences.

"Do you like it, Maxy-Max?"

Max nods so hard his hat almost falls off, and Daniel has to stop to make sure it's on properly and keeping Max warm.

"Good," Daniel says, and he lets Max set the pace as they wander down the track towards the barns. The next part of the path doesn't have little Christmas lights, but the trees are lit in purples, greens, and are wrapped in starlight skies, little spotlights along the ground turning the trees into beautiful swathes of colour.

Max looks up at him in wonder. "Like the nightlight at home," he says, clutching Daniel's hand. The nightlight in Max's bedroom at Daniel's projects colours and stars across the ceiling. Max hasn't been home with Daniel in a while. It doesn't mean it isn't his home too. It'll always be his home, even if Max grows up and stays grown up and stays a long way away from Daniel like he does now.

"Just like the nightlight at home," Daniel agrees.

The Enchanted Light Trail is supposed to be a 60-90 minute experience, but it takes them almost half an hour even to reach the barns where the farm animals are. Max loves the colours, and the trees, and the lights — just like Daniel had hoped he would. Max had liked going to the zoo that time, and he likes colouring in, and he likes things that are just him and Daniel, so it had made sense when Daniel googled that this was the thing he would pick to get them out of Christian and Geri's hair for a bit.

If Max doesn't get big again in the few days or so, Daniel's taking him back to Monaco, and he doesn't care what Christian says about the pre-season work Max is supposed to be doing here. Daniel's Max's guardian, nobody else. And he wants to take Max home.

"What happens if you are scared?" Max asks, before they go into the barns. He always asks about Daniel being scared, and not him.

"If I'm scared or if you're scared," Daniel tells him, just like every time, "then we can come back out here. That's fine."

"Okay," Max says, and his face is a picture of fierce determination. Daniel's seen that face before, a hundred thousand times, before and after races. It's funny to see it reflected on such a little Max, a Max that just doesn't have any of grown up Max's competitive spirit in him. Daniel gives him a moment to acclimatise, and then Max nods and they go inside.

The barns have also been lit up in swathes of pretty colours. The animals seem quite happy, and they see the rabbits and the sheep and the goats. Max refuses to go near the goats, even though the farm staff say he can help feed them. That is a solid no, which Daniel understands entirely because the last time they met a goat together at the zoo that time, it had tried to eat Max's hair for dinner and Max had cried. Instead, they stand against the opposite wall of the barn, as far away from the goats as possible, and Trixie, who works at the farm, points out each of the goats in turn and tells Max their names.

Max puts up with this for three minutes, which Daniel counts as 150% a win, and then they say thank you and move on to the next barn. This one has cows in it, and one moos loudly as they come in. Max bravely does not nope out, but they stay away from the gates. One of the cows is called Strawberry, which Max finds hilarious. Daniel suggests some other very silly names for cows even as they go and look at the pigs and meet a horse dressed for the season in a big knitted scarf and blanket. There are chickens, and more rabbits, and a dog, which Daniel suspects isn't part of the attraction in general and that Max is very cautious of. Daniel is too, but he tries not to let it show.

Then it's time for the 'things to do' barn, which has some little tables for crafts and a cafe at the other side. Max doesn't want to make Christmas crafts and he doesn't want to join a table with other people on, but there are some tables with pictures to colour in and some crayons and pencils. He settles himself at one of the tables, and tells Daniel that it's okay if Daniel crosses the barn to get them some orange juice (Max) and some hot chocolate (Daniel). Daniel keeps turning around to find Max watching him with his little serious expression on, and so Daniel makes a series of increasingly silly faces just to make him laugh.

"You've got yourself a serious one too, then," the woman behind the counter says as he pays for their drinks. "Mine's the same."

"Yeah," Daniel says. "Best kid in the world, though."

"Fight you for it," the woman says, laughing, and that grief is back, hovering, desperate, endless. Daniel tries to smile. He wishes her a happy new year and goes back to sit beside Max, who's picked out a farm picture to colour, with lots of trees and some animals. He's got one for Daniel too. He doesn't want to try Daniel's hot chocolate, but he does like the smell. He's industriously colouring in one of the trees in purple — like the ones outside — when one of the farm staff comes over to ask if he'd like to make a tree at one of the craft tables.

"No, thank you," Max says, attention focused on his picture. "Me and my daddy are colouring."

Daniel has to swallow down an actual sob. "We're good here, thanks," he says. "But thank you."

After she leaves, Daniel has to use one of his hot chocolate napkins to blow his nose. Max looks up at him.

"Can we go home soon?" he asks.

"To Christian and Geri's house?"

"No," Max says, giving him a withering glance. "Our house, Daniel."

Daniel leans in and kisses the top of his head. "Yeah," he says. "Promise."

"Okay," Max says, content with Daniel's yes. Daniel doesn't lie to him. Except, maybe, about the growing hole in his chest. Max goes back to colouring. Daniel swallows, tries to get a hold of himself, and resorts to naming all of the animals in the picture the stupidest names he can think of, just to make Max laugh.

Later on, they walk along a little pathway through the lit-up woods, and drink a cup of tomato soup at a picnic table. Max is amazed at the idea of drinking soup outside in the dark. They don't stay at the table long because it's cold, but Daniel takes a thousand pictures of Max beaming at him, soup around his mouth, and lets Max take some of him in return.

"I love you," he tells Max as they walk back towards the car. It seems important to tell him, urgent, imperative.

Max swings their joined hands. He's got his coloured-in picture and a glowing stick with a star on it clutched in his other hand, a present from the farm shop. Daniel's got one too, and a bag with some in for Monty and Olivia and Bluebell even though Bluebell's probably too old for it.

"Love you, love you, love you," Max says back, kicking his feet in his new wellingtons. He looks up at Daniel, sleepy but happy, and Daniel's heart twists in his chest. "Can we go home now?"

"Tomorrow," Daniel says, making a decision. Fuck it all, he thinks. I'm taking Max home.

Thank you to Zoe and Lena for reading this through for me. 🧡

#my fic #de-aged maxiel #baby max #fic that i wrote

[mncxbe]

I suddenly thought of something really angsty.. imagine Aku with hanahaki disease..? He's definitely not the type who'll propose to their crush unless they know that their crush likes them back..

Yes omg. Sorry it took so long to write anon but it's finally done. Hope you like it♡♡

°☆○

Bloom for me

𝑨𝒌𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒘𝒂 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎! 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: angst♤/ happy ending cuz he's been through enough already

The wind rustled the trees in the park; the new leaves stood out tender and yellow against grey clouds. With each day that passed, autumn crept deeper into the heart of the city. Days were shorter, nights grew longer and a tinge of putrid leaves lingered in the air, mixing with the smoky smell of exhaust fumes.

As he walked down the main alley of the park, which was lined with withering cherry trees, Akutagawa couldn't help but marvel at the irony of faith: as the trees in Yokohama slowly wilted, a flower bloomed inside his lungs.

Playing it off as a mere cold, he had managed to hide his disease for the last two months but the sharp pain in his chest grew stronger by the day. Sometimes he'd wake up in the middle of the night and cough up a bunch of rosy petals, cursing under his breath and hoping that Gin wouldn't wake up and come check up on him. He would then gather the petals in the palm of his shaky hand and throw them out of the window, watching them fade away in the night.

Akutagawa managed to keep the symptoms of his illness under control, to ignore the pain; but it all got worse once he started seeing you again.

You...

He never once blamed you for his disease. The fact that a flower was blooming inside his lungs was soley his fault, the result of his deluded hopes and dreams. Of his feelings. And he was going to live and die with it.

That's what he believed until he saw you sitting on a wooden bench beneath the cherry trees; legs crossed as you slowly turned the pages of a paper bound volume; Murakami's "Norwegian wood"

For a moment he was transfixed. His cold gaze watched as the wind gently combed through your hair. You bit your lip and narrowed your eyes- probably in attempt to make sense of a sentence in the book- and his heart sank. Beautiful, you were so beautiful...

Still, the mafioso planned to walk away before you had a chance to spot him. Turning on his heels, he took a few steps back in the direction he came from before a violent coughing fit took over him. The sheer amount of pain he was in caused him to lean forward, pressing a hand to his aching chest as he panted hard.

"Akutagawa?" sounded your voice from behind and he cursed himself for being so reckless. Of course he'd feel worse around you.

"Oh God are you ok?" you asked again, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. You were close, so, so close.

Akutagawa clasped a hand over his mouth in attempt to keep the blossoms from spilling out but to no avail; a few roseate buds rolled past his parted lips and onto the leaf covered pavement.

Without wasting a second you hooked a hand under his arm and guided him to the closest bench, lightly patting his back until the coughing stopped.

The two of you spent a few minutes in silence before you finally gathered the courage to speak up.

"Are you alright?" you asked softly and he nodded.

"Yea. I am now. Thanks." he replied, barely able to contain his embrassment. How could he be so stupid? He should've walked away the moment he spotted you. Now you had discovered his shameful secret.

"Hey Akutagawa" you spoke again in the same gentle voice as you undid the lid of a thermos and handed it to him. "Have some tea. It may help."

He obeyed, taking the flask from your hands and bringing it to his lips; the liquid was warm and sweet, aiding his burning throat. The man took another sip before returning your thermos and mumbling a "Thanks Y/N."

"You're welcome"

"Well... I should go now. I need to catch my train" he said eventually as he watched you from the corner of his eyes.

"Oh sure. Want me to walk you to the station?"

He shook his head dismissively and forced a smile "No, there's no need. You can go back to your book"

"Alright then. Have a great day"

Akutagawa slowly rose from the bench, trying his best to ignore the burning sensation in his chest as he bid you farewell.

"Oh by the way..." you added, causing him to stop dead in his tracks.

"Yes?"

"Your secret is safe with me"

You spoke the last words so gently, flashing him that smile he so adored and oh, he swore his heart was going to melt. Instead he simply nodded, returning the smile before making his way to the train station.

That night he slept better than he did in ages. Sleep was deep and for the first time in ages he wasn't haunted by dreams or symptoms of his disease.

When he woke up the next morning, golden rays dappling inside his bedroom like mist, there were no more petals, no more blossoms. And he could breathe freely again.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #bsd angst #akutagawa angst #akutagawa x reader #bsd akutagawa #akutagawa ryuunosuke #akutagawa x you

[yawnderu]

>Second commission for @alypink 💗💗

Adler's visage is oddly relaxed, nothing but pure calmness shown on his usually stoic expression. His cheek rests on his palm, using his elbow as leverage to keep himself up, blown pupils focused on the sleeping figure in front of him. Despite the violence his hands have caused, a newfound gentleness is displayed when he traces the outline of her cheek with his knuckles, the soft skin a sheer contrast to the calluses on his palms.

His head tilts slightly to the side, letting out a small sigh as he admires Aleks like she belongs in the most prestigious museum— her chest rising up and down with each breath she takes, plump lips slightly parted and tiny snores coming out of her, forcing the corners of his lips to tilt up into a sincere small smile despite himself. He moves a few strands of soft blonde hair away from her face, leaning down to plant a kiss on her forehead, cursing himself out in his head the moment she begins to stir awake.

“Good morning.” Aleks says groggily, raising her hand to rub the sleepiness away from her eyes, thankful for the blackout curtains they decided to purchase the moment they moved in together. Adler says nothing, his arm curling around her waist to bring her closer, her face resting on the crook of his neck, feeling her take a moment to inhale the lingering scent of cigarettes and coffee— the very same Colombian coffee she insists on buying every single time they go shopping.

“How'd you sleep?” Unlike her, Adler is fully awake, secretly taking a few minutes each morning simply to admire her like a work of art never once seen, destiny's gift for someone as flawed as him. He doesn't recoil back when her soft hand comes up to cup his cheek, tracing his wrinkles for a few seconds before moving onto the deep, dark scars adorning his visage.

“Much better now that you're here.” Her nose scrunches up teasingly as they make eye contact, earning a small smile in return. Though often away on missions, they both bask in these moments of normalcy, of having a normal life rather than making new enemies by the day.

“Go get dressed, I have a surprise.” Without giving her time to reply, Adler steals a kiss from her lips, his hand coming up to move her bangs away from her forehead just to admire her full face for a few seconds before getting up from bed, barely giving her the chance to see his large frame disappear into Mary's room.

Aleks' blonde hair blows in the wind, the way it gets all over her face as they try to set up a blanket on the grass drags an amused chuckle out of Adler, crouching down and setting a rock down on the corner that was previously giving Aleks issues, the cheeky grin he shoots her way only is enough to earn him a playful slap on the back of the head— much to Mary's amusement, her sweet laugh ringing through the field as they lay down on the thick blanket.

“You made this?” The disbelief is clear in her tone and written all over her face as she looks inside the picnic basket, taking in the plethora of sweet treats waiting for them. She has rarely seen Adler cook anything other than steak and BBQ— never anything that had to be baked or looked half as appealing as these pastries. He simply hums in confirmation, his full focus on holding one of Mary's plushies, play-fighting with hers as they finally get settled.

Despite the lovely sweet treats, Aleks' hands immediately reach out for the thermos flask, excitement setting in her core the moment the smell of freshly brewed Colombian coffee overwhelms her senses, mouth watering in an instant. She mouths a quick 'thank you' before pouring it on the plastic cup, closing her eyes in delight at how well-made it was. For all his initial coldness, Adler was nothing short of a box full of surprises, acting so casually about romantic gestures as if they were nothing, despite taking his time to thoroughly study Aleks and anything important to her, wanting to be part of it all.

“There's some chopped strawberries, too.” While Adler is not the most vocal man when it comes to romance, it comes as a second nature to express himself with actions, every single pastry in the basket has been mentioned by Aleks in the past when talking about her favorites, memorizing them even if they were briefly mentioned years ago.

He sits up, his calloused hands reaching out to settle Mary's tiny body between them, reaching out to grab a pastry and holding it up to her lips until she takes a messy, big bite. Despite the simpleness of the situation, there's always a growing pit of pride at seeing his small family having a good time, the thin smile on his lips not going unnoticed by Aleks.

“You should eat.” She points out with a grin, pushing the basket towards him until he grabs a Tupperware bowl with chopped fruit, fidgeting with the fork for a few seconds before sinking it into the biggest piece of strawberry, offering it to her. The corners of his lips tilt up in amusement as he sees her cheeks get rosier at the offer of her partner wanting to feed her with his own cutlery for the first time.

“Thank you.” She mumbles out, her gaze drifting away from his to calm her fast-beating heart, taking her time to admire the breathtaking view in front of them— the sounds of the strong wind hitting the trees and birds chirping mix in with her daughter's laugh, likely being tickled by Adler. She closes her eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun hitting her skin and the inner peace their little getaway makes her feel, her lips tilting up into a smile at how good life has become despite her difficult past.

A warm hand ruffling her hair drags her back to reality, blue eyes meeting hers as he leans down, his lips pressing against hers, moving at an almost agonizingly slow pace until he pulls away after a few seconds, letting the flustered woman brush her hair to fix the mess he purposely left just to be an asshole. A little treat for himself, of sorts.

#call of duty oc #call of duty #black ops cold war oc #black ops oc #call of duty bops oc #call of duty black ops cold war oc #call of duty oc: Aleks #russell adler #russell adler x oc #call of duty: black ops cold war #cod cold war #my commissions #commission #commisions open

[edosianorchids901]

Safeguard

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "seal it tight"

“I am not very pleased with this idea, you know,” Aziraphale said in a severe tone. He didn’t enjoy being short with Crowley, but at the moment it was that or let his voice shake, and he couldn’t allow himself to be afraid.

Crowley gave a little shrug, watching curiously as Aziraphale put down plastic drop cloths. “I know. I know. But what if we need it? You’ve gotta admit, we might need it.”

“I don’t have to admit anything I don’t want to.” It was a poor argument, and Aziraphale was quite aware of that. He hastily continued before Crowley could point out the downsides of denial. “That said, I agree that it’s likely a good precaution. That does not mean I have to be the slightest bit happy about it.”

“I’m not asking you to be happy about it, am I?” Lips pursed, Crowley passed him another drop cloth. “Just wanna make sure you’re committed.”

Aziraphale gestured to the row of three thermos flasks, lined up on a table in the rented hotel room. He then gestured to the drop cloths, the water jug, and the wetsuits they both wore. “Does it look like I’m committed?”

“Well, yeah. It does.”

“Then do stop questioning me!” Aziraphale’s hands shook as he fussed with his wetsuit, making sure everything was sealed tight. This couldn’t harm him, of course, but it was best to be careful. “Let me check your suit again. And get your helmet.”

Hissing softly, Crowley picked up his full face motorcycle helmet. “Aziraphale, I’m not even gonna be in the room when you make the holy water. I’ll be over there, in the closet. This is total overkill.”

“Yes, well. The point is that we are aiming for not killing you at all.” Aziraphale checked Crowley’s wetsuit carefully, frowning at it with as much sternness as he could muster. The wetsuit obediently made itself even more waterproof. “Don’t you know how awful I’d feel if even the tiniest drop of holy water got free and harmed you? I’d never forgive myself.”

“Manipulative bastard,” Crowley said fondly.

“Mhm.” When Crowley leaned down to kiss his cheek, Aziraphale snatched the motorcycle helmet and put it on him. “There. That’s much better. Now, into the closet you go.”

Crowley gave a heavy, put-upon sigh that sounded very odd through the helmet. “You’re okay, got everything you need?”

“I have everything I need.” Aziraphale pushed Crowley into the closet, closed the doors, and sealed them with a miracle too.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley yelled, his voice muffled on the other side of the door. “Really? Really?”

Aziraphale patted the door in reassurance. “I’ll let you out as soon as I’m done, dear boy. Do be patient.”

Trembling, he went back to the table. Careful not to spill a drop, Aziraphale split the jug of water between the three thermoses.

This really was unpleasant, but necessary. Crowley’s previous supply of holy water was gone, used to destroy Ligur. And although it seemed that their old Sides were pretending that Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t exist, that could change at any moment. Better to be prepared as they settled into their new life.

Chest tight, Aziraphale performed the blessing. The water, now holy, looked entirely innocuous. But it now had the potential to kill his best friend.

Getting increasingly lightheaded, Aziraphale capped the thermoses, screwing on the caps as tightly as possible. Once sure they wouldn’t leak, he sealed them in a biohazard transport container.

He took that outside and placed it in the car he’d rented, ignoring the odd looks from passerby. It seemed they didn’t think his wetsuit and helmet were very stylish.

“Aziraphale!”

“Almost done!” Aziraphale called as he stepped back inside, although it was difficult to get enough air to answer. Oh dear, he really wasn’t feeling very well.

But he cleaned up the drop cloths, cramming them in the bathroom’s rubbish bin. He took off his own protective gear, set it in the shower, and then closed the door.

Only then, still breathless, did he let Crowley out of the closet. He turned Crowley in a full circle, inspecting the wet suit for any water droplets, and sighed with relief. “Oh, good. Your suit isn’t at all contaminated. You can take it off, now. Everything’s okay.”

And then Aziraphale began to hyperventilate. He clutched at the wall to steady himself, trembling. His trousers, shirtsleeves, and socks seemed inadequate to guard against the sudden chill.

“Ohshitohshitohshit. Aziraphale? What’s wrong?” Crowley shimmied out of the wetsuit, tossed his helmet down, and caught Aziraphale by the arms. “Did something go wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Not hurt,” Aziraphale gasped, unable to get any air. “I’m fine, I’m just… I…”

“You’re just having a panic attack, looks like.” Scowling, Crowley pushed him to sit on the bed. It had been covered in drop cloths too, and couldn’t be at all contaminated. It still gave Aziraphale a jolt of worry. “Easy, angel. It went fine, I’m fine, nothing to worry about.”

Aziraphale shivered, catching Crowley’s hand. He held on tight, focusing on the solidity, the steady presence beside him. He and Crowley had been in each other’s lives for thousands of years, after all, and his mere presence was enough to calm the worst fears.

So perhaps it made sense that the very worst fears were related to losing Crowley. It would be like dying too.

“I’m right here,” Crowley said softly. “It’s okay, promise.”

Aziraphale’s panic eased after a few more minutes of hyperventilation, and he managed a weak smile. “Oh. That wasn’t very fun.”

“Nuh. Glad you’re okay, though.” Gently, Crowley kissed his cheek. “C’mon. We’ll enchant the rental to follow my Bentley. Let’s go have some celebratory drinks.”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure he felt like celebrating the creation of such a deadly substance, but he did feel like having drinks. And although he still wasn’t pleased at having holy water anywhere near Crowley, knowing they could defend against Hell really was a relief.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #book omens #queerplatonic aziraphale/crowley

[hurtcomfortficstilltheend]

Mateine is the new caffeine

Wednesday Addams x gn! argentinian! Reader

Summary: Wednesday tries mate for the first time, by the hand of her partner, Reader.

Warnings: None! Only fluff! There is no use of "(Y/N)".

If you are not argentinian or southamerican, I explain the whole "mate" thing at the end. You just need to know that it's a very popular (non alcoholic) social drink in some countries in Latin America.

(Also, you don't need to be latinamerican to read this ofc)

A/N: Very self indulgent as always ;D Soft!Wednesday ahead!

Word Count: 1178

Your eyes were locked to the screen of your tiny laptop, your fingertips tapping incessantly on the keyboard, and your headphones on tight, blasting Brahms' second symphony. You had left a super important essay for the last minute (you were upset but not surprised), and now you were fighting against the clock to finish it on time for the first lesson tomorrow morning. Or today. 

After a quick wrist watch check- 3:54. Great. For the first lesson today then.

Your hand reaches instinctively for your hot water flask and serves another mate. You reread the last paragraph written on the open docs while sipping the lukewarm beverage. You swallow the liquid with a slight wince and keep writing.

You had once been ashamed that it took this amount of different sourced input to get anything school related done, but after some time, you just accepted that mateine, loud instrumental music, and leg bouncing was your only way, and that was okay.

Once you reread the whole thing again (and whisper a prayer to any coherence-and-cohesion god out there), you adjust the format of the document and send it to print in the principal’s office. Very proud of yourself for actually finishing it on time, you pick up your mate set to remake, get up with a jump and turn around-

-to find Wednesday standing right behind you, staring at you like you owe her something. As expected, you let out a squeak and accidentally drop the mate on the wooden floor. You hold on to the thermos like a lifeline, fully opened eyes pointing to the floor and then up to your girlfriend again.

“Mierda. Carajo.” Wednesday just stands there unmoving, as you throw yourself to the floor to pick up the yerba mess. The plant stains very bad, very quickly, so you end up (once again) in a rush against time itself to get some wet tissue paper and scrub the floor before it is too late. 

Now, with the headphones resting uncomfortably on your neck and the floor as-clean-as-it's-gonna-get, you take a deep breath and stand in front of the waiting girl. “Hi” After a beat, you lean closer to her and plant a small kiss on her cheek for good measure.

She blinks once, and you understand that’s her way of greeting. “What is that?” With a subtle head movement she points to the mate set now resting undone on your desk. 

“That’s the mate set my dad brought me from Argentina for parents’ weekend. The super cool gift I told you about?” It doesn’t seem to ring a bell. “Come on, I’ll show you how to make the best mates ever”

“Do you even know what time it is?” She asks with a slightly arched eyebrow.

“I have no forking idea, now come on” You guide her to your bathroom, and your makeshift kitchen counter.

.

“You have to put cold water first, so the leaves don’t burn, and then pour the hot water on the little hole we made” You guide Wednesday through the steps until you are only left with the last one. 

“So, I’ll do this, so you don’t gross out too much” You take the first two sips through the straw and immediately spit it out in the sink. She makes no comment, and both of you head out to your bed. The sun is starting to come up.

You get comfortable on top of your quilt and so does Wednesday. You pour the first mate and drink it yourself as an act of mercy. “What brings you here, by the way?”

“I was planning on silently watching you sleep until you woke up, so then we could go to class together, but I see you haven’t slept at all” She says matter of factly. You hand her the mate, but she doesn’t take it, as if waiting for instructions.

“Just try it out, if you don’t like it, no worries. It tastes bitter and it might be too hot, so be careful” She goes to grab it with both hands and you giggle, rambling about an ongoing joke in your family, of newbies using the bombilla as a gearshift.

You get yourself into the rabbit hole that is explaining the social rules of mate in gatherings, and how some people from Argentina and Uruguay drink it as often as coffee, or even more. You fail to notice your girlfriend’s face starting to morph into a frown. When you look up you feel like you messed up big time. 

“Oh god, you hate it. Let me get you some water. Do you want toothpaste?, I have som-” as you’re standing up to get a glass, you are stopped by Wednesday softly grabbing your wrist. Her eyes glint with something as close to fascination as you’ve seen on her. 

“It’s… magnificent. There is not a trail of sweetness, I could even guarantee it’s as bitter as my dark and cold soul” You can’t stop the huge and shining smile that takes over your face.

“So you like it?!” You pour yourself a mate and drink it before leaving the set in your nightstand and jumping up from your bed. “I’m so excited! I haven’t asked principal weems if I can take it to class, but I bet she will have no problem! My mom used to tell me that a good mate is the best companion for studying, it’s been so long since I’ve shared mate with someone!” 

A small smile starts to creep its way onto Wednesday’s face when seeing you so excited about your culture. She turns to look at your direction, still sitting on the edge of your bed. “You are clearly sleep deprived, and I’m certain this drink is going to trigger an insomnia episode if you remain drinking it at such ungodly hours, but-” 

“You’re gonna be my mate buddy?!”

“It’s whatever.” You can almost see a blush covering her cheeks. Almost. “Now, breakfast starts in five minutes, so get ready if you wish to be there on time. And don’t think you’re about to get away with an all-nighter. After lunch you’re getting rest willingly, or I’ll make you”

You roll your eyes playfully and hand her the basket with the set inside. “So bossy..” You give her another peck on the cheek and change into your school uniform in a flash.

.

Bonus: 

Enid finds you and Wednesday sharing mates at the library a few days later, and after insisting that she’s gonna surely love it, she pulls such a grimace when the drink touches her tongue that you almost feel offended. 

You appear the next day with two different sets: one of mate, for you and your girlfriend; and one of tereré for Enid. Your friend likes the sweet and cold version so much better, and from then on asks you very often to prepare it for her.

You also show them and the gang the wonders of dulce de leche, Rogel cake, and every single argentinian tea time good you can get your hands on.

.

A/N: I totally devoured the series, and I'm obsessed, so expect more of Wednesday to come. Comments are greatly appreciated as always, I want to know what you think!

About the "Mate" depicted in this fic: It's a weird kind of infusion (here's a pic for reference)

that seems to be prepared backwards (you have a cup with the herb -yerba mate- to which you pour hot water, opposite from tea I guess), you have to sip through that metal straw -called bombilla- that has a filter, and it's usually drunk in groups or social events, or as a way to replace the caffeine that coffee may provide. It's highly energetic and bitter, although some people add sugar or sweeteners to taste.

The first mate is usually the most bitter one, cause it's filled with the dust of the yerba, so drinking the first mate yourself can sometimes be an act of heroism lol.

I also mentioned "Tereré", which is similar, but (where I live) only drunk in hot weather. It's prepared with cold juice instead of hot water and it's definitely less bitter.

Yerba mate also stains like a bitch, even linolium floors, so if you are to spill some, you have to clean it up quickly before it dries.

By the way, we use mate(s) as a countable AND uncountable noun, so don't come at me about grammar please hahdghfkv

I hope you liked this crash course of mates!

#wednesday addams #wednesday x reader #wednesday netflix #wednesday addams x reader #self insert #wednesday x latinx!reader #gn!reader #mate #latinoamérica #argentina #merlina addams #merlina x reader #the first part based lowkey in my possible adhd?? #that is the only way i can write essays #wrote this listening to brahms #:)

[srbachchan]

DAY 5439

Jalsa, Mumbai                 Jan 5/6,  2023                 Thu/Fri  1:40 AM

Birthday Ef -  Manish Parmar .. Friday, 6 January .. love and the wishes of all the ef family to you .. ❤️❤️❤️

“Women know women ; 

Men know what a woman wants them to know   !” ~

spoken in a watch , noted and written on the reminders , and printed here for effect .. the dare to explain or even comment on it be futile .. it was the voice of another woman , in the projection of the seen on watch .. 

and that be the beauty of the OTT .. stop, pause, rewind, copy , stay for days later and on .. 

and this caught the fancy .. there were many more .. but it is not the desire to overload the complexities of the honour of the rib of male  deliverance .. as spelt in print from the Holy Bible .. and in grave reactionary mode  !!

Women are indeed the more superior .. in mind and matter .. in strength of courage and perform .. in ability to the multitask .. be all and end all of all ..

Women .. !

just a read of one sentence and an entire volume of thoughts run through .. and they merge all in one very large flask of thermos container .. fresh warm or cold in which ever be the demand .. they are ever supreme .. and ever in evolution of understanding .. 

do not pass GO .. do not collect 200 ... 

aaahhhhh .. the vagaries of the contented content  .. seeking , willing to know in its reality of confirmed print-age , and in its search the discovery of many and much more ..

the utterance of expression .. the lifting of the express to form and make and demonstrate how brilliant be the methodology of manufacture .. to make in .. to manufacture in .. to build in that which is yet to come or refuses to come at all ...

the patience of wait .. wait and watch , masters of their mastery over the question of togetherness .. 

it shall happen, but the circumstance could change and that would be devastatingly unheard of in these .. 

so one backs off ..

to bed to bed .. in the deepest bed .. 

Amitabh Bachchan

[johannestevans]

Something Sweet

Romance short. A woman sometimes takes a moment to watch a baker at work on her morning commute.

870w, F/F. Just a little slice-of-life and crushing on a stranger!

On Patreon / / On Medium.

---

It’s early in the morning, not even four o’clock, and the cold air is bitter on the bare bits of Denise’s skin – she can feel it threatening to chap her lips, making her eyes sting when the freezing wind cuts underneath the brim of her hat, cutting at her cheeks and the top of her neck where her scarf is folded over and can’t quite be tight to the skin. There’s the barest little patch of skin bared when her sleeve rides up and her gloves aren’t quite long enough to protect her whole wrist, and when she lifts her hand up to check her phone the wind catches her right up the sleeve and makes her shiver on the spot as the breeze goes right up to her elbow under her jacket.

It's fucking miserable and she can’t wait for the winter to be over, most of all because she’s traipsing on frosty ground and it feels like the middle of the fucking night, dark and deep and never-ending.

It’s become a habit of hers as she goes to start her four-thirty shift – it’s the bakery on one side and the deli on the other. Before it was a bakery, this was a pizzeria, and they decided to keep the big glass front windows and the display lights just the same as they kept the huge woodfire oven.

She stands on the pavement for a second, taking a sip from her thermos flask as she looks through the window and watches one of the bakers work. She’s a big woman, tall with plump cheeks and huge, toned arms, and it’s no wonder they’re so fucking toned with the way she kneads dough – Denise imagines she can hear the thundering slap of it hitting the floured board as she drops a big ball of it onto the counter and begins to work it. Denise allows herself to watch for a few moments, to see the flour that’s spattered and sticking to the baker’s strong fingers, the back of her hand, up her wrist to her forearm.

Her skin is pink and scattered all over with freckles underneath the flour, but except for a few bare smatterings of white powder, the front of her white tunic is extremely clean, not stained at all even on the red fabric of her apron.

She’s utterly concentrated as she works, her lips pressed together, a sheen of sweat showing on her cheeks and her forehead, enough to shimmer but not to drip, and there’s this gorgeous furrow that appears between her eyebrows, a matching one just above her lips because of how they’re pursed. Denise knows from having seen her look over her shoulder and laugh at other bakers’ jokes, and sometimes seeing her smile in satisfaction at her own work as she looks it over, that she also has dimples when she smiles.

The thought makes Denise feel sort of fluttery – she doesn’t know what it is about girls with dimples, but they really do make her feel.

Denise’s gaze drops down to the baker’s arms, to the shift and movement of the muscles in them, to the sheer work of them. She’s pretty sure this woman lifts or does something else other than baking, and Denise wonders for a second how much she benches, if she could bench Denise.

She almost laughs out loud at the thought, it makes her so fucking giddy – the movement must catch the baker’s attention through the glass, because she looks up and meets Denise’s eye through the glass, smiles at her, gives her a wave. She calls something behind her shoulder to one of the other bakers, and Denise wonders vaguely what it is, if it’s about her, but it’s another twenty minutes’ walk, and she needs to go.

Her boots crunch on the frost as she starts up the path again, and the door opens to the deli, a young man also scattered with freckles – he bears a passing resemblance to the baker – waving frantically at her.

“Hey! My sister says you stop and look in the bakery a lot, but you always go past way before we open. Here.”

Denise takes the bag, feeling the weight of it, feeling the warmth of it.

“Fresh doughnuts,” says the kid, stepping back. “Enjoy. A gutn tog!”

Denise laughs breathlessly as the deli door closes, and she looks at the card stapled to the front of the bag – it has the name of the deli on, and a little note that says, “Hi, I always see you walking by in the morning. You should come by some afternoon and say hello. : ) Come in for coffee sometime. Chana xx,” and then there’s Chana’s phone number, written out in neat handwriting.

Denise looks to the window. Chana winks at her, and Denise’s hand comes up to cover her mouth automatically, even as the giggle comes out of her mouth, almost unbidden.

Her cheeks burning with heat that makes her almost forget the wind chill, Denise fishes a doughnut out of the bag to bite into as she keeps up her pace into work, and figures she’ll have time to drop Chana a text before she clocks in.

#short story #fiction #short fiction

[1986harrington]

DAY 9: Hot Chocolate

"Hey! I don't hate surprises. I love surprises." You protested, and you heard Steve try to conceal a laugh and cover the sound with an uh huh instead. "I do! I love when you surprise me with flowers for no reason, or when you show up at my house when you get off work early, or when-" Steve stopped in his tracks, so quickly that you'd have collided straight into his back if he hadn't turned to face you. Instead, your chest bumped his as he dipped down to kiss you, cutting you off. "And that." You said breathily when he eventually pulled back, staring down at you. "I love when you do that."

"Okay so when exactly are you gonna tell me where we're going?"

You were hand in hand with Steve, traipsing slightly behind him as he led you through the woods - rust-coloured leaves crunching between the soles of your boots and the frozen ground beneath you.

"A better question would be, why do you hate surprises so much?" Your boyfriend asked, throwing a coy smile over this shoulder to you as he carried on despite your questioning.

"Hey! I don't hate surprises. I love surprises." You protested, and you heard Steve try to conceal a laugh and cover the sound with an uh huh instead.

"I do! I love when you surprise me with flowers for no reason, or when you show up at my house when you get off work early, or when-"

Steve stopped in his tracks, so quickly that you'd have collided straight into his back if he hadn't turned to face you. Instead, your chest bumped his as he dipped down to kiss you, cutting you off.

"And that." You said breathily when he eventually pulled back, staring down at you. "I love when you do that."

"C'mon," He said through a smile, a tilt of his head in the direction of a clearing that was appearing before you. "Almost there."

A few steps further, past the last line of tress and you saw a flat expanse of grass that sloped gently into the shore of Lover's Lake, offering an unspoilt, panoramic view across the water.

It was crystal clear and so still it looked like glass, the top freezing over and glistening under the final rays of sun still spilling faintly from behind the clouds.

"Wow," Was all you could muster, your hand dropping from Steve's as he pulled off the rucksack he'd been carrying on his shoulder and dropped it to the ground. You wandered a little further ahead, taking in the view as if it was the first time you'd ever been there.

"This is beautiful. I mean, actually beautiful." You said, mostly to yourself rather than Steve, eyes roaming across the flat of the water, all the fall colours of the woodlands surrounding them reflected on the glassy surface.

"Takes one to know one," He says, and when you turned around to scold him for his shameless flirting, you saw your surprise.

Steve had unpacked a bundle of blankets, woolen and plaid and in a variety of autumnal shades - dark browns and warm reds, muted oranges and warmer creams - all splayed out to stop the cold from seeping up from the ground.

There was a thermos flask, two mugs and an assortment of tiny marshmallows, sprinkles, cream and other toppings scattered across the blankets.

"Well don't just stand there gawking at how great I am," Steve said, dropping down into the blankets. "C'mere."

Your feet were moving before you realised it, making your way over to drop down beside him on your knees. You leaned down over him, his head tilted back to meet your gaze as you hovered over him, one hand holding your hair back from your face, the other resting on his chest as you kissed him, sweet and chaste on the lips.

You felt him smile and you sat back, letting yourself fall down onto the cozy mess of blankets beside him.

Steve opened up the thermos, steam rising from the top and you lifted the mugs letting him fill both up with the sweet, dark, smooth liquid.

"I love hot chocolate," You whispered excitedly, as if you were revealing a lifelong secret to him and he laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"I know," He said, taking his mug from you so you could wrap both of your hands around your own. "That's kinda the whole point."

You rolled your eyes silently, watching as he reached for the can of cream.

"Do you wanna scoosh it, or d'you want me to do it for you?" He asked, as if it was the most serious matter in the world.

"You scoosh, my hands are nice and warm now."

So he did, and then he dotted marshmallows on top, followed by sprinkles, and a drizzle of chocolate sauce and he swore he'd never seen you look happier.

He made a real mess of his own, even more so when he tried to actually drink it, the tip of his nose dipping into the cream like a 5 year old.

The both of you spent the next hour wrapped in the blankets and each other, warm mugs clutched to your chests and you swore you could have stayed there with him forever.

#1986harrington’s mystery promptober 🎃 #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fic #steve harrington

[warmblanketwhump]

soooo hi :)

how. About. This:

Whumpee (A) has been recovered by their team from whumpers capture, traumatised, beat up and chilled because they have been kept in a cold room. even though deep down they know that they’re safe now, they’re still anxious constantly and don’t really let their team members come near them even though they. just. want. to help. when they arrive back at their base/camp they try to hide in the small bathroom, claiming they can patch themselves up all on their own and that they just „need to clean up a bit“ they try patting themselves down with a cold washcloth, flinching when they run over one of the countless bruises on their body and the cold tiles make them shiver. after a few minutes, there’s a knock on the door. A goes still, not wanting to see anyone, not wanting to be a burden. but suddenly they hear B‘s voice. their most trusted companion who has only just found out about A‘s rescue. „A, I know you’re probably terrified, but please let me in.“ A considers, bites their lip but they finally give in, dragging themselves over to the door and opening it only to find B there ready with a warm blanket and some fresh clothes, a thermo flask and some bandages. „I‘m here for you.“ B says „we‘ll patch you right up“ and then A just crumbles and falls forward into their embrace, feeling safe for the first time in weeks

omg i LOVE this so much 🥹 when there's that character that's so desperately in need of comfort but they just don't realize that they do, and that one person is like "yeah, okay, i've got you. just lean on me" and they just fall apart because they finally can??

GOLDEN

#cold whump #comfort #anon #whump prompt

[butterflythoughtsworld]

SLOW MORNINGS

You wake up when it’s still dark outside and ice is coating your window. It’s 5am and you love the quiet this time gives you because it feels like no one else is awake yet and you are truly free. Also, it allows you those slow mornings that give you the opportunity to plan the entire day and be organised.

You get up, make yourself a matcha latte and get your yoga mat. You’re just starting again but you know doing yoga in the morning and stretching will be effortless in a few days and a part of your routine. While you do the different positions, you notice how great it feels to move your body, to connect with it and stretch those muscles. Soon you’ll be able to pull the more advanced positions again, as your body easily shifts back into the state it is in when you’re working out regularly.

After you’ve finished, you drink your matcha and journal, while a candle and some incense burn next to you, as well as some fairy lights. You love this atmosphere and it pretty much describes what you’ve been aiming to do for quite some time now. Romanticise your life so much, there’s no other way but to fall in love with it. Now you’ve reached the point where it’s actually happening. All those things you’ve wrote down on your “impossible list” are actually coming true.

Since you have to go to work soon, you make yourself a thermos flask full of green tea, with which you’ve fallen in love with again, and put some grapes in a food container to take with you. You’re on an intermittent fasting schedule again, but only 16 hours a day since you are doing this the consistent, slow way. Fasting and binging got you nowhere, so you’re doing it right this time. Slow mornings, planning the entire day, intermittent fasting for 16 hours, taking supplements and eating whole foods plant based. This is about control and listening to your body’s needs. You only eat when you are hungry and only until you feel full. In addition to that, your desire to focus on foods that feel good in your body, that are full of nutrients, grows stronger every day and it’s not that you forbid yourself any foods, you just don’t want them if they’re not good for you. Your self control is at its peak and it’s getting easier to do what is right for you and be kind to yourself.

After preparing your food, you undress and take some pictures in underwear in front of your mirror. Even though you weigh more than you’re usually confident with, you are okay with what you see. Soon you’ll reach your ideal body again and this chapter is not about self hatred, it’s about being in love with life and yourself.

#ed not ed sheeran #tw ed sheeran #anatumblr #4n0r3xia #ed imagine

[maxbegone]

happy sunday! i hope it's a lovely fall day wherever you are, and i hope that the week ahead is good to you. here's not-seven sentences:

Los Bastardos have a mission.

Raf is already on the porch waiting when Alex steps out into the freezing morning air, bundled up tightly as he gets out a somewhat-groggy greeting. A thermos is shoved into his hands as Oscar walks around the side of the house with three rifles on his back and three axes in his hands, sharp and at the ready.

“Y’all ready?” He asks, beaming in the blue-grey light.

They hop into Raf’s truck and make the drive a mile south of the property line and into the forest.

“Mom’s on watch this morning,” Alex says as he turns the volume up on his walkie. It chirps, and he clicks it twice in a test. “She said to give her a holler when we’re heading back

“What happens if I crush one of you fuckers?” Raf asks into his thermos as Alex and Oscar both laugh.

“She’ll string you up if it’s Alex,” Oscar says as he drives. “Me? She might fuckin’ kiss ya.”

“Fuck, there it is.”

“Y’all have gotten better,” Alex tells him. “You’re better than before this mess. I swear I never hear you fighting.”

“Silent fights are still fights,” Oscar explains. “But yeah, we have gotten better. I guess livin’ with your ex, her new husband and your kids fares well when it comes to surviving the apocalypse. And Leo’s less of a candy ass than I realized.”

“Safe to say that’s fair given the fact that we wouldn’t be here without him.”

“Yeah.” His dad trails off for a moment. “Your mom’s always gonna be the love of my life, mijo. Because of her, I’ve got you and June.”

“If we’re doing heartfelt this morning, I’m doing a tuck and roll out of this car with the intention of screwing up my other leg,” Raf mildly threatens.

Oscar mumbles something under his breath and hits a few buttons on the stereo until a dreaded cassette rolls and La Bamba starts to play. Alex bangs his fist on the roof of the truck twice and whoops as they continue south.

They park in a clearing and sit on the flatbed passing bags of tamales and tetelas back and forth until the sun fully rises. Alex downs the rest of his dirt tea and listens happily to his dad and Raf talk shit about when they worked together years back. In another time, the three of them would’ve taken the states by storm in politics and law. 

Eventually, they head several paces up as they begin their search. It’s not meticulous by any means — they’re really just trying to find a tree that’s full and can fit through the doorway and comfortably in the living room without pulling a Clark Griswold.

“How’s this one?” Alex calls over his shoulder as he measures up a nine foot tall balsam fir. It’s full and looks sturdy enough not to tip over in the tree stand.

Raf sidles up to him, clapping a hand on his shoulder as Oscar circles it. “Think it’s good, kid.”

“Not a single gap,” Oscar announces as he comes back around. “No dead spots. I think we have ourselves a winner, boys. Get your axes and your asses ready.”

It takes two hours of rigorous chopping for the tree to finally come down, all three cheering as it crashes to the forest floor with a heavy thud. Alex cuts it even on the trunk with a handsaw and soon enough, they’re tying it to the flatbed.

“This,” Raf announces from where he’s reaching halfway through the passenger window, “calls for a celebration.” He procures a scratched-up flask, unscrews it, and takes a long pull, letting out a tight breath. “Hoo, that’s good.”

Oscar takes a drink, then Alex, and the familiar taste of shiner warms him from the inside out.

“Can’t believe I didn’t have to beg someone this time,” Alex says.

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause last time you two actually behaved yourselves,” Oscar replies, gesturing between the two of them. “Now, if either of y’all start getting into a debate, I’m taking our shit and leaving you here to walk back through the snow.”

Alex takes another sip. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll behave, Dad.”

Oscar snorts. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #rwrb fic #alex claremont diaz #apocalypse au #seven sentence sunday

[jaestrz]

I’m okay when you’re here with me -yoon jeonghan

Fluff - jeonghan x reader - soft hours

Mention of nightmares⚠️

dreams are scary. It could either go wrong or go terribly worst than that.

4:08.

Jeonghan was a light sleeper and it always had been that way. So a small amount of noise or movement could really wake him up. He really had no problem with sleeping with you since you rarely move in your sleep. You rarely get nightmares but when you do, he’ll find a way to release the tension in your head so it wouldn’t often happen.

He was woken up when he felt you constantly shifting in his arms. With your unusual pace of breathing, Jeonghan blinked. Trying to adjust his eyes at the slightly dimmed moonlight that pierced through the curtains. The male glanced at you. Some pieces of your hair was scattered on your face. Your nails that was carving in your palm, hurting you and leaving red marks. Your chest repeatedly rise and fall as if you were gasping for air. Your fear pulled a string in Jeonghan’s heart. He hated seeing you carry around those heavy tension to sleep. He hated when you start waking up in the middle of the night and cried out of frustration. Either from a bad dream or from what you stressed out about at practice earlier.

Jeonghan slowly sat up on the bed, rubbing little circles on the back of your hand to make you notice his awake presence before gently cupping your face and stroking your cheekbone to wake you up. The least he could do for you was waking you up without having the intention to scare you.

The warm smile spread on his face when he notice your conscious self, as if it was a welcome back greeting after a hell ride.

Something about Jeonghan. Maybe this was the reason why he keeps a thermos bottle beside his night table. It didn’t really matter if he drank it or not, it would be something slightly easier for him to comfort you without having to leave your side to go to the kitchen.

Chamomile tea. He learnt it from Minghao and it’s slowly becoming his thing to drink.

He reached out for the flask and watch as you drank the tea. Jeonghan tucked a strand of hair behind your ear while waiting for you to be done.

No matter how much curious he was to what you were dreaming, he let a decision on you to tell him or no. Usually on late nights both of you talked until both of you are knocked out. On other days, he’ll put you to sleep first before him. It was the only thing that could ease his mind knowing you finally had a peaceful mind.

Good to him. Good to you.

Things wouldn’t be settled unless you had slowly calmed down and be held in his chest.

“I know it’s scary. But trust me. It isn’t real, I promise. I’m here now. I might not be there in your dreams but I’m here in real life. Put some faith in me alright?” He whispered, planting a kiss on the top of your forehead. His scent lingers in your mind as you grip on the hem of his shirt. “I watched you from afar in your dream. You just couldn’t see me.”

You weren’t dumb either. You knew it’s a lie he made up 5 years ago when he started dating you. But still, you put on your mind into thinking what he said was real. Just so you would think he was there for you. Jeonghan’s lie got you into thinking it was real. He may do a lot of pranks and jokes. But if it was a situation where involves with something you were scared off, he wouldn’t have the time to think about jokes.

“You were probably sleepy, I’m sorry for waking you up” you told him.

“I was on my phone.” One of the best situations for him to lie to you.

“Would you be okay?”

Jeonghan put on a smile at your question before nodding. “I’m okay when you’re here with me.”

It took quite a while. With small pep talk, little jokes and a short conversation, you finally fell into a deep slumber followed off by Jeonghan.

#svt jeonghan #jeonghan au #svt fluff #seventeen #love #ao3 #fanfic #imagines #jeonghan #jeonghan imagines #soft af #jeonghan fanfic #yoon jeonghan #svt x reader #svt

[luna-loner]

Karmanami Week Day 1: Gift

Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred up until lunch time, during which they'd would sit together and chat endlessly about chemical experiments and pranks. Okuda was usually the one who went over to Karma's desk, never once empty-handed, and today was no different.

But rather than a vital or flask whose contents worried their classmates, she held a suspiciously normal-looking thermos that still worried their classmates. Karma's own expression was that of mild curiosity as he tried to think of what the girl had prepared for him today.

The last he expected was strawberry milk; homemade strawberry milk to be exact.

"My mom tried making strawberry cheese cake yesterday, but it didn't turn out well."

"Did she burn the kitchen again?" Karma asked before taking another sip.

"No, but the walls are going to need some renovating." She answered, "And the cake didn't turn out well, so we couldn't add strawberry toppings."

She then beamed. "But then I remembered your favorite drink and thought we could use them to make homemade strawberry milk instead."

Karma's own lips curled up into a smile, smaller than the one Okuda wore. It was genuine at first, but then it took on a more playful feel. "So you were thinking of me, huh?"

"Of course," She said like it was obvious, "Strawberries remind me of you."

Yeah, Karma didn't know how to respond to that. You'd think the comment would offend him, but he knew Okuda meant no ill will behind her words. She was too nice to tease him.

And…the connotation was pretty much his fault for, you know, drinking strawberry milk almost daily…not that he'll actually admit it, he grumpily thought while sipping more milk. Instead, he settling on saying just one thing.

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

And Karma meant it; he really did. It was a simple gift for no occasion, no catch. Okuda just felt like making it. She could've bought it from any store, but chose to make it with her own hands and with him in mind. Karma couldn't deny he was flattered. It was just like when he'd ask a specific chemical; Okuda would pour all her time and effort just to give him what he wanted.

However, these chemical concoctions she'd work so hard on did not solely comprise of his nefarious requests, but also of her own ideas that she eagerly wanted to share with him. He was always the first to see her latest creations; that's how much trust she had in him, how much trust she had given him.

The flavor only seemed to grow sweeter with each sip he took. How generous was Okuda Manami, always giving and giving. Time, effort, trust—she gave him nothing but the most valuable. How Karma managed to befriend such a pure soul was beyond him. Karma didn't just appreciate the homemade drink; he appreciated Okuda.

"Say," He began, toying with the now empty thermos, "You think we can add some Cyanide in this?"

#a little late but next prompt should be posted in a few hours #assassination classroom #ansastu kyoushitsu #karmanamiweek #karumana #karmanami #akabane karma #karma akabane #okuda manami #manami okuda

[quill-pen]

Modern AU Scroogeverse: Starbucks orders

@rom-e-o and I joked around about it a little this morning, so I thought it might be fun to do.

Disclaimer: I, personally, am not a coffee drinker at all. I hate everything about coffee--the smell, the taste, the noise the coffee maker makes as it brews. And I never have dealings with Starbucks because I think they're a little overhyped and expensive.

Note: Americanized Bess has absolutely influenced these people's taste on things like iced and cold beverages. As she should. Cold drinks are lifeblood.

Ebenezer: First off, nobody makes coffee like his beloved Bess (she does it the old-fashioned way on the stove and adds just the right amount of heavy cream and cinnamon) so that's usually where Eb gets his coffee (she'll pour it in a thermos and send it out the door with him). But on the occasions Bess' coffee is unavailable for various reasons, Starbucks is an easy stop on the way to work. His drink of choice: the dark roast, tall, cinnamon powder, heavy cream, and two pumps of cinnamon syrup (if it's the holidays, he'll add a pump of the peppermint) to make up for the lack of Bess' TLC. It's good, but still not as good as Bess'; every sip of her coffee is like her love in liquid form and you bloody hell can't beat that. If he's had several late nights at the office, Ebenezer will also add a few shots of the signature espresso. If he has to attend a morning business meeting he's been dreading, the man has also been known to fill a flask with a little "feel-good" juice and spike his drink just enough to get through the meeting. He doesn't get anything else from Starbucks. He might try something Bess gets, but, as stated before, Starbucks is merely a handy substitute: He's not about to take time to explore their menu. Note: They never get his name right. Ebenezer is now simply known as 'Ed' at the local Starbucks.

Bess: For warm weather: a grande iced dark chocolate mocha with heavy cream and light ice. The number of espresso shots depends on how busy work has been. For cold weather: a tall caffè mocha, with warm heavy cream, light foam, and six mocha pumps. Again the number of espresso shots depends on work. If she's in the mood for something particularly sweet, Bess will usually go for one of their chocolate chocolatey frappucinos. She doesn't have a particular favorite--she likes them all--but always gets them in grande. Note: You think they'd be able to get Bess, easy enough, but no; she's been called "Bed", "Bless", "Beth", "Bet", "Bast", and "Bath". These people aren't even trying, are they?

Bob: Doesn't go to Starbucks--it's not on his way to work and it's too expensive (he's got lots of kids to take care of, even if now being partners with Mr. Scrooge makes life so much easier and comfy). He stops in at a local mom-and-pop place called 'The Grinds' and gets a large, cowboy coffee with a little milk and sugar. (He's also sweet-talked the barista into adding some espresso shots. The man has like a dozen kids, okay?! He needs it to get through the day!)

Ethel: Unlike Bob, will occasionally patronize Starbucks--mostly when she is out with the other girls. Because this is only an occasional thing, Ethel likes to treat herself (she deserves it!): a venti strawberry crème frappuccino with vanilla sweet cream, extra whipped cream, five syrup pumps, two espresso shots, toasted vanilla syrup, cookie crumble topping, mocha sauce, and extra strawberry puree. Leave her alone--she's affording herself a rare treat--it's fine. Note: Don't always get her name right either, but they get it right more often than with Bess.

Harry: Does not have a favorite. Man gets something different every time he goes and has liked everything equally. He does have a particular fondness for their frozen fruit beverages though, but only in summer. When the weather gets cold, he'll go for their hot apple drinks. The only customization he insists upon is extra cinnamon or peppermint during the holiday season. After all, he loves Christmas--it's his favorite time of year! He always gets the largest option. Note: Yes, his name always gets spelled right, usually accompanied by little Harry Potter flourishes. He finds them so charming and tries to keep them all. Hela eventually throws them out when he's clearly forgotten about them--usually after a week.

Hela: Usually goes for their teas. It's a toss-up between a short honey citrus mint with light lemonade and an extra pump of honey or a short, regular matcha tea latte. Note: Only gets her name spelled right if she's served by a fan of Marvel.

Tom: He is a very simple man. In the cold, he beelines for their hot chocolate: grande, steamed whole milk, doubled mocha pumps with extra whipped cream, and extra caramel drizzle with caramel sauce lining the cup. In the heat, it's a regular mango dragonfruit lemonade with extra ice. Note: Once got named "Dom" at Starbucks. The barista winked at him as she passed him his drink. Addie was with him and did not appreciate it; she absolutely took a cue from her cousin and groped his ass on the way out. The ride home was very long after that, but the events that played out at home were a blast.

Addie: In the cold, she loves the white hot chocolate. She'll usually get a tall with oat milk, extra foam brown sugar syrup with a mocha cause lining, and chocolate mint cookie sprinkles with light whipped cream. In the heat, her go-to is a grande iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso with salted caramel foam, mocha drizzle, whipped cream, and caramel crunch topping. Note: Often gets called "Abbie", but one time, somehow, she got called "Baddie". She rode that high for a week.

Ernie: Isn't really a coffee man, so he mostly sticks to the teas. He goes for the classic Earl Grey with a little lemonade, honey, and a pinch of cinnamon. If he's looking for something cooler, he just goes for the lemonade. Nothing very complicated. Note: Absolutely gets "Bert" added in with his name like 80% of the time. The joke is getting old now, folks.

Ella: Honestly, she doesn't do Starbucks. She had one drink once--a huge chocolate java mint frap, loaded up with all the best goodies. It was so good. But the stomach flu was going through the Cratchit household at the time and she got hit with it right after she had that heavenly delight and... yeah. Ruined the entire chain for her. Just the mention of Starbucks makes her stomach roll. Ernie doesn't drink Starbucks around her and does his best to shield the very logo from her view.

Granny: Simple and surprising--a doppio of espresso macchiato. regular except for eight shots of espresso instead of the standard two. She's in her 80s and surrounded by young folks, okay? How else do you expect her to keep up with them all?

Josie: Doesn't do Starbucks either. She thinks it's overrated and too trendy, and will go out of her way to find small, independent establishments to patronize. She enjoys hazelnut lattes with a little touch of cinnamon and mocha sauce. Will always ask the barista to make the most unique design they can with the cream and asks if she can watch.

Mickey: Just like his love, he doesn't do Starbucks. For one he could never afford it; for two, he tried some once and he didn't find it all that great. Certainly wasn't worth the hype everyone seemed to have about it. He chooses to support the independent coffee houses as well, often taking Josie out on dates to them. He likes the cowboy coffee with only a little milk; he enjoys the rusticness and simplicity of it. Josie isn't a fan of the flavor but she loves the smell of it on Mickey's breath afterward and she doesn't mind the taste coming off his tongue and lips when he kisses her either.

Jules: He can't drink coffee as it makes him sick, but he enjoys the iced teas. His favorite is a blended grande black tea lemonade with some apple juice and strawberries. And definitely extra ice. Always extra ice. In the winter, he gets a regular caramel apple spice. Note: Often gets his name spelled as "Jewels". Once he had an older barista that was a big fan of Jules Verne though, and he got that written on his cup--that was fun.

Martha: The chocolate java mint frap, tall, with coconut milk, double-blended with frap chips, hazelnut syrup, two extra pumps of the mint sauce, mocha sauce lining, toasted cookie crumble, light cinnamon powder, and whipped cream--that's this girl's game. She only needs to have one once in a while, as it's so very rich. Note: Once got called "Martyr". So... that was different.

Kathy: Girl is a fiend for the espresso shots! That's what happens when you're studying to be an L&D nurse, I suppose. She gets a quad of the blonde roast loads it up on six shots and hammers it. But after she's had a couple of those, she'll get a short, dark chocolate mocha with heavy cream and honey to sip on. Note: Has been called "Catty" more than once. She does not appreciate it.

Millie: VENTI. PUMPKIN. SPICE. LATTES. With extra cream and cinnamon and caramel sauce lining. She lives for this stuff and literally has an emotional breakdown whenever it goes out of season. After that, she falls back on the vanilla bean crème frap, venti size, with almond milk, extra whipped cream, frap chips, macadamia syrup, caramel lining, white chocolate mint sauce, honey blend, cinnamon, mocha drizzle, and caramel crunch topping. And, ya know what? It's still nowhere near as good as the pumpkin spice. Why don't they just sell it all year?! It would be their number-one seller! They could just start a whole other Starbucks offshoot just for the pumpkin spice and rake in the money! Note: Absolutely tells the barista how to spell her name and double-checks to make sure they got it right.

Gil: Decaf roast, tall, black--plain, simple, easy. He likes the bitterness; reminds him of the earth and nature. If he's craving a little sweetness, he might add some honey. Note: Usually gets called "Dill". Does not complain--he gets his coffee either way. And he kinda like the name "Dill" actually.

Tim: He's not allowed to drink coffee, as he gets way too hyper. But he does like their frozen fruit drinks. The pineapple passion fruit is his favorite; he always gets extra pineapple in it. He gets the largest size and sticks it in the freezer whenever he's had enough to snack on for a few days. The stuff tastes even better when it's frozen enough to eat like ice cream! Note: Tim is so cute, most of the time the baristas don't even hear him say his name because they're so focused on his cherubic smile or sparkling blue eyes, so they just write "Angel boy" on the cup. Tim just blushes and beams.

Beryl: She doesn't like coffee, but she is also a serious businesswoman, and serious businesswomen drink coffee. Beryl gets the espresso con panna in the smallest size with extra whipped cream and three espresso shots. The whipped cream is the only way she can stand the taste of the stuff. Sometimes she needs a little mocha drizzle to get it down too, even while she's holding her nose and trying to swallow it down without letting it touch her tongue. Ebenezer has pointed out to her time and again that it's okay if she doesn't like coffee--she can drink something else if she wants to--but Beryl refuses. "Businesswomen drink coffee! It's a staple!" And no one is going to convince her otherwise. Note: Never gets her name spelled right, so she has taken to telling them at her name is "Bear". That always gets spelled right and she gets comments on how "cool her name is". Beryl might be considering changing her name to "Bear".

#scrooge 2022 #netflix scrooge #scrooge a christmas carol #ebenezer scrooge #scrooge #fanfiction #modern day scrooge #modern au scrooge #starbucks scrooge #scrooge ocs #a christmas carol ocs #bess scrooge