#joining the coffee discourse

[nepenthe-of-the-nutcracker]

Since they don't regularly drink coffee in Clonmel, It's possible Halt didn't even really know what it was until he met Pritchard

[eobe]

Now the unforseen art and self reflexion colossus ramble… 🦋✨ deep talk mode unlocked🦉

The lesson of the artwork in a room

In my art I love to focus on making the soul of a beeing, a concept or an idea not only visible but palpable. It‘s one of my strongest beliefs and my personal experience, that showing the glistening soul and pure essence of something can be that powerful and inspiring, so the beholder gets energy and courage to face their shadows, heal and grow with the own personal topics in their individual time 🕯️

Some may now think I‘m just the butterfly chasing lil girl in the sunlight I am though 🤩🦋 but constantly working myself through the given shadows of life carry me at my state of development to the thinking, that the duality of our world is a question of the personal decisions we come to in every moment of our lives – no matter how big or small they are ☺️☕️

So I mostly – if able – I choose positive thinking even if I don’t feel like in those moments and I think this is called mind hygiene (is that valid English?). And it’s also a big part to allow myself, that this is not possible in every moment and in that case, that it’s okay. Really okay. We’re human in here. No robots with malfunctions to get tinkered until we work again.

The trick for me is just to look at (even too) heavy things the same way like on to an artwork. Firstly, recognize: You always have a choice. You don’t have to react on the most incidents in the very same second! Fast and people pleasing or out of heated emotion reactions aren’t wise but unconsciously taught as neccessary, often as trauma response. Even during an emergency it makes no real difference if you rest and breathe just for some seconds to avoid panic or mistakes, so no excuses except you’re the automation type and a break would disturb the flow or tell me honestly if you think otherwise I’ll never stop learning ☺️

So if it’s not an emergency but everyday challenges, for me it’s just like this with heavy things or art: Taking myself the time I need (as soon as possible in an appropriate moment) to sort things more with my heart and stomach, not only with the ever gear wheeling head of mine ☺️ My brain might be big or is it small and just feels big who can say and often it really hurts, but I‘m aware that it‘s too small for this world. I‘m under no obligation to understand everything. In here – just a little human making a difference by mere existence and leaving footsteps whether I hustle or not.

But why even look at art or heavy things? Why not getting rid the fastest way? Why does it tend to linger and getting rid of often just doesn’t work properly or for good? Here is the connection: Heavy things and art have in common, that they’re imprinting and this is none about choice. Not really. How to deal with that, sounds too much, doesn’t it? So give the art way a chance to solve that.

In my experience art is something, where you can take a break from looking at, but not forever as long as it’s in your room. It influences the atmosphere and it will draw you in, slowly or rapidly, if you like or not – there will be the breaking point where you won’t be able to avoid looking at anymore.

Do I really want to hide from it until it gets me or do I face it and how? Hard confrontation is what the most of us had to learn, but there is the art way: I decide to look at it to my own conditions, preparing myself with breathing, posture checking and providing myself with a mug of caf or choc ☕️ 

And this is just one of the many lessons of art for us: Take yourself time to sort things out, but do it before it gets you from behind, taking the decision from you and catching you unarmed. It‘s okay to take a break but recognize that completely looking away is nearly impossible and the trial to avoid it is getting more and more hurtful. So I recommend to choose the break consciously and then look at it secure and with a cozy distance if you need it ☕️🫶🏼 but look at it.

So knowing that there’ll be always heavy things thrown at me by life itself, with the art way it‘s my mere choice how I want to feel most of the time of my life: Heavy or light? Problem stressing or a chance to grow?

In my opinion that‘s not even the whole question by the way: I love to ask for the colors and shadings between, because the beauty of life experience isn’t always bright. I love the light breaking through shadows and mists more than the solely display of light or dark. I love scars, I love imperfect blossoms, I love leaves falling down and sprouts growing out of concrete. This is the beauty of duality and how I manage to grow in this world. I don’t avoid. How could I? Behind fright it is inspiring. This is art.

At the end and under the line, all I see is the potential to grow steadily and inevitable into the own pure essence 😎✨

So if you really read this through I say thank you so much 😄 Please feel free to roast me like a coffee bean for rudimentary English (no jokes, if you see something, tell me, I’d appreciate every chance to improve 🤩) and I’d really love to join the discourse with your own thoughts if you like ☕️

[amelee23]

Waiting for the rain to fall | Lmh

 Synopsys: Minho takes a vacation to the rural area to escape his nightmares. Instead, he finds drought and desolation in the fields and begins to question why he feels so condemned; what exactly his soul searches for.

Genre: Reunited past life lovers, Romance, Angst, Fluff, Supernatural

Pairing: Lee Minho x female reader

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Minho-centric in the beginning but the romance appears I swear, reader is perhaps not a human, mentioned character death (in past lives), there's comfort to the angst, discourse on divinity and Gods, happy ending (?), reader has female pronouns, one natural disaster

A/N: Written completely based off the picture above. Before the video even came out.

Please reblog and comment! 

“Wake up.

It’s raining.”

A soft female voice spoke these words to Minho, in a dream, somewhere far away in the hidden parts of his mind, and yet so close to his first waking moments; it was almost as if feather-like lips briefly grazed his ears as he stirred awake.

As the morning light greeted his tired eyes, he realized that he was spared from nightmares the past night. This familiar, kind voice was somewhat comforting, although he couldn’t tell who it belonged to - a figure of his imagination, a distant memory, repeated words of romance movies? Still, the fact that he wasn’t troubled by disturbing images in his sleep brought him a sense of peace, and so he was able to have a calm start to his day. Vintage style, he boiled water in a kettle and mixed it with coffee and sugar, stirring it generously to create delicious foam. As he ate his toast and drank his coffee, he stared into the looming nothingness of the fields.

He had returned to the farmhouse, a place he doesn’t frequently visit and yet it always calls to him. The house belonged to the elders of the family, but after deciding it was better for their health to move them to the city and closer to the rest of the family, they sold the house to the neighbours. Having grown up with said neighbours, Minho is allowed to visit whenever he likes, to use the spare room and relax in nature. 

That morning everyone else was already out in the field - he decided against joining them on the first day of his vacation. Truth be told, he was exhausted. The lack of sleep and stress ran him dry, and as much as he knows working the fields will bring his soul some healing, he wants to take it slow in the beginning. So, he grabbed one of the books he packed, stepped outside into the hot sun and sat on the porch. It was just him, Jules Verne, and the dry cracked earth around the house.

The sea monster, the submarine and underwater adventures described by Jules Verne trapped Minho in a bubble, a bubble of air floating in and out of the water, in and out of existence. Before he knew it, despite the cup of coffee he had just drunk, he became drowsy and fell asleep.

“I don’t blame you for leaving me behind.” The voice said, gently, like a whisper, a song of the sirens harmonizing with the chaotic percussion of the waves hitting against each other. The water was flowing, and it was bubbling, and it was restless. Without any mercy, he was being strung along the waves, without any rock to hold on to, without any trace of another human in sight. It was raining, and it was cold, and it was violent. But more than anything, the water threatened to swallow him whole, drown him in a river of guilt.

He was guilty, is what he thought upon waking up. His hands were shaking and he was drenched in sweat, and a dull ache clawed at his heart, making him regret something unknown, making him long for something he cannot describe, making him search for answers to a question he didn’t know how to phrase. 

Since being alone didn’t do him any good, Minho decided to join his old neighbours on the fields. Driving down the beaten path stirred up clouds of dust in his wake, and Minho wondered how come the situation had become so dreadful. Exactly as imagined, he found his peers having a heated debate over the poor crop condition.  

“The irrigation system simply cannot keep up. Fertilizer doesn’t help, and even changing the seeds was useless. It’s been months since this drought… “

It was quite silly, he thought. Searching for an alternative solution to the obvious one was foolish and useless. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack, chasing after something that does not exist. The only thing that could possibly solve the drought is the rain. 

Minho was very disappointed in his vacation. There was little to no fieldwork to be done, and to add to that, his nightmares didn’t seem to ease up. When he felt the call to visit the farmhouse, he thought it was his intuition telling him he needed a break from the city, from work, from the bustling social life. He had thought that the cozy rural life, the fresh food and the return to simple things would heal him, but it wasn’t so. The next night Minho woke up with his throat burning, his nose aching, hands springing to hold his neck. He was suffocating, his whole being was clogged up, filled up with something very foreign and very confusing. 

In his anxious, frantic movement, there was a sudden jolt of the elbow which resulted in him tipping over his glass of water which was on the nightstand. He went to get out of bed to clean, but as his feet left the bed, they landed in the puddle of water. He cringed at the feeling. It was cold.  

Usually, harvest season was a very fulfilling time for Minho. Even though the crops weren’t his and he’d earn no money from helping, he always would. Something about the hard work, the physical labour, was very rewarding to him. Seeing the baskets of goodies before him and the look of joy in people’s eyes when they bought fresh ingredients from the market, it was all he needed. The air was fresher, the people were kinder, and although lady nature sometimes had something to say in the matter, it felt as if people were really getting fair rewards for all the hard work they did.

However, fair is not a word Minho would use while looking at the fields this year. They have been looking inside shallow holes for potatoes for hours now, and the results were disappointing to say the least. The potatoes were either really small or shrivelled up beyond belief, with not a lot left to salvage. The tomato harvest was also subpar, and the barrels were mostly devoid of grapes. 

Seeing the barrels lined up in front of the house with nothing inside them gave Minho an uneasy feeling. The fields were empty, the barrels were empty, there was this looming sense of absence, of loss, filling the air.  

The nightmares wouldn’t stop, either. He kept being carried by the currents, rolling down a river with no beginning and no end, with no control over his destiny. All of these water related dreams made him conflicted about the coming of rain; it was the one thing this town needed to be revived, and yet, after spending so many nights drowning, Minho was afraid the rain might be the end of him, the end of everything. 

Exhaustion began to make itself known on his body; he had deep circles under his eyes, his hands were shaking while holding his coffee; he became clumsy and grumpy. Yet, he refused to lay down and rest, he pleaded to be taken back into the fields, because the bed and his mind terrified him. He was starting to realise he was truly, terribly, unwell.

Despite his pleas, his neighbours refused to allow him to come along and told him to relax at the farmhouse for the day. It was exactly what Minho didn’t wish to happen, for the loneliness made reality be a little too real. When people were around he could pretend he was alright, he could pretend to belong, but in the deafening silence he could hear the water splash inside his skull. 

He had always been alone, even in the city. The escape from the urban to the rural was mostly an excuse, the search for silence was a ruse. He was running away from loneliness in a place where he wouldn’t feel guilty for being alone. And yet, as he looked out the window at the blazing sun and listened to the house settle and creak, he realized he didn’t wish to be alone. He wished for something other than dread to fill his heart, to complete him and take away from the burden of dealing with himself every day. A selfish request, maybe, but he desperately wished that someone would know him, that someone would let him know what exactly he’s lacking. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t be alone, perhaps he should stop running away from his issues. Those are the thoughts he had as he began to pack his luggage and fill in the trunk of his car. It was time he returned to the city to seek the help of a professional who would know how to deal with these dreadful nightmares. 

The owners of the farmhouse didn’t consider letting him drive alone was a good idea, but they couldn’t stop him. Minho had an almost scary look in his eyes, like a man on a mission. He was barreling on through another attempt at escapism.

He kept telling himself that things will work out. He will seek medical help, read some self development books and finally figure himself out. Nature couldn’t have helped him when his issues were so much more deep than he thought. 

Without any sort of prior warning, his car stopped moving. Exasperated, after checking the fuel gauge, Minho exited his car to inspect the wheels. He couldn’t see any flat tire with the naked eye, which most likely meant it was a very sudden engine issue. While he did open the hood of the car and looked inside, he wasn’t skilled enough to know what was wrong, if anything was wrong at all. Plopping himself back into the driver’s seat, he decided to call the farmhouse neighbour, since he had some mechanical knowledge. Thankfully, there was service, and Minho was informed it would take a while before he could be aided. 

With a long, deep sigh, he lowered his head onto the steering wheel and closed his eyes.Things weren’t meant to work in his favour, maybe. Perhaps he was being punished for something he did in a past life, something he was unaware of. Whatever god he might have pissed off, he was ready to beg and to repent, to plead sweet mercy for his soul. 

“Please.” He whispered softly to himself, to no one in particular. Life was being really, really tough and unfair to him, and he could feel himself tethering on the edge. 

A certain booming sound attracted Minho’s attention, and he lifted his head up in a hurry. Looking through the windshield, he observed something which left his mouth agape.

The sky was dark. 

Grey, almost black.

He rushed out of the car and slammed the door behind him, taking a few brave steps in front of the car. Through the branches of the trees he could see that darkness loom over; that darkness brought to Minho a new sense of hope. As he stood, mouth half open and eyes glued to the sky above, the first splat or rain landed on his face. Then another, then another.

He was done running. Minho opened his arms to welcome the rain, to let her drown him if that’s what she wished. The cold droplets trickling down his neck send rejuvenating shocks throughout his body. He took one long breath and realized he could finally breathe.  

Every pit and every pat of rain hitting his leather jacket was like a whisper, a little secret he was being told, of divinity, of the beyond…

He could barely keep his eyes open with the intensity of the rain. He was completely drenched but he didn’t mind, the cold was completely bearable, the water was familiar and comforting. Extending one arm forward, to catch some drops in his palm, to hold the hand of rain, he noticed a faint glowing silhouette form in front of him. It was an outline almost of mist, a living creature, pale and shining like the water surface of the Arctic. 

The silhouette began to shape into a woman with human traits, her ghostly appearance being contrasted by the kind and warm smile she wore. Carefully arranged into her hair was a slim, silver crown which draped one single blue crystal on her forehead. The ethereal crystal told Minho she was the rain, the Goddess herself.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; in fact, she was the only beautiful woman in the world. 

She reached for Minho’s outstretched hand, and when they touched he shivered - that shiver shook his heart to such a degree that he felt like he finally awoke. He felt he finally understood something.

“My love…” He said to her, and the glistening droplets on her face were not rain drops, they were tears. “My wife.” He stepped close to her, grasping her other hand. All the love he had been storing in his body suddenly burst out, and although he couldn’t fully understand how he knew she was his lover, he was certain of it.

“My darling heart…” She spoke to him, softly, sweetly, with that voice that has been watching over him for so many months.

“Please, help me understand. I’ve been searching for you my whole life, I’ve been missing you until I fell to pieces… Please.” He pleaded, urgency in his voice. As if he was fragile, he dropped his hands and held his head, slowly dragging his forehead towards her. The moment he made contact with the crystal droplet, Minho’s memories came back.

He was born the son of a farmer of the village. He loved his parents, he was a good kid. When he grew older, he fell in love with the daughter of the shepherd. They were two simple people, they loved the smell of rain, the cold air of the morning, they danced and played in the rain, in between the apple trees and herd dogs. They got married, he took over his father’s land and she began to spin wool just like her mother. 

Disaster struck them at the end of summer; neverending rain would destroy their roofs, give people the shivers, drown and kill the crops. While they were trying to stay warm inside the house, speaking warmly to each other of better futures, of beautiful future children, the river overflowed and the entire village was swept in merciless waves. 

There was screaming, there was crying, and there was water. Water destroyed their houses, water killed their livestock, water drowned everyone below. 

There was a boat, one singular one built in a haste by the carpenters. It was supposed to carry them all to safety, but she refused to leave. On what appeared to be crumbling remains of a house, a child and an infant were crying for their mother, who wasn’t there with them anymore. Minho’s wife rushed for the children, and Minho fought with the current to help them cross over towards the boat. By the time she had reached the children and cradled them to her body, Minho was knocked unconscious by a wine barrel flowing down the stream. She screamed for him, screamed for the rest of the villagers, but no one listened to her anguished voice.

The villagers managed to fish Minho’s unconscious body out of the water, and he awoke hours later, screaming and crying after his lost wife. He punched the village chief in the face and almost got thrown out of the boat; next town over they were rescued and given clothes and food, but he remained on the dock, staring into the horizon, waiting. He waited for years, and yet she never came back to him. At old age, he died, alone.

Minho woke up from his memories, the rain engulfing him in a warm hug. As drops turned into a warm summer downfall, he began to understand the deepest secrets of his life.

“Did you die?” He asked, and she shook her head with a smile.

“The Gods saved me. They turned me into the Rain Goddess, to protect the lands from disaster.”

“And I got reincarnated because I left you, right? I should have been there to save you…” Minho held her pale face in his hands, his guilt and torment finally finding themselves a reason. She once more shook her head.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He apologized sincerely, his wet eyes looking directly into hers. Those eyes were just as mesmerizing as he remembered them. Her body was no longer human, no longer warm, there was no heart beating in her chest. And yet, she was breathtaking, his one and only choice in every lifetime.

“Don’t apologize, my love.” She said playfully, letting a drop fall from her fingertip to his nose. He scrunched up his nose at the gesture, and for the first time in a lifetime, Minho smiled. 

“Shall we?” He asked, wrapping his arm against her fluid, watery waist and guiding her hand in a dancing position. She beamed at him, and they began to spin, in a dance that spun ripples around their feet, a dance that made raindrops bounce off their bodies. A giggle tumbling off her lips was enough to heal Minho through all of his ailments, to bring him all the answers he was looking for. 

Nothing was confusing anymore. All the answers had set into his mind, and he knew there was only one possible path for him to take.

He reached forward to kiss her lips, and was met with the most crystal clear taste of water he’s ever felt; the most pure and refreshing heart he’s ever held in his hands, the most nourishing love in the world. She was the water keeping him alive.

“I should go now, it has rained enough.” Although it was clearly visible she didn’t want to separate from her long lost lover, she had duties he could never understand as a human. The relationship between man and his deity has always been a little complicated.

“Don’t go.” 

“I have to.” She said with an awkward smile.

“Take me with you.” At such a response, she laughed and shook her head. 

“I’ll see you next time it rains, my dear.” 

Just a few seconds of thinking it over made Minho understand that could never be enough for him. Minutes of rain could never soothe his drought. He needed more than a kiss, more than a dance, he needed to breathe, he needed to love.

“No.” He replied bluntly. “I’m not afraid of the beyond anymore. I’ve been there before. There is nothing for me here. There isn’t, there won’t, just like there wasn’t ever anything important to me besides you-”

“My darling heart, please-”

“I’m not afraid to drown. Please, take me with you. Take me home.”

“I love you, my darling heart. We’ll meet again soon.” With that, she disappeared and nothing remained but raindrops. Soon, those too went away and the sky cleared up, not even leaving behind a trail of mist. There was nothing for him to grasp onto anymore, no hand to hold,

Minho fell to his knees and began to sob. His soul has been waiting, yearning, longing for her for decades, if not hundreds of years. There was no point to existence if their hearts don’t interweave again.

The rumbling of another car in the distance brought to his attention that his neighbor had found him. He wiped off his tears and pretended to be fine, dazed out of his mind, his heart a glass shattering over and over again. 

He didn’t go back to the farmhouse. Instead, he drove forward on the highway as if there was nothing behind him to ever find again. He didn’t have a reason for heading home, but he did so anyway. The sky was clear and so his mind was clouded. 

By the time he arrived in his hometown, it was night; the streetlights were the only things standing tall on the street besides Minho. Before he could even realize, a raindrop fell onto his shoulder, feeling almost as if he was tapped. He turned around in a haste and was greeted by his Goddess, smiling at him through the raindrops. The sky was clouded, so his mind was clear.

“I’ll never truly be away from you again, my darling heart.” She giggled, stealing a quick kiss from his smiling lips. “Shall we?” She mocked, grabbing him and spinning him into a dance in the middle of the street. “I’ve found a way for us to be together.”

The Gods had agreed to gift her a lake of her own, in which she could live and materialize herself whenever her powers weren't needed. This was fantastic news for Minho, who wasted no time in buying himself the cabin attached to that lake. In the intimacy of the forest, of the lake, of the mosquitos and the woodpeckers, Minho would sit by the water and stargaze with his lover every night. 

They would fantasize about future lives together, about being stars in the same constellation, about the kind of house they’d love to own together. Their kisses were watery, their dreams were impossible, but their bond was unbreakable. If one looked at them from a distance, where their silhouettes would blend in with the horizon, one wouldn’t be able to tell one was temporal and one was atemporal. 

It was almost a normal love story, but the relationship between man and his deity has always been a little complicated.

©amelee23 do not copy, translate or repost

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[revasserium]

death before decaf

opla!zoro; 10,414 words; coffee shop/college!au, vague enemies to lovers, fencer!zoro, sports medicine!major reader, slightly ooc zoro (he's a bit more talkative), fluff and flirting, bff!robin, zoro makes the first move, zoro calling reader "princess", mutual pining, both reader and zoro are dumbasses, making out in locker rooms

summary: sanji and nami bet on how long it'll take you and zoro to finally crack over your caffeine-related discourse; or -- that one coffee!shop zoro au that literally no one asked for.

a/n: i keep on saying "this is the longest fic i've written to date" but this really is the longest fic i've written to date. and no, this will not be the only time zoro calls reader "princess" in one of my fics. trust.

one.

“How long did you say?”

“Two weeks, max.”

“Nah… you think?”

“Probably closer to a week. Week and a half.”

Sanji stubs out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe before tossing the smoking nub into the bin, casting Nami a disbelieving look.

“They’ve been going on like this for like three months… and you think they’re gonna crack in the next week and a half? Nah, fam — I call bullshit.”

Nami shrugs, smirking, “Your funeral.”

Sanji scoffs as Nami pushes through the swinging double doors into the main body of the cafe, hitching a smile onto her face as she greets the customers already lined up in front of the counter.

“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters to himself, dusting his hands off on his apron before pushing in after her, putting on his best customer-service smile.

“Mornin’ folks! Welcome to the Straw Hats Cafe, where the coffee’s hot but the people are hotter — what can I get started for you, sweetheart?” he grins as he shoots you a wink and you flash him your best Colgate smile.

“Can I get a decaf latte with —”

“Oat milk, two pumps of caramel, and whipped cream on top? Oh — and a sprinkle of cinnamon cause you can’t have a fall latte without cinnamon, right?” Sanji finishes for you.

You nod, your cheeks flushed a bright, wind-kissed pink from the cold outside.

Behind you, a green-haired boy in a tight-fitting tee and no jacket scoffs under his breath, shaking his head.

“Yep! You know me so well,” you say, giggling and making a point to speak just a bit louder.

“Course I do, darlin’. It’s what I get paid for,” Sanji jots down your order and pushes it to the side where Nami’s already halfway done with making your drink.

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite mosshead jock — lemme guess, double espresso, no sugar, no nothin’, right?” Sanji punches in the order just as Zoro makes his way up to the counter, his eyes narrowed.

“Yeah.”

Sanji grins, hiking an eyebrow, “Talkative as always, I see. Alright — that’d be —”

Zoro wordlessly slides a full punch card onto the counter and Sanji pauses.

“Ah — pardon me, I do believe that’s your free drink! You sure you wanna use it on an espresso? Maybe… you wanna try one of our seasonal specials? The maple spice latte’s one of our best —”

Zoro scoffs again, “I’m good. I like my coffee real, thanks.”

Down passed the pastries, you roll your eyes, making an exaggerated face as Nami hands you your drink with a grin.

“Y’know, if you guys just made out I feel like it would fix a lot of this unresolved tension,” she says, even as you nearly choke on your drink.

You’re still coughing when Zoro joins you by the finished drinks counter.

“I’d rather lose an eye than make out with someone who drinks decaf.”

Nami sighs, shooting you a meaningful look as she slides the double espresso toward Zoro.

You wipe your lips with a napkin before leveling him with a glare.

“Well I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than make out with someone who never grew out of his middle school emo-phase.”

“At least I don’t try to use sugar to fill the gaping hole in your life where a real personality should be.”

“At least I don’t make that gaping hole my entire personality.”

“Princess.”

“Edgelord.”

You turn resolutely away from Zoro and smile back at Nami and Sanji, both stealing glances at the pair of you even as they continue to handle the Monday morning rush.

“Thank you guys — I’m gonna be late for class.

Zoro tsks, taking a sip of his espresso.

“I’m gonna be late for practice.”

You huff, pivoting away from him towards the door, purposefully letting it swing shut behind you; Zoro swears as it almost makes him spill his coffee.

Back in the coffee shop, Sanji finishes another order just as Nami washes off her hands to take over at the cashier.

“One and a half weeks?” Sanji asks as he rolls up his sleeves and grabs a few metal cups for steamed milk.

“Yep,” Nami replies, shooting another look out the glass door where they can both still see your’s and Zoro’s silhouettes as you head towards the university campus, “Just about.”

“Alright then, you’re on.”

Nami’s smirk only grows, “Like I said — your funeral.”

two.

You’re fuming all the way to your first morning class — Bio-Organic Chemistry — that you don’t notice your friend Robin until she’s standing right next to you.

“Are you mad at your fencer-boy again?”

You roll your eyes, huffing out a breath, “He’s not my fencer-boy, and no. I’m not mad.”

Robin grins, “Your tone says different.”

You cast her a reproachful look, “I just… bumped into him at the coffee shop again.”

“Ah,” Robin says, her voice saturated with understanding.

You groan, “He just… pisses me off so much! Like, why’s he care how much sugar I put in my drinks or if I drink decaf? He’s just a muscle-head loser who thinks drinking espresso shots makes him somehow more manly or something. Ugh.”

Robin’s grin is amused when you turn to chance her a glance.

“Then… why do you care how he takes his coffee?” Her question is light, but you’ve known her for long enough to know when she’s teasing.

“I didn’t! At least… not until he made fun of my drink first. I mean, who does that anymore? We’re in college! Like, grow up!”

“Mm,” Robin hums, schooling her expression into one of careful consideration and marked compassion, “and of course, you’re just engaging in his… childish antics because he started it first, right?”

You sigh, cupping your very sugary latte between your palms as you both duck into the main lecture building, teaming with students shedding scarves and jackets, shaking off the late autumn chill.

“I know, I know it’s stupid but… he just… pisses me off so much!”

Robin chuckles, her smile distinctly sphinx-like as you press your lips into a pout.

“Well, we can talk about it after morning lecture, hm?”

You sigh and nod, waving her off as she heads down the hallway towards her Ancient Worlds class and you head upstairs for the sciences.

You spend the whole lecture in a mood and by the time you’re excused, your temples have started to throb.

But true to her word, you find Robin waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, a thick leather-bound book clutched to her chest. You give her a questioning look.

“Just some light reading,” she says. You roll your eyes.

“Just say you’re a gigantic nerd and go.”

At this Robin laughs, falling into step next to you as you both start to make your way towards the dining commons.

“Have I ever denied that I was?”

You let out a noncommittal grunt.

Luckily, the commons isn‘t as crowded as it usually is and you both quickly find a seat.

“So,” Robin says as she slides into the seat next to you, propping up her chin on the heel of her hand. There’s a low, lilting tone to her voice that tells you there’s no getting out of it this time.

You sigh again, pursing your lips, staring down at your açaí bowl.

“So what?”

“Tell me about him.”

You scoff, “Not really much to tell — he’s… one of the fencers on the national team. So obviously, he’s got his own head shoved so far up his ass he can probably watch his own lunch dige—“

“So he’s quite good at fencing then.” Robin keeps her voice neutral, taking a contemplative bite of a banana.

“I guess — I mean we’re the top feeder school for the Olympic team, aren’t we?” You jab your spoon into the yogurt, nearly splattering Robin’s new book. She gently tucks it into her bag and motions for you to continue.

“I dunno, there’s not much to tell after that… he’s an arrogant jock who judges people by how they take their coffee,” and at this, you shove a large spoonful of yogurt and açaí into your mouth, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Doesn’t your practical applications class look after the fencing team?”

Again, you grunt, sinking a bit further into your seat at the thought.

“Yeah, I’ve been dreading that all morning, and the class isn’t till Wednesday.”

Robin’s smile is almost too academic as she carefully finishes her banana and gets started on an egg salad sandwich.

“It can’t be that bad, can it?”

You sniff, swallowing another huge mouthful of yogurt.

“It can,” you say, grimacing, “You should see the number of times I’ve had to hold back from dislocating his shoulder on purpose.”

Robin laughs her tinkling, all-knowing laugh, “Every day, I wake up glad to be on your whitelist.”

Your lips twitch into a reluctant grin.

“I’d be nicer too if I were as tall and pretty as you are. But since I’m not one of god’s strongest soldiers, I’ve gotta find other ways of defending myself, y’know?”

“I’m not sure what you do can be called ‘self-defense’ in a court of law but…” she smiles, “You shouldn’t sell yourself short either.”

You cast her a deadpan look, “But I am short. It’s like where 90% of my rage and spite come from.”

Robin grins, “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You make a rather childish face, but a comfortable warmth spreads from the center of your chest out towards all your extremities at Robin’s words. She cocks her head and continues.

“Plus… I’ve a creeping suspicion that your fencer-boy would agree that you’re prettier than you think.”

You freeze mid-swallow on your last spoonful of yogurt, eyes wide.

“Wait — what?”

Robin sighs, looking at you as if studying a particularly interesting monolith carved with all her favorite dead languages. You sit back, crossing your arms, feeling raw beneath her inquisitive gaze.

“You can’t still think that this little… feud you two have is purely based on a difference in coffee preference, can you?”

You realize you’re chewing on your bottom lip and force yourself to stop.

“I — I don’t know how it can be anything else though…” but even to your own ears, you sound distinctly unconvinced. Robin cocks her head.

“Think about it — when we were all little kids and running around on playground, which girls would get their pigtails pulled the most?”

Your frown deepens, “But we’re not kids anymore and this isn’t a play —“

“Yes, I know. Just humor me for a moment.”

You squirm in your seat, your heart thudding erratically in your rib cage, making you feel strangely breathless.

“It was… always the girls that the boys had a crush on,” you answer, your voice growing smaller with each word as the realization seeps into your skin like sunlight. And suddenly, it's too hot. The thought that Zoro might be doing this because he likes you isn’t something that’s crossed your mind. Or rather, it isn’t a thought you’d allowed to cross your mind.

“You know, boys aren’t technically considered ‘men’ until they’re in their mid-thirties,” Robin says, conversational and satisfied to have driven the point home to you. She leans back even as you reach up to press your face into the palms of your hands.

“But…” you try to grasp for some thread of logic that might be able to refute Robin’s claim but come up empty. She’s always been too smart for her own good. And yours.

When you finally lift your head again, it’s to find Robin still watching you, an oddly indulgent smile on her lips.

“C’mon,” she says, gathering her things, “don’t want you to be late for your next lecture.”

She has the audacity to wink as you hurriedly grab your stuff as well.

“Shut up,” you say, bumping her lightly with your elbow as you walk passed her, cheeks darkening with every step. Your next lecture, you both know, is the Nutrition of Sports — which is one of the few actual classes that you and Zoro actually share.

“Have fun in class!” Robin calls as you split ways outside the dining commons. You consider flipping her off but decide against it and opt to stick out your tongue at her instead.

Robin shakes her head, laughing quietly to herself. Really, she thinks, this is just starting to get interesting.

three.

You walk into Nutrition of Sports fully prepared to see Zoro slouched in his usual seat at the back of the class — except, he’s not there. You blink; he’s always been there, always early despite what others might assume of his punctuality. And yet.

“Lookin’ for me, Princess?”

You jump as you hear Zoro’s voice behind you, dangerously close to your ear. Jerking around, you find him smirking, arms crossed as he stares at you.

“N-no.”

“Tch.” He saunters into the room, his arm barely grazing yours as he drops into his seat, leaning back with a sort of damnable, feline grace, doing nothing to hide a huge, lethargic yawn. When he makes a show of stretching his arms over his head, you pause as you notice the way he winces, favoring his left side over his right.

You narrow your eyes.

“You’d be a shit poker player,” he says, grinning as he turns his eyes back towards you, catching you staring before you flush a deep purple and stomp towards your own seat, just one row ahead of him.

You noisily start setting up your supplies — an endless parade of jelly pens and perfectly coordinated sticky notes in aesthetically pleasing colors — pretending like you hadn’t heard him.

Thankfully, the professor hurries in soon after as the rest of the students file in.

Halfway through the lecture, you’re stifling the third yawn of the hour as you feel a small, crumpled something hit the back of your neck. You jerk around to find Zoro ducking behind his arms even as you spot the small wad of paper that he’d obviously just tossed at you.

You bend down to pick it up, only to find a note scribbled in slanted, uneven handwriting —

Sugar crash? Ha. Serves you right.

You nearly whip around but the professor clicks another slide and drones on. You huff, flipping the paper over to scribble on the back —

What happened to your arm?

You surreptitiously toss the note back to him and grin to yourself as you hear him sputtering behind you. The professor glances towards you. You flash him a winning smile as you continue to jot down notes; behind you, you hear the distinct sounds of Zoro scrambling to appear as if he’s paying attention.

The rest of the lecture goes by uninterrupted, though by the end, you swear that your hackles are raised from the way Zoro’s been staring at the back of your neck the entire time.

“What?” you ask, whipping around to face him.

Zoro, for his part, has the decency to look sheepish as he clears his throat and sighs, leaning back.

“There’s nothing wrong with my arm,” he says as he looks away, a slight darkness dusting the high of his cheeks. It’s not the first time you notice the bone-chiseled features of his face — like some gorgeous, careless god, rendered by the loving hands of a besotted Renaissance artist and preserved for the world to see — the way a constellation of freckles scatter across the bridge of his nose, the way his jaw is sharp enough to sting the imagination.

“Right. Fine. Sorry I asked.” You shove your notes and pens back into your bag, rolling your eyes as you shoulder your tote, “And… you’d be a shit poker player too.”

And with that, you turn and leave the room without a single backward glance.

You’re gone so quick that you don’t see the way Zoro stares after you, his own eyes narrowed into slits. You don’t see the way he frowns as one of his teammates nudges him with an elbow, reminding him that afternoon practice starts in 15 minutes.

four.

Tuesday night finds you slumped over a stack of books on the 3rd floor of the library, your entire body feeling odd and boneless. Hundreds of tiny flashcards are scattered across the top of the desk, each filled with a system you have to memorize before your test on Friday for your O-Chem course, when suddenly, a white paper cup appears in your field of vision, plopping onto the tiny slip of table still available between all your study materials.

“Hm?” you jerk up, blinking blearily up at a vaguely familiar green-haired figure even as he crosses his arms and sighs.

“There. Some real coffee. Looked like you need it,” Zoro says, glancing away the moment your eyes come into focus.

You stare at him for a solid ten seconds before looking back down at the cheap, watered-down cup of unsweetened coffee on the table before you.

Ew, you want to say, but somehow, “Thanks,” is what comes out of your mouth.

You reach for the cup, wincing slightly as you jerk your fingers back from the scalding exterior of the thin paper cup.

Zoro immediately leans down, snatching the cup from the table to blow on the surface. You watch him with wide, wondering eyes. It takes him a second to catch himself before he blushes a deep shade of maroon and clears his throat, quickly setting the cup back down on your desk, tucking both his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at you.

“It’s — careful — I mean — it’s from the vending machine downstairs so it’s not as fancy as the stuff we get from the coffee shop —”

Maybe it’s because you’re truly too tired, or maybe because Robin’s been right since day one but — you reach for the cup, carefully cradling it between your palms as you take a tentative sip and grimace at the watery, bitter aftertaste.

“Gross,” you say, though without any malice, glancing up at him. Zoro scoffs, dragging out an empty seat across from you, turning it around to straddle the chair, propping both his arms on the back as he looks at you. Your eyes once more catch on the way he’s gentler with his right side.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” you ask again, taking another tentative sip of the truly awful coffee.

Zoro grimaces, “None of your business.”

You sigh, the will to snark back rather feeble as you consider the mountain of vocab you have to memorize before your Friday test.

“Right, sure — keep your secrets,” you drone as you set the paper cup down and nudge it further away from you, “be mysterious for the next —” you check your watch, “eighteen hours before Practical Applications when you’ll have to explain to Coach Mihawk why you've been lying about an obvious injury three weeks before your next —”

“Fuck — okay.”

You pause, looking up from collecting your flash cards.

Zoro digs his fingers into his right shoulder.

“I — I think I pulled it at the tournament last week.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “Your tournament was on Thursday.”

Zoro shifts uncomfortably, “And?”

“And it’s now Tuesday.”

Zoro doesn’t answer this time, but you have to actively fight down the urge to throw the no-longer-scalding-but-still-very-hot-coffee at his face. You tell yourself that the only thing stopping you is professionalism and sportsmanship instead of an unwillingness to damage his Michaelangelo-sculpted features.

“It’s been five days!”

Zoro’s expression flatlines, “Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to count.”

You bite back a frustrated scream as you push away from your chair and round the table to stand behind him, not giving him enough time to be bewildered before you press a palm to his right shoulder, already focused on finding the tender spots.

“Tell me where it hurts.”

You run an expert palm over the width of his shoulders, focusing on his right, fingers digging into various muscle groups until he winces.

“Ow.”

You grin as you find a tender patch to the right of his spine, almost beneath his shoulder blade.

“You strained your Rhomboid.”

“Gesundheit.”

You roll your eyes and reach over his back for the cup of coffee. You feel his breath hitch as your front presses full against his back.

“Hold still,” you say, pressing the side of the warm cup to the sore muscle.

Zoro makes a choked moaning noise that he tries to bite off, but not soon enough. It sizzles down your spine to curl at the base of your belly, spreading heat through your body in a way you have no urge to examine at this current point in time.

You hold it there for a minute, and then two, till the coffee’s gone lukewarm.

“Here,” you say, tugging the cup away to offer it to him.

He stares at the cup before glancing up at you.

“Caffeine helps with muscle soreness and pain — it’s probably why you’re so addicted to espresso all the time,” you offer by way of an explanation, even as he opens his mouth to ask. He closes his mouth and takes the coffee, downing half of it in a single gulp.

Then, he sets it down on the table before digging a crumpled packet of sugar out of his pants pocket.

“It’s… probably not as sweet as you usually like it but…” he presses it into the palm of your hand, looking anywhere but at your face, “should help the bitterness.”

And then he’s gone, slouching off towards the elevator bank, leaving you gaping after him with the packet of sugar in your hand, your rapidly cooling coffee, and a mountain of revisions you’ve got no hope of finishing tonight.

five.

Wednesday finds you practically sprinting as you reach your Practical Applications course, clutching at your chest as you burst through the gym doors, gasping for breath. Professor Kureha quirks an inquiring eyebrow at you while Mihawk, the fencing instructor, slates you a sharp, rueful glare.

“— as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” his bright hawk-yellow eyes flash back over the fencing team, “regionals are quickly approaching and we need you in top form. So — warm-ups stretches, everyone. Pair up and get to it. Zoro, up here with me.”

You duck your head and hurry towards your normal spot along the bleachers, slowing as you notice what looks like a cup of coffee from the Straw Hats Cafe occupying the place where you normally sit. You pick up the cup — it’s still hot to the touch.

On the coffee slip is a single word — Princess.

And though it’s in Sanji’s familiar coffee shop scrawl, only one person has ever called you that.

Heat crests up your chest, prickling at your cheeks. You don’t have to taste it to know that it’s your order — your favorite order. Briefly, you wonder if Sanji made Zoro recite the entire thing before agreeing to put it down, or if he’d spared Zoro the pain of having to say the word ‘decaf’ unironically.

And then you wonder if Nami teased him at all, waiting for his own drink on top of yours.

“Chop chop,” Professor Kureha says, grinning too wide as she wanders over, peering at you over her John Lennon shades, “you heard old Hawk-eyes — time to pair up.”

You hurriedly drop your bag and take a quick sip of our drink, letting out a soft groan of appreciation as the caramel-cinnamon goodness seeps into your blood vessels. Some nameless freshman hopeful from the fencing team is your partner for stretches and you patiently walk him through all the major motions, pushing on his back and laughing kindly when he can’t quite reach his toes.

You feel the faint tingle on the back of your neck that tells you someone’s staring, and you privately think that you don’t need three guesses to figure out who it is. But you don’t give Zoro the satisfaction of looking over till you help the blushing freshman finish all his stretches, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, reaching up on tip-toe to ruffle his hair even though he’s got a solid four inches over you.

When finally, you glance over towards where Mihawk is putting Zoro through his paces, it’s to find him flickering through the motions — flashes of silver, lithe, fluid — and you find your breath held captive in your chest by the sight.

You’ve always known Zoro to be a graceful fencer, but grace has nothing on the way he flows from one move to the next, each muscle drawn like a bow-string, each intake of breath timed and perfect. His arms and legs move in tandem and there’s a bewitching rhythm to the way his body breaks and bends. It is beauty and strength, dance and magic — power and promise and the sword-tip’s whish of premonition.

When he finishes, you suck in a breath you hadn’t been aware you were holding.

You watch as Mihawk murmurs something to Zoro, who winces, looking chastened before Mihawk waves him away and Zoro sets down his epee, making his way over to you.

You open your mouth, about to make some snarky remark but Zoro reaches over his back with one hand and tugs his shirt off in a single, unbroken motion. You gulp, your voice failing you as your eyes settle on the strong ripple of his muscles as he tosses his shirt aside.

Zoro smirks, “Keep starin’ and I’m gonna have to start charging.”

You rip your eyes away, fire licking up the length of your torso as you reach into your bag for a roll of sports tape.

Zoro slumps down in the seat in front of you as you take stock of his sweat-slicked torso, your eyes still catching on the patch of swollen muscle beneath his shoulder blade. You reach forward and run a thumb along it, careful of the way he hisses.

“A hot-patch is only going to do so much,” you say, frowning as you drop the sports tape to focus on massaging the tender bit of skin.

Zoro groans, his eyes falling half shut as you slowly work at the various knots in his shoulders. Your fingers are slow and deliberate, applying just the right amount of pressure. And more than once, Zoro has to bite back what he’s sure would’ve been an indecent moan before it rolls out of his mouth at the way your soft palms press into the planes of his back, the tenseness of his shoulders.

“Keep moaning like that, I’m gonna have to start charging,” you say, much too close to his ear.

Zoro jerks, even as you pull back, laughing. The sound makes his skin prickle up with goosebumps and he doesn’t want to think about the myriad reasons why.

“I bought you coffee, twice,” he grumbles, cheeks pink, his mind still buzzing from the warmth of your palms.

You hum, your fingers flickering over his skin, pulling away for a second before he feels something wonderful and cool pressing against his sore, aching muscles.

“You’re right… you did buy me coffee twice. Even though the first time was horrible vending machine coffee and I used most of it as a heating pad for your injury.”

Zoro grunts, letting you manhandle him as you gently twist his right arm into an array of different stretches to test his range of mobility.

“Still counts.”

You put down his right arm to test his left. Zoro chooses not to think about the way his body tingles where your hands touch him, and especially not where you’re standing too close, your chest occasionally brushing against his shoulder. He chooses actively not to think about the way he can smell the soft, coconut milk fragrance of your lotion as you lean over him, rambling about doing the proper warm-up and cool-down exercises.

He grins as you reach over mid-sentence to finish your drink and you pause, watching him with narrowed eyes.

“What?”

He shrugs, “Nothin’… just that… seems like you liked your drink.”

Your eyes slingshot from his face to the nearly empty cup in your hands.

“I always like my —”

They widen when you realize that Zoro had in fact ordered a double shot of espresso in your usual drink instead of your normal decaf. And, that you’d been too distracted by him to notice.

“I — it — wh —”

Zoro languidly rises from his seat, grinning, “Thanks for the treatment, Princess. I owe you one — lemme buy you a coffee sometime, yeah?”

You stare after him as he makes his way across the room, back to the rest of the team for proper bouts. You force down another blush as you shove the now-empty coffee cup into the nearest trash can, your heart skidding to the rhythmic squeak of feet shuffling against the floors, the bell-like ting of epee blades, the murmur of the watching crowd.

six.

Thursday morning finds you ill-rested and grumpy as you join Robin in the quad, heading for the Straw Hats Cafe during free period.

“Trouble sleeping?” Robin asks, looking you over with mild concern.

You grunt, adjusting your bag, “Had coffee too late in the day.”

At this, Robin frowns, “But you only drink decaf.”

You grunt again, not looking at her, “Yeah, well.”

Robin blinks for a second before a knowing smile splits her lips, “Ah… so. Fencer-boy’s made his move.”

You round on her, fists clenched, “He has not! He just — he just bought me coffee!”

Robin remains infuriatingly unfazed as she stares at you, “Yes. And to most, that would constitute as ‘making a move’. And here I thought you were a fan of romance novels.”

You turn away from her, huffing even as your cheeks fill with color, “I — I am.”

“So?” she asks.

“So?” you echo, cursing yourself for sounding like a petulant child.

“So…” she continues, patient as always, “he bought you coffee.”

You crinkle your nose, your stomach a roiling mess as the pair of you make your way across the quad and duck into the cafe to Sanji’s bright, welcoming voice, your eyes scanning the queue even though you know that Zoro’s got morning practice. This does not go unnoticed by Robin, though she mercifully elects to not question you about it.

“Yes, he bought me coffee. But instead of decaf, he made it a double-shot.” You try very hard to make this sound like a personal affront, but Robin only dips her head.

“Ah,” she says again, and you feel the urge to run out of the building even as the pair of you shuffle towards the front of the line.

“Hi there, oh! I’ve got a special message for you,” Nami says as you get to the registers, her voice silken with glee as she reaches behind the counter to tug out what looks like a receipt. You glance down at the paper, confused, but she only winks as she moves to ask what Robin would like.

You inch to the side, distracted by this strange turn, your eyes dropping to the slip of paper, upon which is scribbled — Good luck on test tomorrow. Evening bout. Gym.

You stare at the cryptic message for a full minute before Robin ushers you toward the counter where Sanji is pumping out drinks, making girls blush as he winks at them each in turn.

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite Decaf Princess — though… seems like your tastes are a-changin’ these days,” Sanji says, grinning wide as you get to the counter, pushing a steaming cup towards you. You frown at the drink — cinnamon sprinkled atop a perfectly placed dollop of whipped cream, underneath which you’re sure is your favorite drink order. You look back up at Sanji.

“A certain mosshead jock put in an advanced order for you — said to give you an extra shot of espresso for the test you’ve got tomorrow.”

You sputter as Robin laughs beside you, thanking Sanji for her own Long Black.

“You know, you could just be normal and call it an Americano,” you say as the pair of you make your way out of the cafe. Robin grins, sipping at her drink.

“I could… but where’s the fun in that?” she slates you a glance, “More importantly, are you going?”

“To what?” you ask, not meaning to sound so defensive, but you can’t help it, and even as Robin sighs, you know that it’s useless.

“To the bout,” she says, unruffled.

You hunch into your upturned collar and your thick, layered scarf, cradling your drink, the sweet scent of syrup and cinnamon wafting up to tickle your nose. You blush at the thought of Zoro’s voice, full of morning gravel, shy as he lists out all the extremities you like in your coffee order.

“Maybe. I mean… why not, right?”

Robin nods, humming as she takes another long drink, “Mhm — why not indeed.”

You nudge her; she nudges you back. You both laugh as a church bell rings out from across the quad, sending a flock of birds scattering through the misty, morning air.

seven.

Friday evening finds you pushing through the wide gym doors, pressing your hands over the skirt you’d painstakingly picked out, chewing on your bottom lip.

You silently curse at Robin for pulling out last minute, begging off to some Ancient Languages focus group.

“I bet it’s not even real…” you mutter to yourself as you slip into the front row of the bleachers, looking for an empty seat. You somehow manage to look up just as Zoro is about to go on, his mask under one arm, his blade in the other.

You raise your hand in a half wave before catching yourself and shoving it back down, scowling as Zoro’s lips pull into a lopsided grin. You drop into a seat just as Zoro tugs his helmet on and stretches his arms. You tense as you see the slight wince he twitches away as he tests the weight of his blade.

But you needn’t have worried — the bout is quick and decisive, Zoro scoring one point after another, his blade flashing through the air, bright as fish scales. And before you know it, the buzzer sounds, marking his victory. You leap to your feet, cheering with the rest of the crowd as Zoro tugs off his mask and pumps his fists.

You catch his eye and for a moment, the wild rumble of the screaming crowd fades to a dull, thumping baseline. He jerks his head towards the lockers and you nod, swallowing hard as you duck through the still-cheering crowd towards the back of the gym.

When you get there, it’s to find him methodically polishing his blade, his mask set to the side, his thick jacket pulled down to pool around his waist, the rest of his protective wear scattered in heaps on the ground around him. You have half a mind to scold him for being so careless with what you know is expensive gear but you can’t keep yourself from staring at the wide planes of back, curving up to his shoulders, the thick cords of muscle that flex up either side of his neck.

He looks up as you shuffle in, your skirt suddenly feeling a bit too short, too risque for the near-winter weather outside.

You clear your throat and cast your eyes about the empty lockers. You don’t miss the way his gaze skates up your bare legs, pausing at the place where your skirt brushes the top of your thighs.

“Uhm — how’s your shoulder?” your voice sounds too high, echoing strangely along the white-tiled walls.

Zoro licks his lips and puts down his blade, rolling his right shoulder.

“Better but… still not great. Mihawk’s making me to do PT.”

You nod, letting out a soft laugh, “I’m glad. You’d never do it otherwise.”

He scoffs, “You know what that means though, right?” There’s a raw, rolling tension beneath his words, a sort of thickened expectation as he stares at you with dark, meaningful eyes.

You purse your lips, your stomach tightening.

“I —”

Zoro gets to his feet, and you barely register the soft clatter of his blade as it rolls to the side on the bench. He closes the space between you in three quick steps and you find yourself marveling at his speed — wondering vaguely if this is how all his opponents feel when he slips forward, the tip of his blade digging into their shoulder or stomach or the bend of their hip.

“Means we’re stuck with each other. At least till you fix me for regionals in two weeks.”

Your back meets the icy chill of the locker doors and the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them —

“Bold of you to assume that you’re fixable in two weeks.”

Zoro quirks an eyebrow, even as you resist the urge to clap your hands to your mouth, cursing inwardly at whatever the hell made you say that out loud. Your heart thuds an insistent drumbeat inside your chest as Zoro leans casually against the lockers next to you. Like this, you can feel the heat of his skin, the rhythm of his long breaths as he looks you over with sharp, curious eyes.

You think you can taste the sweet, tepid weight of his breath. It smells faintly of coffee and mint and synthetically flavored protein bars.

“Then…” he drawls, propping an arm against the locker door right next to your face, his eyes flickering from your lips up to your eyes and back down again. Your gaze is unabashedly caught on the shape of his mouth, but when you finally force yourself to look up at his eyes, it’s to find them warm and amused.

“How long do you think it’ll take?”

You gulp, “To fix your shoulder?”

Zoro shrugs, “That and… whatever else you think needs to be fixed.”

You purse your lips, an entire kaleidoscope of butterflies erupting in your stomach at his words.

“Who knows? Might take three weeks… might take — forever —” your words cut off as he leans in to graze his lips against yours. And you’re momentarily caught between delight and bewilderment that you’re right — they do taste of coffee and mint and salt — but that they also taste of a dull, throbbing hunger as he leans in to kiss you proper. And then, the blooming realization that you’re just as desperate as he is, pushing in, fingers scrabbling against the skin of his chest as his skim along the sides of your ribs, the dip of your waist.

He kisses you so deep and so long that you’re actually gasping when he finally pulls away to suck a stinging hickey into the smooth of your collarbone, his fingers digging grooves into your thighs as he hoists you up to press you against the cold, hard metal of the lockers.

You let out a clipped moan at the same time he does, and his right arm twitches, though he makes no move to let you go.

Distantly, your mind registers the fact that he’s still technically injured, but the part of you that’s hungry and clawing at the base of your stomach with a fierce, immutable need refuses to listen to reason. It takes more effort than it logically should’ve done to extricate yourself from his grasp, to push him away despite his disgruntled sigh as he stumbles back and stares at you with dark, dangerous eyes.

“What —”

“Fuck —” you hiss, even as you let your head fall back against the lockers, the dull thunk pulling a wolfish grin to his lips.

“Yeah, well —”

“Wait — no —”

Zoro cocks his head, “No?”

You reach forward to tug him back, to kiss him as deeply and desperately as you dare, but you pull away before he can properly sink into the kiss and you pin him with a look.

“We — your shoulder —”

“Fuck my shoulder —”

You shake your head, almost delusional with the heat and want and the insanity of it all, “No! We can’t! We — we’ve gotta take care of it first!”

Zoro rolls his eyes, “It’ll get better if we just leave it alone —”

You shake your head again, laughing as he presses back in, slower this time, grazing his knuckles along the skin of your jaw, tilting you back towards him.

“It won’t,” you say, softly, letting him run a thumb along your lips, “but… if you let me take care of it. It will heal faster…” you trail off, letting the implications simmer beneath the surface of all your unsaid words, and it only takes a second for Zoro to consider before he lowers you to the floor and starts haphazardly gathering up his things.

You drag a hand across your lips, watching him.

“So…” you feel yourself blush as you muster up the words but Zoro scoffs, already impatient as he shoves his stuff into one of the larger lockers and slams the door.

“Mine. It’s closer.”

eight.

His, is — in fact — much closer than you’d thought. Only two blocks from the campus, and in one of the most expensive dorm buildings. You wonder how much he must be paying for it before you realize that he's on a sports scholarship, but you can’t even bring yourself to be bitter as he lets you into his spacious dorm, the giant living room scattered with game consoles and opened cereal boxes, leading to a short hallway that opens into his bedroom.

It’s cleaner than you’d imagined, with a set of light green linens drawn neatly over a full-sized bed, and two sets of pillows.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says, sweeping some energy bar wrappers into the trash from his desk as he tosses down his duffle bag.

You shake your head, looking around, your eyes catching on the thick volumes of fencing books, the endless stacks of sports magazines, the huge set of free weights on a rack in the corner by the closet.

“Uh… do you want a drink?” he asks, suddenly awkward as he scratches at the back of his head.

You turn towards him with a grin, “No. But I do want you to take off your shirt.”

Zoro blinks before he smiles and moves towards the bed, tugging off his shirt and tossing it to the side. You fight the urge to roll your eyes as he leans back on the bed, his perfectly tanned stomach flexing beneath the slanted desk-light as he watches you through lazily hooded eyes.

“On your stomach,” you say, your voice light and surgical as you open your own bag and tug out a tub of medicated massage cream.

Zoro stares for a second before the smile slips off his face to be replaced by a dull, knowing scowl. Still, he doesn’t argue as he flips onto his stomach and sighs, pillowing his cheek on his arms as he pouts at the wall.

“Like I told you — we need to take care of your shoulder first. Regionals are in two weeks. We can’t have you performing like you did tonight.”

Zoro attempts a glare over his shoulder as you carefully maneuver over his back and straddle his hips, warming your palms with the massage cream before setting to work.

“I still won.”

His voice is tight and petulant. You nod, sighing as you work your thumbs into the dip beneath his shoulder blade where you know he’s still sore. He hisses, jerking away from you. You pin him in place with your free arm and continue to roll your thumb across the bundle of muscle.

Two minutes in, you press a bit harder and he lets out a pitched whine that makes you pause in your ministrations.

“F-fuck —” he buries his face in his pillow, thumping a fist against his bed as you laugh and continue the massage, though taking care to be a bit more careful around his injury.

Nearly twenty minutes later, you climb off the bed and wipe your hands. Zoro groans, shifting to watch you with half-lidded eyes and color-stained cheeks.

“I know,” you say, holding up your hands, “that really hurt but you feel much better now, right?”

Zoro grins, sleepy as he blinks slowly up at you, “Yeah. Whatever.”

And then, a long moment later —

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, flipping onto his side and shifting on the bed as if to make room for you, “stay.”

You freeze, almost unwilling to believe your own ears as you finish putting away your supplies. You glance at him with tight lips and hopeful eyes.

There’s a tiny grin threatening the corners of his lips as he sighs, making a show of yawning and stretching.

“It’s late… and I don’t really feel like walking you back.”

You fold your arms, “I could just call campus security to escort me.”

Zoro stills for a second but a moment later, he casts his eyes up at the ceiling, “Yeah… you could…”

You make no move to leave.

“But you still owe me coffee in the morning,” he says.

You frown, “Wait, what? How’s that?”

He glances at you, “I’ve bought you coffee twice.”

“Yeah, but I just gave you a free 30-minute medical massage treatment for your shoulder.”

“You would’ve had to do it anyway on Wednesday in Practical Applications.”

You narrow your eyes, “Professor Kureha might not have assigned me to you.”

At this, Zoro scoffs, “Yeah right. You’re the best, and so am I.”

“S-she might not have!” you say, though there’s no real conviction in your voice. You both know that he’s right.

“Yeah. Whatever.” He turns away from you, making as if to go to sleep.

You glare at his back, dropping your bag with a loud thump.

“If anything, you owe me coffee now. That massage was worth at least two coffees, if not more.” You plop down on the edge of his bed, scowling at the opposite wall.

Zoro is quiet for a beat too long and you chance a glance at him, only to find him peering you with a strangely indulgent look in his eyes. You blush, tearing your eyes away.

“How’s breakfast?” he asks, his voice once again going soft. Your skin prickles with heat.

“What about breakfast?”

“Coffee and breakfast. That enough to pay for the massage?”

You can’t help the smile that threatens to break across your lips as you glance back at him and catch his eyes.

“I…. guess.”

Zoro chuckles, the sound so low in his throat that it makes you shiver. Quick as anything, he reaches over to pull you down towards him, easily looping an arm around your middle and flipping you both so that you’re pinned beneath him. You barely have time to gasp before you find his lips on yours once more, slow and sweet and shockingly steady.

You kiss him back, letting him push you gently into the crumpled linens of his bed. His fingers are light as he slowly works your skirt down your legs, reaching behind your torso to loosen your bra and tug your shirt from you in a single, smooth motion.

You shiver beneath him and he pulls back to stare. You search his eyes, feeling suddenly uncertain.

“God, you’re gorgeous…”

Heat crests into your cheeks as you try to look away. But he tugs you back with his thumb and steals another kiss.

“It’s late…” he says, pulling away to press your foreheads.

You nod, chewing on your bottom lip. “Yeah, I know…”

“Let’s sleep in tomorrow.”

You laugh, shifting as he curls his body around you, tugging you easily against his chest and pulling the covers over you both. A moment later, the lights click off and you’re both thrown into darkness. You let yourself relax into his arms, wondering just how you’re going to explain this to Robin tomorrow.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Zoro’s voice murmurs into the nape of your neck.

You grin, nodding as you press further back into him and he grazes a soft kiss along your skin.

“That kinda thinking needs breakfast and coffee first,” you say, to which Zoro chuckles, nodding as he lets you hook your ankles between his, your bodies settling against each other, warm and perfect, the curves and bends meeting like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally, finally finding each other at last.

You don’t have long enough to ponder on the light, musk-salt-sweet of his skin or the way you can feel his heartbeat as it threads along your spine or the way that somehow, the shape of him doesn’t feel foreign against the shape of you, before you’re already falling asleep. And to him, he doesn’t have time to ponder the lovely silk of your hair, just as soft as he’d always imagined, or the way your waist feels perfect beneath his hands, or how he’s somehow he’s always known the rhythm of your breaths before he too is falling into the warm embrace of a dark, sweet, restful sleep as well.

nine.

Saturday morning finds you both tangled in each other, the winter sun bright and cold as it slates through the slits of Zoro’s bedroom window. He wakes up first, shifting to stretch until he feels the weight of you beside him. And then suddenly, he's somehow achingly awake and aware of his body against yours, of your paced breaths and his own rapidly increasing heartbeat. For one bewildering moment, he can’t quite remember what brought him here, and then the scenes from the night before — the bout, the lockers, the kiss — the way you’d tasted, how utterly irresistible you’d been, blushing in the dim light of his room, your skillful fingers digging into his tender, swollen flesh — his own rash promise of breakfast and coffee — it all comes rushing back. Zoro lets out a long breath and leans in to brush his lips along your forehead.

You let out a light groan as you shift in his arms, and when you turn, it’s to find him watching you.

“Oh… hey.”

Your voice is quiet, almost shy as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, and he finds himself more endeared than he has words to say.

He clears his throat.

“Morning. Uh… sleep well?”

You laugh, the warmth of your expelled breath ghosting across his clavicle in a way that makes him shiver.

“Mhm… pretty well… and you?”

Zoro clears his throat, “Yeah. Guess it wasn’t… bad.”

He resists the urge to roll away, if only because your cheek is still pillowed on his arm, and he can’t bring himself to pull away from you just yet. So instead, he drops his nose into your hair and takes in the milky scent of your coconut lotion. Tiny, pin-pricks of desire shoot through him, teasing goosebumps into the skin of his back and arms, but he forces himself to lie still as you snuggle against his chest with a contented sigh.

“So… breakfast and coffee?”

Zoro grunts, “Hn. I did promise.”

You smile, letting yourself sink into the thick and syrup of his sleep-deepened voice, his moss-green hair even more tousled than it normally is as he adjusts his head on his pillow.

“Hey,” you say, breathless as you look up at him beneath the sweep of your lashes, your eyes so big and dark and wide Zoro wonders if they might swallow him whole.

“Hey,” he answers, just as breathless, uncertainty creeping up the center of his chest as he stares down at you, lying in the glistening, mercurial light, the bend of your shoulder kissed by the morning sun, the shape of you limned in silver and gold.

You lean up to kiss him before he has the chance to second-guess himself, and though he was the more bold, self-assured one last night, you press in against him this morning, the languid sweep of your tongue along his lips making him groan, helpless, against you. He tastes the satisfied grin at the corner of your mouth as he opens his own, his mind frizzing into gorgeous, white static as you spend what feels like hours exploring the sweet depths of each other's mouths — all tongue and teeth and kiss-swollen lips.

When finally you pull apart, he is more breathless than he’d planned for, his body too warm for his liking, an urgent, pulsing something burning at the base of his stomach as he fights the urge to shove you back and sink his teeth into your skin, to hear you hiss, to make you gasp, to leave the indent of his fingers along the soft flesh of your hips and thighs, to mark you as his in every way he knows how.

But instead, he places a lingering kiss on your cheek and sits up, slowly stretching his arms.

“Careful…” you warn, pushing yourself up as well, watching him, “how’s it feel?”

Zoro tests his right side, drawing his arm up and then to the side, and then pulling it across his torso.

“Whoa… so much better.”

You smile, satisfied.

Zoro chuckles, “Guess I really do owe you breakfast. C’mon.”

He slips out of bed, tugging open a drawer to toss you a thick sweater and a pair of sweatpants. For himself, he only tugs on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, even as you frown, squinting at him from where you’re nearly swimming in his clothes.

“You’ll freeze.”

Zoro smirks as he looks you over, reaching over to pull the hood over your mussed tangle of hair, “Nah, I’m fine.”

You pout, jerking open the drawer to pull out a sweater and tossing it at him.

“You have to keep your right side warm so your muscles don’t just seize up again.”

Zoro stares at the sweater in his hand, looking reluctant before you press your lips into an exaggerated pout.

“C’mon… I worked so hard on getting it better last night… please?”

Zoro groans, rolling his eyes as he tugs on the sweater.

“Yeah, yeah — fine. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he extend his hand. But the pair of you walk elbow to elbow, hip against hip down the bright dorm room hallway, into the chilly Saturday morning air.

“Geez, if you’re gonna yell at me to keep warm —” Zoro reaches over to tug on the drawstrings of your sweater, frowning as he notices how much skin he can still see beneath the opening of the hoodie.

You blush, tugging at it as the pair of you make your way across the empty campus quad.

Halfway across the frost-kissed lawn, he wordlessly reaches out to catch your hand in his, tucking your entwined fingers into the depths of his pocket. You bite back a stupid, dopey grin as you duck your head, quickening your pace to keep up, your footsteps crunching in the dew-bitten grass, the freshly raked gravel.

ten.

There’s already a decent line at the Straw Hats Cafe, but when the pair of you walk in hand in hand, both Sanji and Nami pause for a second longer than usual. Sanji’s eyebrows jerk up his forehead while Nami’s lips curl into a much too satisfied grin as she turns back to the humming espresso machines.

You savor in the smell of freshly ground coffee, absently tracing your thumb over the back of Zoro’s hand.

When you both reach the front, Sanji looks between you expectantly.

“Well, well, well — I’d like to say I’m surprised but —” he shrugs, grinning cheekily, “Well then I’d be lying, wouldn’t I?”

Zoro clicks his tongue but you shoot him a sheepish smile, pursing your lips.

“So… the usual then?” Sanji asks, his fingers poised over the register.

“Yep,” Zoro says, curt as ever, though there’s a distinct blush on his cheeks that not even he can write off as anything else.

You nod as well, “Oh, but… I think I’ll try a non-decaf latte this time. Just one shot of espresso though, please and thank you.”

Sanji blinks at you for a second before letting out a startled laugh and nodding, punching in your order.

“Coming right up, sweet cheeks. Right then, that’d be 8.75 for the latte and 5.50 for the double espresso.”

Zoro reaches into his wallet and pulls out a 20, slipping it across the counter. Down the bar, Nami is humming, looking cheerier than you’ve ever seen her this early in the morning as she goes about making your drinks.

Sanji sighs as he shakes his head, handing Zoro his change.

Zoro narrows his eyes but Sanji cuts him off.

“Take it from me, fam. You don’t wanna know.”

You and Zoro share a puzzled look as you both shuffle down to the pick-up counter, where Nami is sliding your finished drinks toward you with a bright, knowing glint to her eyes. Zoro clears his throat and reaches over for a packet of sugar, nonchalantly tipping it into his drink before picking it up to take a sip.

You try not to gape as you grab your own drink, flashing Nami a quick smile before turning to follow Zoro.

He picks a table as far away from the counter as possible, tucked into a corner, nearly invisible to the rest of the shop. When you sit down, he frowns at your chair for a second before reaching out to tug you across the floor till your chair is next to his. He goes back to his drink without a single word.

It’s all you can do to blush and stare at your steaming cup.

“I thought we were getting coffee and breakfast,” you say after a brief moment of silence.

Zoro grunts, “We are. Coffee first.”

You nod, somewhat mollified as you take another sip of your drink. The warmth trickles down your chest to rest somewhere in the center of your stomach, spreading heat throughout your body in waves.

“We could just get a chocolate croissant,” you say, giving Zoro a sidelong look.

Zoro frowns, tapping his finger against the side of his cup, “Dessert isn’t breakfast.”

You scoff, “Says who?”

Zoro’s expression flatlines, “Says me. And I’m payin’ for it.”

You purse your lips, wondering if you should argue more before deciding against it. A few seconds later, Zoro sighs, casting his eyes about the cafe interior.

“We can have a croissant after real breakfast.”

You giggle into your drink, swallowing down the glee fluttering in your stomach, threatening to spill out of your still kiss-chapped lips.

“Kay, whatever you say.”

Zoro rolls his eyes and folds his arms, but his elbow presses against yours and he doesn’t make to move away.

Across the cafe, Nami leans to watch the pair of you, Sanji at her side, looking both stunned and somewhat pained.

“C’mon man, it’s not even been a week!”

Nami grins, rinsing out a few cups and placing them mouth down to dry before pivoting on her heels and holding out an expectant palm. Sanji sighs as Nami’s eyes glitter with mirth and a hard-won glee.

“Right. I think you owe me fifty bucks.”

Sanji narrows his eyes, glancing back at where you and Zoro are tucked into the corner of the cafe.

“Double or nothing on when they’ll have their first fight. I say… not till next week.”

Nami’s eyebrows twitch up. She looks back at where the pair of you are now bickering over where to have breakfast. A smirk teases at her lips.

She puts down her hand, “Alright then… but like I said — it’s your funeral, Sanji.”

Over in the corner, there’s the dull scrape of chair legs as you push yourself away from the table to fold your arms.

“— Belgian waffles are absolutely an acceptable meal for breakfast!”

Zoro rolls his eyes, though there’s still an amused spark behind his eyes.

“Breakfast without eggs ain’t real breakfast. And doesn’t count if it’s smothered in syrup either.”

You make an indignant noise, frowning even as Zoro tugs you back to press a napkin to your upper lip, where there’s a faint line of whipped cream residue.

Sanji backpedals immediately, “Uh — right so, I feel like we need to define what really constitutes a ‘fight’, yeah?”

Nami tuts, shaking her head, “Nope! A bet’s a bet. Now pay up.”

feedback always welcome :) reqs are closed.

[cosmickid-inmotion]

Please, Mr. Miller?

Header by and the fic dedicated to @sweetlummie . Thank you for supporting this series

Dividers by @anitalenia

DBF!Joel x Reader

Join my taglist : Masterlist

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First installment is Yes, Mr. Miller? but all parts can be found on my masterlist <3

Summery: Getting ready for the labor day cookout, you reminisce on Labor day last year when things with Joel began. Ft. your dad surprises you

Warnings: Virginity loss, dirty talk, PIV sex, age gap (legal, reader is over 21 so stfu y'all), size kink, bleeding from sex (I know theres been discourse over the whole bleeding your first time, but I bled soooo. It's a normal thing to happen, don't be embarrassed.) Joel is a bit of a pain slut what can I say, reader scratching Joel enough to make him bleed,

Immersivity: Reader is fem, afab, dresses v hyperfem and cutsie, reader is shorter than Joel and coded that Joel is larger, can carry you.

A/N: My last instalment for this series, the dbf holiday fucks series as I call it, caused a whole hoopla. I didn't do memorial day nor forth of july as planned. I wasn't even going to do any more but then I thought of everyone who supported me and of course my dear Lum, and decided to write one more installment. This will wrap up the series with a happy end for our dear horny bastards <3

Everything needed to be perfect. Joel was coming over for the yearly labor day cookout your dad did to celebrate the end of the summer, and oh what a summer it was!! Joel had made this time after gradating college special, spending time taking you out of town so you could both not worry about getting caught. You even had another threesome with him and Tommy, a time that was extra special now that you belonged to Joel officially.

This wouldn't be your anniversary technically. Labor Day always falls on Monday, but your anniversary was the same date of course. You spent the "anniversary" of the first time Joel and you had sex getting fucked into oblivion at Joel's house. Today was still special, because you and him would always remember Labor Day for this.

As you apply your simple make-up, pink eyeshadow and pink blush and pink lipstick to match the dress you brought over to your dads, you think back on that day.

You had been giving Joel 'fuck me' eyes for months. Ever since him and your dad became friends the last year or so, you can't deny how much you wanted him. The barrier, however, was obvious. He was your dads best friend, and then there was the fact you were a virgin.

Still, your record wasn't exactly lily white. You'd fucked around a bit here and there with boys and girls but that was the problem. They were all just like you, inexperienced. Most were boring, most only focused on what they wanted. You need a grown ass man to teach you, to guide you, to make you cum the way your vibrator could.

Joel was that man. So, you spent months sending signals...

Signals that ended up with you pushed up against your bedroom door that fateful Monday while your dad fell asleep on the couch, his body crowding you with his breath hot against your face.

"You think you are awfully cute, don't you little lady?"

You can't help smile at that. Yes, yes you do think you're cute, thank you.

"You just think you can prance around here in these little skirts and lowcut tops and get me hard like a fucking teenager not have any consiquences?"

Despite his words and harsh tone, when Joel's hand went to your hip his grip was light, letting you know you weren't being trapped.

You look up at him. "I know what I'm about, Mr. Miller."

A small smile appears on his face, and he grind his hips against your stomach, making you feel him growing erection. "You feel what you do to me?" He waits until you nod. "I think it's only right you help me take care of it, don't you? Or do I have to fuck my fist in the shower thinking of your face again?"

"No, Mr. Miller, I think I should help you, but... you have to help me with something..." You trail off, uncertain how he'll take the news.

"And what is that?"

"I'm a virgin..."

With this piece of information, Joel's face softens and he gives you a little more space. He seems like a new person, resting his head on your forehead and you see him cringing a bit.

"Shit darl'n, "m sorry. I was come'n in strong for no fucking reasons"

But you don't want him to feel bad for assuming you weren't a virgin, most people aren't by your age... "No, no don't be sorry! I... I liked it." Joel opens his eyes to look at you, your faces so close together. "i like you being dominate."

That smile again... that damn smile and you knew you were in trouble.

"You want this? You can say no, any time..."

"I do. I really fucking do."

With that, Joel kissed you... and oh what a kiss it was. Joel devoured you like this betrayal of his friendship was sending him to death row and you were his request for a last meal. He kissed you like he was willing to sacrifice it all just for your lips, that committing this sin was worth it just to be the first between your legs. He kissed you like you were his already. Joel never stopped kissing you like that, not even a year into the affair.

He took his time with you, just like you knew he would. This, this is why you trusted Joel Miller with this part of yourself. Your vibrator was at your apartment, but Joel made you cum on his lips, humping the mattress with his arms locked around your shaking legs. Then, he opened you up on his fingers, the thick digits easily maneuvering in and out of your drenched pussy before curling them up and dragging another orgasm out of you.

When Joel finally lined himself up between your legs, your pretty dress still on and the skirt flared out at the bed sheets, he tucked his face to your neck, kissing and nipping softly to not leave and marks. "Are you sure you want this, darl'n? We can stop. I promise."

But you didn't want to stop. No part of you wanted to stop.

You grab at his ass, your done up nails gripping his asscheeks. Your body felt on fire, burning for him and only for him. You knew this could never be a one time things, even before he deflowered you, you were his to keep, his to play with. "Please, Mr. Miller?" You begin to beg for him. "I need your cock, please, please, please? I need it so badly, it's all I want, I need you, only you!"

Joel groaned at the honorific, head dropping down at he began to slid into your tight hole, splitting you open. "Shiiiiiiit baby... s'fucking good... so fucking good."

Your grip on his ass tightened as the pain of being stretched peaked, nails digging in and scrapping him, making him bleed for you as you did for him.

When he's fully seated inside you, Joel plants a little kiss on your lips, humming a little in the back of his throat. "My sweet girl... saved herself just for me, huh?"

"Yes" You lie a little. For the bit. "Wanted you to be my first, Mr. Miller."

He groans, slowly pulling out almost all the way. "Love it when you call me that." then, he thrusts himself completely into you, pounding your pussy as the gentle uh, uh, uh's begin to fill the room in time the the pleasure he brings you.

"Shhhhh princess," Joel's nose nuzzles your cheek. "Gotta be quiet, remember? Can't have your daddy finding out you let his friend deflower his little girl, hm?"

You whimper at that, the secrecy, the naughty air adding to the sin happening in your old bedroom as he thrust again and again and again until you're unable to keep quiet anymore. The pleasure is too great, too strong as your orgasm approaches and he knows it. Gentle hand a contrast the the way he cock is rearranging your insides with pound ferver, Joel cups your face and puts his thumb to your lip.

No hesitation, you open your mouth and as soon as his thumb slides inside you lock your lips around him.

"Good girl... good- fuck- good fucking girl... just needed someth'n to keep your mouth busy, huh? Something to suck on? Yeah, I know baby, I know, it's a lot isn't it? It hurts a little, huh?" Joel looks down, watching the way his cock disappears into you, watching how it comes out covered in slick. He likes looking at you writhe under him, struggling to take it all... "Awwww big stretch.... That's it baby, suck on my thumb... harder, want yuh to practice for my cock, because i ain't done with yuh after tonight. You know that, don't you? You're mine, pretty girl. I'm your daddy now."

He can feel you tightening, your cunt beginning to pulse the same it did around his fingers.

"Bite down on my thumb when you cum baby, make it hurt."

You do as you're told, biting down to prevent from screaming as you cum on his cock, waves of pleasure rushing your body like the crash of the ocean on a rock. Not holding bad, you bit him to the bone and watch as his head rolls back as he cums, reveling in the pain as he floods your cunt with his spend. Again and again he fucks his cum inside your pussy, feeling it begin to leak out and down your ass crack before his softening cock finally still inside you.

There is a moment when Joel body falls on your, covering you with a blanket of just him pressed on your dress, that you think he's just going to get up and walk out. Maybe he's wake your dad up to say goodbye and then just not speak to you again now that he got what he wanted...

But he doesn't. Joel kisses you, saying he'll be right back before getting his pants on again and going to the bathroom. He returned to clean you up, calming your embarrassment when you see the blood on the sheets, and holding you until you fell asleep.

That was one year ago.

Today, you skip down the stairs at your dads,m pink dress fluttering around your knees, and hope happily outside to where you dad was grilling. A few people had trickled in, but were talking across the yard.

"Hi dad!" You start surveying the party goers, looking out over the yard. You don't see Joel yet, but Tommy is in the pool already which means Joel is probably stuck carrying in whatever they brought.

"Hi honey!" He greets you warmly. "That a new dress?"

You give a twirl. "Sure is!"

"Looks real nice, I always liked pink on you. I think Joel will like it too."

Your blood runs cold and you freeze. You don't even have it in you to act natural or confused, you just stare at him in shock. You wonder if he's about to start yelling, although that was rarely in his nature.

"I..."

Your dad smiles at you, adding cheese to a few burgers. "Relax, honey, it's fine. I saw your car at Joel's house back in May. Yuh ain't slick." He gives you a wink.

"Oh...." You say dumbly, unsure what else to say. "Are you... mad?"

"I was a little when I first saw it... but mostly because you guys didn't tell me. Then I thought about it and realized you guys were probably nervous. I figured as long as he's treat'n you right, I'm fine." He cocks an eyebrow. "And he's treating you right, ain't he? Just cause he's my friend don't mean I'm choosing his side."

Tears of relief well up in your eyes. "Yeah daddy, he does. He treats me real good."

"TOMMY!" Joel shouts walking up the driveway, carrying several bags and a cooler. "You couldn't help?!"

You and your dad laugh, and when you sniffle he leaves his grill to give you a hug. "Good. I'm glad. I just want you to be happy, and Joel's a good guy. I'm just glad it's not Tommy."

You laugh again at that, and once he's satisfied you're happy, he goes to putting the burgers on a plate.

"So... is it serious? I don't wanna be in your business, just wondering."

You watch Joel set up the snacks and beer he was specifically told not to bring, but because of who Joel is as a person he brought them anyway. He and Tommy help a kid out of the pool, and when Joel looks up he sees you staring at him from over the deck.

He grins at you and waves. You wave back. "Yeah dad. It's very serious."

You run down the steps to tell him you dont have to sneak around anymore.

If you want more joel with fem reader since this series is done and I'm largly leaving pedro characrters, check out @sweetlummie 's work! lots of v fem cute reader, including great plus size!!

Thank you all for your love on this series!!!! the first part went over 1k notes which is huge for me!!!!

I love you all dearly.

althought im not writng pedro characters as much if you are an enjoyer of my writing, check out my tag list! i got rid of it for a while but am bringing it back

thank you!!!

@fandxmslxt69 @runa-falls @k-ra @ahookedheroespureheart @mikaelak @littlenosoul @stevenandmarcslove @pikapuff-316 @del-ightfulling @faretheeoscar @harriedandharassed @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @campingwiththecharmings @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @milly-louise @casa-boiardi @joeldjarin @mrs-oharaxx @pedge-page @readingiskeepingmegoing @survivingandenduring

[emberdragon34]

HotGuy AU logos!

I got incredibly nerdy and excited about my HotGuy AU - Shooting Stars Don’t Shine They Burn - and designed logos for almost all the major things that would have logos within the universe.

Descriptions of what the logos are for below!

Hermit Herald - the largest newspaper in Hermicropolis. Run and edited by many people, but most famously Cleo Zombie (for her scaldingly revealing articles, podcast, and friendship with TV personality Scott Major)

ChatterBox - A chat show hosted by Scott Major, where each week a celebrity, is interviewed live with questions submitted by viewers (‘Chatters’) watching, and filtered by Scott alone.

Bamboozlers - A florist/tiny garden centre run by Scar GoodTimes, and siblings Lizzie Shadow and Jimmy Solidarity, selling all kinds of gardening supplies, and occasionally gardening advice.

HCPD - Hermicropolis Police Department. The police, fighting desperately against the rapid growth of organised crime, and perhaps hiding their own dark secrets. Known for some particularly large cases (The Seraphim File). Particular police officers include Grian Xelqua (Former detective inspector, now a receptionist, and manager of the connected HCPO - Hermicropolis Permit Office), Scar Goodtimes (Part-time officer, joined after being found innocent for a particular case, a particularly good shot), Skizzle Mann (Well-respected police sheriff, found Scar innocent, doesn’t talk about his past), Martyn Littlewood (has more knowledge that he says on the local crime network, mostly handles minor cases of property issues), Jimmy Solidarity (Former officer, worked with Martyn, wanted to be become sheriff before switching careers. Still goes to the HCPD’s parties)

CyberSpace: Joe Hill’s rather eclectic games shop, selling electronic games, both modern and vintage, TCGs, TTRPGS, board games, pinball machines, and even some second-hand LARP equipment. Right above Stargazer’s Cafe, with a shared entrance, making both a hub of card game competitions and gaming clubs. A particular supporter of Beef Vintage’s ‘Local Celebrities’ Hermicropolis TCG, and Tango Tek’s growing collection of video games - the Decked Out series, and Hungry Hermits.

Beyond The Veil - Cleo Zombie’s weekly podcast diving incredibly deep into theories about The Nether - Hermicropolis’s crime network, and the identities of anonymous celebrities and groups. Most famously, her episode questioning what really happened to the crime group known as ‘The NHO’, and her discussions of HotGuy’s activities, and what he’s hiding.

Stargazer’s Cafe - a coffee shop and bakery, run by Cubfan Ursus, best friend and roommate of Scar Goodtimes. Selling mostly cakes, pies, cinnamon buns and occasionally Scar’s cookies. He also hosts events for CyberSpace upstairs, as well as birthday parties, and keeps an old red and blue macaw called ‘Captain Jack’ at the till to greet customers and sometimes performs trips.cIt’s often where Cleo Zombie will work on researching and scripting her podcast.

The Hub/the Nether Hub. A private social media platform for Hermicropolis’s crime network. Where criminal organisations share threats and gloat about their crimes, sell black market goods, strike deals, make and break alliances, discuss police activity and organise events or meetups. There’s a gentleman’s rule that everything on The Hub stays on the Hub, and everyone keeps theirs and everyone else’s real identity a secret. However, the Hub, and the Nether itself, has gained huge notoriety among regular citizens. Several criminals and groups are even considered celebrities, people discuss and engage in drama, there’s even an active Nether fandom of perfectly normal people enraptured by the true crime they get to witness and discuss in real time. Even the HCPD know of the Hub and does nothing about it - Officer Martyn Littlewood even has a Hub account and engages heavily in Nether discourse.

SymNet - Hermicropolis’s largest social media, run by Trudy ‘False’ Symmetria. Home of all the gossip of celebrities and Hermicropolis society, and main centre of the HotGuy discourse.

HotGuy - anonymous superhero, almost 5 years as a crime-fighting vigilante. Known for working alone, being a huge flirt and attention seeker, but also an incredibly benevolent and selfless hero, and for his incredible shot with a bow and arrow. Only 1 person has been told his true identity as Scar Goodtimes - Scar’s housemate, best friend, medic and weapons engineer Cubfan Ursus. He gives all donations and funds from merch to charity, and into fixing damage caused by fights he’s part of, and has caught several large criminals and groups from The Nether.

Ayyy congrats on reaching the end, the first chapter of the AU fanfiction will be written and posted very soon.

[theragethatisdesire]

Ideas!

Bff Eren #10

Because there’s gotta be more Eren/Jean discourse before Jean comes to terms with the fact that he’s not getting his ex back. Eren being a smug ass mother fcker about it, too.

OR

Roommate Jean (well, poly boyfriend Jean). “You look pretty like that” prompt.

Maybe reader is handcuffed to a chair or in a bed? She’s an absolute mess because she’s dying to be touched and neither of her boyfriends will indulge her. They’re not sure if they even want to considering how pretty she looks all desperate and restrained. They’ll stroke themselves so close to her mouth, let her think she’ll get a taste. She stains her neck in hopes of getting a lick but they stay ever so slightly out of reach. 🤷🏻‍♀️

If I keep writing, I’m gonna end up sending a damn drabble to your ask box. 🤣

HIIIII kjt<333 omg.....this is like...such a difficult choice. honest to god i may pocket your first idea for something.....longer than a drabble ;) so i'm gonna go with the second one bc i am OBSESSED with poly erejean like genuinely. obsessed. might have a part 2 coming for them too solely bc i love them<3

throwing all nsfw under the cut like always

"Not too tight, is it, baby?" Jean tugs the ropes digging into your skin into what has to be the final knot after nearly twenty minutes of positioning, repositioning, and admittedly, a rope burn around your ankle.

"Mm-mmm," you try to assure him around the gag in your mouth, shaking your head no. Jean smiles, places a laughably chaste kiss on your forehead.

"Such a good girl for us, aren't you? He's going to love it."

The ropes were Jean's idea; ever since he'd joined your relationship with Eren, almost everything was Jean's idea, having come so far from the timid, reluctant lover you'd made of him a few months ago. These days, Jean's nearly bouncing out of bed in the morning with a new idea to bring to the bedroom, and neither you nor Eren have the wherewithal to complain about it.

Eren's had a rough few weeks at work, and over coffee this morning, Jean had talked you into a "surprise" for your mutual boyfriend. This surprise had involved a trip to a sex shop, a hardware store, and an hour-long Youtube tutorial on knot-tying, but you'd figured it out together, and it's paid off.

Jean's got your arms above your head, secured to either side of the headboard, and your legs spread wide enough to incite a slight ache in your hips, ankles tied to your thighs and putting your already-dripping cunt on display. A black lace gag is holding your voice back behind your teeth, and the collar Eren and Jean had surprised you with last weekend jingles around your neck when you wiggle experimentally, testing the bonds that Jean's wrapped you up in.

"Can't get out, can you?"

"Mm-mm," you affirm, tugging on the ropes at your wrists to prove your point. Jean grins again, wicked and dark.

"Eren's not the only one getting a surprise today," he muses, knocking around in the nightstand drawer on your side of his bed.

What he pulls out makes your eyes widen.

"I didn't tell you, but I left a little pocket riiight..." Jean trails off, working the vibrator under a little slip in the rope, "here."

He angles it perfectly against your clit, not yet turning it on, but watching your reaction lecherously. You're already running hot with your movements restrained, already starting to feel the hum of lust buzzing through your body.

Before Jean can make another move, you meet eyes meaningfully at the sound of the front door opening, Eren's voice calling out into the empty apartment.

"You guys home?"

"Be right back, don't move." Jean snickers at his own joke, leaving you there bare and unattended.

Unable to move, your other senses hone in on every little bit of stimulus around you. The muffled sounds of conversation between Eren and Jean outside; you can hear Eren's disgruntled grumble, Jean's soothing timbre, but not what they're saying. The annoying, understimulating nudge of the vibrator against your center. The texture of the lace gag against your tongue, the way it's making you drool ever so slightly. And then the door clicks open.

"Fuck..." Eren trails off, eyes going wide. If you look close enough, you can see the front of his pants already beginning to tent. You're not sure what to do, so on display; you can't smile through the gag, can't even move in greeting, really. Jean's turned you into their little fuckdoll in the most literal sense of the word. Jean smirks proudly.

"Isn't she so-"

"So pretty," Eren breathes out, rounding the bed to caress your cheek, brush a thumb over your nipple, "you look so pretty like this, baby."

Jean comes behind Eren, wrapping muscled arms around his waist, palming slightly at the erection forming behind Eren's zipper. "She's all yours, we both are. Whatever you want tonight."

"Whatever I want, huh?" Eren's eyes darken. He turns his head over his shoulder to Jean, catching the other man's mouth in a slow, languid kiss. Watching them pulls a whimper from you, muffled by the gag, but insistent.

Jean breaks the kiss to frown down at you, reach over and flick the vibrator on, ripping a tinny whine out of your throat.

"Behave yourself, you're supposed to be his little surprise, remember?"

Eren smirks down at you through hooded eyes, lets one lazy hand drag soothingly up Jean's neck, lets the other come down to tweak your nipple roughly. "Let her act up a little. Can't punish her if she's not being a brat, right?"

[peachjagiya]

https://www.tumblr.com/peachjagiya/749386204889366528/im-feeling-real-tired-of-jk-hung-out-with-tae?source=share

What these people forget is that taekook used to hangout earlier as well, it was just that people used to either call those instances fake(eg snowboarding trip) or that tae was lying (eg the members and jk pic trip). When taekook hung out in solo era, it was during their own time. They made the choice to be with each other in their free time, not just going out but staying at each other's places as well(I am very sure that it was jk in those two lives 🤷‍♀️+makguksu)

Jimin was busy with his album but he still had time for hobi and yoongi but not his own personal boyfriend??? And did poor jk have no other friends that he had to hang out with tae out of sheer boredom? Jk and tae released their albums and singles as well right. How did they make time for each other? Tae literally recorded his guides at jk's house. He could've used hybe's studio like every other member. Jk himself said that they send their songs to each other first. In festa wasn't it jk who was playfully scolding jimin bcs he hadn't listened to any of jm's songs but hobi had?

I am definitely not saying that the entirety of jikook's decade long relationship is fanservice(that's one of the dumbest sht some tkkrs say). But saying that they were the only ones who had been joined at the hip till solo era is equally dumb. They are friends, but taekook are closer. You just don't start hanging out with your bandmate's close friends out of the blue(bcs your bf was busy with work🙄).

Jikkrs don't want to factor in wooga but they are a very important part of this discourse. Why is it that out of all the members only jk is seen with them? Wooshik only followed jk and tae. Jk went on a trip with them. They only supported jk's solo.

Taekook have always been close behind the scenes. It's just hard to accept for everyone else bcs they have become accustomed to seeing a set narrative, and they will believe in it bcs it suits their ship. Tkkrs have become eagle eyed bcs most of the time we have to look at the margins and background to find tae and jk together when jikook is out there giving hickeys.

Sorry if I rambled a lot...I am running on coffee and 2 hrs of sleep rn 🥲

Lots of good points here but I'm gonna comment on the Wooga element...

I find their relationship with JK to be one of my foundations for believing. I don't think JK is the sixth Wooga, for the record, and that strengthens the case for me even more. Because there is a tiny bit of a detachment, he's not at every single Wooga gathering, I feel like it debunks the idea that he's fully Wooga'd. I think he's there as an important person to Tae.

I said before, he's like the founder member of the Wooga Spouse Club.

(I can already feel someone being like "Are you saying they don't like JK?" or "This is so shady towards JK." NO I'M NOT and NO IT ISN'T. Please bear in mind my same sex wife's university friends invited both of us to all the bachelorette parties. I have been the JK many times and had a wonderful time 😂)

Thanks anonny!

[russellsppttemplates]

It is not a fine morning, is it?

The things is, and bear with, because I'm only halfway with my coffee: I understand that there can be signs that prompt the FIA to look at certain cars and not others (although the whole thing seems sketchy to me still), but wouldn't you have to do this regularly anyway? With this whole thing, a lot of people have written opinion articles (which I find weird because if they have rules and they state something, you can't bend them or interpret them to your opinion, or at least it shouldn't be a thing?, like, I don't think that's how that works, because if so, then we would all have opinions on rules and the FIA regulations allowed anything under the sun) where they state that there have been checks in previous races and it has been fine, even though, admittedly, this was a time they checked more cars.

I really don't want to join the whole discourse where the FIA targets certain teams or certain drivers just because, but, at this point, it's looking like it a little

Also, is it also safe to assume that Carlos' and George's cars had the same issue? Because of team setups vs driver setups? This opens another can of worms, too, so I feel like there's a lot to debunk here

Still, I hope you have a good week 🤍✨️

[galadriel-blue]

💙Introduction Post💙

…

Hey there!

Read below to get to know me:

You can call me Blue or Star! I’m nineteen, a girl, and a Christian!

I will probably talk or reblog stuff about my religion sometimes so keep that in mind if that makes you uncomfortable. I’m not the type to start unnecessary discourse if you believe something different than me, so anyone can follow me unless you are mean to me. I am non confrontational and I will just ignore or delete hate comments and block users who are rude. 🤷‍♀️

Things I love: The color blue, fandom theories and headcanons, videogames, animation, knights, making friends, music, my religion, listening to other people’s interests, coffee, and fanfiction/fanart!

I’m in a ton of fandoms so I’ll list them here! This will be added to all the time as I remember more and join more fandoms!

Fandom list:

✨Blue = Favorites at the moment!

The Rings of Power

The Lord of the Rings

The Hobbit

Trollhunters

FNAF (Mainly Security Breach!)

Star Wars/Clone Wars/Rebels

HTTYD

Inkheart (The book series and the movie)

…

I’m really just here to have a good time and talk into the void! I hope you enjoy my ramblings and posts!

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Guy Parsons :: @ParsonsGuy

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

October 24, 2023

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

OCT 25, 2023

Another of Trump’s lawyers has pleaded guilty to charges as part of a cooperation agreement with the Fulton County, Georgia, district attorney’s office. This morning, Jenna Ellis pleaded guilty to aiding and abetting false statements and writings as part of the plan to overturn the results of the 2020 presidential election. She is the fourth of the 19 people charged in the Georgia racketeering case to plead guilty.   

In late September, bail bondsman Scott Hall, who helped to breach voting equipment and data in Coffee County, Georgia, pleaded guilty; lawyers Sidney Powell and Kenneth Chesebro pleaded guilty last week. 

Ellis opposed Trump’s 2016 nomination but supported him after his election in frequent television appearances as a “constitutional law attorney” although she had not worked on election law. After Trump saw her on the Fox News Channel, Ellis became a “senior legal advisor” to Trump’s reelection campaign. 

After he lost, she was a very visible television spokesperson for the Big Lie that the election was stolen. On November 19, 2020, she joined Trump lawyers Rudy Giuliani and Sidney Powell at the headquarters of the Republican National Committee to insist that Democrats had rigged the voting in majority-Black cities and that communist forces in Venezuela had tampered with U.S. voting machines. She also peppered her social media feed with MAGA statements, mixing it up with anti-Trump figures, making her a more public figure than the other lawyers.

Nonetheless, Trump declined to cover her legal fees after her indictment as a co-defendant in the Georgia racketeering case, possibly because she had supported Florida governor Ron DeSantis’s presidential bid. While Ellis said she had stopped supporting the former president because of his “narcissistic” tendencies, she continued to echo Trump’s rhetoric. In September she raised more than $216,000 for her legal defense fund from crowdfunding, claiming she was fighting “a weaponized government and the criminalization of the practice of law.” 

Today, in a court of law rather than in front of the television cameras, she sounded quite different.

“As an attorney who is also a Christian, I take my responsibilities as a lawyer very seriously, and I endeavor to be a person of sound moral and ethical character in all of my dealings,” a tearful Ellis told the court. “I relied on others, including lawyers with many more years experience than I, to provide me with true and reliable information.” (Ellis worked closely with older Trump lawyer Giuliani; she will be 39 on November 1.) 

“If I knew then what I know now, I would have declined to represent Donald Trump in these post-election challenges,” Ellis said in court. “I look back on this whole experience with deep remorse. For those failures of mine, your honor, I have taken responsibility already before the Colorado bar, who censured me, and I now take responsibility before this court and apologize to the people of Georgia.”

Ellis’s plea agreement spelled out the statements she made that were lies. As legal analyst Joyce White Vance explained in Civil Discourse, this means the court has identified the specific lies that made up the Big Lie that the 2020 presidential election was stolen, and that Ellis will testify that they are lies. Those claims include the lie that there were 96,000 fraudulent mail-in ballots, that 2,506 felons voted illegally, that 66,248 underage people illegally registered to vote, that 2,423 unregistered people voted, that more than 10,000 dead people voted, that Fulton County election workers counted ballots with no oversight. 

In the civil case in New York in which Trump, his older sons, two employees, and the Trump Organization are on trial for fraud, Trump’s former lawyer and fixer Michael Cohen testified today that he and the former chief financial officer of the Trump Organization, Allen Weisselberg, would reverse engineer Trump’s financial statements to meet whatever number Trump wanted. 

His testimony suggested that the alleged massive fortune on which Trump based his identity, as well as his presidential bid, was an illusion.

In a series of motions filed overnight, Trump’s defense team appears to be throwing anything it can at the wall to challenge the election conspiracy case in Washington, D.C.

But as Trump’s legal peril escalates, Republicans in the House of Representatives continue to reject any House speaker who does not embrace Trump. Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-GA) today said, “We need a speaker of the House that reflects the values and the views of Republican voters across the country, and they support President Trump and they support his agenda.” Representative Troy Nehls (R-TX) suggested nominating Trump himself for the job.  

CNN’s Jake Tapper has had enough. “I'm covering life and death issues, serious tragedies, serious momentous occurrences here in Israel and of course in Gaza,” he said today. But, he said, “We have to interrupt this for one moment to cover the complete and utter clown car that is the House Republicans' Speaker's race.”

House Republicans today selected Representative Tom Emmer (R-MN) as their choice for the post, only to have him drop out of the race after Trump, apparently angry that Emmer had dodged a question about whether he supported Trump’s nomination for president, turned on him. 

Trump went on social media to call Emmer, whose work in Congress has earned him a 79% lifetime approval rating from the right-wing Heritage Action for America, a “Globalist RINO,” meaning “Republican In Name Only.” Trump warned that Emmer “never respected the Power of a Trump Endorsement, or the breadth and scope of MAGA…. I believe he has now learned his lesson, because he is saying that he is Pro-Trump all the way, but who can ever be sure? Has he only changed because that’s what it takes to win?”

Trump ally Ohio Representative Jim Jordan’s failure to win the speakership even after threatening his colleagues showed that Trump cannot put his chosen candidate into the chair, but Emmer’s failure to win the speakership suggests Trump’s opposition can keep a candidate out of it.

Just hours after Emmer dropped out, the House Republican conference threw up a fourth candidate for speaker: Representative Mike Johnson of Louisiana. Johnson is a self-described Christian and staunch Trump ally. He defended the former president during both of his impeachment trials and fought for Texas v. Pennsylvania, the key lawsuit contesting the results of the 2020 presidential election (the Supreme Court decided that Texas did not have standing to sue). He voted against certifying the 2020 election results.

Johnson won the conference’s nomination with 128 votes to 29 votes for Representative Byron Donalds of Florida, who only entered Congress in 2021. In an interesting sign that Republicans might be reconsidering their rejection of former speaker Kevin McCarthy (R-CA) three weeks ago, 43 Republicans voted for him even though he was not standing for the position. Johnson told reporters he expects a floor vote at noon tomorrow.

House minority leader Hakeem Jeffries (D-NY) has offered a bipartisan deal in which Democrats would help Republicans elect a speaker. In exchange for their help, Democrats have said they want a candidate who is not an election denier and who agrees to hold up-or-down votes for bills that have broad support across the parties. Such a deal would mean some security for future elections. It would also mean that a measure funding Ukraine, which is popular across Congress but which the extremists oppose, would get a hearing. 

So would funding the government.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[meli-r]

Redemption v2.15

Yashiro moved through the halls of Oso Academy, a bastion of tradition and formality. The architecture intertwined modern elements with classical grandeur, while students navigated in their distinct uniforms.

Rounding a corner, Yashiro entered the teachers' lounge. In her hands, she held a bundle of documents and a steaming cup of coffee. Touma's presence caught her eye as he occupied a table, his gesture silently beckoning her. She hesitated for a fleeting moment before making her way to him.

"Business to attend to?" Touma glanced at the folder in her hand, his tone momentarily wistful. His hands rested on the table, fingers entwined, as though afraid she might slip away.

"Just a minor task with a staff member," Yashiro replied, her voice calm and measured.

"Why not join us?" Touma's hand gestured towards the empty seat across from him.

Her gaze shifted to the man opposite Touma, his white hair cascading across his chest. She looked away, as if about to decline the invitation.

"Perhaps another time," Yashiro responded.

"Do you know Aoki Chiyo?" Touma's question sliced through the air, catching Yashiro's attention.

"Only by reputation," Yashiro acknowledged, her brows furrowing slightly.

"She's the secretary's daughter," Touma continued, his gaze fixed upon her.

“And?”

"Word is, she was assaulted along with two friends in a restroom," Touma explained.

“I see.”

"Ended up in the infirmary with wrist pain," he added.

"Good," Yashiro retorted tersely, her eyes reflecting a detached mixture of emotions.

"Did you hear about it?" Touma's gaze remained fixed on her, his words probing for a reaction.

"No," Yashiro confirmed, her expression unreadable.

"Got nothing to do with it?" Touma's inquiry delved deeper, seeking to unearth any connection.

"If you're suggesting I had a hand in it, why not simply report me?" Yashiro's tone held a trace of defiance.

"Because I know that's what you want, I won't," Touma replied calmly, leaning back in his chair.

Makishima, a silent observer thus far, interjected, “I am sure whatever she has done, she did so with a conviction she deemed righteous.”

Yashiro's frown deepened, her gaze shifting to Makishima's poised figure.

“I don't doubt that. My intention is to underscore the ripple effect of actions on one's future. Fortunately, your anonymity shielded you this time. Had they recognized you, I would have found myself in the principal's office once again, striving to safeguard your interests," Touma stated.

"I've never asked for your protection," Yashiro retorted, her voice edged with a touch of frustration.

"Are you aware that your actions could result in expulsion?" Touma's question held a sense of gravity.

"Yes."

"This could be the end," Touma observed, his expression a medley of concern and reprimand.

"So be it," she replied.

"What's going on?" Touma's expression furrowed, casting a shadow of concern across his features. Yashiro's eyes briefly avoided his gaze as she lifted her coffee cup to her lips. "You've never been one to conform, but the past few months? The truancy, the wandering. Can't you see where this is going? Allow me to offer clarity—to give you the truth."

"What?" Yashiro's exhalation carried a mix of curiosity and resignation, as she settled into a chair opposite Makishima, a silent observer from the periphery. Her posture eased as her gaze meandered to her untouched coffee cup, an anchor amidst the unfolding discourse.

"You're smart, so smart yet endearingly naive," Touma shook his head, his words evoking a flicker of a smile from her. "The Aokis of the world will always exist, and the girl you aided? She'll take shitty orders from people who will probably be Aoki. Much like she's doing now. And that will be her life from now on until her hue gets clouded and she ends up in a cell or gets killed by the police. That's her life. You keep acting like this, it'll be yours," he paused, reaching for her coffee cup. "That's a path ahead of you. A life of servitude. But there's another," he pulled a black cell phone out of his pants pocket, placing it alongside her coffee.

Yashiro's gaze flickered between Touma's intense stare and the device he had placed before her.

"A life infused with the power to steer the course of events," Touma continued, his voice measured yet brimming with conviction. "You see, existence is often defined by two prevailing modes: the desire to shape events or the acquiescence to their shaping. The orchestrator or the orchestrated. The catalyst or the reaction. Do you truly think you can transcend this fundamental duality?"

Yashiro met Touma's gaze, her countenance a blend of contemplation and determination.

"What if I were to reject both?" her voice remained steady.

Touma's eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle yet cryptic smile touching his lips.

"Choice is often a mirror to the soul," he responded, leaning back in his chair. "When presented with two options, people are driven to concoct excuses or introduce additional alternatives, a defense mechanism against acknowledging their own inclinations or confronting the fear of judgment.”

Makishima ventured a subtle smile, his gaze flitting between the interlocutors.

"And you think you know me well enough to draw such conclusions?" Yashiro's gaze hardened.

Touma leaned in, his demeanor unwavering, his voice a calm stream infused with certainty, "Perhaps I do. But let's simplify matters, shall we? A simple choice: the cup or the phone."

Yashiro's gaze danced between the two objects, a pendulum oscillating between competing futures. Her mind danced upon the precipice of comprehension.

"Ah, the purity of your intent,” Touma's voice tinged with a rueful undercurrent. “Yet when thrust into this dichotomy, most are drawn to the latter."

"And what do you think my choice would be?" Yashiro's eyes narrowed.

"Well, you’ve already made your choice," Touma's smile deepened, his fingers lightly tapping the black phone on the table. "Your unspoken admission lies right here, in this unassuming device."

Yashiro's lips parted, her gaze shifting towards the phone.

“Why?” her voice wavered.

Touma's smile evolved into a knowing grin, "For the intricacies of humanity seldom align with the canvas of pristine integrity. Given the opportunity, men are often drawn to power, whether brazenly acknowledged or subtly veiled beneath layers of moral rationalization."

"Is that your belief?"

Touma leaned closer.

"I believe that when faced with the right circumstances, men would choose the path that grants them authority, even if they resist acknowledging it. I've posed this question to others, and interestingly, they've all arrived at the same choice. It underscores the intricate complexities of human nature—a truth that even the purest of souls, such as yourself, cannot fully escape."

“You may perceive the world through that lens, but it remains a perspective that eludes my understanding,” Yashiro exhaled softly, her gaze drifting from his to the phone.

"Time will be the arbiter of your resolve," Touma concluded.

"May I have my coffee back?" Yashiro's request carried an air of detachment, an attempt to reclaim the moment from its weighty implications.

Touma returned the coffee cup to her.

"Compassion has often been regarded as a vulnerability," he mused softly.

"No," Yashiro responded, her gaze steady. "I've never seen it that way."

"I've found little use for it," Touma shrugged.

"Because you're a narcissist," Yashiro remarked, taking a sip of coffee and looking away, her tone tinged with a blend of familiarity and exasperation.

Touma met her assertion with a discerning gaze, an unspoken exchange that lingered beyond the spoken word. Makishima's eyebrows arched for a fraction of a second, a subtle shift in his contemplation.

“I know little of narcissism, but labels rarely capture the full essence of a person. You of all people know that well,” Touma observed, his fingers tracing patterns upon the table's surface.

"The concept of equality often intertwines with discussions of power, doesn't it?” Makishima's voice interjected, his tone measured.

Yashiro's gaze shifted between Touma and Makishima, her interest piqued by the shift in conversation.

"Equality, an aspiration that has driven societies for centuries,” Touma expounded, his eyes tracing an invisible path along the ceiling. “I’d run away from anyone who starts talking about it faster than from the plague.”

“Don't you think there's a big difference between treating humans equally and forcing them to be?" Makishima asked.

"Hayek said that the first is the condition of a free society while the second is serfdom," Touma affirmed.

"A distinction that becomes particularly poignant when examined through the lens of governance and authority,” Makishima added.

"A sentiment that resonates even more profoundly in a world shaped by Sibyl," Touma continued.

"The Sibyl System, a manifestation of centralized control, enforces a uniformity that disregards individuality. The force that aims to create equality can inadvertently strip away freedom," elucidated Makishima.

“The path towards coerced equality often leads to the erosion of individual freedom. The very force introduced with seemingly noble intentions can ultimately become a tool wielded by those with ulterior motives,” Touma concurred.

"Equality, a cornerstone enshrined within the principles of justice—equality before the law, unalienable rights bound to one's humanity. These tenets, immune to manipulation by constructs like titles or stratified categories. It's interesting how some interpret equality differently, transforming it into a concept that transcends the political sphere and ventures into the metaphysical realm," Yashiro interjected, her words punctuated by a sip of coffee.

Makishima's lips parted, a single eyebrow raised, his gaze weaving between Yashiro and Touma.

"But this alternate interpretation challenges the very laws of nature," she continued. "It strives not for equality before the law, but for an equality of attributes and personal virtues, disregarding the inherent variability of individual nature and choices. In a world where nature bestows beauty and intelligence unequally, and individual volition leads to diverse choices, these proponents of equality seek to challenge the very fabric of reality. They aim not to rectify injustice within man-made institutions, but to reshape the course of natural causality itself. It relates to the altruism we discussed earlier, but the core intent remains just beyond my grasp.”

"Yashiro, investing your time in understanding such folly might prove futile. Instead, consider what you stand to gain from it," Touma advised.

Yashiro inhaled, her gaze shifting momentarily to the phone before returning to her coffee cup resting on the table.

“Interesting,” Makishima mused, shaking his head slightly.

“What?” Touma's gaze shifted to Makishima, curiosity etching lines on his face.

"At times, your discourse assumes the tenor of a classical libertarian, yet in others, the resonance of a socialist. An intriguing blend that's not indicative of a lack of identity, as one might initially conclude," Makishima noted, his words punctuated by a subtle upward twitch of his lips.

"I value your insight. It delivers the very confirmation I sought—the affirmation I needed," Touma replied.

"Affirmation for what?" Makishima raised an eyebrow.

"Labels are mere tools. The realm of politics is devoid of absolute ideologies. Your inability to fathom that isn't surprising, given your historical indifference to political matters," Touma elucidated.

“Precisely,” Makishima concurred.

"Imagine if you possessed a bit more of her discernment," Touma gestured towards Yashiro. "You might have asked, what of those at the pinnacle?"

"I possess no inclination to delve into the perspective of the collectivists," Makishima admitted.

"Comprehensive understanding emerges only when one can traverse both sides of the coin. The fortitude of our convictions alone often falls short. It's the capacity to engage with counter viewpoints that genuinely empowers us. In its absence, our preferences rest on shaky ground. It's not solely about listening to sources that reinforce our beliefs, steeped in their own perspectives. It's about confronting those beliefs firsthand, in their most compelling and persuasive manifestations, even when championed by those who ardently embrace them," Touma expounded.

“Sounds like John Stuart Mill,” Makishima's eyes narrowed.

“Indeed,” Touma smiled, his gaze ascending towards the ceiling. “Ultimately, as Sowell suggests, politics often entails the art of translating personal desires into a national agenda—a stark reminder of the intricate layers concealed within seemingly noble causes."

"Sowell's observation extends to those who forget their mortal limitations, mistaking themselves for gods," Yashiro mused.

Makishima's raised eyebrow invoked a knowing smile from Touma, a fleeting chuckle tracing its way from his lips, harmonizing with the spark that danced within his eyes.

“I'll fetch our drinks. Would you like anything?” Makishima's voice carried a soft undertone as he stood, casting a contemplative gaze at Yashiro.

“No, thank you,” Yashiro waved her hand in polite refusal.

Makishima's gaze lingered, capturing the tableau of the moment, before he turned and navigated through empty tables to retrieve their beverages.

“He doesn’t know what you’re capable of,” Yashiro's voice held a pensive edge, her gaze tracing Makishima's distant figure as he conversed with another educator.

“Neither do you,” Touma's tone deepened, his demeanor assuming a more serious bearing as he leaned forward, forearms resting on the table.

Yashiro's frown echoed her thoughts, flickering between Touma and Makishima. With a barely perceptible smile on his lips, Touma's contemplative gaze held her gaze. Makishima, tray in hand, engaged in dialogue with a fellow teacher before pivoting back towards them. Touma's smile expanded momentarily, an arc of recognition illuminating his features, but a veneer of solemnity returned as Makishima approached.

“Have you come across the latest headlines?” Makishima began, his gaze oscillating briefly between Touma and Yashiro, as he handed out the beverages and pastries. "The scandal involving the esteemed politician Ryoji Hashida."

"I've heard allegations of falsified psycho pass, accusations of corruption, and the spectacle of dodging media inquiries with convenient amnesia," Yashiro remarked, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.

She had indeed seen the news reports, the lurid details of Hashida's alleged corruption and the subsequent public outcry. His death had sent shockwaves through the nation, leaving a trail of questions and speculation in its wake.

"The court of public opinion was swift and merciless," continued Makishima. "Hashida's fall from grace, his once-pristine reputation now irrevocably tarnished. A man who managed to defy the system, wielding deception and influence to sidestep justice. And yet, his eventual exposure was not orchestrated by the veneer of authority, but by the very flaws embedded within his design. The wielders of power, it seems, remain susceptible to the snares of hubris."

"Perhaps this isn't the result of political terrorism, as some speculate. It carries a distinctly personal undercurrent," Yashiro mumbled, a shake of her head punctuating her words as she focused on the table.

"How can you discern that?" Makishima's query was punctuated by the crunch of a madeleine.

"The imagery of the crime scene, its meticulous arrangement, akin to a grotesque work of human art," Yashiro explained. Her gaze shifted from the table to Touma's phone, then to the space nestled between his black vest and white shirt, where a red tie found its home.

“Elaborate,” Touma's voice held a note of gravity, his gaze lowering.

"The removal of his brain, paired with the insertion of the hippocampus into his anus—a surreal, artistic tableau. Witnesses who stood in its presence mistook it for a holographic creation," Yashiro clarified, her words echoing with a haunting elegance. “I can't help but ponder the message hidden within. Although, for optimal reconnaissance, I would have chosen a different location—perhaps a bustling square or even right in front of the Public Safety Bureau itself? Imagine the maelstrom of media frenzy that would ensue," Yashiro's eyes widened as her thoughts raced.

"What is the underlying message?" Makishima inquired.

“Remember now?” her voice was softer.

"A promising detective in the making," Touma quipped, a wry smile forming as he sipped his coffee.

“No, that’s… that’s not it. I’m just curious. I think this guy is a meticulous craftsman, well-versed in the domains of surgery and chemistry. This is likely not his maiden voyage into the realm of murder, nor will it be his last. Monetary gain seems to hold little sway over him. But I don’t know. I’m not a cop,” Yashiro's fingers played with her cup, a thoughtful ballet of movement.

"Let's hope this isn't his grand finale," Touma's voice was measured as he set his cup down.

"Why?" Yashiro's gaze locked onto his.

"Because, in the process of unraveling this enigma, a certain vigor and vitality radiate from you," Touma's voice trailed off as he appraised her features, a subtle shake of his head accompanying his words. "It's a rarity—a sight of you truly alive."

"Is that necessarily a positive trait?" Yashiro's voice wavered, her eyes shifting downward.

"Perhaps. Yet, the ultimate judgment rests with you alone. What's your perspective?" Touma's inquiry sought to breach her inner reflections.

"I feel like I'm gradually losing my bearings. My mind is incessantly plagued by alternate realities—what if Hashida, my parents… if events had woven a different tapestry. I'm uncertain if this influx of emotions is a harbinger of positivity. I question whether my sentiments are anchored in rightness," she confessed, her gaze oscillating between her cup and the figures of Touma and Makishima.

“This isn't a riddle I can decipher for you. I can only sit here alongside you and listen,” Touma's voice was a calm reassurance, a beacon of companionship.

Yashiro sighed in acceptance, a nod punctuating her understanding. A fleeting moment of her eyes being closed embraced her before she rose, gathering her folder and cup.

"I'll remain vigilant for any updates," she remarked, her words carrying a sense of purpose.

Touma's head dipped slightly, his gaze lingering on the vacant seat she had occupied. Yashiro cast them one final glance, a trace of a smile gracing her lips before she departed.

"How close do you think she truly is?" Makishima's inquiry was laced with speculation, his attention shifting to Touma.

"Pretty close. Yet the narrative is far from its conclusion. This may kindle a renewed fire within her," Touma mused, his gaze tracing Yashiro's departure.

[theblindmachine]

"**Title: Celebrating the Launch of Neal Stephenson's "Polostan": A Journey into Intrigue and Espionage** We are excited to announce our upcoming event: the launch of Neal Stephenson's latest literary masterpiece, *Polostan*. This inaugural installment in the highly anticipated Bomb Light series promises to be a monumental historical epic, exploring a captivating tapestry of intrigue and international espionage amid the complex backdrop of the early twentieth century. We invite you to join us as we embark on this exhilarating journey, set to release on October 15, 2024. *Polostan* takes readers through a meticulously crafted narrative that not only entertains but also compels us to ponder the significant events that foreshadowed the dawn of the Atomic Age. Stephenson, renowned for his previous works such as *Cryptonomicon* and *The Baroque Cycle*, brings his signature style of rich detail and inventive storytelling to this new series. His profound intellect and keen observational skills immerse readers in a world where history and imagination converge. We are thrilled to host a conversation for this launch evening led by the esteemed Charles C. Mann, an influential journalist and author known for his insightful works such as *1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus* and *The Wizard and The Prophet*. Mann, a familiar face within the Long Now Foundation community, has previously provided captivating Long Now Talks that challenge conventional thinking and inspire progressive dialogue. Neal Stephenson's works are renowned for their ability to catapult readers into meticulously imagined worlds enriched by extensive research. Whether delving into the realms of cyberpunk, historical fiction, speculative fiction, or thought-provoking non-fiction on technology and culture, Stephenson consistently delivers narratives that resonate on multiple levels. With *Polostan*, he continues this tradition, offering a profound exploration of human nature and the socio-political complexities of a transformative era. The Long Now Foundation, established as a non-profit to encourage long-term thinking and responsibility, plays a pivotal role in fostering discussions that span across thousands of years. Our objective has always been to stimulate imagination at the civilization timescale — a vision that punctuates our commitment to what we call the "long now." Since the inception of our Long Now Talks in 2003, we have gathered speakers from around the globe to engage audiences in thoughtful discourse on topics that extend far beyond the here and now. This special event will take place at The Interval, our public gathering space in San Francisco. Designed to inspire curiosity and wonder, The Interval features a stunning library, craft cocktails, artisan coffee, and tea, as well as prototypes of The Clock of the Long Now—our ambitious project designed to keep time over the next ten millennia. We encourage you to become a Long Now member to support these Talks and engage with our community of dedicated long-term thinkers. With over 11,000 members across more than 65 countries, our global network connects individuals committed to exploring and promoting the values of long-term thinking. Don't miss the opportunity to experience the launch of *Polostan*, engage with Neal Stephenson, and be part of a conversation that shapes our understanding of the future. Subscribe to our YouTube channel and podcast to stay informed and continue following the inspiring discussions sparked by Long Now Talks. Join us on this remarkable literary journey, and let's embrace the importance of long-term perspective in today's rapidly changing landscape."

[creativemorningsmilwaukee]

💌 Love letter recap from our PARALLEL event!

Illustration by Caroline Ferrero @carolineartsy17

On the third Friday of March, one hundred fifteen creatives gathered at Relics Rentals for another morning of magic. Located in an unassuming warehouse in Walkers Point, Relics Rentals is a comprehensive design resource & rental company specializing in creative direction, rental solutions, custom fabrication, product sourcing, and staging for events and interiors. Hire them for weddings, galas, parties, brand activations, home staging, holiday staging—you name it! 

📢 Special shout out to Renee, Shaquita, Bob, Kelly, & Jan for your hands-on partnership on & leading up to the event. Thank you for your hospitality!

We took in the rows upon rows of stellar vintage finds and settled in with good company, Discourse Coffee (thank you Ryan!), and Cranky Als sprinkle donuts. 

And then... Erilei took the stage. 🌠

With a voice like honey, Erilei sang her self-produced song Don't Like Me, reminding us that we're not alone when we find ourselves in the hellscape that is facing our worst inner bully.

Performance Artist: ERILEI

Like a salve, hearing the CreativeMornings Manifesto read back to you heals. Thank you, Monica Thomas, for braving the stage and soothing our hearts with these words!

🪄 If you would like to read the Manifesto at our next event, please email us at milwaukee@creativemornings.com

Portrait by Linda Smallpage. Quotes captured by Murphy Fraser.

Keynote Speaker: Tonda Thompson

Our esteemed speaker coach, Alea Cross, introduced Tonda. (Parts of this introduction have been redacted. Only those who were present were gifted the full, humorous introduction. 🤭)"I have a metaphor for you... she is the rose that grew from concrete in 53206. 

I have some truth for you... it's not the doing but the being that makes Tonda who she is... 

Her accolades and single story proceed her; however, that's not what we are here to learn. She's chapters expressed in one great and wonderful book. 

A woman learning what a healed story blooms; I introduce one of the most beautiful women I've grown to love, admire, and root for. 

Let's give a standing ovation for Tonda Thompson."

🎬 Filmed & edited by Precious "Jae" Burrell from Epic Media

Visit sheslangswood.com to shop products, sign up for carpentry workshops, book a "board and sip" night class, or schedule a consultation to learn about the many services offered! She Slangs Wood can be hired to build fences, cutting boards, sheds, garden beds, furniture, and so much more. 

Tonda invited all of us to visit her at her self-made shop at 128 E Burleigh St. Email Tonda at info@sheslangswood.com or book online to set up an appointment. 

Thank you, Tonda, for being authentically YOU and sharing your truth with us. What a gift it is to receive your greatness. 

CreativeMornings is about shining the light on our communities. One way we do this is via 30 Second Pitches. This is where we invite a few people to the stage and share a pitch. Our 30 Second Pitch Nomination Form is always open! Feel free to self-nominate :)

Queer Prom: A Night to Celebrate Queer Joy and Trans Existence

Saz's Hospitality Group presents Queer Prom, a fun-filled evening on May 3 from 7:30pm-12am to celebrate Milwaukee's queer community and the richness of the Walker's Point neighborhood (838 S 2nd St.). A portion of proceeds will benefit the Milwaukee Trans and Queer Depot.

Cassie Caminiti shared some fun details for the event, which will feature a prom royalty contest, drag performances, queer resource tabling, and a VIP package with open bar and small bites. Enjoy colorful vibes, curated sounds, and photobooth from our partner Milwaukee Airwaves. Cap the night off with Saz's festival faves for all attendees and join us afterwards at La Cage for waived cover and your first drink free with your event wristband. 

Tickets are on sale now! Follow @sazshospitalitygroup and @mketranshealth for event announcements. 

One MKE

Nicole Shaver shared the good news from One MKE, a nonpartisan coalition led by the Milwaukee Public Library, Cities Forward and NEWaukee, along with over 50 Milwaukee community partners.

One MKE provides easy, transparent information to:

Access local, state and federal services to save you money and improve your wellbeing

Attend events to meet other residents and get involved in your community

Learn about nonpartisan voter resources

One MKE envisions a future in which every City of Milwaukee resident (regardless of age, race, gender, or political affiliation) understands how active civic engagement can enrich our lives and communities. Follow along on IG: @weareonemke. 

minglespace

Our friend Michael Kirsh dreamed up the concept minglespace, which partners with businesses and organizations to create designated areas where people are encouraged to introduce themselves and strike up a conversation.

minglespaces are engaging spaces for anyone seeking a spontaneous connection, whether they’re alone, new to the city, traveling, or in a group.  They are adaptable for various settings and audiences, from coffee shops and breweries to universities, parks, and festivals. They feature conversation prompts linked to signage, making it easy for people to connect in fun and meaningful ways. Each minglespace sparks conversations and shared experiences, helping transform public places into more vibrant and inviting spaces. 

Join us in bringing people together to create meaningful connections: www.minglespace.com/create.

Eucalyptus & Co. Eucalyptus & Company is located in Riverwest, right next to Seven Swans Creperie. Danielle Burrows offers a variety of art workshops including Pottery and Stained Glass for all ages and experience levels. Eucalyptus & Co. is a collaborative teaching space and is always looking for other artists to teach their medium. Some past events include Redacted Poetry with Gina Cornejo, Block Printing with Bailey Danz, Puppy Yoga with Thrifted Kittens Rescue, and Collage Club with Allison Smith. 

The space is also used as a floral studio, specializing in wedding and event flowers. Interested in teaching your medium in the space? Email eucalyptus.co4424@gmail.com, follow @eucalyptus__co on Instagram, or visit Danielle’s website for more information. 

Independence First Independence First is the resource for people with disabilities in the greater Milwaukee area, offering over 40 programs and services across all age groups. Amelinda Burich and Lorna Barthel shared how this local nonprofit supports individuals and families to live successfully in our community, from independent living skills and disability awareness to recreation and assistive technology. 

Programming includes art and cooking classes, peer support, and adaptive gaming, with more than 50% of staff, managers, and Board having disabilities themselves—ensuring a strong peer-driven approach. Independence First also provide benefits counseling, personal care support, and advocacy for inclusivity, helping people live independently in their own homes rather than institutions. 

Check out @independencefirst on Instagram to learn more. 

Event day photos by Holly Schisler. Lots more love in our Flickr gallery.

[merts-storybook]

Volle, The Cat Who New Too Much

My cat Volle left on a Tuesday, the same day my neighbor Sahra's dogs decided to start a support group for beings with too much love to give. Carly, a neurotic golden retriever with separation anxiety, kept leaving puddles of emotional distress on my welcome mat. Loris, the three-legged German shepherd who'd seen too much of life, just sat there judging everyone's coping mechanisms with his one skeptical eyebrow. I'd trusted my neighbor Sahra to check on Volle, but she'd been too busy teaching her dogs the difference between independence and need, and her houseplants how to forget their past lives as trees.

The doors in my apartment had become sentient, which didn't help. The front door kept apologizing for being too easy to open, while Carly headbutted it repeatedly, trying to turn its existential crisis into a game of fetch.

"Some doors just don't know how to stay closed, And some cats don't know how to stay cats. Sometimes they need to become birds or clouds or Tuesday afternoons" Sahra said when I confronted her about Volle's disappearance. She was distracted because Carly had just peed on her philosophy book called "The Art Of Drinking Nonalcoholic Beer And A Guide To Tasting Life In Small, Carbonated Sips". Loris, ever the protector, was trying to guard the puddle as if it contained government secrets.

I wanted to be angry, but my anger had recently joined a support group for misplaced emotions and only came home on weekends. Besides, how could I blame her when I'd spent years leaving my own internal doors wide open, letting pieces of myself wander out into other people's lives?

The missing cat posters I put up around the neighborhood kept rearranging their words when no one was looking. "LOST: One cat who knew too much about human nature" became "FOUND: One human who forgot how to purr" became "WANTED: The ability to connect without turning it into responsibility."

Carly kept trying to eat the posters, convinced that if she consumed enough lost pet notices, she'd never have to feel the ache of someone leaving again. Loris just limped around, putting his body between Carly and her paper addiction, somehow managing to look both concerned and completely done with everything.

My therapist said it was normal to miss things that were meant to leave. She had a clock in her office that ran backwards, and sometimes I caught her negotiating with it to give her patients more time to become who they used to be.

"When was the last time you purred?" she asked me.

"I don't purr," I said. "I'm not a cat."

"Are you sure?" She showed me her diploma, which now read 'Doctor of Feline Psychology and Door Repair.'

At home, I found Volle's favorite toy mouse giving a lecture to the dust bunnies under my bed about the geometry of absence. "The space where love used to be," it squeaked, "is shaped exactly like the space where love has yet to arrive. They're the same space wearing different fur coats." Carly tried to eat the mouse mid-lecture, but Loris dragged her away by the collar, muttering something about respecting academic discourse.

Sahra texted me pictures of cats that weren't Volle but somehow looked exactly like him if you squinted with your heart instead of your eyes. "Maybe he's not missing," her messages said. "Maybe he's just practicing being found in different ways."

I started collecting things that reminded me of him: empty food bowls that filled themselves with moonlight, half-finished purrs left on windowsills, paw prints that appeared on my ceiling when I felt particularly alone. My apartment became a museum of almost-cat, nearly-love, not-quite-staying, with Carly leaving emotional support puddles in every exhibit and Loris setting up security perimeters around the wet spots.

The local coffee shop put up a sign: "Today's Special: One cup of whatever you're trying not to feel, served in a mug shaped like forgiveness." I ordered three and they all smelled like Volle's fur after he'd been napping in sunbeams. Carly tried to order a triple shot of abandonment issues with extra foam, but Loris cut her off after the second shot.

Sahra stopped by one evening with a box of apologies she'd been saving for a special occasion(Slightly Used). "I'm sorry about being sorry," she said, and the box hummed with the frequency of unspoken understandings.

"Sometimes we're all just cats who forgot how to purr," I replied, "or “doors that forgot why they needed to be doors in the first place," Sahra replied.

We sat on my couch, which had recently developed the ability to transform any conversation into a metaphor about learning to let go. The silence between us tasted like warm milk with honey.

A week later, I found Volle sitting on my doorstep, but he wasn't exactly a cat anymore. He had become a small encyclopedia of everything I'd been afraid to understand about myself. Carly immediately tried to befriend him with aggressive tail-wagging, while Loris positioned himself strategically between everyone, prepared for emotional casualties. His purr sounded like the word "goodbye" translated into seventeen languages I'd never learned to speak.

"Where have you been?" I asked.

"Everywhere you you were escaping but couldn't," he said in a voice that sounded like being there at the right moment at the wrong time. "Sometimes the only way to find yourself is to let someone else lose you for a while" he said. Carly peed a little bit, just to commemorate the moment.

He’d brought gifts:

A horror movie script titled The Cult of Overthinkers (starring my anxiety as the villain).

A dog toy shaped like Loris’ dignity after he “accidentally” terrorized Mimi the garden cat.

A ticket stub from School of Rock with a note: Reserved for when you’re ready to laugh without analyzing the laugh track.

Sahra moved away the next day to teach philosophy to stray cats in another city. She left me a note that read: "Everything is everything else, just wearing a different coat of fur. S.K. - Your cat taught me how to purr, now I had to give it back."

Now my apartment is full of doors that don't quite close and cats that might be memories wearing fur coats. Sometimes late at night, I hear Volle purring from every room at once, teaching the darkness how to hold onto things by letting them go. Carly’s puddles now water a succulent named Regret, which blooms every time I admit I don’t have to fix everything.

I'm learning to be okay with that. After all, some people are cats who forgot how to purr, some are dogs who love too much to hold it, and some are three-legged guardians of everyone else's hearts. And sometimes we need to be all of them to become ourselves.

The mouse under my bed is still giving lectures, but now they're about the quantum physics of emotional baggage and how every goodbye is just a hello that got lost on its way to becoming a different kind of love.

P.S. The coffee shop’s new special is *Unspoken Feelings Frappuccino—*50% bittersweet, 50% “I’ll understand if you don’t reply,” 100% foam art shaped like a cat learning to purr backward.

28.12.2024