#when set in A or AUTO position

[concerningwolves]

Holy **** oh right okay. So I was about to make a post about how using speech to text has already been a game changer for me but as you can see by the line of asterix at the start of this post the bloody thing auto censors swear words. (Yet bloody got through, ig Because it is a description and also British slang.). Hint: the word I was trying to say there starts with F and ends with K.

Oh and guess what else you can't say you can't say? **** [Nipples]. had to type that myself. penis is ok but **** [clitoris] isn't, and all my attempts to say "clit" were Misunderstood, which may just be my speech but at this point I am not willing to give the benefit of the doubt. Vagina is OK too but every time I say it there is a moment when an * shows up on screen first before the full word does. this doesn't happen when I say the word penis.

It is completely heinous. Anybody who needs speech to text is immediately forced to comply with the rules set out by people in a position of power and then enforced by a machine — a machine that is a very powerful accessibility tool. Imagine trying to dictate a letter to a doctor or fill in an E consult with speech to text, only to have words of your anatomy censored as if they are taboo. there is already far too much stigma around genital physical health — and note that I could say genital but can't say **** [clitoris] — for it to be okay for these words to be censored.

And even if somebody just wants to swear In a message to their friends or write smut/**** [pornography], they should be able to. There is no justification for this feature. No reason for it to be default.

I'm trying to find a way around this. There is a settings icon on the little speech to text bar that comes up, but this only gives me options For the speech typing launcher, auto punctuation, and to set the default microphone. it's making me extremely angry

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐏𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐒𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The movie marathon had stretched late into the night. You were sprawled on top of Xavier, your head resting on his chest as the TV cast flickering light across the darkened room. His steady heartbeat had almost lulled you to sleep when you felt his hand shift slightly beneath you.

Smack!

The unexpected slap to your ass made you jolt upright, nearly headbutting his chin in the process.

“Did you forget about earlier?” he asked.

You laughed, settling back against him. “I thought you might have fallen asleep and forgotten.”

“I didn’t,” he replied simply, his hand returning to your backside. This time, he gave it a gentle squeeze, his fingers kneading the spot he’d just slapped. The tender motion contrasted with the playful smack from moments before.

He pulled you closer, adjusting your position against him until you were both comfortable again. The credits rolled on the forgotten movie as his fingers continued their gentle massage, his calm breathing eventually synchronizing with yours as you both drifted toward sleep.

As the auto-play feature started the next film in the queue, his free hand reached for the remote, lowering the volume to a soft background murmur. His other hand never left your backside, alternating between gentle squeezes and soothing circular motions that made you melt further against him.

“Your heartbeat speeds up when I touch you like this,” he observed quietly, the subtle change in his tone betraying his satisfaction at the reaction.

You mumbled something incoherent against his chest, too comfortable to form proper words. He shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting your weight to better accommodate his frame, his hand continuing its ministrations with practiced ease.

“We should sleep,” he suggested, though his actions contradicted his words as his fingers traced the curve where your ass met your thigh. “Or would you prefer to continue this instead?”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

Midnight had come and gone, but sleep remained elusive. It’s another day of Zayne had just returned from his grueling shift at the hospital, his tie loosened and suit jacket discarded as he prepared for bed.

“I need at least six hours of sleep before my morning consultation,” he muttered, setting his alarm.

You poked his side, deliberately disrupting his bedtime routine. “But I’m not tired,” you whined playfully, stealing his pillow and hugging it to your chest.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Return my pillow.”

“Make me,” you challenged with a grin, scooting away.

In one swift motion, he reclaimed his pillow with one hand, while the other delivered a firm smack to your pajama-clad backside.

Smack!

“That’s for being bratty when you know I need rest.” The sting lingered pleasantly as he settled beside you, drawing you against his chest despite your earlier antics.

“Sleep,” he instructed, his arm wrapping around your waist. “I’ll have time for your games tomorrow.”

His breathing soon steadied into the rhythm of sleep, while you remained awake just a little longer, savoring the unexpected gesture from him. Despite his stated exhaustion, his hand remained active, tracing absent patterns along your hip.

He murmured against your hair, seemingly not as close to sleep as you’d thought, “You just have to be difficult before going to sleep.”

You shifted to look at his face, finding his eyes still open. “Someone has to remind the great doctor he’s human,” you replied softly.

His fingers tightened slightly on your hip. “Tomorrow,” he promised, voice dropping to a whisper that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, “I’ll show you exactly how human I can be. Now sleep before I administer more persuasive methods.”

The implied threat only made you smile as you finally closed your eyes, lulled by his steady heartbeat.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

“Turn around again,” Rafayel instructed, his eyes focused intently as you modeled the fifth dress he’d purchased for his upcoming exhibition. The silky fabric whispered against your skin as you obliged, turning slowly to give him the full view.

“Perfect,” he murmured, approaching to adjust the way the material draped across your shoulders. “This shade of green complements your skin tone exactly as I imagined.”

As you moved to reach for the next outfit, his hand descended without warning.

Smack!

The slap against your ass echoed in the spacious bedroom, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake.

“Rafayel!” you exclaimed, spinning around to face him.

He grinned. “I couldn’t resist, cutie. You look really good with the dress on.”

Your initial surprise melted as he pulled you close, his hands wandering dangerously near the spot he’d just slapped.

“The red dress next,” he whispered against your ear, releasing you with obvious reluctance. “Though I’m starting to think my favorite masterpiece isn’t hanging in any gallery.”

He retreated to his chaise lounge, watching appreciatively as you reached for the next dress, the memory of his touch still warming your skin.

“Wait,” he called suddenly. “Do that again—the way you just moved. Hold that position.”

You froze mid-reach, throwing a questioning glance over your shoulder.

“Perfect,” he breathed, grabbing the sketchbook that never seemed to be far from his reach. “The light catches your profile exactly right from this angle.”

You maintained the pose, feeling the spot where he’d slapped you still tingling pleasantly as he sketched, occasionally looking up to capture another detail.

“You know,” he said between strokes of his pencil, “I think I’ve just found the centerpiece for my exhibition.”

“A drawing of my ass?” you asked incredulously.

His laughter filled the room. “No, cutie—though that would certainly draw crowds. I’m thinking of something much more...personal. Now, try on the red dress, but move slowly. Every line of you deserves proper attention.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

Rain pattered against the windows of Sylus’s room as you lay on your stomach, engrossed in the latest episode of your favorite show on your tablet. Completely absorbed in the climactic scene, you didn’t notice his approach until it was too late.

Smack!

The sudden, sharp slap to your ass sent your tablet flying from your hands. You yelped in surprise, rolling over to find Sylus standing over you, that infuriating half-smile playing on his lips.

“You look focused, sweetie,” he said calmly, as if he hadn’t just scared you half to death.

You glared up at him. “I was watching the season finale!”

“And now you’re watching me instead,” he replied, retrieving your tablet from where it had landed on the carpet. He handed it back to you, his fingers lingering against yours. “A considerable upgrade, wouldn’t you agree?”

Before you could respond with the retort forming on your lips, he leaned down, his voice dropping to that low timbre that always made your pulse quicken. “Consider us even. For now.”

He then left you to return to your show—though your focus was thoroughly shattered.

You returned to your previous position. Just as the plot was reaching its climax again, the bed dipped beside you. He had returned, two glasses of wine in hand, offering one to you.

He settled next to you, positioning himself so he could see your tablet screen, his thigh pressing against yours as if nothing unusual had happened between you moments ago. His free hand casually draped across your lower back, dangerously close to where he’d landed the mischievous slap, his fingers casually tapping your ass.

“So,” he said, sipping his wine and gesturing toward your tablet with his glass, “who’s the traitor? The brother or the assistant?”

You blinked in surprise. “You’ve been watching this show?”

His half-smile returned as he made himself more comfortable beside you. “I have my reasons for staying informed about your interests. Now, shall we finish this finale together?”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Steam filled the kitchen as you stirred the pasta sauce, following Caleb’s recipe while he chopped vegetables nearby. The domesticity of the moment wrapped around you like a warm blanket, comfortable and familiar.

“Can you pass the oregano?” you asked, gesturing toward the spice rack.

“Sure thing,” he replied, stepping behind you to reach for the herb.

As his hand extended past you toward the rack, his other hand made its move.

Smack!

The slap to your backside was anything but gentle, causing you to drop the wooden spoon into the sauce. Before you could react, he dissolved into laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Your face!” he managed between chuckles, handing you the oregano as promised. “I’ve been waiting all day for the perfect moment.”

“Caleb! You—” You shook your head as you accepted the spice—and the fate of your ass. “Was it worth the wait?”

“Absolutely,” he grinned, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before returning to his chopping board. “Dinner might be worth the wait, if you don’t let that sauce burn.”

You turned back to the stove as his laughter continued to fill the warm kitchen.

His laughter gradually subsided, but the atmosphere remained light as you both continued preparing dinner. Every time he passed behind you to reach for another ingredient or utensil, you tensed slightly in anticipation, unsure if another playful slap might be coming.

“Relax,” he teased, noticing your reaction. “I already got my revenge. Unless...” he paused dramatically, “you’re hoping for an encore?”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t suppress your smile. “Just focus on those vegetables before I decide it’s my turn for revenge.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with an exaggerated salute, his grin never faltering. He resumed his chopping, occasionally humming a cheerful tune that matched his buoyant mood.

Smack!

“Just for fun, Pipsqueak,” he grinned unapologetically.

Okay… so… I kinda accidentally deleted the whole page of my Google Docs when I reached Sylus’s part, and I was just sitting there, like—😀💔 So, I had to write everything all over again in a bad mood 😭 I hope you still enjoy reading! ಡ⁠͜⁠⁠ʖ⁠⁠ಡ

[pixiel]

Old Tumblr Dashboard (Userstyle)!!

I created a Userstyle for the Chrome/Firefox Stylus Extension that reverts the new dashboard to the old look!

You need to have Stylus installed. So if you don't have it:

Install the Stylus Firefox Addon or the Manifest V2 Chrome Extension (You can install Chrome Extensions on Edge as well)

Once it's installed into Firefox/Chrome/Edge you can proceed with adding this style or any other.

To add the style (Stylus), follow the instructions:

Go to this link: https://userstyles.world/style/11286/old-tumblr-dashboard-userstyle (If it says 'style not found' then the Userstyle.world server is just down, try again in an hour)

Click on "install".

Style will open a tag with it and in the left side you'll have a button that says "install style", click there. (Step-by-step copied from the lovely dorothyoz39 who wrote this in a reply!) If you don't want the sticky header you can remove the labelled script at the top of the css below /* Sticky Header*/

For Manifest V3 only Chrome Or Stylus incompatible browsers:

For Chrome Manifest V3 install the Tampermonkey Extension

Then add the Tampermonkey Backup Script instead of the Stylus version

https://greasyfork.org/en/scripts/492279-old-tumblr-dasboard-backup I highly recommend you switch to Firefox for continued use of good extensions! Stylus does not have a V3 update yet; however, the tamermonkey script works just as good.

Be sure to check for updates regularly and if you'd like, consider supporting me on Ko-Fi https://ko-fi.com/pixiel !

I'm currently taking donations so I can afford a much-needed wheelchair, so please check out my GoFundMe for more details! Any Ko-Fi donations will be added manually to the GoFundMe

..::::HOW TO UPDATE::::..

click the Manage button on Stylus and click the check for update button next to the userstyle, then click again to install!

Make sure to check the Userstyle and see if the version number matches the one below if you don't see any changes!

NEW UPDATE: 25/05/25 (D/M/Y) 17:28PM BST v17.13

16.16: Fixed activity and notifications, they now look like the previous version 17.0: Final update to the new icons bs! Every page should be functional. If theres any missed parts or bugs - let me know! 17.9: Minor fixes and Tampermonkey update! You can also fix the positioning of the Communities button and subnav from this menu as well - it should remember your settings when you update!

Tumblr Post Width & More (OTD+ Userstyle) Is now available!!

OTD+ is an add on for Old Tumblr dashboard that you can use to edit the Post Width, Content Positioning & More - It must be used with Old Tumblr Dashboard installed as well on the latest update! This style might be merged with OTD in the future.

THE CREATOR OF THIS USERSTYLE SUPPORTS THEIR TRANS SISTERS. WE'RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER!

Check the readmore for the changelog, custom code & known issues!

----- Known issues:

Only two columns in Masonry view. Semi-Unfixable, Tumblr creates columns based on monitor size, if I try adding another column (because it doesn't exist) it just perpetually loads on screen. Semi-fix: Zoom out in chrome/firefox and it adds more columns, you may need to change the font size of the page though

Search bar doesn't appear on some pages (like viewing a post), this is because Tumblr removed the search bar on those pages completely. Unfixable but not a big deal

Tumblr has ONCE AGAIN CHANGED THE ACCOUNTS MENU. The menus are now shorter and have less information on them. This is unfortunately permanent. I do not see any way to fix this. Unfixable.

If you want people's icons to stay fixed in place, instead of scrolling with the dashboard change this in Stylus;

Or if you're using the tampermonkey version

Find text:

.NLCTe > div.Evcyl > div > div > .So6RQ.YSitt > .ge_yK > .c79Av > article > header > .RYkKH > .nZ9l5 { pointer-events: auto; top: 55px; transition: top .25s; position: -webkit-sticky; position: sticky; } and replace it with;

.NLCTe > div.Evcyl > div > div > .So6RQ.YSitt > .ge_yK > .c79Av > article > header > .RYkKH > .nZ9l5 { pointer-events: auto; top: 0px; transition: top .25s; position: absolute; }

Solved issues: (Update)

Menus need to be manually closed SOLVED! in V.4 and updated in V.5! The menu & icon WILL scroll with you if you have removed the sticky header CSS, however, clicking anywhere on screen will make the Menu disappear still.

Masonry view in searches is now fixed!

Resized Messenger Chat Box!

NEW UPDATE 16/08/23, 23:55 BST v6.5: Figured out how to reorganise the icons in the header. Let me know if you have any problems with it and make sure to update your Userstyle! Some icons are hidden with Display: Block; you can hide more icons with this method!

Solved issues p2

Brought back SOME of the icons for Tumblrs latest update - Unfortunately, this does not bring back user icons for Reblogged posts! Make sure to yell at Tumblr for removing the icons as well as the horrible dashboard update here! v7.5 Fixed icons for all posts and put them back where they came from!

v6.9.6.9 (I promise this is the last funny number): Fuck Off Buggy The Clown Update + All languages support for the old header design!

v7.0: Fixed the search bar for tumblrs new collections feature, so it looks like the original search bar!

v8.0: Fixed masonry view icons, hidden the reblog icon on dashboard icons, fixed icons in blog viewport

V8.1: Fixed issue with icons not working on soft-refresh & with endless scrolling disabled - be sure to complain to staff!

v9.3: Changed a few things with the search feature, I also made the posts less round.

UPDATE2 11/04/2024: SO We mighhtttt have overrun their servers. 😅 I'm getting a 500 Internal Server Error every time I try to fix it or upload it as a new style - the massive influx of people downloading the userstyle was probably too much. The Tampermonkey backup on Greasyfork works just fine though! Probably easier for a lot of people migrating anyway! UPDATE 11/04/2024:: My code has broken on Userstyles.world, (it is now fixed as of 12/04/24) until this is fixed I have created a Tampermonkey Backup Version of the Userstyle so feel free to use this version if you've broken yours!

https://greasyfork.org/en/scripts/492279-old-tumblr-dasboard-backup

v9.6: Moved the Following | For you | Your Tags to below the create a post panel. Fixed the Accounts Menu! + Bugfixes V10.3: Patio compatibility. Added a way to hide the Patio button & "patio feedback?" button, just search for patio in the code and follow the instructions! v11.0: Temporary Chat feature fix after Tumblr broke it, fixed some positioning issues and j/k scrolling!

v12.3: Fixed a text issue (my bad!), I undid the changes to the replies function and added a way to fix icons order for when you get the communities update!

v12.5: Update to make compatible with the Content Positioning using Tumblr Post Width & More (OTD+ Userstyle) v12.6: Post buttons fixed, icons unable to be fixed yet as I haven't got the tumblr changes just yet - but I will fix them asap!

v11.7: Communities Update, changed the new search bar on communities page to resemble the old one. The search bar still doesn't work on these pages yet for some reason. Blog view icons fixed. v13.0: The icons change should now have a working patchfix! BIG THANK YOU to arcadian-asgardian for sending me the screenshots I needed and testing if it worked. + Minor tweak, communities button resized to fit the rest of the icons better v13.2: Mini fixes now that I have better access to the new changes! Communities icon re-centered, usernames nudged back into place.

V13.5 & v13.7: Nuked the Go Premium button - Re-positioned the search bar on search pages v13.10: Changed a lot of the new look for replies - it's not perfect yet mind. Small bug with the "..." menu moving to the left with shorter replies. Looks a lot more like the old replies section though! Made it possible to remove the reply to reply button just search for "NEW Replies UI" in the userstyle and remove the /* */ around "display: none" OR use Ublock to block the element! v14.1: Reverted the "Original Poster" border + text to look like old version. Edit: Whoops, fixed an issue with showing the timestamps

v13.4: Added a way to fix the communities icon position if you don't have the New Xkit button or have hidden any of the icons. Just remove the highlighted /* */ pair in the code for what you need.

v14.11: Made Premium Perks button available in the bottom left corner for all premium users v15.2: Fixed the Tumblr fuckup AND added a cool new feature that allows you to customise the look of your header & hide the reply-to-replies button if you like, here's how to customise this. Set to "Block" if you want the button/icon visible, Set to "None" if you want it hidden! V15.5: Given labels to options for clarity - now says 'show' or 'hide'!

v15.9: The Boopdate! V16.0: Fixed Search view pages and made them look normal, unfortunately, I can't bring back the dropdown menus for "top"/"All Time" etc - but it should look more like the original now

v16.3: Minor tweaks to make search pages look better

16.10: Fix changes to the notification icons 16.14: Fixed many issues with Tampermonkey Version - including a bug that makes the header go weird when you click on a post, fixed notification icons in small view

16.16: Fixed activity and notifications, they now look like the previous version

16.26: TEMPORARY UPDATE - only changes some aspects of the dashboard - THIS IS FULLY INCOMPLETE AND I AM WORKING ON A FULL FIX FOR THE REST OF THE SITE EDIT: added changes for timestamps!

[witchywcmans]

AGAINST THE LAW. | KEN RYUGUJI

synopsis ━━ after one too many trips to the auto repair shop with your old car, you realize you can focus on your work tasks so much better in the waiting room. but when the head mechanic notices you've been loitering, you recognize him instantly: ken ryuguji. there’s zero chance you’re getting out of this one. (older!draken x f!reader.)

content warnings ━━ missionary position on a motorcycle (hey, this is fiction), cunnilingus + fingering, praise, semi-public sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, pet names (i.e. cherry), mentions loss of virginity in the past, mutual pining, au as helllll, draken is in his late 20s and a mechanic. nsfw (minors + ageless blogs dni).

word count ━━ 5.2k

song inspiration ━━ one for the road, arctic monkeys / one of the girls, the weeknd / fallen star, the neighbourhood

author's note ━━ ok off the bat, I just wanna say this fic was completely inspired by this movie called wait with me. my friends and I like to watch passionflix movies for the laughs, but this one wasn't. well horrible. if you watch it, don't expect oscar-worthy performances, but it was fun and stupid and yeah, it made me think about what if part of this concept was applied to draken when he was older, workin as a mechanic. idk. I'm not caught up on the manga whatsoever so take this as a major au lol

Your car was a piece of shit, but that wasn’t the only reason you ended up sitting in the waiting room at the mechanic’s more than usual. A police officer would call it loitering. You, on the other hand, called it a safe space. For the past couple of weeks, your car had been in and out of the shop due to a faulty ignition sensor that your mechanic couldn’t nail down until your car broke down on the side of the highway. For the third time. Needless to say, it had been a stressful past month. The car issues had been one thing, but then there was all the pressure at work. And for some reason, you began to find comfort in working at the mechanic’s waiting room.

Your work as a journalist was very important to you. A perfectionist at heart, you needed to be in the right zone, the right state of mind, to write. Unfortunately, you weren’t someone who could sit at your desk at home for hours, typing away at the speed of light, and you definitely couldn’t focus at a coffee shop. You tried a plethora of other places. The local park: your laptop died. The library: teenagers still whispered too loud even in the quietest of places. The McDonald's parking lot: you got distracted by your hunger. Nowhere was right … until you were forced to work from your mechanic’s waiting room while he worked on your car. 

Even when your mechanic figured out the issue, you couldn’t help but sneak in through the entrance late mornings and work on your articles. The waiting room was just so … quiet, even more quiet than a library. There was hardly anyone in there besides the retired folk who could wait all day for their car to be fixed. You had a coffee machine at your disposable – not good coffee, but good enough – and a selection of snacks from the vending machine. It was pure bliss. You liked to hole yourself up in the corner, picking out different outfits that would conceal your face enough, and type away until the sun began to set. No one said a word to you. No one batted an eye.

So, as you can see, it was a surprise to you when someone eventually approached you two months into your loitering scheme.

It was just about closing time and you were shoving your laptop in your backpack after sending off another draft to your editor. A pair of feet appeared in front of your chair, and when you looked up at the young mechanic chewing on the end of a toothpick, you knew you were fucked. 

“Toyota,” he said without missing a beat, knowing your car from the top of his head, “ignition sensor, right?”

You paused, sliding on your backpack. Could you make a break for it? “Um … correct.”

“That was fixed weeks ago,” he said, slapping a dirty rag on his shoulder, car keys dangling from the other hand. 

Your mouth went completely dry. How the fuck could you explain this without coming off as a total weirdo? Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack for dear life. This was so embarrassing.

Before you could reply, the young mechanic gestured to the back door with his chin. “Follow me,” he said. “Boss wants to talk to ‘ya.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Still fiddling with your backpack straps, you knew there was no choice but to follow this guy. He led you through the back door and into the main workshop area of the shop. There were some cars left on a few lifts, ready to be inspected tomorrow, and the shelves packed with parts seemed to be in disarray. Besides that, there was no one in here but you, the young mechanic, and whoever this “boss” was still working in the back of the shop. You had never met the owner of the shop before; you typically worked with your mechanic and no one else.

You took down the hood that you’d been wearing today. There was no use in hiding your face now.

“Here she is, boss,” the man beside you said, still twirling those keys. “Can I go home now?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the boss replied, hidden behind the huge motorcycle he was working on. “Good work today.”

The younger man left, the bell above the office door jingling, and now it was just two: you and this so-called boss you’d never met. You stood there in silence, hands fidgeting with anxiety, as you waited for the boss to say something. From behind the motorcycle, all you could see was a flash of blonde hair and smoke puffing out into the dingy air. It smelled like motor oil and cigarettes back here.

You lifted your foot – maybe it was time to try and sprint out – but then a deep voice entered the work space.

“You know that loitering is against the law, right?”

That voice … it was familiar, but you couldn’t put a pin on it. And then, the boss was standing up, and you saw the tuft of blonde hair slicked back, the shaved sides on his head. That infamous dragon tattoo still on his left temple. The little hoop on his left ear was accompanied by a few other small piercings. He was still the same height – over six feet – but had grown some muscle. His hands were calloused from all those years of fighting, and now, from heavy labor. And those eyes … they were still as stormy and dark as the first day you saw him in school.

This wasn’t just embarrassing. This was mortifying.

“C’mon, Cherry,” Draken said, instantly recognizing you and your old nickname, “you know you can’t loiter in my shop.”

Cherry. You hadn’t been called that since … well, since high school. Your classmates hadn’t started calling you that because of a specific physical trait. To your face, you were told the nickname was for your quick skill of tying a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue. You had been the best, after all. But unbeknownst to you, the nickname came from when Mikey Sano, the infamous former leader of the Tokyo Manji Gang, popped your cherry.

You hadn’t even liked Mikey at the time. You were just sweet sixteen, and he was a year older, and you had assumed it would be better for your first to be someone with experience. Unfortunately, Mikey Sano had no experience. The sex had been awkward and terrible, as most first times between teenagers are, but at least you could say that you lost your virginity to the leader of Toman. Your eyes had always been on someone else, though. Someone who you had been too nervous to talk to, who you had only shared just a few interactions with. You never had a crush on Mikey as a teenager; you had always liked –

“Draken,” you said finally, shock lining your voice. Your eyes formed into wide saucers. It had been so long, and he was here. This whole time. Right under your nose. How surprised did you look right now?

He chuckled, wiping his hands off on a rag. The cigarette dangling from his lips was plucked out, and he stabbed it into an ashtray. “Don’t look so surprised.”

Oh, so you did look that shocked to see him.

He threw the tool he’d been using on a bench and stepped around the bike. “I really don’t go by Draken anymore,” he continued, sitting down on the rusted motorcycle, stretching his legs out. “Just call me, Ken.”

You were speechless. Were you breathing right now? You had to admit … you still found him to be handsome. He always had been. God, you were obsessed with him in high school, but always hid your crush in the shadows. Not even your friends knew about it, but you’d made it obvious, even if you didn’t know it. And now … he’d gotten better with age. The lines underneath his eyes told a story, as well as the scars etched into his veiny forearms. He could have more that you couldn’t see underneath the tattoos on his arms. Your mouth was so dry from staring at him that you had to lick the corners of your lips.

“Ken,” you said in a single breath, lacing your hands together in front of your body. You hadn’t moved from your spot, even when he was looking at you so casually. “I’m so sorry for loitering. Please, don’t call the cops on me. Or something. I have a reason –”

“Me? Call the police?” He laughed again, and it was just like how you remembered. “Do you know me at all, Cherry?”

Once you found the courage to breathe again, you stepped forward. Then another. And another. “I guess I don’t,” you shrugged, still playing with your hands. “I guess I just knew of you.”

“And I knew of you, all those years ago.” He smiled like you two were in on a secret. The rag that had been in his hands was tossed onto his left shoulder. He was wearing a pair of grey coveralls stained with oil, but the top half was unzipped and tied around his waist, leaving him in just a white tank top on his torso, which hugged his muscles so nicely. “So, tell me then. What’s the reason for your loitering?”

This had to be the most words shared between you two than all those years at school together. You thought about pinching yourself, just to check if this was all part of an elaborate dream. Or nightmare, depending on how it ended.

“Um …” You rubbed the back of your neck, blushing slightly. “Well, you see … the waiting room at your shop is very … quiet.”

His brow raised. “So I’ve been told.” He stared you down. “C’mon, out with it.”

“You’re going to make fun of me.”

“I will not.”

“Yes, you will.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because we went to school together!”

“Oh, you know that means noth –”

“I’m a journalist and I write my articles better in your waiting room,” you finally answered, crossing your arms over your chest. “There. I said it.”

Draken couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He knew he promised, but the giggles bubbled up inside him, forcing themselves to emerge. You looked at him incredulously, blinking too fast. All you wanted right now was to crawl into a hole and be left alone. You had to find a new mechanic after this.

“You said you wouldn’t make fun of me,” you sighed.

He waved his hand as his laughter died down. “I’m not. I promise.” Finally, his shoulders sagged again and he stood up. “I think it’s really cool that you … like my waiting room so much.”

You found your lips pulling into a smile at the same time as him. The tension broke and you felt your dimples crease. “I also like all the little snacks in the machine.”

“And the coffee?” He added.

You shrugged. “Could use some work.”

Draken laughed again, and just the sound of it made butterflies form in your stomach. You never had such a reaction to someone laughing before. What was wrong with you?

He stuck his hands in the front pockets of his coveralls. “It’s … really nice to see you again, Cherry.”

You mimicked his actions, instead sliding your hands into the back pockets of your jeans. “You too, Ken.”

“I won’t bust you for loitering, by the way. Even if it is against the law,” he chuckled under his breath, whipping the rag off his shoulder once again. “Come over here. Let me show you what I’m working on.”

His tone was so casual, as if years hadn’t passed between you two, as if this wasn’t the most you talked in years. You set your backpack down and approached him in front of the bike. Your fingers ran over the slope of the seat, all new despite the rusty exterior of the motorcycle. “That’s new leather,” he informed you. “Feel free to test it out. I need someone else’s butt on this thing so I know if I chose a good material.”

You giggled, all light and flirty. You simply couldn’t help it, especially when he looked at you with those dark eyes, the corners creasing when he smiled. Without missing a beat, you sat down on the side of the bike, like he had minutes ago, and looked up at him. He was tall, but from this seat, he was even taller. 

He pointed to the wheel of the bike, and then the headlight. “I just started replacing the …” His voice drowned out as you simply focused on his lips. His mouth quirked as he explained what he fixed so far on the bike. You watched his finger dance around the bike, taking in the rough exterior of his hands up close. They were so much bigger now, amongst other things –

“So how’s that seat?”

You blinked, bringing yourself out of your horny stupor. “Oh, um – comfy. Very comfy.” You cleared your throat. “So … is this for a customer?”

“It’s mine. This is a personal project,” he explained, leaning slightly to the left, closer to you. “I wouldn’t be working on anything this late except if it was for me.”

His eyes were on you again, drinking you in as you sat on the bike. He placed his hand on the fuel tank, so close to yours. Your stomach was definitely doing flip-flops now, especially when you noticed the way his eyes raked down your figure. You wished you’d chosen something better to wear, something other than a pair of jeans and a cropped hoodie, but you’d only expected to be getting work done in the waiting room today. Not to be confronted by your old school crush. But it looked like it didn’t matter to him. The way he was looking at you … it felt like you were naked.

“It really is nice to see you again,” he said, voice just slightly above a whisper. His stance changed and he moved to stand between your legs.

You bit your lip for a moment. “You already said that.”

“You’re right. Uh … I …” He looked down at his hands, flexing them, breaking his nerves. “You just … look very pretty … sitting on my bike.”

You looked down at yourself. The way you sat with your legs spread wide was anything but attractive, and it wasn’t like you were wearing a cute, little dress. “I do?”

But when you lifted your stare again, his face was so much closer to yours. He was leaning down now, bracing two hands on the leather seat, and trying to pretend like he wasn’t inhaling your perfume. You just smelled … so good. Like strawberries and apples and … cherries. Red, ripened cherries. And the way you were sitting on that seat, eyes wide and cheeks blushing from being caught earlier. Fuck, it reminded him of the first time he saw you in high school. He had been a horny teenager, of course, but the way he saw you tie that cherry stem with your tongue … you were the first person he ever jerked off to the thought of. He had never made a move on you – ever – but at this moment, he was glad. Because things would’ve been different, and you never would’ve ended up loitering at his shop, and you never would’ve been sitting so pretty on his bike, all these years later.

“I just …” He trailed off, words failing him, as he lifted a hand to skim it over your jawline. “You can tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t. You wouldn’t. Your eyes simply batted up at him, leaning into his touch when his fingers caressed your cheek. Your skin immediately flushed. You were so soft, and warm, and god, did his skin prickle when he touched you. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” He muttered, voice gravely. You nodded instantly, and his thumb went to trace the outline of your lips. “I had always been … jealous that Mikey got to you first.”

Had your feelings in high school been reciprocated and you didn’t even know it? You licked at the corners of your lips, your tongue quickly flicking his thumb in the process. “You were?” You asked, already feeling yourself getting wet from just him tracing your lips. “I … never really liked Mikey anyways.” You then shook your head. “It feels silly to talk about this so many years later –”

Draken turned your face back to his, looking into your eyes sternly. “You never liked Mikey,” he said, point blank, pressing his thumb onto your bottom lip.

Without hesitation, you wrapped your lips around his thumb, swirling your tongue around the fingertip. You shook your head at his question.

His breath hitched. Just the sight of your lips around his thumb had him adjusting himself in his pants. He could feel his cock start to swell with need, causing him to mumble a soft, “Fuck,” under his breath.

You weren’t just wet now. You were soaked.

You slipped your mouth off his thumb, leaving a tiny trail of spit. His face immediately got closer, his lips grazing yours. He could tell they were soft, and even your chapstick smelled like cherries. God, how could he be so hard already? “I liked you back when we were teenagers,” you confessed, reaching out to hook your thumbs in the belt loops on his coveralls. “I was too scared to say anything, and Mikey … he’d just been there. Right place at the right time. We really didn’t feel anything for each other.”

Your words stirred something within him, something more than jealousy. Was it regret? The fact that he could’ve had you, all those years ago, if he’d just manned up and asked. He could’ve fought people all day, but when it came to asking out the girl he liked, he’d sat back, let his best friend pop your cherry. It should’ve been him. Fuck, it could’ve been him. 

His lips pressed to yours instantly, needing to taste the sweetness on your lips. His tongue darted out, swiping at that cherry flavor, and he moaned. Actually moaned. Draken wasn’t known to be weak for anyone, but you … you had always been a different story. You pulled him in closer by his belt loops, tipping your face up as he leaned over you. His mouth devoured yours, his tongue slipping past your lips once again to explore your mouth. He gripped the edge of the seat, his other hand cradling your jaw, and you wanted him so much closer. If he just put his knee between your legs, you could –

There it was. He did it, placing his knee right in the perfect spot. You bucked your hips up, setting a slow grind against his knee as he kissed you with feverish intent. Moans fell from your lips and into the kiss, making the tent in his pants grow bigger every passing second. He was so fucking hard now, and he needed more of you. He would have more of you.

“No, stop,” he muttered, breaking the kiss and moving his knee away. You huffed with disappointment, wanting that delicious friction once again, but when you opened your eyes, he was staring at you with purpose. “Please, let me taste you.”

You nodded dumbly, eyes blown out with lust. All you could say was, “Okay.”

In another life, you would’ve said something endearing, or maybe even hit him with a little dirty talk. But you absolutely couldn’t right now. Your head was swimming, the image of him unzipping your jeans and taking them off felt like it was out of a fever dream. Is this what it felt like to drown? No, you were breathing – just about – and Draken was throwing your pants off to the side, kneeling before you. Your legs spread wide as you sat on the bike. Surely, there could’ve been a better place to do this, but the way he was staring at your soaked panties, pushing them to the side to take in your pussy … you knew there was no stopping him. This was just his first course of the night.

His tongue dove between your wet folds, drinking you in like a glass of lemonade on a hot summer’s day. You knew you were done for when his arms wrapped around your legs, holding them apart, giving himself better access to one thing he’d craved for years. He rolled his tongue over your swollen clit, enjoying the sounds that slipped out of your mouth. You muttered obscenities, bucked your hips without thinking, pulled on his slicked-back hair. Anything to give you more friction on your precious, aching clit.

He dragged his tongue down, pushing it inside your warmth, collecting the arousal and groaning like a man starved. Fucking his tongue into you, he angled his nose to brush your clit, and you just about mewled. You had spent so many years either having mediocre sex or stressing over this stupid job, when this – this man you had been in love with in school – was here the whole time, just dreaming about the day he could eat your pussy. So much time wasted, so many fake orgasms, while Ken Ryuguji owned your favorite auto shop, so close to you and right under your nose. 

You were pretty sure the seat on this bike had to have been ruined. Draken was turning you into a wet mess, making your hips buck against his face. His lips wrapped your beloved clit, sucking and pulling, needing more – so much more – of you. Slipping two fingers inside you, he pumped them fast. It didn’t take long for his fingers to curl and find that sweet spot that had your core trembling around him. He didn’t know what he’d do if you came on his face. Honestly, he’d probably cum in his pants on the spot.

“C’mon … c’mon … you can cum in my m–mouth –” He was practically begging, his voice muffled from deep within your thighs. “Tastes so, so good … fuck, Cherry, fuck –”

You couldn’t stop yourself, couldn’t even think about anything but the way his tongue lapped at your clit, before you were cumming on his tongue, your arousal smearing all over his lips. He moaned the second he got just a hint of your essence, burying his face more into your legs. You tasted better than candy, than cherries, than menthol cigarettes. He could spend forever between these thighs, drinking you in and listening to your desperate moans.

Once your body stopped shaking, he dragged his tongue one last time through your folds, making sure he didn’t miss a drop. You yelped from the overstimulation, and when you opened your eyes, he was rising from in between your legs. His licked at your slick still staining his lips, bringing your mouth to his again, letting you taste yourself. Your hands fisted into his shirt, downright desperate for more of him. As if reading your thoughts, he pulled back.

“I know it’s not ideal, given the place we’re in, but …” He cradled your face in both in his hands, as if you were just a baby bird. “Can I fuck you, Cherry?”

You nodded without hesitation, already drunk on his touch. You weren’t exactly sure how he planned on doing this. I mean … you two were in the dirty workshop area of an auto repair shop. This wasn’t exactly the best place to have sex. But then he was adjusting your position on the motorcycle, laying your head down by the handlebar and pulling your legs on both sides of the seat, your ass resting nicely in the curve. His hands were quick to roll off your panties.

“Ken,” you called out, sitting up a little and dragging your hand up. His white tank bunched up at the waist. “Wanna see more of you …”

Draken was so goddamn hard in his pants, his cock throbbing with the anticipation of being inside you, but you were just so pretty and he was putty in your hands. He let your palms explore him, lifting his tank top up so you could see what the fabric had been concealing. He’d really filled out since school – his arms were toned, his abdomen more defined. He looked like the statue of Apollo, all lean and muscled, but with just the right amount of grit. You liked that he never got his dragon tattoo removed (although, that would’ve been very painful), and that his piercings remained the same. Everything about him seemed untouched, but he’d just gotten better with age. Just the sight of him made your mouth water.

You leaned back down on the bike, bringing him down with you. Your lips pressed against his hungrily, and he was so, so tempted to slip his tongue into your mouth, when he felt his cock hard as a rock in his pants, aching and pulsating. His mouth broke away from yours, and he whispered, quite hopelessly, “I’m so sorry, but I really, really need to be inside you or my dick is going to explode.”

A chuckle escaped your lips, and just the sound of it made Draken smile. You nodded, urging him to continue, and he quickly unzipped the bottom half of his coveralls. He took his cock out: it was long, curved, pink at the tip, and leaking precum on the shop floor. All the more reason to be inside you; he couldn’t have his mechanics seeing that on the floor and wondering what he was doing after hours. He pulled a condom out from his wallet and slid the ribbed rubber on. Lifting both your legs onto his shoulders, your ass was almost rising off the seat and he positioned himself between your thighs, noticing the way your slick was smeared all over his seat. He grunted at the sight of it, slamming his cock into your without thinking.

You cried out, feeling him so deep so quickly. He held your legs up, leaning down as far as he could, and muttered, “Fuck, I’m sorry – so sorry – just … needed to be inside you. Needed to fuck you on my bike.”

You hand came up to cup his chin for a moment. “S’okay,” you promised, “just fuck me like you should’ve done years ago, Draken.”

He knew he told you to call him Ken, but just the nickname falling your lips in such a filthy manner had him groaning. Draken pulled out of you until only the tip remained, and then pounded his cock back inside you. You keened, trying to close your legs, but he held them up by his shoulders. He set a fast pace inside you, unable to keep his moans at bay, and slipped one hand off your leg to snake his fingers up your hoodie, pushing it up to your chin. Pulling your breasts out from your bra, his eyes clouded and played with your sensitive nipples. “So good,” he muttered, teeth sinking into his bottom lip for a moment. “Feels so, so good … needed you for so long, Cherry.”

“I know, I know, Draken,” you whimpered, locking your arms around his neck to bring his face closer to yours, your thighs now curling against your chest. Your back ached against the seat and your legs burned from the uncomfortable position, but you wouldn’t dare push him away, not when he was filling you like this. 

With his lips just grazing yours, he tugged on your lip, making you moan, and he fucked into you harder. Your nails were now dragging down his shoulders, leaving marks that he’d think about forever. “Fuck, I’m s’deep … so deep inside you. You’re so warm, so wet – fuck, I’m so close already.”

“Wait for me,” you begged, sighing as his cock curved against your sweet spot. “Wanna cum with you, Draken.”

“I know, Cherry,” he grunted, his pace relentless. Fuck, this was all he ever needed, all he wanted to do, forever. It felt like you were made to take him. “Touch yourself f’me. Cum together … we’ll cum together.”

You nodded quickly, moving your hand in between your bodies, finding your puffy clit so easily. A whine escaped your lips as you fingers rubbed little circles, getting you so close already. You just needed a little push. Draken was slamming into you, his breaths fanning your cheeks, and when he felt your legs start to shake, your walls clenching just a little, he almost died. “Such a good girl …” He cooed, nose brushing yours. “Touching yourself f’me so nicely … fuck, you take me so well … yes, yes, you’re so close. Just like that.”

Your fingers rubbed a little faster, and you knew your orgasm was imminent. With him pushing into you, filling you completely, and the stimulation on your clit … you felt your lips purse into an O-shape. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Draken. I’m gonna … fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

“I know, I know,” he groaned. “Fuck – gonna cum too. That’s a good girl … doing so good – fuck –”

His release came first. He had been close for so long, Draken was surprised he’d been able to hold back. He came with a loud groan, spilling himself into the condom, and it was only seconds later that your jaw went slack with pleasure. His name fell from your lips in a whimper, and you kept rubbing that aching clit through your orgasm, going tight around his cock. He wouldn’t stop fucking into you, even when your orgasm subsided, needing to feel you clench around him for just a moment longer. The way he filled you wasn’t like any other. You never wanted to feel empty again. You couldn’t, not when you knew how Ken Ryuguji felt inside you.

When you both eventually stopped trembling, he gently placed your legs back down on the sides of the bike. They felt sore and limp, but that was the last thing on your mind. You opened your eyes at the same time, and you both couldn’t help but laugh at the position you were in, the absurdity of it all. The workshop smelled like gas and oil, and you were surrounded by broken-down cars. But you two had fucked like you were in a bedroom, on a soft mattress, rather than a motorcycle. You hand went over your mouth to suppress your giggles.

Draken smiled with you, and then removed your hand, liking the way you laughed. “I know it’s been a long time coming, but … can I take you out some night?”

You couldn’t stop smiling even if you tried. “I’d like that, Ken.”

His cock had gone soft, but he was still nestled inside you, basking in your warmth. Draken wished he could be inside you forever, with your fingers playing with his hair. He would give anything for this moment to last, but he knew this position on the bike had to be the most uncomfortable for you, and he needed to take off this condom. He chuckled under his breath.

“Also, in case you were wondering,” he said, lips pulling into a smirk. “You can loiter around my waiting room anytime.”

[orbitariums]

side note i know this is more of a patrick trope but i've been thinking a lot about older domlike art and i rarely see anything depicting art in this light, nevertheless a dom art... so we needed this. smut with a bit of degradation and an age gap. art is sorta mean and sleazy muahahahaha. and yn is down bad and detrimentally horny. super quickly written and a mess and just word vomit tbh, just h word today so why not

dilfy blue collar art who's super stressed because of the auto repair shop he runs but that all goes away once you're bent over the hood of the red camaro chevy that's been in the shop for a week now and he's sliding into your wet hole slowly, bottoming out and completing with a slow, raspy, "fuuuck" that sets your insides on fire and makes you clench around him. you're wetting him even more now and he can see and feel your arousal drench him further as your tight pussy grips around him.

"oh fuck, you like that don't you?" it's almost like he's replying to your pussy, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

"yesss," you mewled, your cheek flush against the hood of the car and your tits splayed out before you, unashamed of just how much you wanted this, and how clear it was right now. when you came in days ago, dressed head to toe in pink, sporting fresh goddess locs and heels far too high for an establishment like this, art was but a grumpy, slightly disheveled car mechanic. despite the blue jumpsuit and the smidge of dirt against his cheek, there was still something sexy about him, something you couldn't put a finger on. maybe it was the rasp in his voice, or the twinkle of his tired blue eyes, or the slow maneuvered confidence with which he walked and talked, the kind only a man of his age could possess. someone sure of himself entirely, and tired of the bullshit.

you'd of course called your dad to make sure you weren't getting overcharged, but you flirted with art nonetheless. and it took him way too long to catch on — probably because his mind was on a million other things and he didn't feel like he was in any position to be flirted with by someone of your prowess.

it didn't necessarily click until your boobs were basically on top of the service desk and you were batting your lashes up at him, reaching out to grab at his bicep with a curious cock of your head and asking if he went to the gym, or if he was this strong from working on cars all day. asked him if it got boring, if he had anyone special keeping him company. complimenting his slight massachusetts accent when he laughed and said: "no, no special lady, if that's what you're asking me. just a bunch of idiot employees." told you since you're so sweet he'd throw in a free car polish for you. ignored the bulge in his pants tightening when you gasped: "really?!" with wide, doe-like eyes.

he'd thought about it more often than he should've — jerked off to the thought of you right when he got home (and in the bathroom at work before that), picturing this very moment. and now that he was inside you, he knew his hand would never do — he knew this was a problem. but for now, he allowed himself to throb inside you at the sound of your voice, purring "mhm" as he started to push in and out, slow and steady. you were so wet, it didn't take too much effort.

"just fuckin' slides right in," he muttered under his breath, letting the pace quicken, his hips starting to snap against yours, reveling in the sound your ass made clapping against him. "you like getting fucked like this?"

"mhm," you squeaked, unable to respond properly because of the speed of his thrusts now, how deep he was inside you, making you stir.

"yeah?" it wasn't lost on you that he'd simply pulled his cock out through his jeans, while you were completely naked before him, and it made you squeeze around him harder. "fuck," art groaned, holding your hips briefly with his hands to level himself while he started to slam into you, chuckling to himself at the screech you let out. you met his eyes as you turned to look at him. the pout on your lips was nearly unbearable— he felt like he was in college again and had to stop himself from coming too soon. he slapped against your ass and leaned over, his chest flush against your back so he could whisper in your ear.

"you like this, huh? like getting fucked like a dirty little slut in my shop like this? on top of a customer's car? that what you wanted this whole time?"

"yes, yes, daddy, that's what i wanted," you weren't even trying to be snarky, he was fucking you too good for that.

art groaned loudly, burying his head in your neck for a moment, in disbelief at how much you were like putty in his hands, how easy it was to get you to submit like a little slut for him.

"showing your fucking tits every time you came in here. flirting with me in front of my employees so i can't do nothin' about it. making me jerk off to you in the fucking bathroom," his hips snapped harder every sentence, like he was punishing you for each instance of your unabashed flirting.

"ooh, fuck," you squirmed beneath him, pushing your hips back in tandem with the harsh slaps of his thrusts. "i'm sorry daddy, just wanted — mmm — jus' wanted you."

"wanted me to fuck you, is that it? hmm? needed to get fucked?" he probed, slowing down his pace just so he could hear the desperation in your voice when you responded,

"yes! needed to get fucked by you. o-other boys can't fuck me like—like you can. boys my age."

"yeah, that's right, baby. they can't fuck you like i can. they don't know what to do with your sweet little pussy," art nodded, smirking down at the sight of your ass flush with his thighs.

you nearly screamed when art's fingers met your clit while he was still inside you, your legs shaking behind you. he was fucking you so fast and hard you thought they might give out.

"don't come until i say so," art leaned over you again, his lips flush against your ear, kissing your neck softly — a stark contrast to the way he was fucking into you with abandon.

"please-"

"no," art grunted, his hand coming around your neck to lift it up so you could look at him. "you don't come until i say so. keep begging for it."

so you did.

and when he finally told you: "that's it baby, you can come. come all over this cock, you've been such a good girl," you did just that, cumming all over him while you saw white, and maybe some stars. you were barely coming down by the time he came, pulling out and letting it paint your ass cheeks.

despite being in a car shop, art was thorough with aftercare, holding you in place against the hood of the car for a few moments until the shaking stopped, and cleaning you up with fresh towels.

your car had been finished since last week.

[tuesdayiminlove]

happy disaster

rockstar!eddie x fem!waitress!reader (imperfect for you universe)

summary: how you two meet

author's note: an ask about how they met came earlier today and i couldn't help myself lol. not proofread sorry! also this could be read as a standalone! but u can read the og part here! hope u guys enjoy lmk what yall think xoxo

word count: 3.1k

You’ve had your fair share of jobs throughout the last few years, trying to make ends meet while also being a consumer of the various cute things you see when you’re at the mall with your friends. One time (and this may have been one of the more miserable experiences), you worked as a receptionist for an auto shop (get it now?)).

Needless to say, you were at the bottom of the hierarchy at that whole joint. When you weren’t answering calls and taking hyperspecific notes to not confuse the actual mechanics, you were practically shunned from the moment you stepped up from your seat and onto the street to eat your lunch at the bench outside. And whenever your lips did part to make even the simplest of comments, the men either laughed at you or made you feel stupid (“You guys hired me! Clearly I’m not a fucking idiot!” you dreamt of saying, but you were just never one for the dramatics and confrontation of it all).

And, the worst part, on days you couldn’t go into work, none of the other receptionists would switch with you.

(“Sorry, babe, I just can’t,” you remember Joey Warner staying after taking a drag of his cig, coughing mere seconds later from not exhaling immediately. You wanted to take the cigarette between your fingers, toss it down, and squish it with your shoes. You really needed to pick up your brother from school, and no one at the shop is ever up Joey’s ass since he’s a guy.

“Oh. It’s alright.” You curse yourself and your lack of ever wanting conflict, because you’re more than positive that this boy deserves a beating for not taking the reins for an hour just so that your poor baby brother won’t have to wait on the cold sidewalk for your mom, who is forty minutes late.

You walk back into the shop without another word.)

So. yeah, call this mechanic memory useless, but now it's clear that your jobs have been absolute dog shit in the past.

But being a waitress at Carly’s Diner, in comparison, takes the cake in the coworker camaraderie contest.

Like, now, you’re enjoying your break with Carrie, splitting half a cupcake that Jim managed to slip into your guys’ hands when he was pulling the fresh desserts from the oven. You two have turns at it, taking nimble bites from the vanilla confection and wiping rainbow sprinkles off your uniform in the process. Your nose blends in the smell of the cupcake and Carrie’s sweet perfume, leaving a little bubble where you can hardly tell what the boys in the kitchen are whipping up right now.

Judy passes through the doors in a haste, heaving before setting her eyes on you two. The notepad in her hands is crumpled up and her hair looks all over the place, eyes bewildered as she stalks towards you and Carrie, a complan ready to spill from her red lips. 

“This fucking couple on table three is driving me nuts! Nuts!” She slumps her back against the wall and swipes a piece of frosting off the cupcake before sticking it in her mouth, sighing in relief.

“Hey,” Carrie swats Judy’s hand, “watch the cupcake!” She places it behind her back possessively.

Carrie is nearly six months pregnant and craving every sweet treat Jim has to offer in between tables and shifts. It’s a miracle that she let you split the dessert with her just now, “And table three, you said?”

Judy ignores her earlier words and nods. “I swear to God, I don’t understand your goddamn generation and why you heaps are so fucking rude. I can't do this.”

“Don’t group us with those weirdos,” says Carrie. “And I’d like to see them be rude to a pregnant woman. Protect this,” she hands you the cupcake carefully, looking at you in the eyes with intent, “and I mean it.”

Her voice is so determined, you decide that you don’t want your fair share of bites anymore. You nod dutifully.

“I got this, Jude.” She swipes the notepad from the older woman’s hands.

And with that, Carrie is kicking herself off the wall and out of the kitchen, into the main part of the diner. You silently pray for the couple that now has to deal with a moody and pregnant Carrie. 

See? Now, this is what you mean! No mechanic or receptionist at Billy’s Auto Parts will ever be willing to face an alleged-annoying couple for their coworker. Sometimes, waitressing can take the light and happiness out of you once you’re clocked out, but at least you’re surrounded by the half-decent people in your town.

“You’re a lifesaver!” Judy calls out with a wicked laugh. “Gotta love that girl… hey can I have a bite?”

You frown, knowing you’re already unable to say no when Judy is stressed and you know for sure that the confection in your hand is enough to sweeten even the most stressed—Jim just has that magic to him. “Yeah, but don’t make the dent obvious.”

You think you’re gonna spend the rest of your break with Judy, hiding in between the two walls in the corner of the kitchen until Carrie comes back. You lick a small sprinkle off the cupcake, ready to ask the woman if her daughter won the spelling bee that she’s been freaking out over all week, when the office door swings open and Lenny’s head peeks out, eyes going to the first two waitresses that he can spot.

“Hey!” he shouts yours and Judy’s last names to steal the attention. “Can one of you guys go out and get Evan? Her daughter’s principal is on the phone.” He wipes his sweat-stained brow and doesn’t wait for a response. “Thanks,”

You and Judy look back at each other. And immediately you know that you’re not going to make Judy be the one.

“I got it,” you say with a soft smile. “... You’re gonna eat the rest of this are you?”

She laughs and swipes the cupcake. “For you, my love, I wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you.”

You blow her a kiss, already making your way to the double doors of the kitchen, straightening out your ponytail and getting your waitressing voice ready (patient and respectful, garnering the best tips you can try to get). Your eyes give one swipe across the diner, catching Carrie’s eye as she talks to the couple sitting down beneath her, holding her precious bump to make a show of it. She gives you a sly wink and you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing.

Afternoon rush makes it hard to spot Evan at first. His smaller stature makes it even harder to spot him in the crowd, but your eyes eventually zone in on him smiling at customer that is blocked by a family getting up to leave. You smile upon finding him and make your way to the table.

As you get closer, you finally notice who Evan is speaking two, and your brows pinch quizzically. The man is hunched, looking over the menu with sunglasses adorning his face despite his table not even facing the sun. His jet black curls curve around the lines of his face, making his features harder to notice. It almost reminds you of the movies you watch late at night when you’re munching on diner leftovers on your couch, the runaway criminal stopping for a bite to eat while trying to flee the state. 

“Evan,” you say softly, not wanting to draw attention to yourself but you know it's already bound to happen since you’re switching places with him. “Lenny’s got your daughter’s school on the phone. They’re asking for you.”

The man’s eyes widen. “Great,” he mutters, “What do you think it is this time?” “I hope she said ‘fuck you’ to that little pipsqueak again,” you joke, seeing the anxiety in Evan’s eyes at not knowing why he’s receiving a call during work. You remember the first time he got called to his daughter’s school from work due to her cursing out an older boy: the entire kitchen was laughing—Evan included—as they all wished him good luck with that meeting. “Can’t be worse than that.”

He sighed, turning back to the customer, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m going to hand you off to her for a bit.” He says your name to further introduce you two. "Thank you for your patience.”

And for the first time up close, you look at the sunglassed man and smile. Perfect teeth flash at you, mildly astonishing you at how cute he looked when he did so. It’s not abnormal for you to find a customer attractive (it’s human, we’re human), but you don’t think a smile has ever made you secretly stop you from breathing for a second. 

Flustered, you’re clumsy as you and Evan switch spots. He pats your shoulder one last time, muttering a thank you as he rushes to the back. You follow his movements and frown for a split second and forget your task at hand. You hope his daughter is okay. You hope the kitchen will be laughing in t-minus three minutes over the fact that little baby-Evan gained a new curse word under her belt.

“Sorry,” you say, looking back at the man. You find him looking directly at you, knowing only because of how his head is positioned. His sunglasses are too tinted to even see a little beneath. “Can I start you off with anything to drink?”

“Oh—uh, yeah,” he stammers, before clearing his throat and offering a crooked smile. “Coffee, please. Milk and two sugars.”

Your handwriting matches the pace as he speaks. You hold a smile on your face to keep up pleasantries. “And have you decided what you would like to eat?”

“Not yet,” he admits, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the menu. “Kind of hard to focus.” There’s a pause before he adds, a little quieter, “The menu’s got a lot of… options.”

You raise an eyebrow, tucking your notepad in the small pocket of your apron. You turn your head to see if anyone else is making coffee right now. You see Carrie there, and silently celebrate when she’s already staring at you. “All good. I’ll get your coffee ready and be right back–”

“—Wait.”

Your brows pinch, confused. “Yes?” His hand rubs the back of his neck, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “I was just, um… wondering if you had a favorite on the menu? Like… if there’s something you always recommend. Or—” He hesitates again, “Or like your favorite?”

You don’t know why he's so flustered. You don’t know why it makes you flustered. For a beat, you just look at him. Is he… trying to flirt with me? The thought isn’t unwelcome, but you certainly weren’t expecting it, or really believing it just yet. You tilt your head, trying your best to keep your expression neutral.

“Well,” you say eventually, “We have an all day breakfast, and that’s my favorite part of the menu, and I get it a lot. It’s on the next page.”

You wait for him to turn the menu, but he continues to stare back up at you, mouth agape.

“... Is that something you’re interested in?” you ask, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” he replies immediately. And then, more composed, “Yeah, I can be in the mood for breakfast.” He finally flips the page, and his head tilts up to yours fleetingly.

“Great! Our cook, Jim, makes the best strawberry and white chocolate pancakes, so that’s what I would recommend from the breakfast menu.”

His lips tug into a small, bashful smile. “Sounds perfect. I’ll take that.”

“Perfect!” you grin, scribbling his order onto your notepad. “I’ll take this to the kitchen, and have your coffee ready soon!” You flash him one more look before retreating back towards the kitchen. You finally get to look back at Carrie, who is still looking at you, this time arms crossed.

“How was the couple?” you ask when you’re about to pass her.

“Annoyed them enough to leave.” She grabs your wrist, and you just dodge the yelp that wants to escape your lips. “Do you know who you were just talking to?”

You freeze. Her grip is firm, her expression serious enough to make you hesitate. Your gaze darts briefly toward the dining area, but you stop yourself from looking back at him. The last thing you want to do is risk being caught gawking.

“I... no?” you whisper, unsure of how to answer. But even as you say it, you feel a subtle heat creeping up your neck. The weight of eyes on your back makes your skin prickle, as if the mystery man somehow knows he’s the topic of conversation.

“Why don’t you go check the newspaper in the locker room and get back to me, yeah?” she finally lets her grip go, smirking like she knows something you don’t.

Carrie's words linger repeatedly in your brain as you hesitantly allow yourself to drop off the man’s order, and then to go see whether or not you’re serving a serial killer. 

You slip the stripped paper from your notepad to Colin’s hands. “Table thirteen,” you say in passing as you make the rest of the way to the locker room, not even Judy’s cheerful wave as she smiles with a cupcake still in her hand can stop you from the mission you have decided to go on.

Upon entering the locker room, you gaze zeroes in newspaper lying flat on the bench, its closed pages teasing you with potential revelations about your current customer. You hesitantly flip it over as you come face-to-face with the front headline 

HIT AND DIP: ROCKSTAR EDDIE MUNSON LEAVES IN HASTE AFTER CHICAGO SHOW 

Your eyes widen as they lock onto the grainy photo accompanying the article. There’s no mistaking it. The guy at table thirteen. Eddie Munson. Rockstar. Your customer. 

For the first time, you finally see his eyes. But instead of him taking his sunglasses off to reveal his brown hues, you see them straight on in the form of a camera flashing and printing onto the paper right in front of you. He looks borderline pissed as he’s gripping his guitar and shooing the paparazzi in the background away, the picture managing to catch the split-second that his eyes meet with the camera.

“He’s hot.”

You jump, clutching the newspaper to your chest as you turn to meet eyes with Judy casually leaning over your shoulder with a grin.

“Judy!” you hiss, sighing in relief. 

“What?” she says plainly, “He is.”

“He is also currently Evan’s customer on table thirteen that I now have to serve.”

Judy’s pupil’s dilate. “Oh shit.”

You want to make a joking comment, calling Judy a cougar, but you’re interrupted by Carrie peeking her head in through the door. She looks down at the newspaper in your hands, and then back to your eyes. “Told you,” she says, her smirk from earlier still on her face.

Before you can respond annoyingly, Jim’s voice blares through the back. “Order up!” he shouts. “Waffles for thirteen!”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of its sockets.

“Jesus, do you ever slow down?” Carrie yells out the door.

They hear Jim’s “No!” and fan out back into the kitchen.

“Good luck, my love,” sings Judy.

“Can you ask for an autograph?” asks Carrie. She motions to her belly and gives it a soft pat. “She’ll think I’m real cool!” 

“Ha, ha,” you roll your eyes, already holding the order as you kick the double doors open, passing back into the diner. You try your best to calm your heart as you pour coffee into the kettle, taking sugar from the side of the counter and putting two teaspoons into the mug. You feel eyes on you the entire time, and you don’t need to look up to know whose covered eyes they belong to. 

It’s not every day that you get to serve a goddamn celebrity, so she thinks that everyone should give her a break (she’s specifically talking to her heart—it needs to stop beating so rapidly, making her brain think something is wrong).

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you hold the plate on one hand, and the mug on the other. “Just a customer,” you whisper under your breath, beginning to walk. “Just a ridiculously famous, incredibly good-looking customer who better leave a stunning tip.”

As you approach table thirteen, you notice that Eddie shifts slightly in his seat. One of his legs bounces under the table, and he drums his fingers lightly against the edge of the booth.

You \ set the plate and coffee down in front of him, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Waffles and coffee,” you announce, sliding the plate and mug onto the table with practiced ease. You’re proud that your voice doesn’t shake—too much, anyway.

Eddie leans back, grinning up at you. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Your heart stops. You couldn’t help but think his eyes hold a knowing look, like he knew exactly what went down and now knows that you know exactly who he is.

“Enjoy,” you grin back. 

Behind you, you hear him mutter something under his breath, followed by a quiet groan, and you can’t help but feel a small flutter in your chest that he enjoyed what you recommended to him. 

The rest of the rockstar’s stay goes smoothly. You don’t intend on saying anything to give away what you know, despite it probably already being known, and you're grateful by this normalcy. You refill his coffee, make light conversation (the weather is particularly sunny and pretty today, shining through the windows and letting pretty glow spread through the diner), and take his plate when he’s wiped it clean.

You don’t even think much of his stay, mind already going back to it being a regular customer that deserves no more or less attention than anyone else is supposed to.

(Sure, his smile lingers in your mind a little longer than you’d like to admit—so what if his smile is better than any that you’ve seen, anyway?)

It isn’t until Eddie’s up and left and you trail back to the table to wipe it off, a damp rag in hand, do you notice the wad of cash left in his wake that is definitely worth more than his bill.

Your jaw drops down, staring at it and contemplating what to do with that much of an amount of money in front of you.

Next to it, a folded napkin sits.

Your mind immediately goes to an autograph; that he’s one of those celebrities, and he just couldn’t resist leaving a little something to prove of his appearance.

You’re taken back when you unfold it to see his number scribbled messily onto the fabric. Your fingers shake as you move your thumb to fully read the note that he added at the bottom,

Call me. Please. :)

[magicdustsworld]

𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀(4)

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: A guide on how to properly date your tattooed, big, bad boyfriend.

𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒: Established relationship, slice of life

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Profanity, illness, fluff, mentions of blood, no curse AU, no mentions of y/n.

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟒: 𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇

A/N: ik i haven't posted in a while (in my defence, school is taking up too much of my time to focus on anything else) but I got an off day and this was a quick write up (actually not) jhjhjhs wc - 3.7k. Hope you enjoy <3

Divider credits - @cafekitsune

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟑

It's not usual for Sukuna to fall ill.

However, when he does it’s like all the pathogens known to mankind have taken it upon themselves to infect him.

This time, it isn't so different after all.

Since the break of dawn Sukuna's been awake. Body twisted in an uncomfortable manner under the duvets, the dim flicker of the night lamp proves to be a companion in the otherwise solitary room.

"Fucking hell," He curses under his breath, shifting his position to ease the persistent ache that ripples through his body; his joints, for some reason, seems to have tightened itself to his bones. Slight movement proving to be difficult. While the air conditioner functions properly, a sheen of perspiration aglows his forehead—he swabs the moisture only to meet with another thin layer marring his skin, seconds later. He forces open an eye, trying to contemplate why your figure beside him does seems so fuzzy. No sooner, he can clear the mystery does a wave of shiver runs down his spine. "What the hell is this?"

The question leaves his lips, followed by strange churn of his stomach and on instinct he smacks his hand over his mouth.

The next minutes are blurred. Literally blurred for the brief time as if his body is set on auto-pilot, beckoning him to rise from the bed and walk to the bathroom.

As the expunging liquids leaves his throat and down the toilet does his distinct vision returns. Lips apart, he breaths in copious amount of air while the room seems to spin in a whirl. Once his senses have returned, he reached to flush down the contents only to halt.

Is that... blood?

.

"Temperature 101.6 °F and he threw up in the morning."

Sukuna would rather be anywhere but here.

Sitting in a doctor's cabin with you while the former wouldn't stop with his ridiculous questions. Inadvertently, he rests his scalp against the wall, a searing pain ripping from his chest every once in a while, causing him to jolt as if he's being electrocuted.

"Any other discomfort? Body ache or...?" Shinzo trails off, continuing with the physical examination of his patient.

In response, Sukuna shakes his head negatively. However, you take it upon yourself to be honest, "He does and he coughed through the whole drive."

"Not the whole—"

"Keep your mouth shut." Harshly you rebuke, shooting a scornful glare his way.

His lips curl down, on the verge to retaliate before the notion of it seems indolent. He's already been through a series of blood test and chest X rays since the last thirty minutes, exhausting him beyond relief; no need to add more to the list. Therefore, his mouth forms a thin line.

Shinzo hums, finishing with the check up as he returns to his seat across you. Scribbling down on the prescription, a knock sounds from the door and soon his assistant strides in with a number of reports. While the doctor reads through the files of his current patient, your hypertension manifests itself upon your being when your eyes find your boyfriend.

Awfully muted, his throat must have chipped while he threw up—reason to the unusual bleeding. Shoulders raised in a manner, tints of red stains his skin and the groans that escalates from him whenever he attempts to move just causes you to wince. You chew on your bottom lip, fiddling with the fabric of your jacket as the momentary silence in the room stretches. For too long that this might be the loudest silence, you’ve been in.

"Does he need to be hospitalized?"

"No—"

"I am not talking to you."

Sukuna clicks his tongue, just taking a mental note to give you an earful once all of this shit is over. It's so fucking funny. Oh, for heavens... he is perfectly fine. Well yeah, maybe some coughing fit but he can work through that for the day. No way did you call Kenjaku and call in sick for him. And he allowed that? Allowed you to drag you here as well? Alright, maybe he is sick.

Shinzo sets the files down, "Stage I Pneumonia," He concludes, straightening his posture and continues with the prescription. "No need for hospitalization but I am prescribing an antiviral— Tamiflu. Thirty minutes after breakfast, lunch and dinner for three days. Ibuprofen remains whenever he gets high fever and for the cough..." He pinches the bridge of his nose, ripping the sheet before passing it to you. "There's the Honiitus syrup, he can have 10 ml now. Rest, you know."

You nod, scanning the sheet in your grasp, irises halting on the specific medications. Craning your neck upto him, you ask, "Thank you and anything else?"

"Adequate rest and homemade food and he's good to go."

.

"Don't be difficult now, drink it."

"No."

Sukuna scowls at you and you scowl back. His eyes shifts to the tin medicine cup-cap in your hand filled with the amber coloured liquid which is supposed to heal his sore throat.

Currently, confined inside the four walls of his room, this place is 100 times better than that doctor's cabin and any hospital bed. He is sure just a whole day of sleep will make him back on his feet but you just have to be so... persistent.

"I am not asking, drink it." You extend your hand, bringing the liquid to his lips, only for him to turn his face away.

"And I said no," He spits back, eye twitching as he disregards your terse call. "Get that shit out of my face."

"This is for your own good, Sukuna. Stop acting like a child."

Sukuna only huffs in response, muttering a string of curses under his breath. No way is he letting you win this plus that thing in your hand smells disgusting.

“Absolutely not.”

You heave out loudly, "I don't want to force you."

That draws an almost amused chuckle out of him, he tilts his head—eyes shutting down and mouth clamping with a sound as another wave of nausea overrides him. Once composed, he reopens his eyes, challenge swirling in the crimson hues, "You think you can force me?"

“I don’t think so,” A mirthless smile curves into your own mien, you regard his dare with one of your own. "I know so."

"Sure."

"So are you going to be a good boy and drink it or do I need to make you?"

He scoffs, "Go on and try."

You pause for a second, bringing the cup down, gaze settled on him and for reasons unknown, Sukuna senses trouble. "Remember, you asked for it."

He shuts his eyes, rolling the irises behind the lids. You are just so funny sometimes. To think you can force him? Really? Even in this state, he can easily overpower you without even trying. Pick you up and throw you on the bed without any effort. But just for the jokes and laughs, he will let you get a head start.

In the reverie, he is when your warm palm grazes his jaw.

Here it comes.

Until it doesn't.

There's no hint of strength, no force, nothing as you let your palm trail over his skin. He opens his eyes and good lord's... You are close. Too close for his liking. Not that he is complaining. Of course. You can be closer if you want but wait– he is infected, right?

So you shouldn't be near him.

But it's like some hypnotism that's in play as he gazes into your eyes. With the added bonus of your soothing touch on his jaw, the pad of your thumb running on his lower lip—you pull down the flesh. He can see you more clearly than ever, from the slight furrow of your brows to the twitch of your lips and the light reflecting on your eyes.

It's clear.

So, so clear.

A heat spreads through his cheeks, mingling with the blood flowing in his veins and in seconds, his heart rate amplifies. Was it one of the side effects of Pneumonia? Shinzo obviously didn’t mention this but- fuck! You are here and the proximity only hitches the breath in his throat. Your rhythmic exhalation of air fans his skin and he swallows a lump.

Fuck!

He is truly sick.

You draw him in, "Open your mouth."

Before he can make sense of the situation, his body complies. Lips parting and soon you are pouring the medicine down his throat. He gulps, eyes still trained on you and yours on his.

You sit back on the bed and Sukuna blinks.

Wait– what just happened?

"That wasn't too hard now, was it?" You chuckle, pouring some water on the cup and swirl it.

"You– you tricked me."

"Oh? Did I?" Feigning innocence, you laugh again. "And what if I did? ...Oh, and don't make that face now, it doesn't taste that bad.”

“Taste it yourself then speak.”

“I am not the one who’s sick, you are” You muse, cleaning the cap and fastening the lid. He mutters an incoherent curse under his breath and you stand up. Straightening the duvet, you beckon him to lay down.

Something he does without any protest. However, his eyes flickers to the door for a brief second and now only, he is met with the yellowish eyes of a feline.

He raises an eyebrow, “What do you want?”

Kuro passes him a languid stare, his whiskers tremor once almost like its scowling. Only serving for the former’s vexation, the man waves him off without a thought. A low squeal is erupted from him and he is on the verge of pouncing of him when step in.

Picking up the cat, you bring it up to your face, “See Kuro, your papa is sick. So no trespassing here for a week.”

He blinks and answers you as though he understands what you mean.

You’re pretty sure he will try to barge in the second you leave but hey! What’s the problem to hold a little hope? Setting the cat down, you usher him out. Turning towards your boyfriend, you shoot him a heads up. One which he returns with a dismissive gesture.

“Get some rest in the meantime. I will be in the living room, just call if you need something.”

The lights dim out, curtain pulled over – creating the perfect atmosphere for an hour or more nap. Chirping of birds and the revving engines of cars from outside fades into background as comfort envelopes Sukuna amidst the sheets.

Despite it all, hollowness unfurls into his being.

The notion of silence returning again while he the room cloaks itself in darkness strikes an anonymous melancholy though his chest. A garter wraps around his neck, tightening with each passing second. And just like that the calm veneer crumbles into dust.

He pries an eye open and although the blackened room vanishes everything, its difficult to amiss your retreating figure. The haze increases, mouth sealed shut – he can’t speak. So, he extends an arm.

Wait-

The door closes shut.

.

He is walking through a mirage.

Surely, he has strolled through this area before. Once. Twice. Thrice. This is the fourth instance he is met with the same beige tinted cottages with scarlet thatched roofs.

He walks through the secluded lane across them.

Where is he going? He doesn’t know that. Just he is walking all alone. On his own. Just cause he has to.

Sky obscured with thick clouds, every once in a while does the thunder cracks. Lightening over the whole region. Sound so prominent, so daunting that it shakes the whole neighbourhood. For reasons, Sukuna finds an undulating spark tightening over his frame as every step forward becomes a struggle on its own. Down pouring heavily, the droplets causes his clothes to stick to his skin. Dripping down his ink stained countenance, clouding his vision. Breaths filled with raggedness, he wipes the moisture off- it isn’t removed.

He tries again and again and again.

Doesn’t work.

Nothing works.

How can anything ever work when-

Only a singular step he has taken and its like he is pushed off from a building.

Falling down, he doesn’t know what awaits him.

However, when he returns to his feet, the whole scenery has changed.

Instead of the murky countryside stretching with grasslands till the horizon, he is met with the picturesque view of a beach. Sparkling waves rises with all its glory, flaunting its sheer power before crashing on the sandy soil. Seagulls fly over the water bodies, their voice being a distinct reminder of this serenity. Murmurs of human life accompanied by distant tune from seaside eateries greet him. The gentle wisp of the sea breeze ruffles his hair, wafting sand into his eyes and nostrils; he doesn’t flinch.

When he looks around, everyone vanishes.

From the footprints on the soil to the sea castles to all the tourists. No one’s here.

The seclusion stalls on him only a second later. That’s when he realizes, everything’s truly gone.

The scorching sun blazes in fury, momentarily blinding him. Humidity persists in the air, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The waves crash again and he walks towards it. For some unknown reason-this feels right.

What’s the point of continuing anymore?

The sand prickles under his feet as he staggers towards the water. Sky high waves flicker and dance, crashing onto him and even though the musky salt should cause him to recoil, the intensity should strike some agony – he feels nothing.

Paving his way through the water until the very liquid surrounds him. All of this, just seems so empty.

“Sukuna,”

As if broken out from a trance by the mere call of his name, he turns.

Once again the vast expanse of the world does everything shift.

“You’re holding yourself well,” Jin remarks, wiping some specks of soap water from a plate. “Better than I expected you to.”

Sukuna’s eyes drift to take in the surroundings; standing across the kitchen counter of his apartment. His brother indulges in cleaning some utensils, a forlorn lilt of his lips prompts the former to raise an eyebrow. The room remains quiet only broken by the usual cling of the cutlery. From his periphery, he could see his nephew crouched down before Kuro, the boy ruffles the feline’s hair and now the cat should retaliate. Until it doesn’t.

“Taking care of Kuro as well,” Jin stares down at the duo. “Give yourself some credit y’know.”

Wait- since when did his brother know about the cat? And since when did Yuji turn to silent?

Gazing out the window- his eyes widen.

When did his neighbourhood change so much?

Without any explanation, Sukuna marches out of the apartment.

Greeted by a hoard of stones situated all over the grassland. Each of different shapes, sizes and perhaps… something just might be written on it. He doesn’t wait to read. Why should he doesn’t have his reading glasses with him?

Feet squashing the lifeless grasses, the leaves don’t crunch under his boots. His steps are steady, turning round a corner or more whenever he so pleases. Maybe this is the way out of the labyrinth of stones.

However, he halts before a particular stone.

For reasons unknown, Sukuna feels life slipping out of his fingers.

.

Sukuna wakes up with a jolt.

Eyes wide open, he breaths in through his mouth. Fingers trembling with the surge of adrenaline as his shoulders rise and fall in a cadence. Think coat of sweat mars his whole body, vest clinging to him like a second skin and the duvets covering his form renders him panting fit.

What was that? The beach? His brother? Those stones?

What- what was happening?

The eerie maze where he walked? Ran?

Wait- what occurred?

The ceiling lights blinds him with all the intensity, he shuts his eyelids, grunting out like a wounded animal. Some external voice rings out, too loud, too disturbing that he’s forced to press his palm over his ears. Touches guide his skin from his cheek to shoulders and a burst of repulsion compels him to push the person away.

Who the hell was it to hold him like that?

He’s got a girlfriend for fuck’s sake. Get the hell away from him.

However, instead of leaving him alone they are inching closer. He is met with the same touch again but the noise starts to clear as well.

“…Just a dream, you’re fine...”

Albeit begrudgingly, Sukuna removes his hand from his ears.

“…You’re home, calm down…”

It’s a gamble but he manages to reopen his eyes.

“Are you ok? What happened?”

Sukuna blinks, stupefied for the second.

There you are, standing before him while cupping his face in your little palms. Thumb running circles over the tattoos on his face, irises pooling with sheer concern, your eyes are solely focused on a subject. That subject being him.

He looks around.

Notably, nothing has changed. He is still in his bedroom, sitting on the bed with the comforter pooled around his hips. From the traces of light pouring from the ajar window, he can make out how the light fades to dark as twilight tints the skies in hues of violet and blue.

“Hey,” You tap his cheek, urging him to face you, “Why aren’t you speaking?”

He only responds with long stare.

“Sore throat? Should I bring honiitus again?”

“Don’t even think about it, woman.” He barks, lips curling down in utter disgust as the very prominent taste of the damn syrup lingers in the back of his mouth.

Without making a fuss about his sudden outburst, you place your backhand over his forehead. “Mhm… you don’t seem to have fever.” You nod, “No ibuprofen, then.”

“Fucking finally.”

“Don’t celebrate too early,” You snort, a mirthful smile creeping onto you, “Tamiflu after lunch, remember?”

“Well genius, I didn’t have lunch.”

You snap your fingers, “I know, and there it is,” You point to a tray stacked with a lidded container resting on top of the nightstand.

He stares at it for a second too long, “What’s that?”

“Boiled vegetables and… no–” You flick your index finger in the air, a clear negative sign. “No more tantrums, you’ll shut up and eat.”

“As if,” He scoffs, twisting his body away from the utensil, he faces the wall as if the blank canvas seems more interesting than the food you cooked.

You sigh, sitting down on the limited space provided for you on the bed across him, “Just because I call you baby doesn’t mean you have to act like one.”

“I am not enacting–  no, just– fuck,”  He curses under his breath, fumbling with the words too many times before he reaches a conclusion. “I am not acting like a god damn child.”

“Sure.” His eyes narrows down while he regards you. You stretch your arms, the joints cracking under the evident tension, “I added a few pieces of meat for taste, just so you know.”

He raises an eyebrow, retorts accumulating in his mouth. Just a second away from being unleashed before his gaze lands on a bowl and a pack of damp towels. “What happened with that?”

“What?”

“That.”

You glance at the way he points, taking a moment to contemplate before you answer, “I called Dr. Shinzo again, he said applying cold water towels will help with the fever so…”

Sukuna doesn’t know why, but he stills. “You were doing that all this time?”

“Yeah?”

“Why?”

You tilt your head, “Maybe cause you need it?” He blinks and you find your patience wearing thin. Dismissing the confusion clouding his visage, you reach for the tray and pick it up. The clattering of the utensils due to your unstable balance rings through the whole room. “See, this won’t be that bad. Besides, it’s only for a few days, you can manage, right?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Aw c’mon, now,” You unfasten the lid, dipping the spoon. “I will feed you as compensation. How does that sound?”

He still doesn’t answer but with the way he doesn’t protest your offer, he hopes to let you know his affirmation.

.

Sukuna refuses to let you know that the boiled vegetable soup isn’t as bad as he thought.

.

Two days later

.

Credits to his above average immunity or whatsever but Sukuna is almost back to complete health in just a span of few days.

Finally.

Done he is with all the ibuprofen and every other shit he has to endure.

Never again.

As a ritual, only does the lunchtime ends with the empty hot pot of boiled vegetables being lidded back does Sukuna notice the uncharacteristic clattering of the utensils as you try to hold them in place.

“Give me that.”

Before you can reply, the tray is already being grabbed by your boyfriend as he sets it down on the nightstand.

“That needs to be in the kitchen.”

 Instead of gracing you with a proper answer, you are met with his crimson hues filled with something you can’t quite put a finger on. He urges you to sit with him and you comply. Feeling the need to for some reason.

“What?” You ask. His eyes darts down, following his gaze, confusion clouds your head for he is looking at your hands. “Huh?”

No sooner does the word leave your mouth than he grasps both of your hands on his own. You gasp yet don’t try to pull away.

Sukuna traces his thumb over the ridge of your knuckles to the tips of your nails. Turning them around, he draws every single contour lines on your palm as if he’s etching them onto his memory. It’s not the first time, he is holding your hand but it’s the first time he is noticing all the details. Like how a tiny callous has formed beside the edge of your thumb or how the tiny scar runs down the side of your ring finger.

His grasp tightens over yours, nothing to make it hurt. He would never.

He brings them up, pressing his lips over each and every, societally deemed, imperfection. At last, he turns to your backhand. This time, keeping his gaze stilled on you, he kisses your knuckles.

Perhaps, he’d have kissed you too but he doesn’t want the infection to pass.

Perhaps, you’ll know someday that… he is grateful.

Taglist: @comeonatmebruh @sweetpo1son @malazloje @tadabzzzbee @o-ikawaii

[danny-chai]

ao3 skin that i made!! (copy code under "keep reading")

it's a messy combination of pieces of code from other people's skins and my own changes

the header image is NOT MINE! it is "Pattern Galaxy Space Planets Vibrant Linear Universe" by Arncil on Redbubble, which i just used as an example for an image you could use!

here are some of the skins that i can remember using as part of this, but i've been building it for years so forgive me if i forget some:

Shortening long tag fields by Xparrot (on ao3)

Slim Shaded by AO3 (on ao3)

Lily Garden by tealtiam (on Tumblr)

AO3 Tag category coloring! by ao3css (on Tumblr)

come back here to my tips or leave a comment if you need some help customizing the code!

Background color: #26303C

Text color: #CBC6C3

Header color: #46626D

Accent color: #993F33

steps to create a new skin using this code:

log into ao3 account

go to dashboard >> skins

click "create site skin"

make sure TYPE is "site skin"

add a unique title

copy all code below

paste into field 'CSS'

click on "use wizard" at the top

copy and paste the four colors written above into their corresponding boxes

click SUBMIT

click USE

how to customize this skin:

FONT SIZE: at the very top of the code, change the "90%" to be bigger or smaller to change the font size within a fic

MAIN COLORS: to change the main colors, select "use wizard" when editing the skin and replace any of the four hex codes under "Background color:", "Text color:", "Header color:", and "Accent color:"

SECONDARY COLORS: find all hex codes within the code and change those numbers as you like! i changed all colors to match with the color palette of the header photo that i chose to make it feel cohesive

TAG COLORS: towards the end, the "relationship", "character", and "freeform" tags alternate three colors to make them easy to separate. in this skin they are all very similar, so you can change those to be whatever colors you like!

HEADER PHOTO: find the link towards the end of the code right before the warning tags and replace it with a link to any photo you like! it loops, so you don't have to worry about sizing or anything

FONT: i'm unsure how exactly to do this, but the in-fic font is currently set to Georgia Serif, so i suppose just go find that and replace it with your preferred font!

BORDER STYLES: wherever you see the code "border-style:", replace the word that comes after it with one of these options: none, solid, dashed, dotted, double, groove, ridge, inset, outset, or hidden

WARNING TAGS: at the very end of the code is a list of words or phrases that, when they appear in the tags of a fic, are highlighted in a contrasting color so that they are easy to avoid if necessary. you can add or remove those tags however you like, or change the warning color!

COPY AND PASTE ALL CODE BELOW

#workskin { font-size: 90%; } li.blurb .tags { max-height: 7.5em; overflow-y: auto; } #header { min-height: 0; } #header a, #header fieldset, #header ul.primary, #header ul.primary .current { border: 0; background: 0; } h1 a img { height: 50px; border: 0; } #header .landmark { clear: none; } #header ul.primary { background: rgba(0,0,0,0.65); border-bottom: 1px solid rgba(0,0,0,0.75); } #header ul.primary, #header ul.primary .current, ul.primary.actions a, #header ul.primary .current { color: #CBC6C3; } #header ul.primary .current, #header #search input, #header #search input:focus { background: rgba(0,0,0,0.25); color: #CBC6C3; box-shadow: inset 0 0 3px #131A2A; border-color: #131A2A; } .actions, .actions input { text-transform: lowercase; } blockquote.userstuff { font-family: "Mido", "AUdimat", "Ostrich Sans Rounded","Lucida Grande", sans-serif !important; position: relative; background: rgba(0,0,0,0.1); padding: 2%; border: 1px solid rgba(0,0,0,0.15); box-shadow: 0 0 2px rgba(0,0,0,0.4); } blockquote.userstuff:after { content: "\201D"; right: 0; top: auto; left: auto; } body, .userstuff { font-family: Mido, Georgia, serif; } .heading, .userstuff h3, .userstuff h4 { font-family: "CabinSketch", Georgia,serif; } #main .heading { color: #CBC6C3; } #inner .group, #inner .heading, fieldset, .verbose legend, table, table th, col.name, span.unread, span.replied { outline: none; background: transparent; border-color: #131A2A; border-style: double; box-shadow: none; border-radius: 2em; border-bottom-right-radius: 0; border-top-left-radius: 0; } #inner .group .group .group, col.name { border-style: double; border-color: #CBC6C3; box-shadow: 0 0 2px #000; } #inner .bookmark .user.module, #inner .wrapper { border: 0; border-radius: 0; border-top: 3px double #bbb; box-shadow: none; } .filters { font-size: 90%; } .toggled form, .dynamic form, .secondary, .dropdown { background: #fff url("/images/skins/textures/tiles/white-handmade-paper.jpg"); } a.tag, a.tag:visited, a.tag:link { display: inline-block; padding: 1px 3px; margin: 2px 0px; border: 2px solid #46626D; border-radius: 5px; } .commas li:after { content: ""; } h5.fandoms.heading { color: transparent; } .favorite a.tag { border: none; } .tags li.relationships:nth-of-type(3n+1) a.tag { background-color: #1d3954; } .tags li.relationships:nth-of-type(3n+2) a.tag { background-color: #264663; } .tags li.relationships:nth-of-type(3n+3) a.tag { background-color: #305475; } .tags li.characters:nth-of-type(3n+1) a.tag { background-color: #214154; } .tags li.characters:nth-of-type(3n+2) a.tag { background-color: #294c61; } .tags li.characters:nth-of-type(3n+3) a.tag { background-color: #31576e; } .tags li.freeforms:nth-of-type(3n+1) a.tag { background-color: #234e54; } .tags li.freeforms:nth-of-type(3n+2) a.tag { background-color: #2a585e; } .tags li.freeforms:nth-of-type(3n+3) a.tag { background-color: #316269; } .tags li.freeforms a.tag:hover, .tags li.characters a.tag:hover, .tags li.relationships a.tag:hover { background-color: #26303C; color: white; } #header .logo { display: none; } #header ul.primary { box-shadow: none; padding-top: 30px; padding-bottom: 30px; background: #FCC191 url(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/8c/bc/ae/8cbcae1760dc88ae8730566337a5d2eb.jpg); background-attachment: fixed; } li.blurb a.tag[href*="suicid"], [href*="suicide"], [href*="Suicide"], [href*="rape"], [href*="Rape"], [href*="consentual"], [href*="Consentual"], [href*="non-con"], [href*="consent issues"], [href*="Kidnapping"], [href*="kidnapping"], [href*="Canibalism"], [href*="cannibalism"], [href*="Cannibalism"], [href*="Dove"], [href*="dead dove do not eat"], [href*="murder"], [href*="Murder"], [href*="harm"], [href*="self harm"], [href*="Harm"], [href*="Torture"], [href*="abduction"], [href*="asphyxiation"], [href*="blood"], [href*="Blood"], [href*="death"], [href*="Death"], [href*="gore"], [href*="Gore"], [href*="incest"], [href*="Incest"], [href*="trauma"], [href*="Trauma"], [href*="torture"] { color: #000000; font-weight: bold; background-color: #993F33; }

[mattsunsdollie]

Dreaming

Kylian Mbappe x Fem!Reader

All you want is to be your boyfriends passenger princess? Keep dreaming

You’ve grown to be jealous, all of your friends boyfriends drove them around, calling them their “passenger princess”. You, on the other hand, had a passenger prince. It wasn’t news to anyone that Kylian had never gotten his license, in fact, he preferred it that way. Always saying something along the lines of “Why do I need it cherie? I have a driver who could take me?”

Bless his drivers heart, that poor man had spent countless hours behind a wheel. Of course that didn’t go unseen to Kylian, giving the man a generous check for Christmas, and a month off to rest. Which is exactly why you were now the designated driver.

“Love do you need to go now? Can’t we just lay in bed for another hour or 2?” You groaned, covering your eyes with your bare arm. Kylian was a dedicated man, which is one of the qualities you most admired about him.

He wouldn’t be the man he is without dedication and his strong work ethic. Which is why, during his Christmas break, when there is no training he is nagging about being driven to the stadium to practice even if that meant doing so alone.

Pulling his shirt over his head and down, covering his stomach he walks over to you, a gentle hand removing your arm. “Promise when we get home we can lay in bed all you want amour. But, I can’t lose momentum, I have a big season with the new club” Lightly placing kisses on your face and collarbone, only stopping to laugh at your exaggerated sighs.

All you wanted was to sleep in with Kylian, but you understand the pressure he has on his shoulders. A new club, a legacy and expectations to live up to, yet he was the most carefree man you’ve met. Dragging your feet you make your way into the bathroom, quickly brushing your teeth and washing your face. Fixing some pieces of hair around your face you see him through the bathroom mirror, kneeled in the corner of your bedroom tying his shoes.

Between the compression shirt and randomly being more needy than usual, the sight left you wanting to really stay in the bed all day. Finally positioning your hair the way you want you see Kylian smiling at you through the mirror before going to the kitchen, you hear the fridge door open about five times, which he only does when he’s been waiting for so long he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

December in Madrid was probably one of the coldest you’ve ever experienced, the cold only adding more fuel to wanting to stay home. Pressing the auto start of the car Kylian had gifted you, even though you insisted the car you had before him was in perfect condition. You picked up an extra water and your headphones before heading into the garage to begin the 15 minute drive to the stadium.

Since driving back and forth didn’t seem convenient, you opted for wearing a workout jumpsuit under a matching sweatpants and hoodie set. If you were going to be a designated driver you would at-least do something productive while waiting.

“Ready bella?” Kylian said as he closed the car door, being embraced by the warmth of the heater and your playlist in the background. Nodding and placing the expensive vehicle in reverse you backed out of the garage and onto the street. Lately, with all the work Kylian had been doing plus an increase in appetite he had grown extremely big, his compressions shirts hugging in all the right places.

Before you knew it you were pulling into the parking lot of the stadium. Parking in an empty lot,which you expected, Kylian extended his arm over the console and grabbed your knee. “I promise I won’t take more than an hour and a half baby” giving a reassuring squeeze. Simply placing your hand over his and nodding, you couldn’t keep your eyes off his arms.

~

After Kylian went into the field you made your way into the gym, which like the rest of the stadium, was empty. Taking off your sweatshirt you began stretching, you didn’t claim to be a pro in the gym but you knew the basics and did workouts here and there.

Now, this wasn’t just any gym of course, it had all the fancy equipment and all the weights. Putting on your head phones you began with the stair master. It started off fine, but at the 15 minute mark you grew increasingly hot, desperate to cool off your body temperature you removed the sweats.

Left in your jumpsuit you could really check yourself out in the mirror, the tight workout set hugging and snatching all the right areas. Looking behind you in the mirror you noticed the small pump the stair master caused. Deciding you might as well go all out since Kylian wouldn’t be done for another hour or so you made your way over to the smith machine to begin working out your glutes.

45 minutes of lifting went by fast, in fact you were so consumed with trying to beat your previous weight and reps you didn’t even notice Kylian standing a few feet behind you. Lifting your head and placing the weight on the bar you see him, shamelessly checking you out.

“Don’t mind me, just enjoying the view amour” he spoke with his arms crossed maintaining eye contact through the mirror. Shaking your head and grabbing a small towel and that was hanging off of a nearby bar you turn around while wiping your hands, “Is it always hot in here? I feel like my skin is going to melt off”

He laughs, extending his arm to wrap it around your waist, “Let’s get you cooled off then cherie” Even if Kylian wasn’t the tallest compared to others he never failed to make you feel small by his wide body. Playing coy you rolled your eyes at his comment “Eager to leave are we now?”

To build tension you deciding to bend over to pick up the sweatpants and hoodie that were folded neatly. You made sure when bending over you do it in a way that showed the outline of your thong. By the time you stand up fully he’s grabbing your hand and dragging you out the gym.

Small french curses leave his mouth as he leads the way to the car. The black luxury vehicle still where you left it, in an empty lot. You’ve never been so glad you had that car, as per Kylians request got it tinted to ensure your safety and his when you drive together.

Going in the car through the designated doors to not raise suspicion to anyone watching the cameras, you quickly throw the pair of sweats in the back seat. Bending over and arching over the console Kylian couldn’t resist seeing your ass in that angle, letting his hands move on instinct and placing a light slap.

Placing a hand on his thigh while now leaning over the console facing him, you close the gap. Slow kissing to begin, your hand creeps closer to his crotch area. Feeling the hard imprint through his joggers you decide to not waste the time you don’t have.

Pulling back only slightly to look down to lower his sweats and boxers. His erection causing it to spring and hit his lower stomach. “Take what’s yours amour” he says analyzing your face. Spitting in the palm of your hand you lower that hand on to the tip, closing the gap between you two at the same time.

Your soft and wet hand circling the tip while kissing him deeper was starting to make his head hazy. Slow and small movements turned into a full handjob, the wet sounds turning you on causing you to rub your thighs to relieve some pressure.

Squeezing tighter at the base and slowly swirling around at the top, hearing groans as you catch your breath from the intense kiss. Pulling your hair to one side ready to lower your head and begin using your mouth Kylian grabs your wrist which was still jerking him off, “Not gonna, fucking hell- last. Please need to feel you now”

And who were you to deny him, his hands eagerly finding your hips and helping you lift over the console to straddle him. Pulling the jumpsuit down to get your breasts to spill over the top he began playing and pinching with your nipples. Content with the reaction he was getting from you, rubbing and grinding down on him.

Losing focus on your nipples and rubbing your pussy from the outside of the jumpsuit, which he knew he wasn’t going to be able to get you out of the one piece. Thinking quickly he grabbed the hem of the shorts, stretching them to the point they were unwearable.

Now that one short was loose enough he rolled up over one ass cheek, leaving your thong exposed as well. Poor damp panties leaving nothing to the imagination, he could see and feel through the soaked material how puffy your lips and clit were.

Grabbing the sorry excuse of underwear he pulled it to the side, noticing the sticky residue that stuck to it as he removed it. “What’s got you this wet baby?” he said as his thumb found its place on your clit again. To lost in the pleasure you didn’t answer immediately.

The scene above him was nothing less than pornographic, boobs spilled out while you rocked trying to keep up with the rhythm of his thumb and his dick laying on your thigh, twitching from the view.

“Y-you, fast please Ky” you moan, using one hand on the consol for balance and the other to play with your nipples. Speeding up he could see your poor hole clenching around nothing, hinting to you approaching your climax.

Grabbing his dick from the base he brought the head and tapped your puffy wet lips with it, the sensation causing you to jerk lightly. “You’re soaked baby, leaking all over me” he said rubbing himself up and down.

“Need it now please, just put it in” you begged, your hand coming down to his hand and angling his tip with your hole. Slight pressure making his tip enter you, the stretch feeling too good. The feeling of being stretched to the brim and it was just the beginning.

With your face scrunched you lowered yourself even more, looking down to see where you two became one. Moaning lowly until you reached the bottom, sitting snugly on top of Kylian. Not having the energy to bounce just yet you began to rock back and forth. Between the wetness and tightness and the jiggle of your boobs with each movement, Kylian felt he could cum right there.

“Shit, just like that. Take this dick, it’s all yours” he groaned, grabbing the fat on your hips, slightly lifting you. With that hint, you began to lightly bounce, moaning louder now. The angle had his tip hitting the deepest part, and every time you bottomed out his trimmed pubic area brushing your clit in a way that would have you seeing stars soon.

Light bouncing turned to just fucking your self on him, using him. At this point you were sure the car was rocking back and forth, but you could care less. “Perfecting fucking pussy, squeezing me- shit, just right” he moaned slapping your ass.

Clenching at the praise didn’t go unnoticed, he pulled the one piece, making you lay directly on him as he wrapped his arms around your back. “Filthy fucking girl, like when I tell you how good this pussy squeezes me?” He grunted in your ear as he began rutting himself up to you.

Curses leaving your mouth you desperately try to reach for something to squeeze, the pressure building as his thrusts become harder and faster. Sneaking your hand between your bodies you began toying with your clit.

The sudden realization that someone could see the car moving, and realize that Kylian is claiming you in the moment caused your wetness to increase. Obviously his team members knew you were dating, but it really solidified it that everyone would see he claimed you as his.

Feeling possessive you began kissing his neck and face, lightly sucking marks on his collar bones. Between the stretch and the depths he was reaching you began bucking down, meeting his thrusts. “Tell me it’s mine baby, only mine” you moaned gripping his arms.

Your statement causing his thrusts to become more erratic and for him to switch back to his native tongue. You quickly lifted up, seeing his dick twitch and glistening. Placing your feet down on either side you really began riding, “Gonna fucking cum, oh shit- so good” you moaned back arched as his hands found your hips.

“Cum on it baby, make a mess. Mark it as yours” he said through gritted teeth, trying to make you cum first before he did. As the intense orgasim rushed through you, you laid flat once again. Kylian kissing your forehead as he grabbed your ass and lifted and put it down.

Leaning on the console you could see white rings on his dick, which he noticed as well. Seeing you finally came he sloppily bucked his hips up, as you milked him dry.

Sitting still, with him still inside you, you felt him tap your butt. “Come on amour, let’s go home”

Groaning from the laziness you felt post sex and exhaustion in your legs you whined, “Kylian for the New Year get your license. I can’t even feel my legs”

/

this was written based off of a dream, but this was also written tipsy sooo if sucks excuse that. also haven’t written since i deactivated my old blog 😩

[mostlysignssomeportents]

AI’s “human in the loop” isn’t

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

AI's ability to make – or assist with – important decisions is fraught: on the one hand, AI can often classify things very well, at a speed and scale that outstrips the ability of any reasonably resourced group of humans. On the other hand, AI is sometimes very wrong, in ways that can be terribly harmful.

Bureaucracies and the AI pitchmen who hope to sell them algorithms are very excited about the cost-savings they could realize if algorithms could be turned loose on thorny, labor-intensive processes. Some of these are relatively low-stakes and make for an easy call: Brewster Kahle recently told me about the Internet Archive's project to scan a ton of journals on microfiche they bought as a library discard. It's pretty easy to have a high-res scanner auto-detect the positions of each page on the fiche and to run the text through OCR, but a human would still need to go through all those pages, marking the first and last page of each journal and identifying the table of contents and indexing it to the scanned pages. This is something AI apparently does very well, and instead of scrolling through endless pages, the Archive's human operator now just checks whether the first/last/index pages the AI identified are the right ones. A project that could have taken years is being tackled with never-seen swiftness.

The operator checking those fiche indices is something AI people like to call a "human in the loop" – a human operator who assesses each judgment made by the AI and overrides it should the AI have made a mistake. "Humans in the loop" present a tantalizing solution to algorithmic misfires, bias, and unexpected errors, and so "we'll put a human in the loop" is the cure-all response to any objection to putting an imperfect AI in charge of a high-stakes application.

But it's not just AIs that are imperfect. Humans are wildly imperfect, and one thing they turn out to be very bad at is supervising AIs. In a 2022 paper for Computer Law & Security Review, the mathematician and public policy expert Ben Green investigates the empirical limits on human oversight of algorithms:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=3921216

Green situates public sector algorithms as the latest salvo in an age-old battle in public enforcement. Bureaucracies have two conflicting, irreconcilable imperatives: on the one hand, they want to be fair, and treat everyone the same. On the other hand, they want to exercise discretion, and take account of individual circumstances when administering justice. There's no way to do both of these things at the same time, obviously.

But algorithmic decision tools, overseen by humans, seem to hold out the possibility of doing the impossible and having both objective fairness and subjective discretion. Because it is grounded in computable mathematics, an algorithm is said to be "objective": given two equivalent reports of a parent who may be neglectful, the algorithm will make the same recommendation as to whether to take their children away. But because those recommendations are then reviewed by a human in the loop, there's a chance to take account of special circumstances that the algorithm missed. Finally, a cake that can be both had, and eaten!

For the paper, Green reviewed a long list of policies – local, national, and supra-national – for putting humans in the loop and found several common ways of mandating human oversight of AI.

First, policies specify that algorithms must have human oversight. Many jurisdictions set out long lists of decisions that must be reviewed by human beings, banning "fire and forget" systems that chug along in the background, blithely making consequential decisions without anyone ever reviewing them.

Second, policies specify that humans can exercise discretion when they override the AI. They aren't just there to catch instances in which the AI misinterprets a rule, but rather to apply human judgment to the rules' applications.

Next, policies require human oversight to be "meaningful" – to be more than a rubber stamp. For high-stakes decisions, a human has to do a thorough review of the AI's inputs and output before greenlighting it.

Finally, policies specify that humans can override the AI. This is key: we've all encountered instances in which "computer says no" and the hapless person operating the computer just shrugs their shoulders apologetically. Nothing I can do, sorry!

All of this sounds good, but unfortunately, it doesn't work. The question of how humans in the loop actually behave has been thoroughly studied, published in peer-reviewed, reputable journals, and replicated by other researchers. The measures for using humans to prevent algorithmic harms represent theories, and those theories are testable, and they have been tested, and they are wrong.

For example, people (including experts) are highly susceptible to "automation bias." They defer to automated systems, even when those systems produce outputs that conflict with their own expert experience and knowledge. A study of London cops found that they "overwhelmingly overestimated the credibility" of facial recognition and assessed its accuracy at 300% better than its actual performance.

Experts who are put in charge of overseeing an automated system get out of practice, because they no longer engage in the routine steps that lead up to the conclusion. Presented with conclusions, rather than problems to solve, experts lose the facility and familiarity with how all the factors that need to be weighed to produce a conclusion fit together. Far from being the easiest step of coming to a decision, reviewing the final step of that decision without doing the underlying work can be much harder to do reliably.

Worse: when algorithms are made "transparent" by presenting their chain of reasoning to expert reviewers, those reviewers become more deferential to the algorithm's conclusion, not less – after all, now the expert has to review not just one final conclusion, but several sub-conclusions.

Even worse: when humans do exercise discretion to override an algorithm, it's often to inject the very bias that the algorithm is there to prevent. Sure, the algorithm might give the same recommendation about two similar parents who are facing having their children taken away, but the judge who reviews the recommendations is more likely to override it for a white parent than for a Black one.

Humans in the loop experience "a diminished sense of control, responsibility, and moral agency." That means that they feel less able to override an algorithm – and they feel less morally culpable when they sit by and let the algorithm do its thing.

All of these effects are persistent even when people know about them, are trained to avoid them, and are given explicit instructions to do so. Remember, the whole reason to introduce AI is because of human imperfection. Designing an AI to correct human imperfection that only works when its human overseer is perfect produces predictably bad outcomes.

As Green writes, putting an AI in charge of a high-stakes decision, and using humans in the loop to prevent its harms, produces a "perverse effect": "alleviating scrutiny of government algorithms without actually addressing the underlying concerns." The human in the loop creates "a false sense of security" that sees algorithms deployed for high-stakes domains, and it shifts the responsibility for algorithmic failures to the human, creating what Dan Davies calls an "accountability sink":

https://profilebooks.com/work/the-unaccountability-machine/

The human in the loop is a false promise, a "salve that enables governments to obtain the benefits of algorithms without incurring the associated harms."

So why are we still talking about how AI is going to replace government and corporate bureaucracies, making decisions at machine speed, overseen by humans in the loop?

Well, what if the accountability sink is a feature and not a bug. What if governments, under enormous pressure to cut costs, figure out how to also cut corners, at the expense of people with very little social capital, and blame it all on human operators? The operators become, in the phrase of Madeleine Clare Elish, "moral crumple zones":

https://estsjournal.org/index.php/ests/article/view/260

As Green writes:

The emphasis on human oversight as a protective mechanism allows governments and vendors to have it both ways: they can promote an algorithm by proclaiming how its capabilities exceed those of humans, while simultaneously defending the algorithm and those responsible for it from scrutiny by pointing to the security (supposedly) provided by human oversight.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/30/a-neck-in-a-noose/#is-also-a-human-in-the-loop

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en ==

[pmpmyread]

A/N: This little fic is dedicated to my friend @cmdrfupa, for her birthday today!! To the lovely Lu: I wish you the happiest of birthdays and a year filled with love, joy, and everything you ask for! Pairing: Nanami x Reader WC: 4.2k Summary: Nanami is acting awfully suspicious. You endeavor to get to the bottom of this.

For as long as you’ve known him, Nanami Kento never compromised on a good night’s rest. He maintains impeccable sleep hygiene practices; he rarely ever snacks past 8 pm, avoids using his phone right before bed and has a routine that sees him get up and go to bed at more or less the same time every day.

A deeply ingrained sense of vigilance makes him a rather light sleeper, something you’ve quickly noticed as you watched him wake up countless times at the lightest rustle on your part, but he does tend to fall back asleep effortlessly, usually snuggling closer to you or readjusting your covers before slipping back into slumber with ease.

So you don't think much of it at first when you wake up one night to find his side of the bed empty. A quick glance at the clock indicates it is only 3:07 AM and you figure he’s probably just in the restroom.

You comfortably snuggle back under your covers, relieved that there is still plenty of time before your alarm goes off. It’s good timing, you think to yourself, that you’ve woken and that you’re catching him out of bed and that you will be able to reclaim your favorite big spoon position.

Five minutes pass, then ten, then twelve, thirteen. The sheets on his side are ice cold, and now you wonder how long he’s been gone. Impatience morphs into slight concern and trumps somnolence, so you decide to get up and check on him, sliding into your slippers before crossing the distance to the ensuite bathroom door and giving it a light tap.

“Hey, you good in there?”

No response. You knock again.

Only now do you notice the notably missing sliver of light that usually peeks through the edge of the door, a telltale sign of Nanami’s absence.

How odd.

“Kento?” you call out, this time to the rest of the house.

In the hushed stillness of the night, the gentle click of a kitchen cupboard door closing served as a barely audible response. The distinctive sound of the fridge opening for a few seconds before shutting again resonated through the hallway as you tiredly stumble your way towards the kitchen, where you find Nanami leaning against the counter, in the dark with only the dim light from his phone screen illuminating his features.

“Hey, what are you doing up?” he says, his fatigued eyes straining to discern your form in the dark.

“I was looking for you…” you mumble, your voice thick with sleep, a confused scoff escaping your lips before you flip the question on him. “What are you doing up?”

“I developed a craving.”

“This late at night?”

Nanami sets his phone down, his response coming out as a barely audible low hum as if a testament to his own incredulity. Now better accustomed to the darkness, your eyes find the familiar jar Nanami holds in his hand, and you watch him pick what you now recognize to be a small jalapeño pepper and pop it into his mouth.

“And you were craving encurtido?” It’s an uncanny sight, one that has you questioning whether you are dreaming, but the increasingly clear sound of your voice grounds you in the reality of your wakefulness.

“I figured for the electrolytes...” he replies, deadpan.

“The electrol—Straight from the jar, Ken?” You retort, decidedly baffled.

“In my defense, my intention was to only have a few, so I didn’t bother…” he replies, trailing off.

“Okay… Do you not want to eat something more consistent? Was dinner really that lacking last night?” You say, finally feeling lucid enough to match his playful stride.

“Dinner was fantastic, you know this. No, I’m only having a few of these and then I’ll head back to sleep.”

Nanami’s phone auto locks, plunging the two of you into complete darkness. You pat at the wall beside you and flip the switch on, and head towards the cupboard to pour yourself a cup of water, now that you’re positively awake.

You lean your back against the counter, mirroring his stance as you join the spot across from him and from which you observe him out of the corner of your eye as you slowly sip from your cup. He appears to be absentmindedly picking at the pickled vegetables, visibly distracted.

Ever the observant man, Nanami notices and arches an inquisitive eyebrow at you as he catches your gaze.

“This will not bode well for your stomach, big guy. Please take an antacid after this, you’re not invincibly young anymore.”

“I’ll be fine. I just got a little hungry.”

“I don’t know, Kento, this is so unlike you. I can’t remember the last time you had yourself a midnight snack, let alone spicy food, of all things.”

You can barely contain the laughter now bubbling within you, realizing now that this newly formed memory of the near absurd state in which you’d caught him red-handed will be the source of your endless amusement, of his relentless torment over the next few days.

You add, now laughing in earnest. “Are you sure you don’t want me to quickly fix something for you?”

“Thank you, I appreciate it, but I assure you I’m sated now,” he closes the jar, leans over to your side to plant a kiss on your forehead, and continues, “I’m sorry I worried you. Let’s go back to bed.”

For the few minutes you find yourself in bed waiting for Nanami once more as he brushes his teeth and freshens up for the remainder of the night, you rack your brain to try to figure out what could have possibly prompted this uncharacteristic mid-night adventure. You’d watched him eat dinner, and he’d cleaned off a healthy portion of your homemade chili potato bread. Surely he couldn’t be that hungry, right?

He was visibly on his phone before you walked in and he looked quite a bit distracted, even a bit shifty. Perhaps there was something he wanted to surprise you with? Your birthday has just recently passed, and you are still months away from your anniversary.

You skirt around the least likely justifications until the most plausible one, the one that eventually presents itself like a road appearing through dissipating fog, makes itself evident; of the strong possibility that Nanami Kento is concealing something from you.

Your sentiment is one of overwhelming curiosity more than anything else, one that lingers still in the back of your mind by the time Nanami emerges from the bathroom and finds his spot lying down facing you.

You audibly clear your throat and he looks up at you, freezing mid-movement as he rearranges the covers and you sense him searching your eyes in the dark.

“Yes, my love?”

“I’ve got big spoon now. My turn, remember?”

“I question whether this switch is warranted, but it’s late, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“You’re not letting me have anything, Kento, you know the terms. If anything, we were both out of bed just now, so it absolutely counts, doubly so.”

A chuckle of surrender escapes him as he flips over, his warm body pressing into yours as you slide your arms under him and place your hand over your hands.

The weight of your concerns begins to lift, leaving behind mostly the blissful oblivion of sleep and for the rest of the night, all is well.

A couple of days later, you’re enjoying a rainy Saturday afternoon indoors, the soft glow of your lamplight casting a warm, inviting ambiance against the otherwise gray backdrop outside.

You’ve completed your to-do list early, and the feeling of accomplishment has since settled over you, along with the promise of a relaxing afternoon, one that you and Nanami get to spend together; one hand holds your book while the other gently tangles in his soft hair as he lay quietly on your lap, equipped with a book of his own.

You’re about an hour in when he shuts his book and rests his eyes, staying still for a minute before breaking the silence.

“We should watch that show.” He says with his eyes still closed.

Still engrossed in your novel, it takes you a few seconds to pull your gaze towards him and to register his words. He speaks again before you get the chance to respond.

“Tossed salads and scrambled eggs…” He says impassively, and you blink at him a few times before he opens his eyes, looks directly into yours, and adds “Oh my.”

You burst into uncontrollable laughter at Nanami’s deadpan rendition of one of your favorite show’s theme songs.

“You want to watch Frasier?” You ask in between giggles, “Now?”

“It can be later. Or now. Only if you’re up for it.” He says, his voice finding its usual tone again, which only makes you laugh once more.

“Oh, I’m up for it. I’m just surprised, it’s usually that baking competition show you watch on the weekends.

“I figured I’d mix things up a bit.” His eyes peer up at you once more between strands of tousled hair falling across his forehead.

“Alright Mr. Adventurous, let’s get to it, then.”

He sits up and reaches for the remote as you shuffle around, finally settling into a comfortable position on the worn couch in front of the TV screen.

Just after the third episode starts, Nanami stretches slightly and gets up.

“I’m going to make coffee. Would you like one?”

“Actually, would you mind brewing me some of that oolong grape tea?”

“Sure thing,” he says, a hint of surprise in the subtle arch of his brow.

“I’m mixing things up,” you say, playfully mimicking his tone from earlier, a slight smirk playing on your lips.

You reach for the remote to pause the episode.

“No need to pause it. I’ll just set the water to brew and be back.”

You turned your attention back to your episode, while you heard Nanami busy himself in the kitchen.

This series… You can recite most of these scenes word for word and yet each rewatch still captivates you as if it’s your first time watching it. By the time you’re near the end of your episode, the rich, warm aroma of velvety robusta coffee has decidedly wafted over to find you where you sat, filling your senses in a comforting blanket of scent.

The low whirring sound of the electric kettle has long since ceased, and you no longer hear Nanami’s rummaging on the other side of the wall. Just as you have half a mind to call out to him, you stifle a yawn, a feeling of drowsiness beginning to read its unwelcome head. You’d planned to take a nap later on, but now you’re determined to see this watch session through. A concluding thought comes to your mind; a cup of coffee actually sounds perfect right now.

Needing to stretch your legs anyway, you decide to get up and get it yourself.

“Hey Ken—”

You peer around the corner to find the kitchen empty.

On the counter, you find your tea bag still only halfway assembled, loose leaf almost spilling out of the unsealed bag, sitting next to the coffee machine, where his cooling cup sits.

Where the hell did he disappear to? you wonder.

Your question is answered a mere seconds later, as Nanami emerges from the hallway, looking somewhat more disheveled than he’d left, his sleeves are pulled up rather than carefully rolled back, and his hair is downright messy, as if he’d just wrestled with something. He speaks before you get the chance to say anything.

“I went looking for the oolong. I thought I’d brought it to my office the other day.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion and without thinking, you open a drawer just beside you, where you distinctly remember seeing the oolong tea box this morning only to find it now notably missing, an empty space that screams its obvious absence.

Your eyes return to Nanami, who is now holding up the familiar packaging.

“Turns out I was right,” he says with a slight smile. “Sorry for the delay in service,” he adds playfully.

You know this man well, so you sense it, in the nervous quickness in his step, in the barely perceptible aversion of his gaze, that this is not the full story.

You know this man too damn well, so you witness the realization hits him; he freezes in his movements for the briefest of moments, but you catch it. Your eyes settle on Nanami’s hands as they hover over the overflowing, half-assembled tea bag, loose oolong leaves spilling onto the table in a noisy refutation of his unconvincing tale. Your eyes travel to his face and you watch as a minute twitch of his lips, as a small sharp inhale and exhale through the nose, betray some kind of amusement he appears to be trying to suppress.

This scene juxtaposed with the Fraiser ending theme now blaring in the background can only be humorous to you, and can only add to the perplexity of the situation.

“So—” you start.

“Did you prepare them differently?” Nanami cuts in, casual as ever, as he fastens the tea bag and gently places it in your cup, and reaches for the kettle, setting it on once more, his movements now carrying a relaxed fluidity.

“What?” You ask, only now realizing that this is your first word in what you feel like has already been a long exchange.

“The cookies you baked yesterday,” He repeats, speaking a bit louder to be heard over the increased whirring sound of the kettle, as the already boiled water quickly comes to ebullition. “Did you add a secret ingredient or something? They are particularly amazing.” He reaches for one in the box you’d stored them and takes a bite as if to emphasize his point.

“Nutmeg…” You say cautiously, eyes narrowing on him as you watch him casually pour the boiling water into your cup.

“I see. So you added nutmeg?”

“No, the nutmeg was always there. I just dosed it differently this time around and I—Actually, you know what? No. I’m keeping this one to myself. Secret recipe.”

“That’s a shame,” he says his tone laced with mock disappointment as he hands you your cup, with his left hand twisting it around to ensure you can grasp it at its handle, and offers you the second half of his cookie in his right hand, letting it hover over your lips, a mischievous smile on his face, “and here I thought we were all about sharing here.”

You narrow your eyes at him once again and yet also take the entire remainder of the cookie into your mouth, a move that visibly surprises him. You chew as you try to formulate a retort that you don’t bother delivering, as he picks up his coffee cup and guides you back to the living room to resume your watch session.

Both of you pretending that you didn’t detect his obvious play at a deflection.

Both of you ignoring the obvious untruth you’d caught him in.

It only comes to your mind much that evening, long after you rolled credits on the seventh Frasier episode, long after an enjoyable dinner, and long after you’ve tucked into bed, wrapping up the captivating book that had you staying up into the early hours of the morning as Kento slept soundly beside you; a theory that you are now incredibly eager to test in the morning.

“I can’t believe they want you in the office on a day like this,” Nanami mutters as he looks out the window at the large snowflakes beginning their descent through the gray morning sky. “Surely it’s not advisable ahead of a damn snowstorm?”

“Yup, I can’t believe it either. I only have early meetings, though, so I should be able to wrap up before the worst of it comes down early this evening.”

The rest of the weekend flew by; two days have elapsed, and it is now Monday. Even as you sit on the ottoman in the vestibule, focused on fastening your second boot, you can sense Nanami’s concerned gaze shifting to you.

“And you’re sure you can’t work from home?”

“I told you, this is orientation week. They want all of us newbies on site.”

“You should call out.”

“It’s really not that bad yet and I’ll be back before you know it.” You reply, offering him a reassuring smile to alleviate his apprehension as he approaches you, towering over where you’re still seated.

“Then, at the very least, let me drop you off.”

“I appreciate your concern, Ken, I really do. But I’ll be fine, this isn’t my first rodeo. Besides, don’t you have that important call later? I need you to lock in and stop worrying about me.”

“If there’s anything off, anything at all—” You stand up and reach out to him.

“I will call you. Promise.” You press a kiss to his lips, and you indulge in his lingering hold for a short moment before you pull away and head out to your car. It’s in moments like these that the depth of his care for you is the most palpable; you can discern so much better these days, level-headed as he is, the worry betrayed by his voice, the concern visible in his eyes.

Kento is so good to you. He is so good, period.

Except when he’s not.

Nanami waits a couple of minutes. It’s not until after the distinct sound of your car’s ignition, followed by the garage door’s mechanical whir and thud are made audible that he finally gets to moving.

Finally. How long has it been? A week? Six? Seven days of poking and prodding, of observing and watching? An arduous week peppered with moments of weakness spent wondering if the prize was worth the trouble he was going through, worth the opponent he has to make of you; moments that have no longevity whatsoever, as he’s quickly reminded of the phantom taste he is now convinced he will be unable to shake off.

And you are good. You are too damn good at this extreme variant of mental chess, it’s almost unfair. He’s always known you to be a brilliant woman, it’s part of what he adores so much about you, but this is another level. Where is the line between extreme cleverness and unrelenting cunning?

You are too good.

But not infallible.

Because now that he is reasonably sure that you’re gone, he makes his way back to the room that doubles as your home office and brings the door to a half close, turning to face the shelf that sits behind it.

He crouches down, emulating the position he’d found you in less than twenty-four hours ago, to the bottom row, labeled ‘Taxes’. He pulls out the 2021 filing box, and he knows to pull this one because you’ve led him to it, yesterday, when he finally caught you in a scene he’s since gleefully replayed over and over again in his mind.

Nanami opened the door to your home office, inadvertently lightly bumping you in the process.

“Ouch!”

“Darling? Shit, I didn’t see you there. I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?”

He peered around the door, just in time to see you replace a filing box and to rise from your kneeling position. Grabbing your arm where the door had bumped you.

“I’m fine. It’s my fault, I should have shown some sign of life when I heard you approaching,” you say sheepishly.

Nanami moved your hand and rubbed your bare arm where you held it. As he cast his gaze down to your arm to examine it, something on the floor immediately caught his attention.

A small torn piece of paper, the familiar red markings on a yellow wrapper, stood out like a sore thumb against the deep brown hardwood floor, one he would now recognize anywhere. He must have let his gaze linger too long because he noticed you following, your eyes widening ever so slightly as you locked onto the damning piece of evidence.

He watched as you suddenly pulled your arm away from him and averted his gaze.

“I was just looking for an old banking document I need to bring it to HR tomorrow.”

Nanami watched, oh he watched as you discreetly kicked the wrapper under the shelf as you moved around him

“And did you find it?” He asked after you, turning only his head towards you.

“Find what?”

“The document you just mentioned?”

“Oh, no I haven’t. But I have the digital version somewhere, I’ll just have to find my old login, but don’t worry, I’ll figure it out!” You said before skittering out of the room.

There it was again, the taste of smooth coffee-flavored cream with a milk chocolate coating. It’s been days since his first bit, but Nanami remembered it still, the gentle crunch of a wafer preceded by the slightly bitter coffee essence, followed by a creamy chocolate richness that balances out the coffee notes. So light, so airy, so sweet, but not too sweet. The perfect balance.

The last he’d seen it was when you yanked the bag away from him, as he went for his fourth piece in a row. Or was it the fifth?

“Alright enough, Kento, these are limited, so we clearly need to ration them.”

“You don’t trust my discipline?” He’d said in mock offense.

“Your firm grip on this box tells me everything I need to know. Give it.” Stifling a shocked laugh as you yanked it from him in earnest.

“Oh, I see. So you’d selfishly hide your little stash from me?”

“Sir, this was a gift addressed to me! You know damn well they don’t carry these rare candies anywhere in this country, and I am intent on not speed running these in a day, so you best back off and behave if you want me to share this!” You couldn’t contain your laughter anymore. You’d never seen Nanami so obsessed over anything, let alone some sweets.

“Unfortunately for you, your first mistake was to let me taste this one.” He says as he neatly folds the wrapper he’s still holding. “You won’t succeed in hiding them for long, I fear.”

“Watch me.”

And oh, did he watch you. Throughout the week, observing as you snuck two pieces for each one you would bring out to share with him, seemingly out of nowhere. Nanami knew this was silly, that he was being irrationally ridiculous over a few sweets.

He couldn’t place what it was, whether it was your assertiveness and confidence in keeping this away from him, the underlying challenge this posed him, or whether it was that this chocolate simply tasted too damn good. Whatever it was, it was driving him insane, and all he knew was that he had to locate your secret stash.

Not even the passing thought that he was behaving like Gojo on a sugar rush had sufficed to deter Nanami from his singular mission, a passing thought that made him scoff in disbelief.

None of it mattered anymore. He had a lead.

But now, unburdened by your observant eye, untethered by the running risk of you walking in on him as you’d already done over the course of the week, nearly exposing his efforts, he feels the taste of victory.

He reaches under the shelf and laughs to himself as he retrieves the damning manifestation of the one mistake you’ve made.

He opens the filing box.

It’s empty, barring a piece of folded paper.

It’s a note he quickly unfolds, immediately recognizing your handwriting, his eyes dancing over the single line of the message, the one that spells out:

“I have bested you, Nanami Kento.”

Nanami flinches at the sound of your voice, he almost topples over when you step into the room, holding your boots in your hands and tiptoeing in your socks.

He chuckles lightly as he stands up.

“If you’re telling me you set this up…”

“Off some snacks, Ken?” You said, releasing the burst of laughter you’ve been holding for a hot minute now.

“Pretended to leave…”

“All this off some freaking candy?” You’re laughing hysterically now.

“It wasn’t the candy, love, it was that one chocolate… Coffee Crunch something...” He’s chuckling now too, eyes closed as he shakes his head as if he’s trying to place the taste.

“Coffee Crisp. Don’t I know it! Made you lose your damn mind.”

“The deception of this is…”

“Well-warranted, I’m now convinced! ”

Nanami sighs, visibly defeated.

“I don’t know what they put in that bar—Wait, aren’t you going to be late now?”

“Oh, I’m not driving in that mess. I was going to put in a work-from-home request last night, but found that they’d already told us not to come in any way. Besides, who will distribute this if I’m gone?” You add as you pull one of the coveted coffee and chocolate bars out of your coat pocket and wave it into his face.

You watch his eyes widen, his pupils dilate as he makes a grab for it, but you pull back just in time to have him watch it slip through his fingers.

“You have to share.” He says almost too solemnly.

“I really don’t. But maybe… you can earn it? Work for it.” You say teasingly as you hold the bar behind you while making your way towards Nanami, not stopping until he hits the edge of your desk.

“Another challenge?” He asks, his voice now a low timbre. “Careful, love. This one I’m intent on winning.”

[sapphicandgraphic]

The Girl Next Door

Synopsis: A new neighbor turns Melissa’s world upside down.

Chapter: 2/10 (The Peace Offering)

Series Warnings: Slow burn, angst, drama, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, protective Melissa, fem reader, age difference, WLW

Chapter Warnings: Parental death mentioned, casual sex mentioned, more adorable banter

_______________________________________________________

Chapter 2

You woke up well after midday with a dull headache and a very dry mouth. You blinked a few times, trying to figure out why you weren’t in bed. Then you remembered you didn’t have a bed yet. Which explained why you were still sprawled on the sofa, an open pizza box on the floor beside you. You looked down at the sad graveyard of stale crusts and grease stains, contemplating your options.

Boone had pinned a sticky-note to your chest: Shift starts at 7:00, don’t be late!

You crumpled the paper up and dragged yourself into a sitting position. First order of business was to chug some water, hop in a steaming shower, and put some clean clothes on. By the time you were dressed and out the door, it was almost 3:30.

Crossing the street, you set out for Angelo’s on Arch. Half an hour later, you had a massive Italian sub in one hand and a bag full of salty snacks in the other. You were climbing the stairs to your place when you ran into the redhead on the landing.

“Hey,” she said dryly. “She lives.”

“Barely,” you yawned.

Looking at the pinched expression on your face, Melissa felt a mild pang of sympathy. “What’s a matter, sweetheart? Somebody didn’t get their beauty sleep?”

Privately, Melissa thought it oughta be criminal to look as good as you did, considering the night you’d had. Your hair was windswept, your cheeks pinked softly by the chill outside. You might have just stepped out of a photoshoot.

“Nothing Angelo can’t fix,” you said bravely, holding the massive sandwich aloft. Then on a whim, you added, “Any interest in going halfsies with me? Consider it a peace offering for last night.”

“You know Angelo’s?” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s your order?”

“Chicken cutlet, fresh mozz, parm, basil—“

“You Italian?” she interrupted, suspicion clear in her face.

“No,” you grinned. “Just dated my fair share.”

Melissa tilted her head to the side, considering. She didn’t usually let her guard down with strangers, but there was something a little irresistible about your sleepy smile, your slouchy confidence. Plus, you weren’t technically a stranger anymore. And if you were going to be neighbors, she figured forming an alliance might be smart.

“Come on in, then.”

Her apartment had a layout like yours, but that was where the similarities ended. You felt a ripple of shame, remembering the absolute disaster zone waiting for you across the hall. Her home was cozy and warm, with soft lighting and comfy furniture. You found yourself being drawn in, tension easing out of your sore neck and shoulders.

“I never got your name,” you said, watching as she moved through the room on auto-pilot. She tossed her keys on the coffee table and disappeared around a corner, depositing her bags in the closet.

“Melissa,” she called, voice slightly muffled as she peeled her sweater off and tossed it on the bed.

You snuck a peek at the framed photos on her wall, looking for signs of a husband or boyfriend, lingering on a picture of her outside a red brick building with a mural. Her smile was radiant and she was surrounded by little kids.

“Oh, you’re a teacher,” you laughed. “That explains my desire to misbehave whenever you’re around.”

She came back in the room wearing a low-cut tee. Your eyes flickered down to the swell of her tits, the perfect valley of her cleavage where several gold necklaces caught the light and glimmered like bait on a fishing line. She quirked an eyebrow at you.

“Ya got a problem with authority, hon?’

“Among other things,” you said, trying to ignore the butterflies that flooded your stomach as she stalked toward you.

“So it’s my fault you’re a brat?”

She snatched the bags from you and headed into the kitchen, enjoying the flustered look on your face.

“What grade do you teach?” you asked, hoping the slight tremor in your voice wasn’t noticeable. Despite your drunken opener last night, it had been a while since you really flirted with anyone as hot as Melissa. Your game was extremely rusty.

“Second.”

You perched on a barstool at the counter, watching her work. Grabbing a knife, she sliced cleanly through the paper and set each sandwich half on a plate.

“Do you —“

“Uh-uh,” she said, holding up the knife to interrupt you. “My turn.”

She opened the fridge, retrieved a jar of pickles, and slid two spears onto the plates. “Why do your friends call you Hotshot?”

The blush returned to your face. That stupid nickname.

“I’m a paramedic,” you said. “When I was still a rookie, I revived a guy who OD’d on a hotshot—meth laced with fentanyl.”

“Jesus,” Melissa muttered.

“This was before Narcan, everyone thought he was a goner,” you explained. “I did CPR for 9 straight minutes, brought him back to life.”

You took the first bite of your sandwich and moaned. The sound was obscene and Melissa closed her eyes briefly, horrified to find a flush working its way up her neck.

“You always this loud?” she demanded, hoping to distract herself from the sight of your lips, slick with oil, and the purr of pleasure dancing around your soft pallete. Unfortunately, the way she phrased the question did nothing to cut the tension.

“Never had any complaints,” you said, batting your eyelashes.

“You know what I mean.” The edges of her mouth quirked up in a reluctant smile. “Are you always so loud when you eat?”

You waggled your finger at her playfully. “Not so fast,” you said. “According to your rules, it’s my turn to ask a question now.”

“Fine,” Melissa growled. “Just take smaller bites, I don’t wanna have to give you the Heimlich. Marone!”

You wasted no time. “You single?”

The redhead faltered, a disquieted look muting the smile that had been working its way across her face. “Yeah,” she said. “You?”

“Very,” you said.

“What about that guy who answered your door last night?”

“Who, Boone?” You took a bite of pickle, waving the spear in a dismissive gesture. “He’s just a friend.”

Melissa looked skeptical. “Pretty cute friend.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Not really my type.”

She watched as you shoveled more food into your mouth, fighting a smile. Despite what she said, Melissa liked a girl who could eat. And you clearly relished the flavors, eyes closed in satisfaction as you chewed each bite.

“Why’d ya go AWOL?”

You licked some sauce off your finger. “Hmm?”

“Last night, you said you went AWOL.” She opened two sodas and slid one across the counter toward you.

“Oh, that,” you said, debating how to respond. “My dad died right after I graduated college.”

The words even took you by surprise. You didn’t usually talk about him, much less with perfect strangers. The air seemed to calcify, the way it always did when grief entered the room. Melissa waited patiently, not rushing to fill the silence.

“It was…sudden. One second he was walking around complaining about the lawnmower, the next we were picking out a casket.”

Melissa made a small hum of sympathy.

“And then my family kind of imploded,” you continued, seemingly unable to stop spilling your guts to this woman. “He was the one that kept us all…” you trailed off, taking a shaky breath.

Melissa reached toward you gently, brushing away a tear that you didn’t realize had fallen.

“You don’t gotta explain,” she said softly.

You nodded, taking another bite of your sandwich. “Anyway, I stuck around for the funeral, then I ran off and joined the Peace Corps. Haven’t been back in a few years.”

“Peace Corps?” Melissa asked, genuinely curious. “What kind of work did you do?”

“Community health projects mostly. Administered vaccines to kids, worked on a water sanitation project.” You crumpled up the parchment paper from your demolished sammie and tossed it in the trash can across the room.

“Wow,” Melissa said, feeling a little ashamed that she had initially written you off. “I’m impressed.”

“It wasn’t all halos and angel wings,” you said with a naughty smile. “In my spare time I traveled and partied and had lots of casual sex.”

Melissa snorted, and you realized how much you liked making her laugh. She popped a potato chip into her mouth, and you realized how much you liked being the one to bring her food. She licked her lips, and you realized how much you wanted to taste them. Uh-oh.

The redhead looked up to find you watching her, and her eyes narrowed. “What?” she asked gruffly.

“Sorry,” you said, praying your thoughts weren’t written plain as day on your face. “Just zoned out for a second.”

She regarded you with her usual suspicion, but then nodded. “Food coma.”

You laughed. “Yeah, but it was worth it.”

You chatted for a little while longer, Melissa giving you the skinny on the neighbors down the hall, the building management, the super. When you checked your watch and realized what time it was, you stood up.

“I guess I should get going,” you said, stretching. Yep, sleeping on the sofa had been a mistake. “Gotta try and clean up the mess before my shift starts.”

Melissa’s eyes darted down to the slip of skin that appeared as you reached overhead, your shirt hiking up far enough to expose the delicate jut of your hip bones.

“Oh,” the redhead said, wiping her mouth on a napkin. “You workin’ nights?”

“For now,” you nodded. “My old boss agreed to give me my job back, but I still gotta eat shit for a little while.”

Melissa followed you to the door.

“Be careful out there,” she said suddenly. You turned around on the threshold, smirking.

“Graveyard shift in downtown Philly,” you said, clapping your hands and rubbing them together. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I’m serious, kid. City’s changed a lot in the last few years. Watch your six.”

Your roguish smile transformed into something soft, almost tender.

“What?” Melissa grumbled.

“Nothing,” you said. “It’s just, I knew you liked me.”

With a little mischievous wave, you disappeared into the hallway. Melissa frowned, closing the door with a vague sense of unease.

“Don’t get attached, Schemmenti,” she muttered, wandering back into the kitchen to clean up. Unfortunately, whether she wanted to admit it or not, that particular ship had already sailed.

Chapter 3

[occamstfs]

Rosa's Cafe

Here's a longer Racial TF set in a coffee shop, Best! Occam

Matthew had clocked up more hours of overtime for his company than they were willing to pay him. He assumed that their guidelines weren’t so rigid and that he would be fine to get ahead early. These days you really need to go above and beyond to get ahead and Matthew was determined to get in the good graces of the big bosses.

Unfortunately working so hard was a misplay. His direct boss was forcing him to take Paid Time Off in lieu of the overtime pay for the past year. Now he sits at home with next to nothing to do, twiddling his thumbs until he can return to the grind. He loved back when he was a barista in college? Maybe he can get back to customer service?

Reflecting on this he takes to LinkedIn to see if there are any managerial spots open for a cafe. Something needs to scratch his itch for administration and he night as well pour coffee while doing so. In a stroke of luck, or perhaps something more deliberate, as soon as he logs in to check listings he sees a manager position at “Rosa’s Cafe.”

He auto-submits his resume to the restaurant assuming he’s overqualified before even reading the listing’s qualifications. Glancing through them he sees that they’d prefer someone fluent in Spanish. Matthew struggles to recall what if any Spanish remains in his head from taking it in both high school and college. He starts to pull up a language app on his phone before seeing that, jarringly fast, he has already been advanced to an interview for this cafe. Rosa herself sending him a message to come as soon as he’s ready. 

Matthew then sprints to check himself in a mirror. He has certainly not slacked in his hygiene since he was asked to stop coming into work, partially in hopes that they’ll need him to come in any day. Today though he throws on some cologne and drives off to Rosa’s Cafe. He doesn’t stop to question how odd it is to already be on the way to an interview, minutes after submitting his resume. They must just really need someone?

As soon as he arrives Rosa is there at the door to greet him, smiling wide and welcoming him into her establishment.

“Hola Matthew! So glad for you to join us, your application was outstanding! Solamente, I was wondering why you wanted this job given your current one?”

Matthew blushes and explains his situation, struggling not to sound like a maniac for wanting to work despite the relatively cushy situation he is in. Although Rosa hears this and is impressed at his ethic, his crave to work. Rosa was more than happy to take advantage of his situation.

“Uhhh there was just one thing though, Miss. Oh uh, lo siento. Señora Rosa.”

“Sí, sí. You aren’t quite fluent en Español, are you Matthew?” He averts his eyes but before he can answer Rosa continues on, “Esta bien. You will just learn on the job sí?”

Putting on an air of determination Matthew pumps his fist “Sí, Sra Rosa! Uh claro que sí,” he attempts, stepping to the limit of the Spanish remaining in his head. Rosa gives him a look like an owner watching a pet as it tries to show off, offering an ambiguous smile before explaining her stance.

“Claro que sí,” offering a knowing nod, “I’m sure you understand why I would want a manager to speak Español, yes? En esta ciudad, in this city, there are very few places where Español is the default. I would just like my cafe to be one of them. The job is of course yours, I would be a fool not to take the opportunity. But while you’re here, mientras estás aquí, please work on su Espanol,” tacking on, “I can’t imagine it will be too long before you’re called back to your job eh? Una estrella como tu” 

To her point there are clearly not a lot of people speaking English in the cafe. Matthew would guess he is probably the only native English speaker present making him blush, although after being flattered by Rosa he was ready to accept. After all he had been meaning to practice his Spanish anyway. He puts his hand out to shake her hand, “when can I start?”

“Well, mi pequeño gerente, why not start training now?” Turning around she calls over the barista Juan to introduce the two, talking to Juan at a speed that made it clear to Matthew that she was quite dumbing down her language in their conversation. She then bids farewell to the two, “adios Matthew! Tengo que ah, cόmo se dice, file your paperwork. Hasta mañana!”

“Hola Matthew, it is nice to meet you! Rosa said to show you around,” Juan smiles offering him a cup of their house roast. “Espero que, ah, I hope you don’t mind but I added canella, cinnamon.” Matthew graciously accepts the cup. He may be a world removed from his time as a barista but instantly returns to his first coffee tasting.

It smelled quite strong, darker than he usually prefers and he can see cinnamon swirling through the cup as the cup steams in his hand. He begins to bring the cup up for a closer smell although as soon as the movement begins the allure of the drink overpowers him and he drinks almost too quickly. It was delicious. He always, almost performatively, drank black coffee at his old job. Or no, his real job?

Juan sees Matthew continue to gulp down the cup of coffee waiting for reaction, though he sees very little sign of his mind processing the drink at all. Matthew’s just staring ahead, his eyes ever so slightly glazing over as he finishes the cup. He grins as it almost looks like the coffee has stained Matthew’s upper lip, offering a napkin before asking, “te gusta hermano?”

Matthew snaps back to his senses, staring at Juan as a small ring of brown starts to stain the center of his icy blue eyes. He struggles to even find the words to describe how profoundly he enjoyed the coffee. It was a passion too great for him to even begin to capture in English. “Juan, that was, cómo se dice? Is there some word better than delicioso?”

Juan laughs putting his arm around his new manager, “Ay hermano! Maybe that’s what you should do now! You just go work on your Spanish and I’ll bring you some samples! Ah, aqui, the employee handbook is in Spanish, practica perfecta!” He brings over another cup and the handbook and Matthew starts struggling through it. 

Matthew figuratively bashes his head into the handbook, it’s not dense but it is per cierto not written with beginners in mind. Smirking as he notices he just reflexively thought in Spanish, going to get another drink only to find the cup emptied once more. He hasn’t been drinking nearly as much since he left the office, bargaining with himself as Juan comes to refill his cup. He can cut back his intake later, he needs to get this through this work.

And work at it he does, caffeine is not making him feel wired as usual but sensual as he continues to page through the booklet. He starts to stretch just to feel the strain in his muscles and the tension in his clothes. He looks down and sees his shirt is fitting much better than he thought it did. It’s not tight but anyone who looks can see there is muscle under there. He stares at his own body feeling strength he does not remember cultivating. Suddenly he notices it’s not only his upper body that’s filling out, as a growing package begins to demand attention under the table. These jeans were clearly not designed to handle this and Matthew is barely able to stop himself from flexing to see just how much he truly can fill this outfit and he attempts to switch gears back to working. Urgently feeling adverse to thinking any further about his body.

Struggling to find any way to distract himself he remembers being historically shit at actually speaking in Spanish. This is as good a chance as any to practice his pronunciation. Matthew begins to mouth the words in the handbook, feeling his tongue in unfamiliar ways that he swears he has done a million times before. Matthew attempts to raise his practice to a whisper and immediately goes into a coughing fit. Hope that coffee didn’t burn my throat he thinks clearing his throat and finding a much deeper voice on the other side. One that announces his Spanish progress to the whole cafe shockingly loud for a whisper though Matthew doesn’t notice. What is immediately apparent to him is how expertly he rolled an R. 

He knows he could never do that, and not without trying. He probably spent half an hour practicing it his sophomore year. He reflects back on how hard he worked on Spanish in the past as his eyes start to glaze over once more. Something is off here, his hand raising to his face not notice a moustache and sloppy goatee start to push out of his face. He foes feel itchy elsewhere though, scratching at his chest and stomach, averting the more animalistic urge to scratch his pits and crotch as Juan begins to walk over.

Matthew quickly tries to meet him halfway, standing to a height just taller than the one he thought he knew to be true. His bulge grazes the bottom of the table which causes his body to convulse in pleasure. His feet are caught on the table as he falls knocking his coffee all over himself and the floor. “Mierda!” He shouts before going dark.

He awakens to Juan wiping coffee off his face, his clothes now certainly stained brown and spelling of rich coffee and cinnamon. Helping him back to standing, Juan makes sure he is alright, “quite the fall amigo! Tal vez we call it a day?” Matthew hastily agrees feeling impossibly strained and weary for what little work he has actually done. Juan continues, “Rosa said the paperwork should be good for you to start tomorrow if you can!” Stumbling to his feet Matt knows he agrees but the rest of his night is little more than a blur. 

He sees Juan wink at him and knows he is going to start tomorrow. He must drive home after that since he is now looking at himself in the mirror brushing his teeth. Something seems off, he is clearly too tired to put a finger on exactly what it is. He flexes his bicep noticing he must have completely disrobed. He thought he shaved his pits recently. He scratches at his crotch realizing that his now heavier cock is also out, pawing at his pubes and feeling his bulge expand even further into his hand before forcing it into some briefs and continuing his audit. 

Didn’t he have a tan? Looking at himself up and down he feels like he isn’t supposed to be this pale right? Isn’t he from? Matthew feels lightheaded and begins to collapse once more before being jarred back to reality smelling the coffee and cinnamon scent still hugging his chest. Using this second wind he stumbles into bed, neglecting to change into his nightclothes and he quickly drifts to sleep.

Matt falls into a dream that feels realer than the reality of his previous life. It’s the middle of the rush and he sees himself working at an espresso machine with Juan. He looks down seeing his body expertly maneuver around the bar, tossing cinnamon into drinks, chatting with customers in truly fluent Spanish. He pauses in this dreamscape to notice the tan he was so sure he had earlier. He sees the tattooed arms he has known for years, he worked hard enough for them after all, might as well show them off on the clock. He raises the hairy arms to flex at Juan and say something clever in his native tongue before being jarred back to reality by a sunbeam.

Matt awakens hearing his morning wood stretch his briefs to their near limit barely able to keep himself together before seeing the time and once more shouting “mierda!” He is already so late for work, they’ve been open for hours. It’s his first real day and he has already jod- he’s already fucked it up! He quickly inspects himself once more, seeing the true version of himself he saw in his dream. Seeing his recently shaved chest he quickly realizes he doesn’t have time for a shower. He smells his pits just to see how bad the damage is. His voice rumbles in his chest, “joder…”

He smells again even deeper, it reminds him of? Oh it is just on the tip of his tongue, which he begins to reach out before remembering his predicament. He throws on a dress shirt before giving one last whiff to his pits, flexing his pecs as he does so. It is so fragrant, almost spicy. Matt postpones the mystery after concluding it should certainly be covered by the smell at Rosa’s and rushing out the door. Not seeing as his chest pops off the top button of his shirt and his neat goatee begins to grow even thicker.

Matt rushes into the door and is greeted like a regular, which he is of course to be now, as the new manager. He feels a warmth in his chest as Juan brings over his first cup of the day. “Buenos días Juan!” Matt offers before going to meet the chef, Benito, as the plan was today.

Making his way back to the kitchen he smells something even more distracting to him than his body odor this morning. Benito runs over with a plate full of arepas that Matt recognizes instantly before Benito greets him, “buenos dias jefe! Rosa said you wanted us to start serving arepas sí?” 

“Rosa? She said, I asked for these?”

“Si! Desde su ciudad natal no?”

Matt’s mouth is overcome as he starts to clearly drool for the plate in front of him. He has no choice but to tear into one which immediately brings him back. He loved these when he was a kid, but? Didn’t he grow up en los estados? Wasn’t he from? He fails to finish the thought in his head before it is wiped away as if fireworks are going of in his mind. 

He beams at Benito as his eyes glaze over and fully darken to brown. He feels an urge to burp which he chokes down with another cup of coffee. “Ay this takes me back amigo, estos son exactamente como, like the ones mi abuela había before nos pequeños…” Matt pauses as he feels a pervasive warmth starts to grow distracting in his chest as a similar itch begins on the outside.

He doesn’t notice as his inner monologue begins to entirely shift away from English, as it should of course. He may live in los Estados hoy, but he was colombiano born and bred. He remembers how hard he worked as a child learning English as his biceps start to clearly strain the already tight dress shirt.

Matt remembers fighting for his place to get a degree at a university that did not respect his native country or tongue as he feels his voice deepen beyond baritone and into a strong bass. He remembers trying to find a place in this mierda ciudad before meeting Rosa as his chest bursts open shooting any buttons remaining off his shirt. 

Rosa then enters the kitchen to see how her new hire has progressed and slyly smiles seeing his progress. She tosses a shirt at him saying in Spanish now effortlessly understood “Oi Matteo! You’re in the kitchen put some clothes on!” 

Matteo shuffles to the restroom to change as he looks one last time in the mirror and sees the flawless trajabador he sees every time he checks himself out. He puts on his nametag flexing to see just how much he can strain his shirt before returning to the cafe, ready to conquer another day in the life he has worked so hard for.

[mrchiipchrome]

The Mechanic

W.C. - 4.2k

A/n: This was a bit rushed and not very good but anyways I’m going to bed now

——————————

Growing up, your father had been a mechanic and when you had days off from school he would bring you down to the auto shop he owned and worked at. Later, that would turn into you spending your afternoons and weekends down at the shop, learning everything there was to know about cars and how to repair them.

After graduating secondary school you were employed by the shop you had grown up in, rising through the ranks like any usual person would their job. You had close to no help from your father after your employment, he had always been clear that you had to work to get to your position especially if you wanted to one day inherit the shop.

So when your father died, you had more than enough experience with how to run an auto shop. In reality you were nothing less than a parentless kid trying to navigate their way through life without their biggest role model and simultaneous favorite person.

But eventually you found your footing, with the help of a bit of therapy that you'd gone to reluctantly, and had managed to find the balance between repairing cars and handling everything else that came with owning your own mechanic shop.

Still you consider yourself lucky, lucky for having Mitch who had been helping you with all the financials and all the other confusing things.

Mitch, or as you knew him Uncle Mitch, had been one of your father’s childhood friends and had been around since before you had been born. He was there for your father when your mother decided that she didn’t want to be part of your life and when he had no choice but to become a single father. He took you to school on the days your father couldn’t and helped you with school work.

So when a very pretty girl with car problems appeared one day, he was the first one to tease you about your obvious starstruck behavior.

—-

08.00 on a thursday and you’ve already been at work for a few hours, finishing up some paperwork and a couple small repairs on easier cars before all the other mechanics came in at 9. Hearing someone walk in through the open garage door is not an unusual feat, in fact you were used to your other mechanics coming in a bit earlier, so when uncertain footsteps echo in the peopleless shop you don’t roll out from where you’re situated under the car.

“Um, hi. My car just broke down like 2 minutes from here and I have no idea what to do.”

The soft fleeting voice is feminine and unfamiliar, definitely not one of your mechanics with their gruff chain smoking voices. Your head perks up and the hand holding the wrench from your tool set stills. With hands covered in soot and oil like most of your work clothes, you slide out from your place underneath the car.

“What seems to be the problem with it? Did it indicate something might've been wrong before it broke down? Any unusual sounds…?” Your voice trails off as you see the gorgeous blonde standing there looking around in curiosity, seeing all the different cars around the large shop. You just stand there, like an idiot seemingly enamored by the pretty stranger in front of you. She doesn’t seem to acknowledge your clear inability to act like a normal human as she directs her eyes toward you, eyes not even the greatest poets could try to describe.

The woman fiddles with the rings adorning her slender fingers as she rushes to explain the moments prior to her car stopping functioning.

“Oh god, yeah. I was supposed to come in for an oil change but then out of nowhere, my car started to make these kinds of crunching sounds and then there was a slight pop before it just broke down. Since I was supposed to come here, I knew it wasn’t that far so I left it with my friend and ran here for help”

The stress she’s feeling is evident in her actions and a surprising sense of protectiveness overtakes you, a feeling you can only describe as wanting to wrap her up in bubble wrap and protect her from the cruel world.

“Alright, have you called a tow truck yet?” The blush that immediately covers her face indicates that she had not, apparently not thinking that far. A sly smile takes over your face, fingers wrapping around a towel laying haphazardly on the deep red metal bench.

The soot and grime your fingers are covered in transfers over to the white surface of the towel, more soot at your hairline and your nose.

“You’re in luck miss, we have our very own tow truck.” Your hands shake deliberately as you try to lighten the mood, leading the blonde girl over to the regular truck you had. It was an old model, but damn if that car didn’t run perfectly. It had been a gift from Mitch for your 18th birthday, he knew that you adored putting excessive amounts of effort into your projects, and that car was truly a piece of work.

It had taken you a few short weeks to get it done, you were somewhat of a prodigy.

“Hey, take the passenger seat! I need you to show me where your car broke down.” You shouted as the blonde girl made no motion to move in any direction. She slowly shuffles her feet towards the car,enjoying the way your eyes raked over her body.

“Okay, so basically it’s just up the road, you’ll see a tiny dutchie standing beside it panicking.” She laughs softly as the last words escape her mouth, and in that exact moment you decide that it’s the greatest, most beautifully enticing melody ever created.

Your eyes are glued to the road, knowing that if you were to look into her eyes once more you’d get stuck looking at her. She felt like home even though you’d just met her moments before.

“Oh yeah? Why do you have a tiny Dutch person in your car?” The banter with you the girl you’d yet to get the name of was like you’d been friends for decades, you easily bounced retorts back and forth like great friends would.

“My teammate, we were driving to training and then my car decided that it didn’t want to work anymore. Wait, I haven’t phoned Jonas yet, I’m so dead.” You didn’t understand what she was talking about at the last part, the girl seemingly talking to herself.

Just like the woman beside you had said, there was a seemingly frantic short woman besides a white Mercedes. “How’d you know?” You ask the woman sitting in your car, her expression silly beyond comprehension. Her tongue was trapped between her teeth, her bright smile on display and her nose scrunched up adorably.

“A magician never reveals his secrets, right?” She fixes you with another cheeky smile, dark pink lips pulled together in the most admirable way. She was nothing if not perfect.

Her eyes shine brightly as you pull up next to her blinking car, the Dutch girl pulling the door open with a surprising amount of strength.

“Less, we are so late, Jonas is going to kill us!” Her foreign accent is quite noticeable, not that it bothers you. What did bother you was the way she threw the door of your beloved car up so violently.

“Yeah Vic, I know.” Less, as you’d come to know, told the other girl, Vic. Vic’s eyes flit over to you, taking in your non-threatening appearance and awkward smile. You wave at her before exiting your truck.

“So if you don’t mind, I’ll just pop your hood and try to find the problem.” You spoke to the taller of the two girls in front of you, who nodded her head vigorously, allowing you to do whatever it was you needed.

The smoke that escaped from beneath the hood concerned you, as did the heat of the motor beneath your fingers. It didn’t look too good for the blonde’s car, but for both her and your sake, you didn’t tell her.

“Well it’s definitely a problem with the engine, that much I’ll tell you.” A bit of worry seeps into your tone and Alessia doesn’t seem to like it.

“But my car will be fine right?” She was worried beyond recognition.

“Yeah, they say that I’ve got magic fingers for a reason” You sent her a quick wink, the statement true in both ways. The blonde’s face darkened significantly, red sprouting at every soft turn of the face.

“Okay there Casanova, why don’t you just hook the car to yours and take it back to the shop?” The dutchie’s tone left no room for argument, clearly she was protective of the blonde.

Pulling the wires from your trunk, you quickly hooked her car to yours in a safe way, making sure that her keys were out of the ignition and that her car was completely turned off.

Vic jumped into the backseat begrudgingly whilst Less took her place in the passenger seat.

You drove back to the garage in a slow pace, not wanting to damage the car behind more, plus you got to have the beautiful blonde in your car for longer.

“Less, how are we supposed to get to training if your car’s like that?” The girl in the backseat frowns at the blonde through the mirror, but you’re already multiple steps ahead, having put your thinking hat on before.

“I can drive you, and if y’all want we can take my coolest car too.” You spoke up nonchalantly, even though you were riddled with anxiety inside.

Less shakes her head softly, putting a soft and warm hand on your shoulder, stroking down your arm.

“It’s no problem really, we’ll just take an Uber.” She waves you off, despite seeming quite excited at the prospect of showing up to ‘training’ in a cool car.

“It’s no bother, my mechanics don’t come in until 9 so I’ve got time to kill. Plus, I haven’t been able to take the baby out for a while, needed to fix her up a little after the last time.” You laugh out, hand coming up to rub at the back of your head as you pull into the workshop.

“Take your things from your car and follow me.” The two of them do exactly as you say, getting their duffle bags from the white car.

You take them to the very back of the workshop, back to the garage where you kept your most prized possessions. In the smack middle it stood, your baby.

A 1968 Ford Mustang.

It was a gorgeous, shiny black color and you’d picked up a fair few ladies with it, just like your father did before you. He’d got it from his father, they’d started working on it before your grandfather died, and your father vowed to complete the work with his child.

Unluckily, your very own father died before the project was done, and so you were left to finish it.

“Here’s my beauty, my 1968 Ford Mustang, ain’t she a beaut?” You asked the two girls, standing behind you with their mouths wide open.

“Where’d you get it? Aren’t they super expensive?” Vic asked and Less slapped her arm harshly at the latter question.

“Passed down to me and yes, they’re incredibly expensive.” You could see how their eyes looked over your car, it was safe, modernized just enough so that it wouldn’t lose its charm.

“Right, you two can squabble about who sits in the passenger seat and who sits in the back, I’ll take your bags though, no scratching my paint.” You pluck their bags from their hands and put them in the trunk whilst Less and Vic actually squabbled.

Eventually, it was Less who won the battle, her hair blowing in the cool wind that passed you by as you drove. You’d gotten the address from the younger of the two as soon as you all got settled in the car.

When you finally pull up in front of the seeming training center, it’s to the sight of multiple girls standing with mixed expressions. Some were stern, others were shocked and some were confused.

“Alessia Russo, Victoria Pelova, where have you been?” The short woman at the front asks sternly, though shock does seem to flutter over her face for a second as she clocks your ride.

“Well my car broke down so I walked to the workshop not too far away-“ Alessia starts sheepishly, her fingers scratching at her forearm.

“Where she met Casanova, who decided to help by getting Lessi’s car to the shop and then driving us here in her sweet ride.” Vic finishes off Alessia’s sentence, patting your shoulder as she climbs out of the car. Alessia once again blushes at the name Vic gave you, just as you roll your eyes at it.

“You have a really beautiful car, miss.” One of the more sheepishly shy looking girls tells you, she had an accent you just couldn’t place.

“Thank you dear, tell me, where is it you come from? I can’t place your accent.” You ask her softly, not wanting to scare the young girl.

“Uhm, Denmark miss.” She looks down at her feet, shuffling them around as she blushes more than usual.

“Oh, I’ve never been, do you have any recommendations for me when I visit?” That seems to set the young girl off as she starts to babble on about different places to visit and where you could find the best food.

Alessia looks on as you engage with her teammate, with you leaning back on the side of your car and Katherine standing in front of you.

A sudden loud noise comes from your phone, and you recognise it as the jingle you’d put for Mitch.

“Hey uncle Mitch, whatchu calling me for?” You answer the call quickly, waving a little at the girls you’d met before.

“Where are you? The shop’s empty and I don’t know if I need to remind you, but your employees arrive in 10 minutes.” He was pretty clearly stressed about your current predicament.

“Oh shit, listen Mitch I needed to help a client and I took the Mustang so I’ll be back in like, 5 minutes.” You knew that he knew exactly why you’d taken the mustang, it was simply a lady magnet.

“A ‘client’ of course, that's what your dad always said when he wanted some alone time if you know what I mean.” Even if you couldn’t see your uncle’s face you knew that he was smiling and winking slyly. Your face scrunches up uncomfortably at the insinuation, not really wanting to know of your father’s ‘endeavours’ before you.

“Ew gross Mitchy, it’s not like that.” The whisper-shout you let out into the mic has the women around you looking at you weirdly.

“Alright, alright, I’ll open for the guys but you make sure that you don’t get in too late, you still have that car from a couple days ago to finish.” Rolling your eyes at the older man, you climb back into the car and put the keys into the ignition, turning the car on and saying a quick goodbye to the girls you’d given a ride to, telling the gorgeous blonde that her car would be done in the next few days.

You were fully on the road when the blonde realized that you hadn’t given her your number, which meant that she didn’t know when her car would be done.

You on the other hand knew exactly what you were to do when the car was done, it really wasn’t hard to make the plan.

—————

“Uncle Mitch? I’m going away for like an hour to help a client, so let the guys go on break for an hour and a half. They sure do need it.” You call out for your uncle who found himself at the shop more often than not.

“Okay kid, just make sure not to fool around too much okay? I know how you are-“ He starts off with a large smile on his face before you interrupt him with your own sentence.

“Yeah just like my father, I know, it’s kind of who I was raised by, you know.” You smile at the old man whose hair was graying and face wrinkled. He was like another father figure.

“Yeah, yeah, off you go to see Juliet.” He responds, shooing you out of the main room and towards the private garage where your Mustang was located.

“What is it with people naming us after old romance stories?!” You say exasperated, but the blush covering your face tells a different tale.

Revving up your car, you quickly pull out of the garage and pull out onto the road. The wind blows through your hair and the freeing feeling makes you smile, the hot summer breeze never failing you.

As you pull up to the training grounds there’s a large group of people exiting the building, training bags over their shoulders as they talk eagerly with each other. They do notice the car that didn’t fit in, black leather seats and black shiny exterior.

When their resident clumsy friend spots the car she trips over her feet, luckily enough for her, Vic is right beside her and she manages to catch the falling forward. It’s no easy feat by any means, but the smaller midfielder manages to pull her back to her feet.

When you pull up next to them, she comes up to greet you.

“Hi Casanova” She starts off, smile splitting her face open from ear to ear. Your face mirrors hers, the stupid nickname seemingly stuck around.

“Hi Alessia, I was popping by to pick you up as the work on your car is done.” The forward eagerly puts her bag in your backseat before she’s plopping down in your passenger seat. She smiles even wider as she realizes the soft rock flowing out from your radio. All of a sudden her face turns into a mess of confusion and a bit of fear.

“Wait, how did you know when my training ended?” She was staring deep into your soul, eyes glistening in the sun.

“Well I had a little help.” Turning around to face her Dutch friend, you can see the way she winks at the blonde sitting beside you, who merely raises an eyebrow at her. There were more questions to be answered but she decided that it wasn’t worth the effort.

“Are you ready to go back to the garage?” You ask her softly, her face just so enticing that you could do no more than whisper in her presence. She nods her head though and as you’re pulling out of the parking lot you both hear a:

“Don’t forget protection!”

The blush that comes over her face makes her look like an overly ripe tomato, though you don’t have much to say, looking like a tomato yourself.

The rest of the drive is spent in silence, Alessia looking out at the streets of London like she'd never seen anything like them before and you admiring her at every red light. It’s not until you pull up at the shop that she looks at you properly, her eyes glimmering.

“So if you just follow me out here, I’ll lead you to your good as new car.” She exits your car to follow you out and towards her own, the Mercedes that you’d put extra time and effort into. Nothing but the best for the gorgeous girl.

“Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here to save the day, I really do owe you one.” Her seemingly never ending smile shines even brighter at the sight of her car, and as she turns to you it seems to get impossibly brighter.

“Well it’s my job you know, I kind of own the place.” It’s a hastily thrown out comment that seemingly piques her interest, Alessia’s hand coming up to rest on your slightly sooty arm.

“How do you own this place? I don’t mean it in a condescending way or anything but it’s just that you’re so young and pretty and you don’t seem like the type to buy a workshop.” She rambles in her nervousity, eyes shifting around the shop like they’d done only days before.

“I inherited it from my dad, the same with my car. He uhm, he died and my mom is like fully out of the picture so I got most of his stuff, my uncle Mitch also got some stuff but I was the main person.” She was so easy to talk to, you’d only met her days before and it felt like you’d known each other for years. Your dads death wasn’t something that you talked about often or with most people, so your heart had really taken a wild leap for the young striker.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, I know that he’s watching you with pride wherever he is.” Her hand rubs up and down your arm comfortingly, smiling sorrowfully at you as you recount your grief at the most important person in your life’s death.

“It’s not your fault, he lived his life to the fullest so I know that he was content when he died…” Alessia notices the want to change the topic of your conversation and so she shifts it to something more trivial.

“Uhm, how much do you want me to pay for this?” She asks, her voice wavering slightly at the whiplashing change of topic.

“You can pay with a hug and a kiss?” You joke lightly but it seems like the forward takes it seriously, as her hands come up to slither back around your neck, fingers tangling in your baby hairs.

Big hands settle on the blonde’s waist as she moves her face closer to yours, leaning up to rest her lips against yours in a soft embrace.

The kiss is nothing short of magical and as her tongue pokes against your lips you open your lips, basically french kissing the girl in the middle of your workshop. The kiss only breaks apart as whistles from your employees ring out throughout the shop, the guys having come back from their break.

When they finally quiet down it’s by the threat of you withholding their next paycheck and they all look away as you peck the girl’s lips a few more times before letting her leave in her fixed up Mercedes.

“Not a word of this to Mitch.” You look at them all sternly, but the knowledge that all of them had basically watched you grow up made you realize that they definitely weren’t scared of your empty threats. They sealed the deal by chuckling at you before turning back to their individual projects.

————-

In the weeks following the blonde leaving your motor shop she’d come in more than once for imaginary problems with her car, which you knew was just an excuse to see you. No one had that many problems with their car.

When she comes in fully unexpected one Thursday it’s with a fleeting problem with her motor from before.

“Hi Y/n, my car has been acting up a little again, mind checking it out for me?” She pops her head into the shop after hours, you’d just been finishing up some paperwork that needed to be done.

“Alessia, you do know that you can just ask me out on a date instead of making up problems with your car?” You prayed that you’d read the situation right, otherwise it’d be quite the awkward conversation.

“Oh thank you, it’s really hard to just come up with problems out of the blue” Her body leans on her hands that are now pressed against your desk, her face close to yours.

“So, are you going to ask me?” You ask her the question you’d been thinking about for a while, her face and the tops of her ears turning red.

“Y/n/n do you want to go on a date with me?” She asks nervously, like you’d ever reject a girl like her, a beautiful and kind soul that did nothing if not light your day up with her made up problems.

“Of course I would Less.” You respond to the girl, only for her to lean forward and capture your lips with her own. People always talk about the first kiss, but the second kiss was always so much better, and all the kisses after that were pretty great too.

Who would’ve thought, a footballer and a mechanic getting together, the very own Casanova and Juliet of the world.

Maybe some weird romance book would be written about it in a few years, but for now you were content with watching the stars with your gorgeous girlfriend in your less gorgeous (but still very beautiful) car, sharing deep kisses into the night.

[overtake]

if you’re still doing prompts: ⁹¹⁾ six missed calls

Car mechanic Daniel, driver Max.

Daniel’s brain pulses inside his head, kissing the fragile walls of his skull with every second he’s awake. His nose simultaneously runs out of one nostril and is stuffed up in the other. Even through his slightly blocked hearing, he knows his breathing sounds wheezy and congested.

He props himself up onto a shaky elbow and almost collapses with the motion. His whole body aches. There’s spine-chilling shivers sent through his bones one second and hot flashes the next. Groaning, he finally adjusts himself to a seated position and takes a second to regroup.

Reluctantly, he reaches for his phone to turn off do not disturb. He hates to call out of work, made worse by how nice Cyril always is about it. The garage is a lot for the two of them to handle, let alone Cyril by himself.

Daniel blinks when he realizes he has six missed calls from the garage. He’s definitely running a bit behind his usual schedule, but Cyril doesn’t set specific hours for him so long as Daniel gets his work done. There must be some emergency, which is fucking great. He’ll be taking medicine and going after all.

He sees spots when he stands to his feet, but he grabs his bedside table and manages to stay upright. He puts the phone on speaker and drops it on the bed while he pulls on the first respectably clean items of clothing he can find. Not like it matters, really. He’ll sweat through them within five minutes of working through this fever, and grease always seems to permeate their coveralls no matter what they do.

Cyril picks up in a state of panic — which, for him, still sounds remarkably calm and stable.

“We have an emergency repair,” he informs Daniel. “It’s going to take me all day, probably. I need you to cover everything else so I can get this done.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” Daniel promises, trying his absolute best to sound as if he’s not deathly ill. Cyril is too caught up in frantically relaying this emergency to Daniel, who has entirely tuned him out in pursuit of getting on pants without passing out and splitting his head open. He probably ends the call rather rudely into Cyril’s story, but he needs to focus all his attention on driving into work without a dizzy spell.

Cyril takes one look at him and tries to send him straight back home.

“No,” Daniel protests. “I’m good. I’ll go home if it’s still bad by midday, but I’m alright. You have that emergency repair for someone important.”

The reminder of this seemingly VIP client perks Cyril right up. “You would not believe who is in our office right now,” he says, dropping his voice to a low whisper.

Daniel shrugs. He probably can guess. A tiny auto repair shop on the outskirts of Perth doesn’t exactly attract high profile visitors. At best, it’s probably some dickhead politician or half-famous musician. They definitely have money, based on the nice ass car Cyril was working on when Daniel walked in.

“Go and look,” Cyril says excitedly, shoving Daniel toward the door that leads into the office space.

This mystery guy has his back to Daniel, bent over on his phone. Daniel sees broad shoulders and scruffy hair in that nebulous area between blond and brown.

It’s only when the guy turns around that he realizes he’s looking at Max Verstappen.

Daniel hasn’t paid actual attention to F1 in years. He did his time in Italy, tried to prove himself worthy of a real shot. He got it, too. He did races with HRT, made it two races with Toro Rosso, and then collapsed in the paddock before quali and was diagnosed with a heart condition. Manageable, they said. Shouldn’t affect his length or quality of life, so long as he took medication and stopped putting his body through the enormous strain of racing.

He’d considered saying fuck it and racing anyway. It felt more important to him than anything else at that time. To a 22-year-old with his dreams at his fingertips, he figured there was no quality of life without F1.

His mum, though — it would have destroyed her. He returned to Perth and laid uselessly in bed for two months, then found the closest job to cars he could stomach without driving himself mental over what he’d lost.

“Everything okay?” Max asks, twisting and facing his body toward Daniel when he hears the door open. His blue eyes widen when they take in Daniel, probably looking just as spooked as Daniel’s do right now. Daniel knows he’s sick, but he didn’t realize he looked atrocious enough to scare people.

“Hi,” Daniel says. His words come out phlegmy, and he tries for a casual cough to clear it. He can feel it’s not successful, but forges on. “Uh, I don’t know if Cyril mentioned it, but your repair is going to probably be an all-day thing. You don’t have to sit in here.” Then, panicked that he sounds as if he’s kicking Max out, he hastily clarifies. “Obviously, you can stay if you want. There’s just probably more exciting things to do.”

Max looks at him drily. “I don’t have a car.”

“Right,” Daniel says. “Like, no offense, but I think you’ve got the money to rent a new one.”

Max doesn’t look remotely offended. He laughs, something genuine and higher-pitched than Daniel expected.

“I’ve done all the tourist things anyway. I leave tomorrow. I don’t really mind just sitting here.”

“Alright, well. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Thank you, Daniel,” Max says. He has a nice smile, Daniel thinks, and admires the pink shape of it before Max turns back to his phone.

It takes his hazy brain ages to realize he never told Max his name.

Max hunches over his screen, shooting the odd glance at the door to make sure no one’s about to bust back through. He types in the Instagram handle he’s visited countless times over the years. Daniel Ricciardo, who shook his hand at a karting event with a big grin and imprinted himself permanently on Max’s psyche.

Max had spent ages on his dad’s computer after that collapse, refreshing the search over and over until a news article confirmed that Daniel was alive.

Daniel had faded in and out of Max’s memory in the years since, but he never left completely. Every so often, Max would look at his social media and watch the profile picture change with the times. Those pixels on a locked-down profile were the only documentation he had that Daniel was still out in the world somewhere and doing okay.

He didn’t come to Perth for Daniel. He didn’t even know if Daniel still lived here, for one. Plus, it would be incredibly creepy to track him down based on the foggy memory of a decade old karting event.

Max had watched back Daniel’s limited races, breathless at the raw potential. He’d wondered a few times what it would’ve been like if Daniel stayed and fought his way into Red Bull long enough for Max to race beside him.

Even still, he didn’t pick his vacation spot for Daniel. Subconsciously, maybe it influenced his choice, but he had two spare weeks after Melbourne and an ache to see something besides his white bedroom walls.

Fate, not Max, made his ludicrously expensive rental car break down in the Perth suburbs and brought him to Daniel’s garage.

He looks down at Daniel’s profile. 32 posts. A profile picture of him in a colourful bucket hat sipping a drink. No mutual followers, despite the countless people that connect them. Daniel didn’t make this page until he was out of F1, and Max assumes he blocked out that world entirely.

He hovers his finger over the follow button, then exits the app before he can make that kind of bad decision. Instead, he stands, pats his jeans to check for his wallet, and marches out the door toward the cafe a few doors down.

He thinks of Daniel’s raspy voice and ruddy, fever-red cheeks and hopes he likes soup.

[tmbgareok]

Evening Mr. Flansburgh!

I am an aspiring musician! I really want to create my own songs, but since I'm an absolute beginner starting from the ground up, I am soul-crushingly daunted by which skill I should focus on learning first, especially with the amount of resources available to me online (Singing? Lyric writing? Learning a particular instrument? Mixing? Music Theory? etc).

Do you remember what skill(s) you focused on doing first when you were just getting into music, or have any recommendations about the order to do then in?

Much appreciated!

JF: reflecting on it, my experience was extremely organic, slow-evolving and combined so many of my interests and obsessions I am not sure it is necessarily that universal. (For instance I was kinda obsessed with recorded sound before I started writing and recording songs on a tape recorder, which I did for a couple of YEARS before I ever played in front of another human being). So I came to writing songs with some extra skills that actually facilitated my earliest efforts.

An art history professor of mine said "Art is foisting your obsessions on the world" and I think he was right. Another art professor of mine said if you embark on a dozen creative projects, the odds of creating an inspired one greatly increases over simply working on one. I think this is very good advice, and is echoed by a lot of folks writing about the nature of creativity.

If you can't play chords, or move your hands around a keyboard or a fretboard fast enough to play a chord progression, saddle up to a screen with a movie and practice scales so your fingers get stronger. Do it everyday for some time. Then practice toggling back and forth between two chords as quickly as possible. Get a metronome. You know why!

Yes, a song is exactly the confected thing your mentioned in your request--it's a lyric, a melody, a progression, a beat, an evolving musical notion. But those parts are often created at separate times and simply smushed together. It doesn't have to be done in one go, and if the whole enterprise seems odd, or your skill set is underdeveloped in one way or another, assembling a song from the various moving elements might be an easier way to approach it.

(also a couple of days ago someone was asking about singing and I pointed at a few ideas there--essentially taking advantage of these free online vocal warm up videos)

I think you should gather a small clutch of tools--a tape recorder or a DAW that is simple enough to master quickly--there are multitrack recording apps that you can install on your phone that are intuitive. A couple of instruments-a guitar or keyboard, maybe an auto harp.

Find a place to work where you can make noise and not be heard.

I think you should start writing in a physical notebook where you can write down your ideas and revisit them. I wouldn't do it on a computer. It's slow writing, and the screen just creates distractions.

Write a bunch of lyrics without trying to write music: Make one about you but write it like it's about someone else, one about someone else's experience but sing it first person, write one about a group of people. Be positive. Be negative. Be regretful. Be optimistic. Express anger. Be as extreme as you can stand. Experiment in writing in every mode you can think of. Here somebody would write "express your own ideas", but ALL of your ideas will be your own! You are making choices based on musical notions that inspired you, but what comes out of you will almost certainly be different enough, and if it's too close to something else, shimmy it around so it isn't distracting! Write a few chord progressions. (A two chord progression that just sounds interesting going back and forth. A four chord progression. Make a beat, or find a beat online, and write a bass line or just a sequence of single notes on a keyboard or guitar to make a pleasant, evolving line. And see if you can write a "song" or two with a two or four chord verse, and a chorus that is a different chord progression.) Write it down and revisit it! Record it slow. You might want to speed it up later when it's "under your fingers."

Pretty soon you will have all the component of what you need to put lyrics to music. You can also try just singing lyrics over a beat, and then figure out the chords underneath AFTER you have a notion of a melody.

That's enough free advice. Go write some songs!