howellatme-writes

[howellatme-writes]

I accidentally planned a 13-ish chapter fic for Richard Muñoz last night.

He doesn't know it, but he's going to crash out, maybe have a quarter/mid-life crisis. He ends up chasing his dreams though.

Except with how busy I am this will probably take years to write. I just want this to magically appear.

[howellatme-writes]

[howellatme-writes]

[howellatme-writes]

The amount of times I have thought of this fic is unholy. He needs to touch them, he needs to love on them and get loved in return. I'm desperate. Plllllssssss.

As Much As You Want

Poe Dameron x RIchard Muñoz x gn!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist • ao3 • want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •

Summary: You and Poe have your eyes on Richard.

A/N: I've named Richard's dog Felicity in this for reasons I do not understand. Reader and Poe are in an established relationship, this is giving 'we saw you across the park and really dig your vibe.' vibes. Also, I'm just not so happy with this one, I don't know.

Warnings: Kissing, pet names, swearing, Richard feeling self-conscious, oral (Richard receiving), not beta read, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 2312

Richard had first met you at the park. 

He’d been playing catch with Felicity when she’d decided not to return her bright red ball to him, turning ninety degrees and marching smartly over to you before dropping the aforementioned toy at your feet. 

“Hello,” you grinned as Felicity sat and stared up at you with impossibly large eyes. “Do you want me to throw your ball?” 

Beebee, who mostly looked like a cocker spaniel, though you were sure there were other breeds in his ancestry, pulled a little on his lead. He excitedly sniffed at the ball before trying to get all up in Felicity’s face, she didn’t seem to mind though. 

“Beebee,” you tutted. He gave you a seemingly sheepish glance before going back to investigating his new friend, a little calmer this time. 

“I’m so sorry.” Richard rushed up to you, “Felicity, what are you doing?” 

“It’s fine.” You’d smiled warmly at him. “Your dog’s lovely, is it okay to pet them?” 

Richard returned your expression, visibly relaxing. “Yes, a-of course, please, she’s very friendly.” 

You’d knelt down to stroke her, muttering positive affirmations that had her tail wagging excitedly while she stayed sitting perfectly. 

Beebee had wandered over to Richard and nearly jumped up. 

“Bee.” You said firmly as you gently corrected his behaviour. He stayed on all four legs. “Sorry,” you glance up at Richard, “he loves jumping, we’re trying to nip that in the bud.” 

“It’s no problem.” He bent down to stroke Beebee, who preened a little, wiggling excitedly now that he was getting someone’s full attention. “Felicity used to jump up at everyone all the time.” 

You stood as you nodded. “Well, you’ve done an amazing job training her, she’s so well behaved.” 

“Ah,” he waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sure… Bee?” He brushed his hand through his curls a little nervously.

“Beebee.” You smiled.

“Beebee,” he repeated, “I’m sure Beebee will get the hang of it soon.” 

. 

You’d seen him three times in the park after that. Each time you’d talked a little longer, learnt a little more about each other. 

On the fifth, you had exchanged numbers. 

It was just friendly, of course. But his spirits had fallen a fraction when you’d mentioned your long term partner, Poe. Which was silly, of course, and inappropriate, he barely knew you. And you were far too lovely to not be in a relationship. And even if you hadn’t been, Richard was sure there was no way you’d be interested in someone like him.

.

Richard had first met Poe when you’d invited him and Felicity around for dinner. He’d almost turned right back around instead of pressing the bell, his nerves swimming around in his stomach and making him sick. Was he over dressed? Under dressed? Did you even want him here? Or was this just some ‘show your partner how pathetic he was so he wouldn’t get jealous that you had a new friend’.

Felicity’s had looked up at him comfortingly and, somehow, he’d managed to find the strength to knock. Poe had answered the door, fawning over Felicity and the beautiful Swiss Cheese Plant Richard had brought with him as a gift for you both. He’d hugged Richard a fraction of a second too long, the warmth of his body encapsulating him in safety. 

“Come in, come in,” Poe grinned, keeping his hand on Richard's shoulder. “It’s so good to finally meet you.” 

The dinner had gone more than well, and Felicity and Beebee were seemingly completely besotted with each other's company. Ending up curled up in Beebee’s dog basket, snuggled together and asleep.

This led to another dinner, and then another and another until it was practically a weekly event. Richard still got butterflies before every single one. 

.

“We should watch it now.” Poe grins, excitedly getting up from the table. 

“Oh, no, no,” you laugh, “we are not putting Richard through that.” 

“He will love it,” Poe gives you a cheeky look and then turns to Richard, giving him the puppy dog eyes. “You want to watch it, don’t you?” 

Richard opens his mouth, his stomach flipping over itself. Being on the receiving end of one of Poe’s endearing (manipulative) looks was always psychological torture of the sweetest degree. 

“Don’t bully him into watching it.” You put your hand on Richard’s, and he audibly gulps. “It’s awful.”

“It’s not!” Poe laughs. “It’s a classic. Best film ever.” He leans a little against Richard’s seat, pressing his hip to Richard’s arm. 

You laugh.

“Come on, it’ll be fun.” 

You sigh, but it’s good natured. You don’t know why you were trying to fight it really, you could never say no to Poe. “Fine.” 

Poe fist bumps the air.

“Only if Richard wants to, though.” You look at him and smile. 

He smiles back a little shyly, pulling back in on himself. It was always too much being under your direct attention, blinding and warm like sunshine. 

“Of course he does.” Poe rests his hands on Richard’s shoulders, and after a beat, Richard nods.

. 

You’re both sitting too close to him to be polite. Poe’s on his right, his legs crossed, his knee practically in Richard’s lap. You’re on his left, turned a little on your side, your elbow resting on the back on the sofa, your chest pressing up against his arm. 

Richard swallows, staring intently at the television and seeing absolutely nothing. He couldn’t tell you one thing about the film that was playing, even if he was held at gunpoint. All his brain could register is the feel of you both pressing against him over his clothed skin. 

He shivers a little and fidgets in his seat, his leg bouncing ever so slightly. 

“You okay?” You ask, you voice low and sultry. 

Richard’s head snaps to your direction, nodding before he even has his first words out. “Yes, yes, good fine.” 

“You sure?” Poe leans closer, his warm breath caressing the shell of Richard’s ear. 

Richard visibly jumps and you bite back a smile. 

“Yes, fine, really.” He lies. 

“Do you have enough space?” You ask, knowing that you and Poe are a centimetre away from laying all over him. 

“Yes, plenty, all good, perfect, I… um… do you both have enough room?” 

Poe rolls his neck, “You know I could be a little more comfortable.” He rests his head on Richard’s shoulder. And he freezes. 

He holds his breath, blinking hard. You were both so close, he had to be otherthinking, making mountains out of molehills. You were just a nice couple being friendly and here he was with his thoughts racing to all manner of inappropriate things. If either of you ever found out, you’d never want to see him again, never talk to him again. You could never know how much he looked forward to seeing you both, despite how anxious he got. How much it pained him to leave when the evening was done. 

How he’d press his clothes to his face afterwards, inhaling the lingering scent of your home. How he cherished every little look and touch. How he’d thought of both of you the last time he’d come. 

“Richard?” You say softly, lightly touching his chin and just tilting his face towards you. 

His eyes widen at the caress, but he moves with you, not drawing back. He darts out his tongue, licking his bottom lip nervously, the very tip only visible underneath his moustache. 

“Yes?” He asks oh so innocently. His voice as sweet and soft as always. 

You tilt your head to the side, lean in closer. 

His breathing hitches, his eyes fluttering as his long eyelashes kiss his cheeks. He had to be misunderstanding. Had to be making some error, some huge fuck up that would-

Poe’s lips on his neck, just above his jugular, makes him gasp. They’re firm and tender and as his own mouth opens you bridge the gap between you and lick into his mouth greedily. 

Richard’s brain short circuits momentarily. Had he fallen? Hit his head? Was he bleeding out and hallucinating on your floor right now while you panically called an ambulance? That was the only thing that made sense; that was surely the only logical path. 

You press closer, stroking his left cheek with your hand as you deepen the kiss. 

Poe moans softly, lightly running the edge of his teeth over Richard’s skin before darting out his tongue. He slid his hand across Richard’s soft stomach and down to his thigh. He squeezes firmly and Richard’s legs open instinctively. 

He gasps against your lips, a jolt of pleasure running along his spine. 

You pull back an inch, just enough for him to breathe and centre himself. “You okay?” 

He nods, biting his lip. “I…” 

You sink your fingers into his hair at the nape of his neck, lightly scraping your nails over his skin and he shivers. 

“You okay with this?” You ask, just as softly as before, punctuating the sentence with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

He immediately nods, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I…” It’s a dream. It has to be a dream. 

Poe sucks harder on his neck and he groans. 

You chuckle lightly as you nip at his jaw, soothing the sink quickly with your tongue. 

Richard moans louder. His heart is beating so fast and so hard, he’s sure you both must be able to hear it. 

Poe moves his hand up, cupping Richard’s quickly growing erection. 

“Fuck…” The word escapes Richard’s lips in a whisper.

Poe practically growls, lightly biting at the soft lobe of Richard’s ear before muttering. “Say that again.” 

Richard lets out the sweetest sound, so wonderfully overwhelmed with the feeling of both of you. You slide your hand along the inside of his leg, joining Poe’s at his crotch.

He breathes out both of your names in a weak sigh, his legs shaking, cock twitching. He was growing harder, dizzily quickly, pleasure beating violent and fast at the base of his stomach.

Poe kisses him messily, his tongue hot and wet and stealing his breath before he pulls back and slides off of the sofa.

“Let us take care of you.” You mutter against Richard’s lips before you kiss him again, just as desperate as Poe. Your tongue sinks deep, claiming your mouth as your own as Poe kneels between his legs. 

Poe unbuckles Richard’s belt while you undo his fly, both of you working in an almost hive mind tandem as you pull his throbbing cock free.

Richard gasps, opening his mouth to speak and then moaning loudly as Poe licks along his slit, tasting his salty precome. 

“How long has it been?” You ask softly. 

Richard swallows, shaking his head, his mind taking a while to catch up. His hands squeeze you tightly, pulling you so close you’re nearly in his lap. 

“How long since someone’s touched you?” You repeat.

Poe looks up at you both with dark eyes.

“It’s…” He pants. “It’s been a while…”

“We’ll go slow.” Poe rubs his inner thighs as he talks but Richard shakes his head quickly. 

“No, please, I…” He swallows again, “I need…”

Poe grins and you smile as you kiss his cheek. 

“We’ll go fast then.” You whisper and Richard gifts you with a low groan. 

Poe quickly takes him in hand before slipping his head passed his lips and Richard cries out, fighting the urge to buck his hips and failing. 

“He’s really good at sucking cock.” You whisper, revelling in how loudly Richard groans, how hard he clings to you as your words filter into his ears. “Practically no gag reflex.” You continue, grinning when RIchard’s eyes roll back.

Poe takes him deeper, deeper, sucking hard and bobbing his head up and down. It’s messy and sloppy, salvia dripping past his lips and coating his shaft as he works him. 

You place your free hand on the back of Poe’s head, sink your fingers into his hair and encourage him to take him further, faster. 

“Shit,” Richard moans, gasping for hair. His hips buck weakly, his muscles tensing. 

“Never heard you swear before.” You tease. “Is it that good?” 

“So fucking good.” He moans, tears in his eyes. “I…”

“You can fuck his throat.” You whisper. 

Poe groan in agreement. 

“He can take it.” You add.

“Please?” Richard begs.

You can’t help but tease him. “Please, what?” 

“Please,” he gasps, so drunk on pleasure. It had been so long, too long and now he was getting too excited like some anxious teenager. “I’m, you’re going to make me…”

“You gonna come?” 

He whines and nods. 

“Please do it.” You keep your voice low and soft and right by his ear. “Poe wants it so badly, I want it, want you to come down his throat and make him swallow and-”

Richard cries out at his orgasm crests, whitting out his vision and overtaking his body. He squeezes you close, sobbing in bliss. You cradle him back, kissing his cheek and temple and pressing Poe right up against him so that he doesn’t waste a single drop. 

Poe whines happily as Richard’s cum hits his tongue and flows down his throat. He swallows eagerly until Richard starts to relax and breathe deeply as he recovers. 

Richard blinks hard, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. This had to be a dream. 

You smile at him as he opens his eyes, Poe slowly gets back on the sofa next to him. Richard reaches out to your both, stroking each of your cheeks and then sliding his fingers to the back of your necks so he can pull you both closer. 

“Can I… can we… Can I touch you? Both of you?” He asks hesitantly. 

Poe chuckles and you nod. 

“As much as you want, Richard.” 

Thank you for reading!

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[howellatme-writes]

I'm glad you liked it! 🥰

Desire Starts in the Gap

Richard Muñoz x Tooth Gap F!Reader

🦷April Fools! 🦷

Event tags: @ominoose @midgardian-witch @winniethewife

Banner isn't indicative of the reader's race, just made it for fun to learn new Photoshop techniques (and to stare at Richard cause....hot damn)! Rating: explicit, 18+ only Summary: Richard's new wife wonders if his insurance will cover Invisalign, thinking she finally has an opportunity to fix the tooth gap she hates. Richard shows her how much he loves it and how beautiful it truly is. Tags: Female!Reader, She/Her!pronouns, Insecure!Reader, Tooth gap!Reader, mirror sex, bathroom sex, tooth gap obsession, teeth, dentist, mention of dental insurance, fingering, p in v, dirty talk, kinda pervy! Richard, ruining makeup, if I missed anything let me know!

You wipe the fog off the mirror in the steamy bathroom, taking in your appearance, you turn your head from side to side, and start to do your makeup. You start your routine, getting ready for the day. Richard had work, but you are going out with some friends. You notice a pesky zit above your eyebrow and pout. You grimace and squeeze, once you're rid of the offending whitehead, you continue with your makeup. You grimace again, catching the feature you hated the most, your tooth gap. On instinct, you press your tongue up against the back of your teeth, seeing the little bit of pink peek through the two front teeth. 

“Richard?” you ask.

“What is it mi carazon?” He asks poking his head out from behind the shower curtain, his head still covered in traces of shampoo with water droplets falling on the bathroom floor.

“Am I on your dental insurance yet?” you ask curiously, looking at your ring and wedding bands and his watch in a small jewelry tray on the counter. As you get ready for the day, a smile slips on your face as you slide on your ring.

“Ah, I think so? It’s past the 30-day mark,” he muses and ducks back behind the curtain, rinsing off his hair.

“Perfect. So I just pick a dentist? Or do I just go to yours?” You look at the bands on your fingers and admire them for a moment as you hum.

“You can probably see mine.”

“Do you think your dental insurance covers Invisalign?”

The water turns off, and Richard pulls the shower curtain back aggressively, “No.”

You shoot him a quizzical look in the mirror, but you can’t help but smile at him, “They don’t cover it?”

“You’re thinking of getting rid of my favorite thing? I adore it. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he spoke passionately as he approached, wrapping his arms around your waist. His damp chest was warm against your back. You shiver as the water from his hair drips on you, as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s how people remembered me—the woman with the tooth gap. I was made fun of all the time. I rarely smiled with my teeth until I met you.” You sigh, reaching for your lip liner and contouring the edges.

“Honey, your gap is beautiful. It’s the first thing I noticed about you,” Richard lamented, kissing and nibbling your shoulder, his mustache tickling your shoulder. You giggle and jolt, almost ruining your lipliner. “Sometimes the things we see as imperfections are the very things that make us unique. I love it so much. Perfection in the imperfection,” he whispered huskily. You can feel Richard press his body into you, his hand kneading and caressing your hip, and you give him a look in the mirror when you realize how he’s already hard, “Do I have to show you how much I love that gap?”

You gasp as you feel him slide a hand down your sleep shorts, “Richard–! You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm, but you love it. Finish doing your lips,” he murmurs kissing your neck and groans when you shift your legs apart a little further when his fingers slowly start to circle your clit, and he can feel the way you respond to him, “Your gap is perfect. You have a smile that lights up my world, and that gap just makes everything about you so special.”

His hand just cupped you, letting you do your lipstick before starting his ministrations again, when you put the lipstick back on the counter, “Richard, you have work soon.”

“Look in the mirror,” he whispered nibbling on your earlobe, “Just relax, let me show you.” slowly pulling your sleep shorts and panties down, his hands caressing your thighs, your ass, ghosting up your shirt to feel your stomach, “Part your lips for me.” You swallow hard, your breath catching as he calls you a good girl. He reaches up to your chin and holds it, his thumb ghosting at the corner of your mouth, but careful not to ruin the fresh lipstick, “You drive me crazy, baby. This smile…this mouth… Look at the little gap. It’s everything.”

“Nuh, Uh. " Your breath hitches as he slips a finger inside, and you whine—his finger retreats to add a second digit. You reach back to grip his curls as he presses his fingers deeper, rubbing slowly, searching for the spot that makes you shake.

“Look at you. I want you to see what I see. Do you know how many times-,” he groans and whispers low in your ear as your other hand grips the edge of the porcelain sink, pressing back into him, “you would send those photos to me at work to tease me right before I come home? I’d always think about your mouth, those lips. That little gap I’d see? I think about it all the time. It’s so you. Your laughter, smile, and sensuality—it starts, lives and breathes in that gap.”

You whine, head falling back on his shoulder as he nibbles and kisses the exposed skin, his fingers pumping in and out, and your breath catches, “You have a thing for it, don’t you? Or do you just really want me to watch?” 

His pointer moves from chin to your open mouth, his finger is careful not to ruin the lipstick as he presses the finger against the gap and groans, “I love the way it feels, that little dip.” Richard starts to rub you faster, and you gasp, grinding against him, “How I can feel your breath through that gap. I swear I could spend hours worshiping that little gap.” he moans like he can’t wait for another second to taste your lips. He parts his lip, letting his tongue press against the gap before deepening the kiss. Richard makes you whimper with shaky knees as he presses closer to the counter for stability. It’s lewd, it’s sensual, his tongue is pressed up against your gap, groaning at how it feels. You had no idea he loved the little imperfect detail about your mouth and how personal it was to him as he cradled your jaw in his hand, a gentle touch compared to how his fingers coaxed out your moans.

Your name is a ragged groan against your ear as Richard breaks the kiss and has your body pinned, trembling and shivering with need as you feel him press against you. You mewl and your hand leaves his hair to grab his hip, thigh, ass, whatever you can reach to get him closer, “You are insatiable, Richard. Show me how crazy it makes you. I need you.”

“I know… I know you do. You’re so tight,” he groans, and Richard can see the gap as you chuckle breathlessly, his mustache tickling your skin while his lips trace your neck with lust-blown eyes meeting in the mirror. “Look at mi corazon, how beautiful you look like this, my wife.”

The hand moves from the sink to the edge of the counter to grasp at it as his fingers leave you, only to have his cock press against your entrance. Your brows furrow at the stretch as you look at him in the mirror, eyes locked as he slowly presses in, as you push back to meet him. His hands roam slowly and teasingly over your waist and stomach, just enough to make you squirm. Richard’s warm hand finally settles on your hip, the other rubbing up your back, trying to figure out this new position.”Oh my god, Richard.”

“Yeah,” his eyes darken as he presses his hips forward to thrust into you. “Feel how much I love you? Feel how much I love that gap?”

“Fuck, baby…I feel it. What if—” Your breath starts to quicken, and biting your lip, your chin drops to your chest as he sets the pace, “I do it anyway?”

The hand caressing up your spine entangles in your hair as he grips it from behind, needing to tenderly pull you back and feel all of you against him, “I’ll have to worship that smile of yours every night until you admit you never needed to change a thing.” He lets go of your locks to cradle you against him by your throat, a loving grasp, slowly moving up so his thumb could caress your bottom lip, and he murmurs ghosting over the shell of your ear, making sure you’re looking at his reflection, “But sweetheart, I’d miss my favorite part. Every single time you smile, or when you bite your lip when you’re trying to keep yourself from moaning.” 

“Mmmhm, Richard.” You hum and feel his hand, fingers intertwining with yours over the counter, shifting against him for more. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he kisses your neck, biting, sucking, soothing his with his tongue as the side of his thumb slips between your lips once again, grazing against the gap. 

He shivers as you press a kiss to it, your tongue flicking against his thumb. He’s moving faster, voice dripping with desire, “Love how you say my name. Look at you, look how perfect you are mi corazon.” Richard can’t resist, he’s kissing you again, his hand leaving yours on the sink to rub your clit. “Oooh, that's it. That's it, there we go honey,” he grunts against your lips as you tighten around him.

“Maybe I’ll keep it—” you whine breathlessly, feeling yourself start to tremble. Your grip on the counter tightens as you press back into him, “just for you.”

“Oh, mi corazon.” That wrecks him. His grip on you tightens, and his movement becomes more erratic. His voice drops to something raw as his only focus is on your body, sending shivers down your spine. “Just like this. Keep it just like this. Always. Look in the mirror. I want you to watch how good you look when you come for me.”

Richard builds you up, continuing to whisper filthy and worshipful things in your ear as you both watch yourselves in the mirror. When you both finally fall apart for each other, his arms wrapped around you as Richard kisses your neck.

He looks up at you panting, and you feel him smile and chuckle as you both come out of your lustful daze and focus on the smeared color and the mess your mouths made of each other. “I guess I ruined your lipstick. I didn’t mean to–”

You smirk and look back at him. “You got a little carried away.” You turn to the mirror again and feel the heat rise to your cheaks, the lipstick smeared across your mouth, leaving little traces of color on your teeth from where Richard worshiped your gap.

His stained fingers rubs against his lips, where a little trace of color is against his own, his eyes shine, his smile a little giddy, “I’d do it again. In fact…I’d love to do it again. Anything to remind you how beautiful that gap is.”

[howellatme-writes]

[howellatme-writes]

Thank you to everyone who got me to 250 likes!

[howellatme-writes]

Me so I can sniff his baby's hair

You know what one of my comfort oscar videos is?? The one where he's asked what helps him relax and he says that smelling his babies hair helps him relax 🥺🥺🥺

Clearly talking about that new baby smell. I mean he's not wrong it IS a really nice smell.

The fact that that was the first thing that came to mind for him 🥺 Like that ls just some beautiful sweetness right there. 💕

I love dad oscar sm. 🥰🥰🥰

[howellatme-writes]

Glad you enjoyed it!!!

Welcome Home

Marc Spector & Fem!Reader

Summary: F!Reader is a barista at Biggby Coffee in Chicago. She's had feelings for Marc for a while and was tempted to write her phone number on his cup, but he's going away on a mission. He's gone longer than he originally promised, and when he returns, the barista is no longer at his favorite coffee shop.

WC: 3042

Author's Note: I wrote this last year as part of The Coffee & Cream Digital Fanzine! A lot of amazing people worked on this zine, and you can read it for free here! 

Also, did I have to do a banner? No. Do I love it? Kinda. It reminds me of a bad rom-com movie poster. I'm mostly proud of having his name on the Biggby Coffee Cup and having it look semi-realistic.

Beta read by the wonderful @reallyrallyauthor

Themes and warnings: Acquaintances to lovers, not race/body coded, Marc angst, coffee shop au. If I miss anything, let me know!

The coffee shop is bustling, the aroma of coffee filling the air. Quiet music plays through the speakers mixed with guests’ quiet conversations to create a cozy but bustling atmosphere. The warm lights and dry spot to sit entice regulars and tourists alike to the shop’s interior, a better alternative to the cold, dreary rain outside. 

As you and the other baristas work behind the counter, the bell above the door rings, grabbing your attention. You turn and hand a strawberry creme freeze with whipped cream and extra sprinkles to a little girl. “Hope you have a great birthday, Sophia!” you say, smiling at the girl’s mom. “See you two soon! You’ll have to tell me about the aquarium. I haven’t been there in years!”

You turn to the register as Marc walks up removing his rain-splattered hood. His lips upturn slightly as he notices you, and you return his smile brightly, smoothing out your apron, trying to rid yourself of butterflies in your stomach. “Hi Marc, your usual?” you ask breathlessly, knowing the answer and starting to input it into the register.

“Yeah, but one extra shot of espresso today.” Marc sighs watching you grab the sleeve and Sharpie to write his name.

You turn the cup in your hand and ask, “a quad? That’s different. Late-night plans kept you up.” Teasingly, you contemplate writing your number again. If it were a slow day, he would usually stay and talk, but with the crowd, it won’t take long until he goes on his way. After writing ‘Marc’, you hold the sharpie down to the cardboard, slowly starting to write the curve of the 2.

“Got another work trip...boss wants to send me to Egypt tonight.”

You pause with the sharpie in hand. He’ll be too busy during the trip, and you’ll overthink his lack of communication as disinterest. You can see yourself lying in bed, wondering where you went wrong. It’s best not to write your number…at least not today. He repeats your name, and you’re brought back to the present as you hear him chuckle lowly and lean in slightly. “Maybe I should be asking you if you’re staying up too late? You need my extra shot of espresso?”

“What? No? I’m fine.” You try to shake it off and close off the beginnings of your number, turning it into a heart. Setting the cup down, you take his cash and he continues the familiar dance of the daily exchange by dumping the change into the tip jar. “How long are you gone for this time?”

“I don’t know. I hope it’s not a long job. A week tops, maybe two.”

“I know the opening game for the Cubs is coming up soon. Didn’t you say you were finally going to try and see them in person this year?” you ask trading places with your coworker, starting to make his drink. They all know about your crush, and always let you make his drink.

“Yeah. I’ve wanted to go since I was a kid,” he admits in a small voice as he shuffles down the counter with you, pulling down the hem of his coat. “I never got the opportunity. I figure since I moved back to Chicago, I might as well find the time.”

“I hope you get the chance this year,” you say earnestly, making his drink slowly, trying to savor every moment. “All of that travel, but sometimes there’s nothing like the comforts of your hometown…even if it is a major league baseball game,” you tease lightly.

“Yeah, but when home doesn’t feel like home…” Marc sighs heavily, keeping the rest of his thoughts to himself as his voice falters, his gaze shifting briefly to the corner of the room.

“I hope you find it someday.”

“What?” he asks, looking like you pulled him out of a bad memory.

“Something that feels like home. A home that feels like home. It sounds like you don’t settle down for long. Whether it’s an apartment in Chicago, Egypt, London…or maybe even a person,” you add optimistically. “I hope you find it someday.” You blush looking down at the drink, revealing that you had kept up with the casual conversations. Remembering the little tidbits of info that he lets slip about his life, that you store away in the corner of your heart.

“Yeah…can’t seem to catch a break. Feel like I’ve been on the go since I was 18.”He confesses.

One of your coworkers taps your shoulder and says, “here’s the bacon, egg, and cheese bagel.” You pass it to Marc and put the lid on his drink, your hand covering the doodled heart he hasn’t noticed yet. “And the usual with the extra shot.”

“Thanks,” he says as he takes the cup and takes a sip, still failing to notice the heart hidden under his palm. He lingers momentarily, knowing it’s too busy to stay, but he wants to keep the conversation going. “You know there’s-”

The barista on the drive-thru calls your name. “Sorry, but can you help with the people in line? I’m getting swamped in the drive-thru.”

“Of course!!” you reply and offer Marc an apologetic smile. “I’ll see you when you get back, yeah? Bring your favorite barista a souvenir this time?” You plead with a small pout.

Marc chuckles softly, “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.” He waves goodbye and walks back into the cold rain. Sipping his drink, he notices the heart on the cup. Marc retraces his steps and looks into the coffee shop. The line is long and you’re taking orders for a family. He looks down at the cup as if making sure the heart is real. His eyes briefly meet yours before he panics and hurriedly continues down the street, his heart suddenly racing.

“Marc, I can’t have you distracted by your feelings while on this mission.” Khonsu’s voice booms out.

He narrows his eyes and pulls out his earbuds, looking like he might’ve been on his phone. “The job will be quick. Don’t worry,” he snaps back, “...and I don’t have feelings for her. Not like you think.”

“I should hope so, Marc Spector. My travelers of the night need your help. It will not bode well for your future should you not succeed.” He hears Khonsu’s voice ring out.

“I get it- I get it. Just let me pack. You act like feelings are a fucking crime. Jesus Christ,” he grumbles. After a few blocks, he comes up to the crosswalk, tossing his coffee cup into the trash, secretly pocketing the sleeve with your heart into his jacket.

The job isn’t quick. It takes over a month to gather intel and successfully track Khonshu’s marks. Long nights on stakeouts, alone in his thoughts of when he could come home to you. He is exhausted as he wanders the Cairo markets toward the airport, remembering you had asked for a souvenir. He looks around, half tempted to buy a pyramid paperweight, but that doesn’t seem thoughtful enough, not for you. He walks past a few more stalls selling souvenirs when a jewelry stand catches his eye.

An older man is making Egyptian cartouche necklaces by stamping hieroglyphics into metal. Marc chooses the color of the necklace but is undecided. He thinks of your name, but there is another option. Lately, thoughts of ‘home’ are synonymous with you, and he still keeps the coffee sleeve with his name and heart in his jacket. As Marc stands in line, the person in front is getting their necklace stamped.

“Still thinking about that worm at home?” Khonshu sighs in annoyance. “Do I have to remind you how poorly your first marriage went? Your destiny isn’t a comfy life with a partner. You have a far greater purpose to play out Marc Spector.” Khonshu looms over the unsuspecting jeweler, watching him work.

Marc meets the bird’s gaze before handing the jeweler the form with your name for the pendant, and home for the second.

“My my…you are determined, Marc Spector. You think this person would want to be your home?” Khonshu asks sarcastically, “You don’t need a home. You’re my nomad, doing my work, protecting the travelers of the night.”

Marc doesn’t respond but watches the jeweler prepare the jewelry. Marc hopes it isn’t too late when he returns to Chicago. Would he be able to let down his guard enough to truly let someone into his life again? He fidgets with his fingers, thinking maybe he can do it for you. He watches the guy pound in each symbol, dry brushing ink into the crevices, wiping away the excess.

“This for a sweetheart back home?” the jeweler ponders, boxing up the layered necklace.

“I hope so,” Marc responds with a sigh of relief. Khonshu gets bored and leaves Marc to his devices. He takes the small box and exchanges money, sliding the box into a small pocket in his bag, finally ready to head home.

The first day back in his routine at the coffee shop is sunny. The weather is warmer, and the atmosphere seems light and airy, but not for Marc. He feels suffocated and vulnerable, you aren’t there. He sits for an hour nursing his coffee, barely eating more than two bites out of his bagel sandwich. He taps his fingers nervously waiting for you, frequently looking out the shop window to see if you’re just showing up later for a late shift. He waits for 3 hours, scrolling on his phone, his leg bouncing, looking for your smile. He sighs and finally resigns to finishing his bagel, tossing the cup into the trash on his way out. Tomorrow will be another day.

The second day is a repeat of the first. The third day he sits in the back of the coffee shop lobby, he feels embarrassed as Khonshu seems to loom over him, reminding him he’ll never have the relationships he wants. Who is he to think he could deserve a second chance at companionship and love? All he has in life are his alters and the stupid pigeon. Why does Khonshu think that’s enough? On the fourth day, he goes there out of habit, but he retreats into the subspace as Steven spends the afternoon reading a book, still looking up every so often searching for you.

The fifth day is going to be the last. One more day of sitting in the coffee shop feeling like a lost puppy. One more last-ditch effort before he gives up and finds a different coffee shop. It would hurt less. Marc just sat down to unwrap his bagel sandwich when he heard two baristas talking loudly. Marc is tempted to ask if they know where you are if you quit if you moved, and if there is any way to contact you, but he knows they can’t divulge information about current or former employees. He tries to zone them out, but his interest piques a few moments later when they mention your name rather loudly, “Must be nice at the new job!”

“I know, living the life of luxury at the brand new Biggby across town,” the guy emphasizes, still trying to get the point across to an oblivious Marc. “I bet they have better blenders with fresher blades than these shit ones.”

Marc looks at them, his brow furrowed. The barista talking to the man looks directly at Marc, “I’m jealous.” The barista said your name, “works at a spot with a bigger lobby, no drive-thru…at the brand new Biggby across town.”

Marc understands, nodding in their direction as he gets up holding his coffee and his bagel. He throws them in the trash untouched, as he walks out the door. He’s too focused to hear the baristas high-fiving as he walks out.

“Oh my days…it’s happening!” Marc can hear Steven getting excited from the headspace. Marc keeps walking and mumbling, trying to rehearse what he would say to you if you were at this new coffee shop. “It’s been awhile…no…I’ll have the usual, with your phone number. God, that’s so stupid. I got you that souvenir you asked for…so I had to find you. Fuck, I sound like a stalker.”

His heart races as he sees the new coffee shop in the distance and he gulps, flexing his hands. He takes a deep breath as he walks up and pulls open the door. His heart threatens to burst out of his chest as he looks around for you. It isn’t busy, and you aren’t with the baristas in the front. He walks up to the register, unable to hide the disappointment on his face.

“Maybe next time, Marc,” Steven speaks softly from the reflection in the fridge.

“Can I take your order, sir?” the barista offers with a smile.

“Yeah…uhm…I’ll have a grande, quad, non-fat, no-whip espresso with a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel…” he sighs, but he hears some frantic movement from the back that draws his attention.

“Marc!? Is that you?” you hear his voice from the backroom and push the door open so forcefully that it bangs against the wall. You were almost in tears when your old coworker messaged you saying he was on his way. It was a long few weeks of loneliness, wishing you had given him your number. As the weeks passed, you grew concerned that you wouldn’t see him again. You didn’t know what he did for work, but you knew enough that his work was dangerous. If only you had written your number! You were heartbroken that he didn’t walk in on your last day of work at the old location, but he had been gone for so long at that point… you didn’t know if he would ever come back.

Marc stands before you at the new coffee shop, looking exhausted. As he turns to face you, his worn-out expression transforms when he sees you, giving you hope. Still in shock, you don’t catch what he said. “What was that?”

“Your number? She asked if I needed anything else, and I said your number,” Marc repeats, trying to come across as confident, but feeling a little silly repeating himself, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks up at you again. 

“O-oh,” you stammer feeling the heat in your cheeks, “I’m getting off my shift right now. We could go…for a walk?” you suggest bringing a hand to your warm cheek, your fingers making their way down to hide your smile briefly. Your heart pounds when his softening eyes meet yours.

“Yeah, we can do that.” Marc nods.

You both walk outside and down the street to a small park. Neither of you remembers who reached for the other’s hand first, but the intertwining of your fingers feels right. You gesture to a park bench with your drink, where you both sit. To Marc’s surprise, you sit right up against him, thighs touching. “You know, I tried to give you my number more times than I’d probably like to admit,” you confess while pulling out your phone.

“I had hoped you would have…more than I’d like to admit,” he says smiling as he hands you his phone. After exchanging contacts, he admits, “I’m not much of a morning person, but you make it so easy.” He leans in and adds, “I got you that souvenir.”

“Marc, really?!?” you gasp in amazement as he pulls out a small box, “Marc, I was joking, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. I gave our last conversation a lot of thought while I was away.”

“About home?” you ask curiously, looking at the box, sitting up a little straighter, and setting your drink down next to you.

“Yeah, here. Take it,” he speaks cautiously, not looking at you directly, focusing on the box as you hold it in your hands, secretly wondering if you were feeling butterflies like he was. “When I thought of home…sure it’s Chicago, but when I thought of coming back I didn’t think of childhood nostalgia, my family, or even the Cubs.” You can see the corner of his eyes crinkle with a chuckle to himself, “I thought of coming home to the coffee shop…to you.”

“Oh, Marc,” you murmur, cradling the box in your hands as if it were the most valuable treasure you own. To mean that much to him feels like a gift in itself. Trembling slightly, you lift the lid off the box to reveal the necklace. It is a simple gold chain with two charms, tablets with stamped hieroglyphs. “It’s beautiful…what do they say?”

He points to one and explains it’s your name, each hieroglyph representing a letter. He points to the other one, featuring four stamped hieroglyphs on the other tablet, “...and this one says home.”

“Are these custom-made? Oh honey, I don’t know what to say. These are so thoughtful. I love it,” you turn to him, caressing his cheek. Home could be a person for him, and it was you. It took Marc so long to open up, you never expected this. Marc’s vulnerability makes you want to melt in his arms. You hold his gaze until your eyes drift to his parted lips. “Can I show you?”

To your surprise, he nods and leans into your palm as your thumb caresses his cheek. You slowly close the gap until your lips meet his in a soft kiss, your fingers moving from his cheek to the hair at the nape of his neck. After a moment he parts, resting his forehead against yours.

You chase his lips again but he takes the box from your hands holding up the chain with the offer to put it on. You turn so he can clasp the necklace feeling goosebumps from the cool metal, his fingers lingering on your neck before tracing the cool chain to the pendants. “Glad you like it, I almost got a paperweight instead…”

“It’s perfect, Marc. I’m glad you found it.” You chuckle, your forehead resting against his. “Welcome home.”

[howellatme-writes]

Thank you for reading! 🥰

I need to start saving react memes, this .gif search isn't cutting it. 😅

Road Trip

HS!SeniorYear! Marc Spector x SeniorYear!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Marc go on your first road trip together in your 'new' car. Then he tells you something that ruins your future plans. AN: Originally written for one of those Pinterest tag games back in March, I'm just posting it on my writing blog. Idk where this picture of Oscar is from, but it gives me Senior Yearbook picture vibes for Marc Spector. I'm seeing a Young!Marc in the fall before the leaves turn. WC: 1032 TW: Hints of abuse, never explicitly mentioned.

"What are you drawing?" Marc startles you as he leans in by your ear while you sit on the bench in the park.

"Marc! Don't scare me!" You jump, sending the pencils rolling off your sketchpad and onto the pavement. You smile as he quickly stumbles to pick them up for you. His shirt rides up as he bends down, revealing a bruise, but you say nothing. Your goal is to get him out of the house and offer him a break from his home life. "I was drawing the statue in the park. Hopefully, it will be another addition to my portfolio." With your messenger bag stuffed with your sketchbook and pencils, you stand up. "Ready to go on our first road trip?" "Mmhm." He nods, and you both get into your car. The car is new to you, but it's old, and the heat barely works, but it belongs to you—your freedom, your power, Marc's escape. 

It’s a great day. It almost felt like a date. Apple picking, apple cider, and donuts. He held your hand, he gave you an extra flannel he brought when you were cold. Marc’s chin rested on your shoulder when you were in line to purchase more cider and donuts for the ride home. Then, there was an early dinner at a diner on the way back. The conversations are about senior year, the future, everything, and nothing. Hopes and dreams. Except when the topic turns to what Marc wants to do, he deflects, saying he’ll figure it out, or just mentions that he wants to travel far away, with the goal mainly being moving out, and not having to come home to his parents for a long, long time.

When you’re 20 minutes into the journey back home, he tells you his plan casually, as if it wouldn't affect you at all: "I enlisted in the Marines last week. Delayed Entry Program."

You slam on the brakes abruptly, pulling over. "You what?"

"Don't tell anyone," Marc pleads. "You know, I just need to get away—far away."

"And you're just telling me now? After I suggested getting an apartment together near the university? After we just spent the whole afternoon talking about... how much fun it would be... to have you stay with me. My apartment could’ve been your home away from home..." You tear up, throwing the car into park.

"I didn't want you to leave me at the diner because you were mad," he confesses, taking a sip of cider directly from the half-gallon jug.

You open the car door and step out, pacing and fuming. You want to scream, to cry, you almost want to leave him on the side of the road, but you know you can’t. Marc’s arms are around you before you realize it. You turn into him, overwhelmed and hit and weakly bang your fist against his chest when you bury your head in his shoulder, you feel him tense and you break down, tapping an open palm over his heart as you whisper, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... I’m sorry. Marc, don’t go. Don’t do this, please.” you grip his flannel tightly as you cry, wishing it was a nightmare you could wake up from.

After taking a deep breath, Marc relaxes and gently squeezes you. “There’s no going back now. You know why I had to sign up... It’s a done deal,” he whispers, his lips against your forehead. 

“I don’t want you to go. I understand why, but not like this. I would have done it all for you, Marc,” you whisper as you look up at him with red, puffy eyes. Your voice cracks as you tell him for the first time, “I love you, Marc.”

“I know you do,” Marc whispers. The look he gives you shows he’s known that for a long time, and he kisses you, the taste of cider still lingering on his lips, “You have such a bright future ahead of you. You’re a great artist. Having me follow you and be a bum on your couch, that’s not fair to you. You need to focus on you.” 

Before you can protest, Marc lets go and returns to the car. You stand there stunned as you watch him reach in to switch the song on your iPod touch and turn up the volume as the song starts. He returns to your arms and sways with you to the song. He gives you a sad smile and twirls you before you can say anything else, “I didn’t mean to ruin the day…I just… had to tell someone, and I knew you’d understand.” He sways in time to the beat, caresses your cheek, wiping away the tears with the back of his hand.

“I get it. I just wish there were another way to get you out…”

“It’s okay. I never wanted to hurt you, but it’s not your responsibility. It’s mine. Sneaking out to hang out with you, though, has been the highlight of my life.” 

Your lips are on his again, and your hand is in his hair, realizing one day in the not-so-distant future, it will have to be cut for boot camp. You taste your tears in the kiss when it sinks in. He would rather risk his life serving his country than stay home. He honestly thought he didn’t have another option. Your fingers grasp his hair at the base of his neck like you could desperately stop time if you just held on long enough. The song ends, and a car honks its horn at both of you as it drives past, and you both realize how close you both had drifted to the side of the road.

There’s still all of the senior year, homecoming, spring break, and prom, but you feel like you have him on borrowed time now. You promise to spend each moment, making the rest of this year memorable for you both, before he’s out of it for good. The drive home is quiet, but there’s some unspoken agreement between you on the journey as you reach for his hand. You’ll make the most of the time that’s left.

[howellatme-writes]

Dog Park

Richard Muñoz X GN!Reader

WC: 1867

Author's Note: I wrote this last year as part of The Coffee & Cream Digital Fanzine! A lot of amazing people worked on this zine, and you can read it for free here! 

Themes and warnings: Acquaintances to lovers, age gap, not race/body coded. If I miss anything, let me know!

You sigh with relief as you pull into the parking lot. Dogs are scampering around with each other in the park, their breaths forming little puffs of steam against the autumn chill. You look in the rear-view mirror and check your appearance, ensuring nothing is out of place. You thought of doing this ever since you met Richard at the dog park two weeks ago. You would’ve loved to have the excuse to just hang out at the park, but the only problem is you actually don’t have a dog. You grab the cardboard coffee cup holder with warm drinks and your bag. The colorful leaves crunch under your boots as you cross the parking lot and into the park, using your hip to push open the gate. “Richard!” You call out a little too excitedly as his back is turned. You walk up to him quickly, and he looks up from where he was crouched down, picking up a frisbee to toss to his little white dog, Lady.

“Oh! Uhm, hi, hello!” he stands, extending his hand for a handshake, but looks down to see you holding the cup carrier without a free hand to spare. He quickly tosses the frisbee past Lady and she goes sprinting after it. “What, what brings you here? You’re not dog-sitting again, are you?” he chuckles nervously, slightly out of breath as he comically checks around you to see if you brought the dog back.

“No, not today,” you chuckle. “My friend is back from their trip, so I am dog-free.” You shift awkwardly feeling dogless and out of place, but then you remember why you thought of this idea in the first place. “I went to the coffee shop, and they had a buy-one-get-one for a $1 deal. I saw you and Lady here, so I thought I’d uhm, apologize for letting Rufus destroy Lady’s ball. I have a chai tea latte and a coffee. Whatever one you’d like.”

His eyes widen at the polite gesture, looking down to the pair of cups and back up to you.“You’re too kind,” he smiles. “Come, come, let’s sit on the park bench,” he says, picking up the small tote of Lady’s toys and shuffling with it over to sit down with you. Richard chooses the coffee, warming up his hands, and sips. “Oh this is perfect on a chilly day like this.”

“I thought so.” You smile and Lady is already scampering back up to the both of you with the frisbee in her mouth. Richard reaches down to take the frisbee and scratches behind her ears, “you remember our friend, don’t you?”

“Oh, Lady. I have something for you too!” you enthusiastically turn to grab your bag, pulling a replica of Lady’s ball Rufus had destroyed. “Rufus and I would like to say we’re sorry. Well, I’m apologizing. Rufus had no regrets.”

“Lady, look at that!” Richard beams excitedly and her tail wags eagerly suddenly more interested in the ball than the frisbee. Happiness just looks good on him. Richard’s whole face lights up and you can’t help but think his mustache smiles with him. You offer Lady the ball and she takes it eagerly, her little paws resting on your shins before she hops back down.

“Looks like she enjoys it.” You chuckle as you both watch her trot a few feet away and settle to get acquainted with her new ball.

“That was really thoughtful, but you didn’t have to go through all this trouble...” Richard says quietly after taking a slow sip of coffee.

“It’s nothing really, plus I wanted to see you again.” You shyly bump shoulders with him and it might just be the cold air. Still, his cheeks look a little rosier, as you confess, “I enjoyed spending that afternoon with you, even if Rufus was acting like a gremlin. I was telling my friend about it…when I realized how much I wanted to see you again.” You take a sip of chai as your heart races, glancing at Lady feeling your cheeks flush before looking back at him.

If his cheeks weren’t rosier before he’s surely blushing now. “I enjoyed our time too.”

“Maybe we could exchange numbers?” you propose. “We could maybe hang out-”

“A date?” Richard manages to ask as he suddenly chokes on his coffee, trying to clear his throat.

You turn into him and pat his back while he coughs. “Sorry! Oh no, I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have-”

Richard waves his hand and briefly beats his chest as he finally catches his breath. It doesn’t go unnoticed that you haven’t removed your hand from his back, fingers still splayed against his flannel. “Don’t apologize, I’d like that… a lot actually. I’m just a bit, surprised, is all.”

“Why are you surprised?” you ask curiously, moving closer to him.

“Well…have you seen me? I’m not exactly a ladies’ man,” Richard confesses half-heartedly. “To you, I’m just an older guy who works at a correctional facility. It’s not glamorous. My best friend is a dog. I’m a bit of a homebody most days…” he groans running his hand over his face. “I’m making myself sound pathetic.”

“No, no it’s not pathetic at all, don’t talk about yourself like that,” you chastise, looking at his hands as he fumbles with the coffee cup absentmindedly. “There is nothing in my eyes that makes you pathetic. You have a big heart, believe it or not, sometimes that’s hard to come by. You said so yourself it was lonely inside that prison-”

“Yeah, for Chris.” Richard tries to deflect. He shakes his head taking another sip of coffee as his shoulders slump forward as he looks at Lady, temporarily content at watching the other dogs. He looks like he’s wrestling with his thoughts, thinking about the possibilities. You look so much younger than him, but the age gap in the scheme of things isn’t that drastic. He thinks he remembers you being 10 years younger from your last conversation. “Would it be bad, if I was pining after someone so much younger than me?”

You take another sip of chai appreciating its warmth. “It depends, is it the same for crushing on someone noticeably older than you?” you watch him smirk to himself as you pull out your phone, unlocking it with your thumb and offering it to him. 

He concedes, setting his coffee cup down and pulling out his phone, and you both trade. You smile, noticing Lady on his phone background. “That’s a cute photo of her sleeping.”

“That’s from a few days ago. She had fun playing in the leaves I raked up. Tuckered her out real quick,” Richard explains after you both trade phones back. He smiles at you, quickly texts something, and then gestures to your phone tilting his head.

You see another text pop up on your screen as you go to save his number to your contacts, Dinner tomorrow?

Absolutely 😘, you immediately text back smiling, feeling your heart race. You look back up at him and are drawn to the crinkles in the corners of his eyes as he grins.

“How about we go to that old-fashioned dinner? You treated me to a hot coffee. I can treat you with their cold milkshakes. Maybe afterward we can catch something at the drive-in theatre?” Richard suggests with a twinkle in his eye and a teasing grin, “since you seem to enjoy the older things life has to offer.”

“Mmmmhm” you hum, “nothing wrong with that. I love a good milkshake. How many flavors do they have?” you question. This is the Richard you remember from the dog park a while ago. Richard was a little shy, and kind, making you giggle, flirty, smiling beautifully.

“Plenty. We can split the kid’s menu shakes and sample as many flavors as you want.”

“You say that like you’ve done it before. Do you have a sweet tooth I should know about?” you chuckle leaning into him, your arm fully around his shoulder.

He nods, leaning closer, and jokes playfully, “milkshake tasting is serious business. Besides, we can finish whatever we want during the movies if we sneak them in.”

“Richard!” you gasp in mock shock. “A correctional officer, breaking the rules? Nu-uh, it’s going to be way too cold. We gotta have something hot.”

“But how will I hold your hands and warm them up for you if your hands aren’t cold?” Richard asks, revealing his cute albeit terrible master plan. 

You remove your arm from around his shoulder and take his hand in yours, interlocking fingers with his, feeling just as sickeningly sweet and cheesy as he’s being. “Hot, cold, even no drinks…I’ll still be willing to hold your hand. It’ll probably be cold, so we should grab some blankets, and snuggle up for warmth. I can even bring some hand warmers.”

“I’d like that.” Richard sighs with relief and gives your hand a small squeeze.

Both of you talk and flirt until just before the wind picks up and the chill gets unbearable. You help him pack up Lady’s toys and he walks you to your car after you toss your disposable cups in the trash. Richard and you linger by your car door, still unwilling to completely part ways and say goodbye. Running out of things to talk about Richard remains close as he inquires, “I’ll pick you up at 5 tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll text you the address,” you respond. He is so close you can see his Adam’s apple bob with anticipation. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to kiss before a first date, but he keeps sneaking glances down at your lips, unsure. His eyes meet yours and you reach your hands out to warm up his arms, trying to bring him closer the tiniest bit and encourage him, wanting to feel him against your lips.

He kisses your cheek, blushing, unsure of himself, and apologizing, “sorry, I…can I call you tonight?”

You smile at him, rubbing his arms again trying to convey it’s okay. “It’s okay. Don’t apologize. I’d enjoy it. We can Facetime tonight if you’d like. Do you know how to do that?”

He chuckles, “of course, I know how to Facetime, I’m not that old-fashioned.”

You quickly kiss his rosy cheek in return, a smile lingering against his skin before you finally pull back. “I’ll see you then.” You let go of his arms and turn to open your door, “I’m really glad we ran into each other again, Richard.”

He watches as you sit in your car and Lady moves towards you eagerly, pawing at you for some last-minute pets. You reach down and scratch behind her ears “Goodbye Lady! I hope you like your toy. Maybe I’ll see you soon okay?”

Richard smiles and picks up Lady. “I think we can arrange that, huh girl?” he smiles looking at her and back at you. After a few minutes, he finally says goodbye and closes the door for you. You smile the whole way home, excited to spend the evening with him on Facetime, hopeful that this is the start of something sweet, like him.

[howellatme-writes]

I'm allergic to cigarette smoke, but I'd risk it all for that man.

If smoking is bad? Why sooo hot?

[howellatme-writes]

Hello everyone!

Thanks for allowing myself and the other mods to take a little break following the Coffee & Cream Fanzine! I'm still so proud of that project and we're looking forward to the next big one.

In the meantime, we're putting on a little pride event! We're still ironing out some details, but here's what you should prepare for...

Both artists and writers are welcome!

Submissions for the event officially open June 1st. However, you can start working on your pieces any time between May 12, 2025 and the end of June.

Rules and guidelines for the event be posted on May 12, 2025.

This event is not another zine. Participants can publish their own works on their own pages. As long as your piece follows the guidelines we outline (the guidelines will be announced next week), we'll add your piece to our event masterlist.

One of Oscar Isaac's many characters needs to be the primary subject of the piece, however you can add any other canon, oc, or reader characters you like.

Any submissions have to involve LGBTQ+ themes.

Smut is optional (but always encouraged).

The event will go from June 1 - June 30, anything posted following June 30th will not be added to the masterpost.

Myself and the mods of this event will be putting together a list of prompts, tropes and themes for you to choose from and use in your piece.

Sorry I updated the poll to have better questions. If you voted already please vote again! Haha

[howellatme-writes]

Road Trip

HS!SeniorYear! Marc Spector x SeniorYear!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Marc go on your first road trip together in your 'new' car. Then he tells you something that ruins your future plans. AN: Originally written for one of those Pinterest tag games back in March, I'm just posting it on my writing blog. Idk where this picture of Oscar is from, but it gives me Senior Yearbook picture vibes for Marc Spector. I'm seeing a Young!Marc in the fall before the leaves turn. WC: 1032 TW: Hints of abuse, never explicitly mentioned.

"What are you drawing?" Marc startles you as he leans in by your ear while you sit on the bench in the park.

"Marc! Don't scare me!" You jump, sending the pencils rolling off your sketchpad and onto the pavement. You smile as he quickly stumbles to pick them up for you. His shirt rides up as he bends down, revealing a bruise, but you say nothing. Your goal is to get him out of the house and offer him a break from his home life. "I was drawing the statue in the park. Hopefully, it will be another addition to my portfolio." With your messenger bag stuffed with your sketchbook and pencils, you stand up. "Ready to go on our first road trip?" "Mmhm." He nods, and you both get into your car. The car is new to you, but it's old, and the heat barely works, but it belongs to you—your freedom, your power, Marc's escape. 

It’s a great day. It almost felt like a date. Apple picking, apple cider, and donuts. He held your hand, he gave you an extra flannel he brought when you were cold. Marc’s chin rested on your shoulder when you were in line to purchase more cider and donuts for the ride home. Then, there was an early dinner at a diner on the way back. The conversations are about senior year, the future, everything, and nothing. Hopes and dreams. Except when the topic turns to what Marc wants to do, he deflects, saying he’ll figure it out, or just mentions that he wants to travel far away, with the goal mainly being moving out, and not having to come home to his parents for a long, long time.

When you’re 20 minutes into the journey back home, he tells you his plan casually, as if it wouldn't affect you at all: "I enlisted in the Marines last week. Delayed Entry Program."

You slam on the brakes abruptly, pulling over. "You what?"

"Don't tell anyone," Marc pleads. "You know, I just need to get away—far away."

"And you're just telling me now? After I suggested getting an apartment together near the university? After we just spent the whole afternoon talking about... how much fun it would be... to have you stay with me. My apartment could’ve been your home away from home..." You tear up, throwing the car into park.

"I didn't want you to leave me at the diner because you were mad," he confesses, taking a sip of cider directly from the half-gallon jug.

You open the car door and step out, pacing and fuming. You want to scream, to cry, you almost want to leave him on the side of the road, but you know you can’t. Marc’s arms are around you before you realize it. You turn into him, overwhelmed and hit and weakly bang your fist against his chest when you bury your head in his shoulder, you feel him tense and you break down, tapping an open palm over his heart as you whisper, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... I’m sorry. Marc, don’t go. Don’t do this, please.” you grip his flannel tightly as you cry, wishing it was a nightmare you could wake up from.

After taking a deep breath, Marc relaxes and gently squeezes you. “There’s no going back now. You know why I had to sign up... It’s a done deal,” he whispers, his lips against your forehead. 

“I don’t want you to go. I understand why, but not like this. I would have done it all for you, Marc,” you whisper as you look up at him with red, puffy eyes. Your voice cracks as you tell him for the first time, “I love you, Marc.”

“I know you do,” Marc whispers. The look he gives you shows he’s known that for a long time, and he kisses you, the taste of cider still lingering on his lips, “You have such a bright future ahead of you. You’re a great artist. Having me follow you and be a bum on your couch, that’s not fair to you. You need to focus on you.” 

Before you can protest, Marc lets go and returns to the car. You stand there stunned as you watch him reach in to switch the song on your iPod touch and turn up the volume as the song starts. He returns to your arms and sways with you to the song. He gives you a sad smile and twirls you before you can say anything else, “I didn’t mean to ruin the day…I just… had to tell someone, and I knew you’d understand.” He sways in time to the beat, caresses your cheek, wiping away the tears with the back of his hand.

“I get it. I just wish there were another way to get you out…”

“It’s okay. I never wanted to hurt you, but it’s not your responsibility. It’s mine. Sneaking out to hang out with you, though, has been the highlight of my life.” 

Your lips are on his again, and your hand is in his hair, realizing one day in the not-so-distant future, it will have to be cut for boot camp. You taste your tears in the kiss when it sinks in. He would rather risk his life serving his country than stay home. He honestly thought he didn’t have another option. Your fingers grasp his hair at the base of his neck like you could desperately stop time if you just held on long enough. The song ends, and a car honks its horn at both of you as it drives past, and you both realize how close you both had drifted to the side of the road.

There’s still all of the senior year, homecoming, spring break, and prom, but you feel like you have him on borrowed time now. You promise to spend each moment, making the rest of this year memorable for you both, before he’s out of it for good. The drive home is quiet, but there’s some unspoken agreement between you on the journey as you reach for his hand. You’ll make the most of the time that’s left.

[howellatme-writes]

Thank You! Marc deserves all the coffee and love from his favorite Barista. 💖💖

Welcome Home

Marc Spector & Fem!Reader

Summary: F!Reader is a barista at Biggby Coffee in Chicago. She's had feelings for Marc for a while and was tempted to write her phone number on his cup, but he's going away on a mission. He's gone longer than he originally promised, and when he returns, the barista is no longer at his favorite coffee shop.

WC: 3042

Author's Note: I wrote this last year as part of The Coffee & Cream Digital Fanzine! A lot of amazing people worked on this zine, and you can read it for free here! 

Also, did I have to do a banner? No. Do I love it? Kinda. It reminds me of a bad rom-com movie poster. I'm mostly proud of having his name on the Biggby Coffee Cup and having it look semi-realistic.

Beta read by the wonderful @reallyrallyauthor

Themes and warnings: Acquaintances to lovers, not race/body coded, Marc angst, coffee shop au. If I miss anything, let me know!

The coffee shop is bustling, the aroma of coffee filling the air. Quiet music plays through the speakers mixed with guests’ quiet conversations to create a cozy but bustling atmosphere. The warm lights and dry spot to sit entice regulars and tourists alike to the shop’s interior, a better alternative to the cold, dreary rain outside. 

As you and the other baristas work behind the counter, the bell above the door rings, grabbing your attention. You turn and hand a strawberry creme freeze with whipped cream and extra sprinkles to a little girl. “Hope you have a great birthday, Sophia!” you say, smiling at the girl’s mom. “See you two soon! You’ll have to tell me about the aquarium. I haven’t been there in years!”

You turn to the register as Marc walks up removing his rain-splattered hood. His lips upturn slightly as he notices you, and you return his smile brightly, smoothing out your apron, trying to rid yourself of butterflies in your stomach. “Hi Marc, your usual?” you ask breathlessly, knowing the answer and starting to input it into the register.

“Yeah, but one extra shot of espresso today.” Marc sighs watching you grab the sleeve and Sharpie to write his name.

You turn the cup in your hand and ask, “a quad? That’s different. Late-night plans kept you up.” Teasingly, you contemplate writing your number again. If it were a slow day, he would usually stay and talk, but with the crowd, it won’t take long until he goes on his way. After writing ‘Marc’, you hold the sharpie down to the cardboard, slowly starting to write the curve of the 2.

“Got another work trip...boss wants to send me to Egypt tonight.”

You pause with the sharpie in hand. He’ll be too busy during the trip, and you’ll overthink his lack of communication as disinterest. You can see yourself lying in bed, wondering where you went wrong. It’s best not to write your number…at least not today. He repeats your name, and you’re brought back to the present as you hear him chuckle lowly and lean in slightly. “Maybe I should be asking you if you’re staying up too late? You need my extra shot of espresso?”

“What? No? I’m fine.” You try to shake it off and close off the beginnings of your number, turning it into a heart. Setting the cup down, you take his cash and he continues the familiar dance of the daily exchange by dumping the change into the tip jar. “How long are you gone for this time?”

“I don’t know. I hope it’s not a long job. A week tops, maybe two.”

“I know the opening game for the Cubs is coming up soon. Didn’t you say you were finally going to try and see them in person this year?” you ask trading places with your coworker, starting to make his drink. They all know about your crush, and always let you make his drink.

“Yeah. I’ve wanted to go since I was a kid,” he admits in a small voice as he shuffles down the counter with you, pulling down the hem of his coat. “I never got the opportunity. I figure since I moved back to Chicago, I might as well find the time.”

“I hope you get the chance this year,” you say earnestly, making his drink slowly, trying to savor every moment. “All of that travel, but sometimes there’s nothing like the comforts of your hometown…even if it is a major league baseball game,” you tease lightly.

“Yeah, but when home doesn’t feel like home…” Marc sighs heavily, keeping the rest of his thoughts to himself as his voice falters, his gaze shifting briefly to the corner of the room.

“I hope you find it someday.”

“What?” he asks, looking like you pulled him out of a bad memory.

“Something that feels like home. A home that feels like home. It sounds like you don’t settle down for long. Whether it’s an apartment in Chicago, Egypt, London…or maybe even a person,” you add optimistically. “I hope you find it someday.” You blush looking down at the drink, revealing that you had kept up with the casual conversations. Remembering the little tidbits of info that he lets slip about his life, that you store away in the corner of your heart.

“Yeah…can’t seem to catch a break. Feel like I’ve been on the go since I was 18.”He confesses.

One of your coworkers taps your shoulder and says, “here’s the bacon, egg, and cheese bagel.” You pass it to Marc and put the lid on his drink, your hand covering the doodled heart he hasn’t noticed yet. “And the usual with the extra shot.”

“Thanks,” he says as he takes the cup and takes a sip, still failing to notice the heart hidden under his palm. He lingers momentarily, knowing it’s too busy to stay, but he wants to keep the conversation going. “You know there’s-”

The barista on the drive-thru calls your name. “Sorry, but can you help with the people in line? I’m getting swamped in the drive-thru.”

“Of course!!” you reply and offer Marc an apologetic smile. “I’ll see you when you get back, yeah? Bring your favorite barista a souvenir this time?” You plead with a small pout.

Marc chuckles softly, “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.” He waves goodbye and walks back into the cold rain. Sipping his drink, he notices the heart on the cup. Marc retraces his steps and looks into the coffee shop. The line is long and you’re taking orders for a family. He looks down at the cup as if making sure the heart is real. His eyes briefly meet yours before he panics and hurriedly continues down the street, his heart suddenly racing.

“Marc, I can’t have you distracted by your feelings while on this mission.” Khonsu’s voice booms out.

He narrows his eyes and pulls out his earbuds, looking like he might’ve been on his phone. “The job will be quick. Don’t worry,” he snaps back, “...and I don’t have feelings for her. Not like you think.”

“I should hope so, Marc Spector. My travelers of the night need your help. It will not bode well for your future should you not succeed.” He hears Khonsu’s voice ring out.

“I get it- I get it. Just let me pack. You act like feelings are a fucking crime. Jesus Christ,” he grumbles. After a few blocks, he comes up to the crosswalk, tossing his coffee cup into the trash, secretly pocketing the sleeve with your heart into his jacket.

The job isn’t quick. It takes over a month to gather intel and successfully track Khonshu’s marks. Long nights on stakeouts, alone in his thoughts of when he could come home to you. He is exhausted as he wanders the Cairo markets toward the airport, remembering you had asked for a souvenir. He looks around, half tempted to buy a pyramid paperweight, but that doesn’t seem thoughtful enough, not for you. He walks past a few more stalls selling souvenirs when a jewelry stand catches his eye.

An older man is making Egyptian cartouche necklaces by stamping hieroglyphics into metal. Marc chooses the color of the necklace but is undecided. He thinks of your name, but there is another option. Lately, thoughts of ‘home’ are synonymous with you, and he still keeps the coffee sleeve with his name and heart in his jacket. As Marc stands in line, the person in front is getting their necklace stamped.

“Still thinking about that worm at home?” Khonshu sighs in annoyance. “Do I have to remind you how poorly your first marriage went? Your destiny isn’t a comfy life with a partner. You have a far greater purpose to play out Marc Spector.” Khonshu looms over the unsuspecting jeweler, watching him work.

Marc meets the bird’s gaze before handing the jeweler the form with your name for the pendant, and home for the second.

“My my…you are determined, Marc Spector. You think this person would want to be your home?” Khonshu asks sarcastically, “You don’t need a home. You’re my nomad, doing my work, protecting the travelers of the night.”

Marc doesn’t respond but watches the jeweler prepare the jewelry. Marc hopes it isn’t too late when he returns to Chicago. Would he be able to let down his guard enough to truly let someone into his life again? He fidgets with his fingers, thinking maybe he can do it for you. He watches the guy pound in each symbol, dry brushing ink into the crevices, wiping away the excess.

“This for a sweetheart back home?” the jeweler ponders, boxing up the layered necklace.

“I hope so,” Marc responds with a sigh of relief. Khonshu gets bored and leaves Marc to his devices. He takes the small box and exchanges money, sliding the box into a small pocket in his bag, finally ready to head home.

The first day back in his routine at the coffee shop is sunny. The weather is warmer, and the atmosphere seems light and airy, but not for Marc. He feels suffocated and vulnerable, you aren’t there. He sits for an hour nursing his coffee, barely eating more than two bites out of his bagel sandwich. He taps his fingers nervously waiting for you, frequently looking out the shop window to see if you’re just showing up later for a late shift. He waits for 3 hours, scrolling on his phone, his leg bouncing, looking for your smile. He sighs and finally resigns to finishing his bagel, tossing the cup into the trash on his way out. Tomorrow will be another day.

The second day is a repeat of the first. The third day he sits in the back of the coffee shop lobby, he feels embarrassed as Khonshu seems to loom over him, reminding him he’ll never have the relationships he wants. Who is he to think he could deserve a second chance at companionship and love? All he has in life are his alters and the stupid pigeon. Why does Khonshu think that’s enough? On the fourth day, he goes there out of habit, but he retreats into the subspace as Steven spends the afternoon reading a book, still looking up every so often searching for you.

The fifth day is going to be the last. One more day of sitting in the coffee shop feeling like a lost puppy. One more last-ditch effort before he gives up and finds a different coffee shop. It would hurt less. Marc just sat down to unwrap his bagel sandwich when he heard two baristas talking loudly. Marc is tempted to ask if they know where you are if you quit if you moved, and if there is any way to contact you, but he knows they can’t divulge information about current or former employees. He tries to zone them out, but his interest piques a few moments later when they mention your name rather loudly, “Must be nice at the new job!”

“I know, living the life of luxury at the brand new Biggby across town,” the guy emphasizes, still trying to get the point across to an oblivious Marc. “I bet they have better blenders with fresher blades than these shit ones.”

Marc looks at them, his brow furrowed. The barista talking to the man looks directly at Marc, “I’m jealous.” The barista said your name, “works at a spot with a bigger lobby, no drive-thru…at the brand new Biggby across town.”

Marc understands, nodding in their direction as he gets up holding his coffee and his bagel. He throws them in the trash untouched, as he walks out the door. He’s too focused to hear the baristas high-fiving as he walks out.

“Oh my days…it’s happening!” Marc can hear Steven getting excited from the headspace. Marc keeps walking and mumbling, trying to rehearse what he would say to you if you were at this new coffee shop. “It’s been awhile…no…I’ll have the usual, with your phone number. God, that’s so stupid. I got you that souvenir you asked for…so I had to find you. Fuck, I sound like a stalker.”

His heart races as he sees the new coffee shop in the distance and he gulps, flexing his hands. He takes a deep breath as he walks up and pulls open the door. His heart threatens to burst out of his chest as he looks around for you. It isn’t busy, and you aren’t with the baristas in the front. He walks up to the register, unable to hide the disappointment on his face.

“Maybe next time, Marc,” Steven speaks softly from the reflection in the fridge.

“Can I take your order, sir?” the barista offers with a smile.

“Yeah…uhm…I’ll have a grande, quad, non-fat, no-whip espresso with a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel…” he sighs, but he hears some frantic movement from the back that draws his attention.

“Marc!? Is that you?” you hear his voice from the backroom and push the door open so forcefully that it bangs against the wall. You were almost in tears when your old coworker messaged you saying he was on his way. It was a long few weeks of loneliness, wishing you had given him your number. As the weeks passed, you grew concerned that you wouldn’t see him again. You didn’t know what he did for work, but you knew enough that his work was dangerous. If only you had written your number! You were heartbroken that he didn’t walk in on your last day of work at the old location, but he had been gone for so long at that point… you didn’t know if he would ever come back.

Marc stands before you at the new coffee shop, looking exhausted. As he turns to face you, his worn-out expression transforms when he sees you, giving you hope. Still in shock, you don’t catch what he said. “What was that?”

“Your number? She asked if I needed anything else, and I said your number,” Marc repeats, trying to come across as confident, but feeling a little silly repeating himself, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks up at you again. 

“O-oh,” you stammer feeling the heat in your cheeks, “I’m getting off my shift right now. We could go…for a walk?” you suggest bringing a hand to your warm cheek, your fingers making their way down to hide your smile briefly. Your heart pounds when his softening eyes meet yours.

“Yeah, we can do that.” Marc nods.

You both walk outside and down the street to a small park. Neither of you remembers who reached for the other’s hand first, but the intertwining of your fingers feels right. You gesture to a park bench with your drink, where you both sit. To Marc’s surprise, you sit right up against him, thighs touching. “You know, I tried to give you my number more times than I’d probably like to admit,” you confess while pulling out your phone.

“I had hoped you would have…more than I’d like to admit,” he says smiling as he hands you his phone. After exchanging contacts, he admits, “I’m not much of a morning person, but you make it so easy.” He leans in and adds, “I got you that souvenir.”

“Marc, really?!?” you gasp in amazement as he pulls out a small box, “Marc, I was joking, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. I gave our last conversation a lot of thought while I was away.”

“About home?” you ask curiously, looking at the box, sitting up a little straighter, and setting your drink down next to you.

“Yeah, here. Take it,” he speaks cautiously, not looking at you directly, focusing on the box as you hold it in your hands, secretly wondering if you were feeling butterflies like he was. “When I thought of home…sure it’s Chicago, but when I thought of coming back I didn’t think of childhood nostalgia, my family, or even the Cubs.” You can see the corner of his eyes crinkle with a chuckle to himself, “I thought of coming home to the coffee shop…to you.”

“Oh, Marc,” you murmur, cradling the box in your hands as if it were the most valuable treasure you own. To mean that much to him feels like a gift in itself. Trembling slightly, you lift the lid off the box to reveal the necklace. It is a simple gold chain with two charms, tablets with stamped hieroglyphs. “It’s beautiful…what do they say?”

He points to one and explains it’s your name, each hieroglyph representing a letter. He points to the other one, featuring four stamped hieroglyphs on the other tablet, “...and this one says home.”

“Are these custom-made? Oh honey, I don’t know what to say. These are so thoughtful. I love it,” you turn to him, caressing his cheek. Home could be a person for him, and it was you. It took Marc so long to open up, you never expected this. Marc’s vulnerability makes you want to melt in his arms. You hold his gaze until your eyes drift to his parted lips. “Can I show you?”

To your surprise, he nods and leans into your palm as your thumb caresses his cheek. You slowly close the gap until your lips meet his in a soft kiss, your fingers moving from his cheek to the hair at the nape of his neck. After a moment he parts, resting his forehead against yours.

You chase his lips again but he takes the box from your hands holding up the chain with the offer to put it on. You turn so he can clasp the necklace feeling goosebumps from the cool metal, his fingers lingering on your neck before tracing the cool chain to the pendants. “Glad you like it, I almost got a paperweight instead…”

“It’s perfect, Marc. I’m glad you found it.” You chuckle, your forehead resting against his. “Welcome home.”

[howellatme-writes]

Old Easterish art that I forgot to post

[howellatme-writes]

Olympia, My Muse

Summary: F!Reader is a brother worker and overhears Laurent talk about the most controversial painting of Paris' art show, The Salon. She backs up Laurent's opinion and he's immediately drawn to him. Laurent begs her to be his Olympia.

WC: 2067

Author's Note: My art history nerd might be showing a bit. I wrote this last year as part of The Coffee & Cream Digital Fanzine! A lot of amazing people worked on this zine, and you can read it for free here! 

Beta-read by the amazing @reallyrallyauthor

Themes and warnings: Strangers to lovers, F!Reader, Reader is a sex worker, Minor Sensual Touching. If I miss anything, let me know!

“That painting is a mockery of the Salon and all it stands for.” One argues, slamming his fist on the table. “That painting of a lowly prostitute can get in, but my landscape paintings weren’t accepted? It’s a crime.”

You set down the tray of drinks at the table, silently distributing the drinks around the young men arguing around the table. It’s a conversation you’ve listened to repeatedly, working at the cafe a few streets from the Salon art exhibition of Académie des Beaux-Arts. Every conversation for the past few weeks was the same argument. You hear everything as you wait tables and hand out coffees and teas to the customers. Many are so absorbed in their conversations that they don’t even notice you with low-cut dresses. It isn’t great when you were supposed to privately entertain at least two gentlemen in the private back rooms during your shift.

“Are you serious?!” one defends adamantly. “If anything that should give you hope that your art stands a shot. I’ve seen your landscapes, brushstrokes everywhere, you rush too much.”

“If I wanted to see a prostitute I’d just pay for one myself,” the man grumbles.

“Look at where we are! You can’t afford shit. You just hope the women here will fawn over you and take pity that your father’s money has been cut off for the month. Of course, you can technically pay for one but, some of us aren’t able to dip into our family’s purses...” one says, rolling his eyes. He reaches out to grab your arm, “you. What do you think?”

You chuckle, looking down at his hand on your arm, meeting his gaze before analyzing the trio of men at the table. “Considering it’s a Sunday, you got admission into the Salon for free. The three of you got coffee, no pastries. Two of you have paint on your coats. You talk about painting like there is experience, so you must be apprentices. So I do not think anyone here has enough sou between the three of you to afford a prostitute for more than a few minutes. You hope you’ll catch a doe-eyed waitress who is naive enough to fall in love for free. I hope you can at least pay for the coffee.” The man with his hand on you laughs wholeheartedly at the dig at his friends, patting your arm with his other hand.

“You hear that, Jacques and Émile?” Laurent laughs.

“Hey, that includes you too, Laurent,” Èmile grumbles.

“Ah, Laurent is it? At least you’re smart enough to keep the painting a hobby, unlike your friends.”

“What have people been saying about Olympia? Surely some people have got to have taste,” Jacques asks you, hoping for validation of his opinion.

“Same as you mostly, the elites and painters think it’s a mockery that something so modern and vulgar is next to such beauty,” you say, taking your arm out of Laurent’s grasp.

“Ah, see we’re right, Laurent,” Jacques bolsters.

“Yeah, you’re by yourself on this one,” Èmile says.

“-but I think she’s beautiful. She’s demanding respect,” you interject before offering a small smile, coyly running your fingers up Laurent’s arm before resting your hand on his shoulder, your thumb kneading his shoulder blade. “Her hand flexes showing strength where Venus lacks power.” Your fingers flex on Laurent’s shoulder, “Olympia is looking right at you like she’s challenging you. Many men will look out and seek a prostitute or a nude painting, but to have one staring right back at you like that…they can’t handle it. Not wanting to be confronted by the very thing they lust over.”

Someone from the next table calls you over and you offer an apologetic smile patting Laurent’s shoulder. “Duty calls, gentlemen.” You walk over to sit with them, automatically tempting the men with flirtatious smiles and wandering hands.

“See!” Laurent laments looking after you briefly before turning to his friends. “The people like it. You know, it at least gives me hope. Sure, I don’t have classical training, but if I can match that skill level, I could get in, you know?”

Both of them laugh, “that is one uneducated opinion. She doesn’t know art. She’s probably saying that because she wants you over those old sods over there. Will I be vexed to see your prostitute next to Manet’s monstrosity next year? Or will you try and get that les verseuses to pose for you?”

Laurent contemplates silently, drinking his coffee.

“Bankers and clerks turned amateur artists, painting prostitutes. You could start a club at the brothel, and paint on Wednesday nights.” Èmile laughs. 

You attend to the other guests, overhearing the men’s constant bickering and laughing. You keep an eye on Laurent, drawn by his looks, how adamantly he defends himself, and more surprisingly, defending your viewpoint on Olympia. They have a fiery debate, but it ends amicably with the trio of them walking out together and talking about their next meetup. The rest of the day is uneventful, serving guests, and trying to entice some patrons to the back, but you don’t have any luck. You blame the Lord’s Day, seducing men is harder when they come in right after church.  As the sun sets you’re washing and drying the empty tables while the brasserie manager is in the back to take stock of the inventory after a busy weekend. You hear the bell ring as the door opens and look up to see Laurent walk back in. 

“We are closed, Monsieur Laurent,” you say, not bothering to look back up, still drying the table with an old towel.

“You said Olympia was beautiful,” Laurent recalls, pulling out a stool and sitting down. “Why do you think that? Tell me more.”

“Why does that matter to you? I already told you, do you need me to elaborate further?” you ask hesitantly, glancing back to the storeroom.

“I want to know why.” Laurent simply repeats.

“It’s modern,” you say after thinking and continuing to dry the table. “ She is not a goddess to idolize or someone from wealth, but perhaps a waitress I could see working side by side with. Someone I could see around town...”

“I agree,” Laurent nods, scooting the stool closer to you, scraping it across the floor, “but she could never hold a candle to you. You’re a real working woman moving with grace and ease. Even Venus is nothing compared to the natural grace I see in you.”

You shake your head and chuckle, sitting on the bench running along the wall. flinging your rag down over your knee, shocked at his overt behavior. “You did not just say that to me.”

“...and what if I did?” Laurent asks with a raised eyebrow, pulling his stool closer still. He has you cornered between the two tables, you could get up easily but his ridiculous passion draws you in.

“You don’t think I see right through you?” you laugh, putting your hands on your hips and leaning back against the wall. “Are you trying to satisfy a bet with your painter friends?”

A small scoff passes his lips as he smirks. “Maybe. What do you see? You have seen me in here enough the last few weeks.”

“An amateur painter who wants to be recognized by his friends,” you say, leaning forward and studying his wanton gaze over your body. “A poor man who needs a muse. Do you think I’ll cave so easily and say yes?”

“You forgot a lover. We could both benefit.” Laurent smirks. “I want to get people riled up. I want, no crave, to be well known. I don’t need to be rich, I don’t need the status. I want to push the limits,” he laments excitedly and moves closer to you until your knees bump against each other. He looks down with a chuckle and rests his palm on your knee opposite the damp towel. “You could be the perfect masterpiece. A real, true masterpiece that would send the Parisian elite of the Salon up in flames.”

Your heart races as he gets closer and glances down at your parted lips. Damn him, you were just saying earlier how you hoped some doe-eyed waitress wouldn’t fall for him, and here you are, feeling your cheeks heat under his intense gaze. It is a thrill knowing he wants to paint you. That offer has never come from any of the patrons before. “What makes you think I want to put my body on display for you? For Paris, huh?” you ask, your confident facade faltering as his palm slides higher over your dress up your thigh. You see him crouch in front of you, his other hand carelessly dropping the damp towel.

Laurent shifts his body closer, kneeling before you, and whispers his face leaning into yours slightly. “Oh, I don’t just think so. I know so, sweetheart,” he whispers lowly, looking down at his hands rubbing over your thighs. “I can see right through you. You work at a brasserie à femmes, and you’re on display every shift for the highest bidder, teasing the wealthiest who are too scared and pious to be seen in a brothel. You’re meant to be more than a waitress in a coffee shop. No one will resist looking at you when you’re displayed at the Salon. We’ll start our own panic as painter and muse, as lovers. You crave the attention, and I crave the attention seeker.”

Your fingers trail over his shoulder and up his neck. When you finally reach the back of his head to feel his curls you hold them in your grip, preventing him from getting closer or pulling away. Laurent’s breath tickles your face as you swear he almost groans as his eyes flutter shut, listening to your admission. “Mouiser Laurent, you might see through me after all. If I choose to be your Olympia, can you afford me?”

“Lovers don’t pay for each other’s company,” he pauses and adds, “If I sell my painting we can split the earnings. Even if I get into the Salon des Refusés, you’ll still be the talk of the Salon, like Olympia. ” He searches your eyes and gulps, looking at you desperately as his hands squeeze your thighs, “I’ll make it work. You’ll see. Just say yes.”

“After my shifts, I’m yours,” you nearly purr, something about him kneeling out of desperation draws you in. The idea of his eyes lingering over your figure, mapping every inch of you almost sends a shudder down your spine. You see him smile, but there’s always a catch with you. “But if you get here and I’m finishing up with a client, no pouting. The last one couldn’t handle it. He should have known better though, it’s how we met.” 

“I promise,” Laurent whispers as you feel his hand on your cheek as his face draws closer. “My Olympia, my muse?”

“Olympia, your muse,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his as if sealing the deal. You feel Laurent’s hand running up your back trying to hold you close and keep the heated moment between you going for a little longer as he kisses down your neck. “When do I start posing for you, Mouiser Laurent?” you gasp as he nips at a sensitive spot.

You feel his hot breath against your neck as he ponders his hand wandering over the top of your dress, discovering and savoring the feeling of your figure under his touch. “Tonight? Can we start tonight?”

“Where will you set up your canvas?”

“No canvas tonight. I just want to map you out. Study every inch of you.” He breathes heavily and kisses you needily, his hand still wandering over your bodice as you pull him closer by his lapels. 

The desperate passion burns brightly with Laurent. He whispers the location of his apartment as he kisses and sucks on your earlobe, his hot breath causing you to shudder. Laurent leaves you breathless as you watch him almost skip out the door a few minutes later. You readjust your bodice as you stand up, eager to finish up at the cafe. A small smile adorns your lips in anticipation. The hands of a painter to mold and shape your flesh in his image, for his canvas to capture the viewer with his desperation and yearning for his Olympia, his muse.