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viking-raider · 10 months

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Thankful

Summary: For Thanksgiving, you decide to take part of a military support group event and host a Veteran, having them over for dinner. Forming a lasting bond with a certain Captain.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Warning: G - Cotton Candy Goodness, Angst, Mention of Loss of Family Member, Mourning, Cold Mother, Embarrassed!Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Alcohol Use, Fluff, Friendly Bets, Southern Charm

Inspiration: It’s for Thanksgiving. 🍗

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy this! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS! My Syverson's first name is Austin.

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLISTand turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy! @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY

You had received the message from one of the countless Military support groups you were a part of about the Sponsoring a Veteran for Thanksgiving event, and if you were interested in participating. You had hesitated for a couple days, before finally caving. You didn't have much family left of your own, just your mother. Since your father passed, when you were a kid and your only sibling, a brother, had been killed in the line of duty. Which was why you were a member of the support groups, looking to keep a closeness to him, and find some sort of peace with his death.

“All right.” The lead organizer, retired Lieutenant Sarah Timmans, sighed, looking over her clipboard at the list of names of all the Veterans that had been signed up for the event. “Your mother knows you're hosting a Vet, right?” She asked, cocking a brow at you, knowing how sensitive and touchy your mother was still about being around anything directly Military.

“I told her, I was bringing a friend over.” You answered, biting your lip nervously, knowing your mother's own mood swings on the subject.

“Girl, she's going to flip out on you.” Sarah said, shaking her head, eyes bulging. “Maybe, you should just do something one-on-one with them?” She suggested, trying to bypass a disaster.

“She's expecting us, and I'll get an earful, if I skip another family gathering.”

Sarah snorted at you, smirking. “It's your KP!” She teased, going down the list to find your name and who you'd been assigned. “So, your Vet is Captain Austin Syverson. He just retired seven months ago after nineteen years in the service of the U.S Army. Special Forces.” She informed you, looking up from the clipboard to scan the crowded room for a moment.

“Ah, there he is!” She smiled, motioning behind you.

Turning around and following her gaze, you were surprised for a moment, standing on the other side of the room, in a small cluster of other Vets, was a tall, thickly muscular guy, with a shaved head and well groomed beard. Everything about him exuded authority, self-confidence and calm. He was so damn handsome in his pair of dark wash blue jeans, brown cowboy boots and fleshly ironed, black dress shirt that was tucked in, showing off his belt buckle. Your insides tingled as you stared at him, throat going dry.

“Damn, that's a Texas boy.” You mumbled under your breath.

“Sure is.” Sarah agreed, checking him out as well. “You should go introduce yourself, before he thinks you stood him up.” She added, a hint of encouragement in her voice.

“God, you're right.” You started, frightened he just might, then weaved through the crowd towards him, pausing for a moment, until he noticed you. “Hi there.” You beamed up at him, your knees like a nervous jelly.

“Ma'am.” Syverson greeted you back with a Southern drawl, tipping his head forward.

“I'm your host, Captain Syverson.” You informed him, introducing yourself.

“Oh.” He replied, giving you a proper look over, a smile pulling over his lips as he took your lovely figure in the white, knee-length dress covered in delicate yellow flowers, paired with black flats. “It's a pleasure to meet you.” He said, his bright blue eyes meeting yours once more. “You can just call me, Sy.”

“Nice to meet you as well, Sy.” You answered, cordially extending your hand.

Smirking broader, Sy gently took your hand in his, shaking it. “I'm grateful that you've allowed me impose myself on you and your family's holiday.”

“Oh, it's quite all right.” You waved it off, shrugging your shoulders. “It's really just me and my mom, so nothing major.”

“Well, I'm just a Captain, so it'll literally be nothing Major.” Sy quipped, making the group around him crackle at the inside joke.

You dropped your head, hiding your amused smile, knowing the two of you were more than likely to get along, if he had that sense of humor. “Fair.” You nodded, lifting your head. “More than fair. Well, we can leave whenever you like.”

Sy turned over his wrist to glance at his watch. “We can go now, if you like.” He replied, twisting to a chair that was behind him and picking up a black, denim Sherpa coat off the back. “I'll see you boys later. Have a good Thanksgiving.” He bid the men, patting a couple on the shoulder, before following you out of the building.

“You can follow me to my place or we can ride together.” You told Sy, standing on the sidewalk with him, chewing on your lip.

“I can follow.” Sy answered, smiling down at you. “My truck's just over there.” He said, motioning over to the big, 2021 Dodge Ram, parked a short distance away.

“Okay. I'm just right there.” You informed him, pointing out your little KIA Niro.

“On your lead then, Major.” Sy quipped, winking at you, before heading off towards his truck.

“Christ,” You huffed, watching after him for a moment, your hand moving up to a necklace around your neck. “He reminds me so much of you, Phelan.” You sighed, then made for your vehicle.

Pulling out of the parking space, your phone started to ring, so you connected the car's Bluetooth. “Mother.” You answered, glancing in your rear-view, to make sure Sy was behind you, before you started out of the parking lot and into the street.

“How much longer are you going to be?” Your mother snapped through the car's speakers.

“I'm just leaving now, mom.” You sighed, pressing your lips together. “I had to find my friend and now we're heading there now. We should be there in about ten or so minutes.”

“Why is he spending Thanksgiving with us? Doesn't he have his own family?” She demanded, clearly pacing the house.

“I'm sure he has a family, mother. But I invited him over to ours and he accepted. So, please, be nice to him. He's a very polite and outstanding person, who doesn't need to be pestered and guilt tripped, or reminded his mother is lucky, that her son is still alive and not in the military and so on.” You hoped to warn and deter her from her usual interaction with the males she came into contact with. “Let's just have a nice dinner, for once.”

“How can we, when your brother isn't here.” She growled, then the line went dead.

“At least, I'm here.” You sighed, deflated by her words. “I should really warn Sy before we get into the house.” You thought, then pushed that unpleasantness aside.

Sy managed to keep behind your car, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. He felt a little nervous about going to a random, pretty young lady's home to have Thanksgiving dinner with her mother. However, he didn't have any other plans for the holiday under his belt, other than staying on the ranch he'd started up on his return home with Aika.

“Idle hands are the devil's workshop.” He commented aloud, following you off the on-ramp.

It would have just been him and his pup, working the horses all day, before making another ten minute meal and sitting in front of his laptop, since he still hadn't gotten around to buying himself a proper tv for the living room. So, he let one of his buddies nag him into signing up for the event. Sy wasn't at all disappointed either.

You were more than easy on his eyes.

Finally making it outside your place, you got out and met Sy in your driveway, shifting glances between him and the front door.

“Are you all right?” Sy asked, squinting down at you.

“Okay, look.” You blurted out, not looking back at him. “My mom is super touchy about the military.” You started to explain to Sy, giving him an embarrassed glance.

“Why?” He frowned, confused.

Your shoulders slumped slightly and a tired expression washed over your face. “My brother died in Afghanistan six years ago. My mom has taken that to her heart and soul. So anything military tends to set her off.”

“Then, should I even be here?” Sy asked, concerned about causing your mother any distress.

“It's my house and you're my guest.” You told him, bluntly. ��I want you here for dinner. It'll be nice to have someone over that might actually engage with me.” You said, heading up the footpath towards the front door. “And not remind me that I'm not my dead, older brother.” You added under your breath, but Sy's sharp ear heard you all the same.

“Mom!” You called out, toeing off your shoes as you stood in the entry with Sy. “We're here.”

“Took long enough.” Her voice echoed back somewhere in the house.

You looked up at Sy. “I'm so sorry.” You mouthed, shaking your head.

“It's all right.” He smiled, his hand touching the back of your arm.

“Do you want something to drink?” You asked, showing him into the kitchen and pulling open the fridge. “Got wine, a couple bottles.” You twisted your upper half to peek at an upper shelf. “Looks like she's left my Ardbeg whiskey alone.”

“I wouldn't mind a little whiskey.”

Nodding, you shut the fridge and got down two glasses with the whiskey bottle. “Straight or on the rocks?”

“What are you having?” Sy asked, leaning back against your sink, a twinkle of mischievous curiosity in his eyes.

“The rocks.” You answered, a playful smirk tugging on your lips.

Sy drew a breath in through his nose, pressing his lips together as he nodded. “Impressed.”

“Thank you.” You chuckled, grabbing a couple ice cubes from the freezer and dropped them into your glasses, then poured you and Sy a generous amount of amber liquid. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” Sy tipped his head, taking the glass from you and took a sip. “Damn, that's smooth.”

“Mmm, for a twenty year old bottle, it should be.” You snorted, taking a gulp of yours.

“Twenty years.” Sy choked slightly. “Damn, almost as long as I was in--” He caught himself, eyes shooting to the two kitchen entrances. “Well, you know.”

“Yeah.” You nodded, a little stiff, praying your mother was lurking nearby, and polished off your drink, before moving over to the oven, revealing a nice sized turkey, just starting to turn a golden brown, filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering scent. “I started this about an hour and a half ago, so it should have about another hour or so to go. While it does that, I can show you around.”

“And, if you're as much of a Texan as I think you are, I'll pop the football game on.”

“You don't have to put the game on.” Sy laughed, feeling called out. “We can watch whatever you and your mother want. I'd hate to impose.”

“Captain Austin Syverson, you're not imposing.” You informed him, putting your foot down.

Sy's eyes widened and he gave you a half smirk. “I do love a woman that takes charge. Yes, ma'am, if you say so.”

“Besides, I'd love to see the Chiefs kick the Cowboys ass.” You added, teasingly.

“Oh, you're a traitor to your home state!” Sy gasped, horror on his face.

“Texas isn't my home state.” You giggled at him, then tisked. “Kansas isn't either, to be far.” You snorted, amused by the banter. “But I like Mahomes.”

“What's wrong with Dak Prescott?”

“Nothing! He's a great QB. I'm just a Chiefs girl.”

“I may have to call this Thanksgiving off.” Sy said, draining his whiskey glass and set it on the counter behind him and pushed off the edge. “To eat at the same table as a Chiefs girl, may just be too much for this ol' Texas boy.”

You were worried for a moment that Sy was genuine, and felt terrible for bringing it up, until you finally noticed the look in his eye and relaxed. He had a dry humor and pulled it out on you, catching you good.

“Shoot, you had me there.” You chuckled, breathy.

He winked at you, amusing you more with his cute double blink.

“Well,” You sighed, looking at the kitchen. “This is the kitchen.”

“A very nice kitchen.” Sy echoed, nodding and rubbing a hand over the counter top. “Nice and clean.”

“Thank you, I do my best.” You replied, bowing your head. “Out that way is the dining room, where we'll be having dinner.” You said, motioning to your right, and Sy peeked in, finding a long, glass table already set for three people with nice little autumn decorations as a centerpiece. “Over here, is the living room, where we'll probably be starting our football rivalry.”

You showed him into the living room, just as your mother came downstairs, in nothing but a pair of loose shorts, a tank top and an open bathrobe, a half glass of white wine clutched in her hand. You felt a cold shard of embarrassment go down your back. You had hoped, when you told her you were going to get Sy, she would have dressed into something—anything.

“Mom, this is Sy.” You told her, keeping your voice even. “Sy, this is my mother, Dana.” You introduced them, chewing the inside of your lip to bits.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma'am.” Sy greeted her politely, nodding his head kindly, like nothing was out of place.

She looked Sy over, taking a gulp of her wine. “How do you and my daughter know each other?” She inquired, lifting a brow at him.

You stiffened, you hadn't considered fielding that question from her while Sy was over.

“Work.” Sy said, casually.

“So, she's your accountant?” Dana pressed and showed no sign of easing off.

“I am.” You chimed in, hoping to get her to drop the subject and leave Sy alone.

“That she is.” Sy confirmed, backing you up. “Helps me out with my ranch.” He told Dana, tapping that belt buckle at his waist, bearing the Hook Hill Ranch logo on it.

“Hmm.” Your mother grunted, not sounding convinced. “Why aren't you spending Thanksgiving with your family?” She asked, giving Sy a hard look.

“Mom!” You snapped, horrified.

“It's all right.” He assured you, giving you a soft smile. “I'm an only child. I've never known my father and my mother ran off, when I was ten years old, leaving me to be raised by uncle, her brother. He had a heart attack three years ago, while milkin' his cows. So, it's just me and my dog, Aika, nowadays. Your daughter was kind enough to ask me over to your Thanksgiving dinner, and I accepted.”

“Satisfied?” You asked, annoyed your mother caused Sy to divulge such personal information.

Rolling her eyes, your mother turned in a flare of her bathrobe and headed back upstairs.

“Turkey will be done in an hour!” You called after her, with no reply. “I'm so sorry.” You said, turning back to Sy.

“It's okay.” He said softly, more concerned for you. “Is there anything I can do to help you finish up with dinner?”

“Um,” You tapped your foot. “No, I don't think so. Besides, you're my guest. You should relax.” You told him, waving over to the couch. “I can handle everything.” You assured him, rounding the arm of the couch to swipe the remote of the coffee table and turned the tv on, quickly finding the football game. “Ooh, Cowboys are beating the Chiefs by two points!” You hissed, casting a glance over your shoulder at Sy.

Sy moved to join you, holding your gaze. “I bet you a round of drinks, at a later time, that the Cowboys beat your Chiefs.”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Syverson?” You asked, surprised.

“I am.” He admitted, unashamed.

“Then, you're on.” You grinned, giving him a cocky look. “But, if the Chiefs win, I want to see your ranch.”

“Bold.” Sy smirked, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I'll even cook for you.”

“Sold.” You agreed, extending your hand out to him.

He shook your hand, then sat down on the couch, getting comfortable to watch the game, while you returned to the kitchen. Pausing for a moment, you refilled his whiskey glass and took it out to him, giving him a soft smile as you set the cool glass down on a coaster and went back to prepping dinner. Sy watched you over the back of the couch, moving and bumping about, taking a deep breath and taking all the lovely smells of your hard work wafting towards him and making his belly rumble.

Lord have mercy, she's gorgeous.

“You sweet on my daughter?” Dana's voice came up behind him.

Sy's head swung around to look back at her, seeing she'd finally gotten dressed, now wearing a pair of black leggings and a loose, cream colored jumper, but no shoes or socks. “I just might be.” He answered, meeting her gaze head on. “She's a sweet, generous young lady.”

“Young lady, how old are you?” Dana huffed, dropping down into a recliner at the end of the couch.

“I'm thirty-eight.” Sy replied, with an odd amusement.

Dana looked Sy over, her gray eyes scrutinizing. “At least you're both in your thirties.” She huffed, curling her legs underneath her and glared at the tv.

What a curious woman. Sy blinked, shaking his head at her.

The two of them sat quietly, not speaking or interacting with each other any further. Which didn't bother either Sy or Dana. You peeked in at them from time to time, scurrying out to fill Sy's glass, whenever you noticed it was empty and always asking if he needed or wanted something, before vanishing back into the kitchen or dining room.

You wanted the dinner to be as great as possible for Sy, and your mother.

“Dinner is ready, everyone!” You declared, coming into the living room, glancing at the football score, discovering the Chiefs had recovered since the last time you'd entered, now ahead by four points.

“Smells delicious.” Sy complimented you, as he and your mother came into the dining room, finding the set table.

The turkey was juicy and golden-brown, slices already carved and on a plate beside it, with sides of stuffing, mashed potatoes, rolls and cornbread muffins, yams with marshmallows, peas and asparagus, accompanied with pecan and pumpkin pie. There were two decanters of red and white wine, a bottle of Ardbeg, and a pitcher of iced tea.

“Thank you.” You grinned with shy pride, biting the inside of your lip. “Sit wherever you like and dig in.” You said, motioning to the chairs around the table, before slipping into one.

Sy joined you, winking at you, as he picked up a plate and started helping himself, piling his plate with meat, rolls, yams and cornbread. “Mmm, this is amazing.” He hummed, nodding his head and chewing his mouthful of turkey and mashed potatoes.

You were giddy that Sy was so in love with your cooking, glancing towards your mother, who was at the end of the table. But found she was sipping a glass of red and nibbling on a buttered roll, to your slight dismay. Pushing the feeling away, you fixed your plate and dug in, moaning at how tasty it was.

“So, your team was winning.” Sy commented, giving you a side brow as he continued to eat.

“Yeah, I noticed.” You smirked, feeling bubbly, as you poured yourself some wine. “Looks like we'll be spending some more time together.”

“That it does.” He nodded, feeling your mother's eyes on him. “I'll have to show you the new foal that was born last week.”

A flood of excitement filled you, you loved the thought of seeing a baby horse. “Oh! I bet they're just the cutest thing on the planet!” You gushed, eyes bright with love already. “What did you name it?”

“Oh, I haven't named the little rascal, yet.” Sy laughed, watching you just gush. “Maybe, you could help me come up with a name for her?” He suggested, looking at you over the rim of his whiskey glass.

“Hmm.” You hummed, falling into a meditative state as you brewed over a name for the baby horse.

“So,” Dana cleared her throat, eyes narrowed between you and Sy. “You're a Rancher?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Sy nodded, turning to regard her, nothing by polite respect in his expression.

“How long have you been one?” She questioned, swirling the wine in her glass.

“Ranchin' has been in my family for generations.” Sy replied, not letting her trip him up. “My many great-grandfather came over from Ireland, just after the American Revolution. Then, when the Civil War happened, my family fought and were granted land at the end, for their service. We've been doing it ever since.”

“So, your family fought for the South.” Dana said bluntly, causing you to choke on your food.

“Mother.” You rasped, eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

“No, ma'am.” Sy said coolly. “We fought for the North.” He told her, and left it at that.

“Are you satisfied?” You asked her slowly, eyes still wide and mouth agape.

“No.” She answered, getting up and leaving the room.

“I'm so sorry, Sy.” You stuttered, ashamed of your mother.

“It's all right, love.” He shook his head, wiping his hands on his napkin. “It's not your fault. It's not hers either, really.” He said softly. “She's mourning her son, and doing so takes the form in many ways. That's how your Ma is coping with your brother no longer being on this Earth.” He told you, resting back in his chair and fixing his blue eyes on you. “You're coping by going to support groups and trying to understand the kind people that he was, that he worked with, that he died surrounded by.”

You bit your lip, a lump of emotion strangling you and blurring your eyes; Sy was right. You wanted to be surrounded by those like your brother. It was like still having him there, in a way. You felt the strong, rough warmth of Sy's hand slip into yours, squeezing it and rubbing his thumb over your wrist as the two of you sat there, quiet and surrounded by your Thanksgiving feast.

“You know,” Sy spoke, breaking the silence. “I could actually use an accountant for my ranch.” He said, smirking over at you. “Plus, how about drinks at my place, while you figure out a new name for my foal? Who cares who wins the game.” He chuckled, arching a suggestive brow at you.

“Are you hinting at a sort of date, Syverson?” You asked, playfully thumb warred him.

“It's possible.” Sy laughed, letting you pin his thumb. “Maybe, I'll even cook you Christmas dinner.”

“Oh, I think I'd like that.” You told him, grinning, thankful you'd decided to host him for Thanksgiving.

#Syverson #Captain Austin Syverson #Thankful *fic*#Thankful #Viking-Raider Fics #Captain Syverson x Reader #Captain Syverson/Reader #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfiction #Syverson x Reader #Syverson/Reader #Fluff #Cotton Candy Fluff #Thanksgiving #Thanksgiving Fic

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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 1 year

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Bestie its me ur fave Nathan Bateman defender 💅💅 can I request anything Nathan? Like free range bestie (ik for some authors it's a hassle to be requested something with no info but its ok if u dont) like go crazy with him. Just need more Nathan content ❤️❤️ ily and thank you bestie 🤸‍♀️

ANYTHING NATHAN? YOU GOT IT. (I'm so sorry what is this? What have I written? Help.) ILYSM❤️

Nathan Bateman x F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info

Summary: Nathan's a pretty heavy sleeper.

A/N: Nathan and Reader are already in a relationship.

Warnings: somnophilia, I'm gonna say dub con because Nathan is asleep and it is only vagely hinted at that the consent has been previously established, blow job, fingering, swearing, typos, overuse of italics, railroad sentences, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 991

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While you weren’t sure what time Nathan went to bed last night, or what time it was now (other than early morning), but, you did know that he had decided to sleep in your bed. Not his.

His beard was tickling your shoulder, his gentle and even breaths warming your back.

One arm was slung over your waist while the other, in classic Nathan fashion, was pressed against the headboard at an angle you would have assumed was uncomfortable.

You needed to stretch. And, despite the comfort of waking up in his embrace, he was oldly warm. A human furnace. How he wasn’t sweating astounded you.

It seemed impossible that someone that slept naked could produce so much heat.

Carefully, you wiggled out from underneath his arm. Trying your best not to wake him or jostle the bed too much.

You were nearly home free, out without being a disturbance, when somehow you caught Nathan just as he was moving in his sleep.

A sigh escaped your lips, ready for a Textbook Nathan grumble. But it never came.

He had just moved with the push and was now sleeping soundly flat on his back, part of the bedcovers twisted around his calf.

Huh.

Seemed like he was a heavy sleeper.

He must have come to bed late.

You chewed at your bottom lip as a wicked thought started to grow in your mind.

He looked so peaceful, innocent even. If such a word could ever be used to describe Nathan. Especially since he had a habit of grooming his public hair into ridiculous shapes. Something you were sure he only really started doing to amuse you. Currently it was a heart.

Perhaps it was time for a little revenge for all the times he woke you up at 2am with his face between your legs.

Languidly you moved a little closer, running the tip of your forefinger up the length of his dick. Just to judge the reaction, see how heavy of a sleeper he really was.

Nathan’s breathing didn’t even change.

You grinned.

Still keeping your eyes on his face to watch for any signs of waking, you laid down on your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows and leaning over to suck the tip of his cock into your mouth.

Nothing.

You moved your body closer, risking leaning partially on his thigh and hip, as you licked up the length of him, swirling your tongue around the head and teasing his slit.

His cock jumped under your attention, quickly hardening as Nathan’s breathing hitched ever so slightly. The rise and fall of his chest increasing even as his eyes stayed closed.

You pumped him a few times, smearing your saliva along the thick length of him as a smile pulled on your lips.

While you missed Nathan’s moans and grunts of pleasure, there was something satisfying about having him at your mercy.

You took him into your mouth again, bobbing up and down slowly, trying to let him get deeper each time.

Usually Nathan’s bucking hips (even when he tried not to) made it difficult to deepthroat him, his size alone was enough to make the activity strenuous. And you’d never quite been able to manage it without gagging.

Now however, without his instant squirming you found that you were able to take him deeper than you had before, relaxing your throat as best you could and swallowing around him.

You hummed, getting a little carried away as your own arousal started to burn between your legs.

The idea of maybe being able to take all of him in your mouth made you a little lightheaded, forced you to rub your legs together to just take the edge off.

You picked up the pace, moving up and down, still managing to swallow a little more each time.

His cock was hot and heavy in your mouth, the girth made your jaw throb but you didn’t care as you continued to take him deeper.

Finally you couldn’t ignore the ache between your legs any longer, and you slid one hand down, under your pyjama bottoms for some relief.

Nathan’s breathing had increased exponentially. Small huff of air, and little whispered moans escaping his lips as he still stayed inexplicably asleep.

Part of you wondered what he was dreaming about.

You circled your clit, Nathan’s little groans of pleasure driving you wild as you filled your mouth with his cock.

You were nearly there, almost at the base, just another few centimetres and you could bury your face into the neatly trimmed curls between his legs.

“Fuuuck,” Nathan hissed between his teeth, gasping as he woke up fully to the sight of you. “Oh god, baby,” he whined, stretching back for a moment to try to stop himself from thrusting upwards, “taking me so deep.”

He groaned obscenely. Trying to get himself under control by sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, anything to distract himself from the warmth of your mouth.

That was when he noticed your hand down the front of your pyjamas.

And he lost it.

He moaned loudly, grabbing hold of your shoulder, trying to warn you. But it was too late. He came hard, unable to control the mindless bucking of his hips as he filled your mouth and throat.

The timing, thankfully, had just been right. You had been breathing out as he came and managed to not choke to death on his release.

He gasped as you kept sucking, milking him for every last drop he could give, before pulling away and grinning.

“Good morning.” You smiled.

“Good fucking morning.” He breathed, laying back heavily against the bed.

You chuckled.

He sat up a little to look at you. “What time is it?”

You shook your head, “I’m not sure, I-”

“It’s pussy eating time, that’s what it is.” He growled as he pounced on you, smothering you with kisses as you laughed.

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Thank you for reading!

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#nathan bateman #ex machina #nathan bateman x reader #x reader #nathan bateman x you #x you #nathan bateman x female reader #x female reader #nathan bateman x f!reader #x f!reader #nathan bateman x fem!reader #x fem!reader #my writing #fanfic #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters

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techdriveplay · 2 months

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What Are the Best Men's Haircare Products?

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chasejlondon · 11 months

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@justformen #MOUSTACHE & #BEARD DYE M-55 REAL BLACK #REVIEW

Never really had to dye my beard, but over the last few months, I have started seeing grey hairs and the colour just not the right tone. Kinda surprised how easy this product is to use and really dose a great job. Loving the dark black colour right now has really taken on the colour, and I could not be happy. Will definitely be buying more and telling everyone I know. Would highly recommend it.

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five-rivers · 3 months

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New pollfic chapter! Continued from here.

Danny was pretty sure he’d fallen asleep on a table, so what was the soft thing under him…?

He peeled his eyes open to see a tasseled decorative pillow tucked under his cheek. And… also a lot of hair… Fur…? He blinked, still sleepy and not entirely awake, and sat up.

Not only had his head been given a pillow, he saw, but his wings had been nicely propped up. It was very thoughtful of them. But that didn’t explain the length of his hair. Or fur. Or whatever it was on his head and skin currently. He hadn’t had a lot of time to examine it, but it didn’t feel like hair anymore. There were layers to it.

On closer, slightly more awake, examination, it wasn’t just the fluff on his head that was longer. He was fluffier everywhere. His fur was longer, and so were his feathers. By inches in some places. Long enough that the ghosts had braided it in places. Not only that, but the amount of his skin covered by fur had increased. Before, it hadn’t passed his knees and elbows, but it did now. It was much shorter than the rest of his fur, tapering off to a suede-like finish well above his wrists and ankles, and didn’t touch his inner arms or the backs of his legs. It had spread further down his chest, tapering to his navel and spreading and thickening again at his groin, and up his neck, spilling onto the edges of his face.

When he’d thought about growing a beard or chest hair, he hadn’t meant this. He touched the fur growing near his ears. It didn’t feel at all like a beard. It was soft and feathery, like down.

Speaking of his ears. He traced up to feel them up to their tips. They were properly fluffy now.

Was this… some kind of delayed transformation effect? Or did this body just grow hair really fast?

On the plus side, it was all neatly and nicely brushed, not a feather out of place. As he’d expected, it felt much better, compared to the disarray from before.

On the more confusing side, his fur length wasn’t the only strange thing. Wherever his skin was bare of fur, it was covered in tiny, black, calligraphic symbols. He sighed. This must be another part of ‘grooming’ for this ghost, but he wished he knew what it all meant…

“Are you ready to write your name in the great book, now?”

Danny squeaked, the sound echoing throughout the large room. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed the ghost there. Maybe they’d been invisible?

He nodded and floated up off the table. He… hadn’t really had the time to process how small he currently was, either. And he was small. Toddler-sized.

The ghost seemed to be having similar thoughts, as they brushed Danny’s hair back from his face. “The great book is just here,” they said, gesturing at the largest of the books chained to the table.

Danny knelt on the table again, then opened the book. He flipped through until he reached the last page with anything written on it. Helpfully, the ghost handed him a feather quill, already inked. Briefly, Danny wondered if it was one of their feathers. It was sort of the right color and degree of fluffiness.

“I just have to write my name, right?” he asked, trying to keep his voice quiet to match the quiet murmur of the surroundings.

“Yes,” said the ghost, “it’s entirely straightforward.”

Danny bobbed his head, then put pen to paper. He signed his name the way he always did, with a few decorative curlicues. This was supposed to be important, right? So he could be a little fancy to make things nice.

Sparkles glittered at his wrist, like dust caught in a sunbeam. The sparkles gathered closer, and flared into something cold and heavy on his wrist.

“Um,” said Danny, looking at the bracelet. The bracelet that had an odd, protruding flange on the outside edge of his wrist. “What.”

“Oh, wonderful,” said the ghost, who sounded genuinely pleased. He clapped his hands together, soundlessly. “The library must think you are very valuable indeed.”

“What do you…” He trailed off as more sparkles formed near the flange. They turned into a solitary chain link. “Is this a manacle?”

“The most valuable books in the library are chained to the shelves and tables,” said the ghost happily, waving his hand to indicate the books chained to the round table. “So it is with all the most valuable parts of the collection.”

“I’m not a book,” said Danny. “I’m not part of the collection.”

“Of course you are. We all are,” said the ghost.

“What happened to bringing me back upstairs?”

“We will still do that. The library will put you back where you belong. Your guide has just finished preparing.”

Apparently hearing this exchange, a ghost who had his mane braided away from his face floated down to the floor, smiling and waving in greeting. When he reached out towards him, Danny shied away. Another chain link coalesced from light.

Could he trust that? Could he trust that they would bring him back up after this? He obviously should have trusted them on this.

The two links of chain tugged slightly towards an empty loop on the table, and Danny grabbed them in his opposite fist. No. He couldn’t trust them. But how long could the chain get before it found a random spot to fix him to? And would he be able to phase out of something that had a clear intention of preventing removal, even in human form?

He didn’t know.

#danny phantom #pollfic #poll fic #choose your own adventure #kingdom of fish

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punkedsolar · 2 months

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The Inland Sphynx (Homopantera terra) is a large sentient of the morphic genus Homopantera, native New Petra. It has a lean, broad-chested body; a proportioned humanoid head; round ears; and a dark, hairy tuft at the tip of its tail. It is not sexually dimorphic. The Inland Sphynx lives alone, but socialises.

Etymology The word 'Sphynx' is a Greek corruption of the Egyptian name 'shesepankh', which meant 'living image'.

Taxonomy Homopantera terra is the current designation in use in New Petra. Other species are Homopantera maritimum (Coastal Sphynx), Homopantera androphagon (Manticore) and Homopantera ornata (Lamasu). Some have proposed the alternative name: Homopantera civitas instead of terra.

Description The Inland Sphynx is a lean, broad-chested like-felid with a humanoid head, a reduced neck, and round furred ears. The base of the tail and the area behind the forelimbs are densely feathered.

The fur varies in colour from light buff to silvery grey, yellowish red, and dark brown. The colours of the underparts are generally lighter. Both male and female Inland Sphynx retain spots into adulthood. Feather colours are generally bright, with purples, reds, oranges and metallics being common. Hair ranges from any natural human colour, though is frequently dyed to match the feathers. The tail of all Inland Sphynx ends in a dark, hairy tuft that conceals a hard 'spur' that is formed from the final, fused sections of tail bone.

Its skull is very similar to that of a standard human, though much larger. Faces are frequently oval with pronounced, elevated, and arched eyebrows, large almond-shaped eyes, well-defined cheeks, full lips and a prominent, pointed chin. Males frequently cultivate a beard. Canines are only slightly more developed than a human's, and dentition supports omnivorous eating.

Large paws have fully retractable claws and are notably agile compared to other Homopantera, enabling limited tool use and more elaborate grooming. Instead of a dew claw, they have a thumb, though the size of their digits limits precise actions.

The average Inland Sphynx is approximately 170cm long with a tail length of 80 cm, and a weight of 120 kilos. Females are only slightly smaller than males.

Distribution and habitat The Inland Sphynx is found only in New Petra and does not travel. As of this writing, around fifty individuals are registered with the Bureau of Population.

Behaviour and ecology Inland Sphynx spend much of their time resting; they are inactive for about sixteen hours per day. Although they can be active at any time, their activity generally peaks after noon with a period of socialising, grooming, and then activity in their chosen profession.

While they are solitary amongst their own species they commonly live close by other sentients and have reciprocal arrangements for grooming, entertainment, and health related reasons.

The Inland Sphynx is a generalist omnivore and prefers cooked food. It is a poor hunter unless trained to do so, as it's needs are generally met through the society that it functions in. When it is required to fend for itself, it generally hunts by ambush from a raised platform or tree - it cannot fly, but is capable of fully extending the feathers around it's forelimbs to allow a controlled fall. They prefer small game, rich fruits, and enjoy wine and other fermented substances.

Reproduction is limited and sporadic, resulting in a large egg that requires brooding for 110 days. Inland Sphynx who want to have offspring have access to artificial incubators in New Petra. Cubs are somewhat altricial, despite being born with fur, and must be parented for four years before reaching adult size. They make decent parents despite being generally solitary, cubs receive schooling along side other youth in New Petra.

Morphic ecology notes

All Homopantera are capable of shifting species according to adaptive pressure. The Inland Sphynx is particularly prone to shifting to a Coastal Sphynx body and lifestyle should they engage in any of the following behaviours:

Eating sentients

Engaging in blood sports

Spending time with Coastal Sphynx

Ceasing intellectual pursuits

Engaging in anti-social behaviour

Inland Sphynx can rarely shift to a Lamasu under the following situations:

Eating predators

Developing a martial outlook

Developing an obsession with astronomy and philosophy

Behaving in an ascetic manner

Adhering to a strict set of behavioural rules

Inland Sphynx cannot become Manticores unless they go through a Coastal Sphynx transformation first.

Social notes

Inland Sphynx ornament and decorate themselves when they have the assistance of humans to do so. They maintain themselves neatly, and are frequently in the University District. Those who cannot maintain academic pursuits have the physical strength to do more mundane jobs such as dock workers or pull carts. They generally avoid roles such as scouts or guards to avoid morphic shifting.

Generally occupations chosen by Inland Sphynx include various academic focuses, due to their excellent memory. They favour writing, mathematics, history and stories. They all admire riddles, and can develop obsessive behaviours around them.

Most Inland Sphynx speak several languages, and are gregarious as long as they can return to their own home, alone, and recharge in peace.

#inland sphynx #sphynx #sphinx #new petra #Homopantera

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nolita-fairytale · 6 months

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so my darling | sydney adamu x the restaurateur (unnamed male oc) | oneshot

summary: sydney falls in love with a restauranteur (one played by pedro pascal). song title inspired by so my darling by rachel chinouriri.

warnings: swearing, unnamed ocs, talking about sex, use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, two original characters (the restaurateur & the pastry chef), the pastry chef is the mc from make my heart surrender, wong kar-wai films, ambiguous ending

wc: 4.8k

a/n: ok, so i'm not entirely back, but this photo of pedro pascal and ayo edebiri at the sag awards quite literally haunted me and made me write something about it. also i've really missed all of you. and i've missed these characters. and i miss this world. this oneshot feels really different to me than a lot of the things i've written for the bear and there isn't much inclusion of the other characters because i really, really wanted to write from sydney's perspective. it's limited storytelling in the way that it's mostly her experience of being charmed by the restaurateur but i had a lot of fun with this and i hope you enjoy. fic inspired by the pic below:

nolita fairytale's masterlist

Sydney doesn’t expect to win, yet her name is called out anyway, followed by the phrases: “James Beard Rising Star Award” and “the winner is.”

Most of the night is a blur. Somewhere between winning the biggest award of her career to accepting congratulations from the best chefs in the world, Sydney’s still trying to gather her bearings. It’s not until Carmy’s girlfriend, the woman who picked up her life and moved to Chicago to be with her exec chef, tugs at her arm.

Sydney doesn’t mean to completely reduce the woman to just Carmy’s girlfriend.

She’s also become many other things: the head pastry chef at The Bear, a colleague, and most importantly, a best friend.

“Hey, Syd! Carm wants to introduce you to someone,” she says, before giving Sydney a chance to politely excuse herself from the previous conversation she’d found herself in.

As The Pastry Chef leads her away from her present company, Sydney follows with a soft smile, half expecting it to be yet another celebrity chef—someone in Carmy’s network that reminds her why she began working at the Bear when The Bear was The Beef.

What she doesn’t expect is to meet him, her breath hitching in her throat as she and her best friend who’s dragged her over here, find themselves standing across from Carmy and an unfamiliar man.

“I see a congratulations is in order,” the man greets her, tipping his half-empty glass of champagne in her direction with a smile so charming she has to do a double take.

“To this year’s newest Rising Star chef.”

He’s handsome, sure—but that’s not what catches her eye.

The first thing Sydney notices about the man is his soft, dark curls—much cleaner than the unruly ones that belong to her head chef. He wears thick-rimmed rectangular glasses and has a perfectly groomed mustache that surprisingly works for him. It’s not usually her kind of thing, is all. In a white button down, perfectly tucked into his pristine black trousers, it's somehow still black tie with a touch of rebelliousness for forgoing a tie and a proper suit jacket.

He can’t be much older than Richie, she thinks to herself. What? Ten… maybe fifteen years older than herself?

Reality comes back to her, as she realizes that she hasn’t said a word, wondering just how long she’s spent caught up in her own head over the handsome stranger.

“Oh uh, yeah. Thanks,” Sydney replies with a smile and a nod, snapping back to her senses.

“Syd, this is… probably one of the few mentors I’ve had in my career. Well, him and Terry, ‘course,” Carmy begins to introduce, shyly. He’s not used to the one doing the introductions. “From Malibu.”

“Fairest Creatures,” the man clarifies with a hearty chuckle, citing the name of the restaurant they worked at together. “Way, waaaaaaay back in the day.”

Right.

The restaurant that put Carmy on the map, winning himself the same award that year that Sydney’s won tonight.

That’s when it clicks for her.

An old mentor of Carmy’s.

Not Terry.

And no, not that one—not the asshole from New York—to put it nicely.

The Restaurateur from California.

“No, I-. Yeah! I’m a big fan of your work, yeah,” Sydney scrambles to say, a glimmer of recognition in her eyes as she reaches out to shake his hand.

“Carmy was one of my early boys—look at him now. The student has far surpassed the teacher,” the chef adds, implying he’s mentored plenty of then-up-and-coming chefs back in the day.

“Oh thanks, but uh. Nah, I don’t know about that,” Carmy mutters, quick to brush off the older chef’s compliment.

Sydney can feel The Pastry Chef nudge her playfully, letting out a chuckle in response. The two exchange glances as Sydney follows her gaze from Carmy to his mentor.

“Oh they’re just being modest. Don’t think I’ve ever met two humbler chefs than these two,” the pastry chef adds with a playful eye roll, shooting her lover a look that doesn’t go unnoticed. “Which… if you ask me, is practically unheard of in this industry so… I consider us lucky, Syd.”

Sydney lets out a small, nervous laugh in agreement, before raising her own champagne glass to her lips as she finds herself, suddenly, parched.

She sees him again, weeks later, when the pomp and circumstance of winning a James Beard award has almost died down. She’d been quick to assume that, like many other chefs that weekend, he’d only been in town for the award ceremony, but as Sydney listens to the man tell Carmy that he’s moved to Chicago for “the foreseeable future,” she wonders why she never asked in the first place.

The Restaurateur had come in to say hello, for a meal, and Carmy had quickly declared that it would be on the house—eager to feed the best mentor he ever had in his California fine dining days.

“Yeah, I’ll be steppin’ in for Cuadros… when he goes on paternity leave… and we’re talking about expanding—what that could look like. Well, you know how it goes, Carm. Right now I’m just hangin’ out, helping out where I can between the two restaurants he’s got now,” he explains to Carmy with a nonchalance, as if he’s not a restaurateur whose reputation precedes himself.

“Ah, man. That’s cool. Well, you let us know if you need anything. I’ll give you mine and uh… Syd, you cool if I give him your number too?” Carmy asks, catching Sydney off guard.

“What do you-, I mean-?” Sydney begins to ask, unable to hide her surprise.

“Since he’s new to the restaurant scene here in Chicago. Can help each other out, you know?” Carmy returns, a hopeful look in his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess I-. Sure,” Sydney nods, forcing a small smile in an attempt to shake the ‘deer-in-headlights’ look she’s sure her face has involuntarily contorted itself into.

She watches her head chef carefully, as Carmy continues to interact with the restaurateur in a way that she’s never seen before. She’s never seen him this eager to try to impress someone—hell, sometimes she wonders if Carmen thrives on pretending like he doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks—so it’s sends her head spinning as she tries to reckon with this newly-revealed side of her business partner.

“That means a lot. Thank you–the both of you,” The Restaurateur replies, genuinely, bringing her back into the conversation.

“Sure,” Sydney manages to get out, still caught up in her head—exploring this new side of Carmy she has yet to see. “Anything for a friend of Carmy’s.”

“I’m at Amaru most of the time these days,” the restaurateur continues, his eyes shifting from Carmy then back to Sydney as he adds one last thing.

“You should stop by sometime.”

They exchange a few texts here and there, but it’s all business.

Who’s your preferred vendor for kitchen towels?

You guys see success with extended weekend hours?

Thoughts on being open on Monday?

“He likes you,” The Pastry Chef insists one day, in between lunch and dinner service. Sydney quickly shoves her phone back into her apron pocket, as if she’s a kid again—one who’s gotten caught texting in class.

“What? He does not! I-. This is-, it’s not-, we are two professionals… talking shop,” Sydney dismisses, because it’s easier to push those thoughts aside than to entertain them.

“Syd. He could be texting Carm but he’s texting you,” the her friend continues, completely and utterly unconvinced. Sydney finds herself on the receiving end that says, ‘cut the bullshit’ as The Pastry Chef continues.

“Even if it is… just about work, I think it says something that he’s texting you, Syd. I mean, do you know how long it took me and Carmy to-.”

“Okay, but not all of us are you and Carmy!” Sydney interjects, letting out an uncomfortable laugh as a means to break the tension.

Off her look, her friend just chuckles with a shake of her head, reminded of a time that she too could live this far in denial.

“If you say so,” The Pastry Chef resigns herself, accepting that she won’t make much progress on this one today.

She waits a beat, focused on cleaning up her station as Syd unconsciously checks her phone to see if there’s a notification from a certain someone yet.

“When are we going? To his restaurant, I mean,” The Pastry Chef speaks up again with a quirked eyebrow.

Could she really have noticed that? Syd wonders.

This time, Sydney only groans in response with a mumbled, “Fuck off. I am sick of you,” earning a bigger laugh this time from her pastry chef friend.

But the conversation seems to be the push she needs. It only takes a week or so longer for their days off to align, and Sydney’s the one bringing up the idea: that they should do a happy hour at Amaru to “show support” (and nothing else — really, no ulterior motives at all).

The Pastry Chef is more than enthusiastic about the idea, easily suggesting that they make it a girls’ night.

Which is how Sydney finds herself here, seated between her two biggest cheerleaders, Sugar one side of her, and her pastry-chef-colleague-turned best friend, at the bar of the Pan-Latin American neighborhood spot. She’s sure that Sugar was recruited for said girls’ night, in an attempt to get a second opinion on whether the handsome, older restaurateur is or is not in fact, into her.

She doesn’t hate the idea of it, for the record, but she wonders if they’re reading this all wrong—hesitant to get her hopes up.

But after the first plate—a gift from the kitchen—and the aperitif sent their way, both on the house, Sydney can only assume that The Restaurateur has something to do with it.

Of course, it’s easy to chalk it up to good hospitality. After all, hadn’t they done the same when he visited The Bear, a few things on the house Carmy insisted they send out? Isn’t it customary?

Sydney thinks back to how easily Carmy had given her number to the older chef, eager to extend as much support as possible to his previous mentor as he transitioned into the Chicago market.

But he wasn’t texting Carmy all that much. Just her.

She tries not to brush off yet another excuse: because she’s the CDC, not Carmy; because maybe he thinks Carmy, as the exec chef, doesn’t have the time when she does. Syd thinks she could go on and on like this, and instead, for a split second, she allows herself to think that maybe, just maybe, it’s because her friends aren’t all that wrong about this.

“You’ll have to forgive me. I wanted to come say hello earlier, but. Well, you know how it goes,” The Restaurateur says, earning the attention of all three women. While he acknowledges both of her friends warmly, he makes sure to he’s look at Sydney as he concludes with:

“I’m glad you came.”

“Oh, yeah. Thank you for everything. Seriously. Everything’s been amazing,” Sydney answers, wondering why it suddenly feels five degrees warmer inside of the restaurant.

Sugar snickers and the knowing look shared between her and The Pastry Chef doesn’t go unnoticed.

She just might have to kill her best friends later for this.

The Restaurateur smiles, and with a polite nod of his head, mutters a ‘thank you’ before her friends chime in with compliments, kudos, and their own respective ‘thank yous’ for the superb hospitality. Syd listens as he picks The Pastry Chef’s brain on their newest dessert addition, while Sugar enjoys what feels like a well-deserved second margarita. As The Restaurateur explains the most recent dishes he’s added to the menu since taking over as CDC, she notices that somehow, his focus and attention always seem to return to her.

He can’t visit for long, The Restaurateur apologizes—it is a busy night of service—and before she knows it, he bids his goodbyes before disappearing to the back of the house for the rest of the evening.

“Well he definitely likes you,” The Pastry Chef declares, as soon as he’s out of earshot.

“Oh. So obvious,” Sugar adds with a knowing smirk as the two exchange the exact same glance from earlier

“I’m gonna kill you guys,” Sydney mutters, her head hanging low as she feels a heat rush to her cheeks. She can’t make eye contact with either of them—not right now—or she might just burst into flames.

“Well, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you! That’s for sure,” Sugar clarifies, earning a nod of agreement from The Pastry Chef.

“See! This is what I’ve been telling her since… shit, since he came to The Bear a few weeks ago!” the pastry chef exclaims, sharing another looking with Sugar. “I think he likes you and I think you like him.”

Sydney opens her mouth to say something, but instead, just lets out an exasperated sigh, earning another round of giggles and exclamations of ‘I knew it!’ from her best friends.

They don’t stay for much longer, knowing they’re all due back at the restaurant in the morning. The three women say their goodbyes before parting ways, and as Sydney sits on the train, on the way home with her phone on do not disturb, she notices a few notifications waiting to be read.

A text from Carmy about the prep list.

The pics from tonight waiting for her to open in the group message labeled: Girlies.

And then, from the Restaurateur…

Thanks for bringing friends! It was great to see you.

There’s a familiar heat that warms her cheeks as her fingers race to reply:

Thank you for everything. The meal was incredible.

She waits before adding:

I’m glad we stopped by.

And almost instantly, there’s a reply:

Come back any time. :) With or without friends.

Come back any time. With or without friends.

The words linger in her head over the next few days. She lets them settle in, tossing them back and forth in her mind, while holding what feels like a fragile kind of excitement in her hands that’s somehow seemed to have buried itself deep inside of her.

So he is flirting with you, she thinks to herself, coming to the conclusion that her friends were perhaps right about The Restaurateur.

She doesn’t want to completely misread the situation, but she’s not sure how else she should interpret it either.

It takes Sydney two more weeks to work up the courage to go back to Amaru on her day off that week. Part of her wonders whether it’s been too long—if she’s missed her chance—and part of her knows that in the business they’re in, the days blur together, and two days become two weeks, become two months, and that he probably hasn’t even noticed that’s been that long. Her and The Restaurateur are both on Kitchen Standard Time, right? She’s not sure what takes over her, but she’s somehow mustered up the cajones (she can practically hear Tina’s voice in her head as she hypes herself up) to show up, this time, without friends.

Her risk does not go unrewarded, when he comes out to say hello. This time, he’s not alone, introducing her to his soon-to-be-business partner, Chef Cuadros, the owner of Amaru and his other venture, Bloom. They exchange pleasantries and congratulations (you know, over the huge fucking deal of an award she’s just recently won) before he pats The Restaurteur on the back, excusing himself back to the kitchen.

The Restaurateur chuckles, noting how much he’s looking forward to joining Cuadros’ restaurant group.

“Rodolfo’s a great guy,” The Restaurateur sighs, contently.

“Yeah, he seems great,” Sydney agrees, almost just to be polite.

“Yeah. Really leads by example. Rare to find that in this industry,” he chuckles, before changing the subject.

“Speaking of. Cuadros is closing up tonight which means I’m off, starting now.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You wanna get a drink?”

She doesn’t even have to think about it.

“Yeah. I uh-, I’m in.”

“It’s devastating!” The Restaurateur declares, the passion evident as the words escape his lips.

“I mean, the transitions are a little choppy. And even they can’t take away the fact that: It. Absolutely. Without a doubt. 100% ruined my life,” Sydney wholeheartedly agrees, completely captivated this conversation—one that she finds incredibly sexy.

“I cry. Every single time,” the man that sits across from her says, a dopey smile plastered to his face and a heat to his cheeks from the second whiskey on the rocks he’s nursing.

“Every single time!” Sydney emphasizes, just to drive the point home.

“Because, well-, I mean, they just can’t catch a break! Always just a moment too late. It’s like… well, it’s like they’re never supposed to end up together in the first place,” The Restaurateur clarifies, in reference to what about the film is so goddamn devastating.

Syd nods with a sigh, examining the idea in her head cautiously, knowing that he’s right—even if she doesn’t want him to be.

A beat.

She leans in, the corners of her lips beginning to turn up into a smile.

“Have you seen Chungking Express?” she asks, because she’s ready to start this whole thing over again.

“Have I seen-? Are you-, of course I’ve seen Chungking Express,” the Restaurateur answers, building on their shared excitement about finding common ground outside of the kitchen. “I love Wong Kar-Wai so much I even put myself through My Blueberry Nights.”

“Okay, chill. It’s not a competition,” Sydney jokes, earning a full bellied laugh from The Restaurateur.

“You’re funny,” he states, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles back at her.

Her heart skips a beat, her breath caught in her throat.

The way he says it is genuine. It’s real. It feels… more earnest—more intimate than what should exist between two colleagues.

Then again, she didn’t exactly say ‘yes’ to drinks thinking it was just as colleagues.

“I-,” Sydney hesitates, scrambling to find the right words when it feels like so many of them could burst out of her at any minute.

Instead she settles on, “Thanks,” feeling more like Carmy than she’s ever felt in her life.

There it is again—that flutter in her belly.

This man is most definitely flirting with her, a thought that only mildly causes her to panic.

The moment feels almost too tender for either of them. Sydney shifts nervously in her seat while The Restaurateur takes another sip of his whiskey, before clearing his throat.

“I uh. I should probably get going. It’s uh… yeah. It’s getting late,” Sydney says, finding the words to excuse herself.

She’s not sure what she wants out of this—it’s maybe why she takes the out in the first place, thinking it may be best to end the evening here. Tonight was… more than she expected it to be, and she’s torn between wanting to stay and wanting to flee the great state of Illinois.

Better pause while we’re ahead, Sydney thinks.

“Yeah, no, of course,” The Restaurateur agrees, easily, before insisting that he pick up the tab.

“No, I-, I couldn’t let you-,” Sydney begins to argue.

“Please,” he insists, his tone once again rendering her once again at a loss for words. “You’ve been more than helpful to us over at Amaru since the minute I got here. This is on me.”

Syd spends the next few days going back and forth over whether or not it—whatever the hell the other night was—would be a good idea. She eventually concludes that she can’t stay away—from the high, from the way he made her feel when he insisted on paying the bill (a moment she’s replayed in her head over and over again), from him. She doesn’t tell anyone: not Nat, not The Pastry Chef, and certainly, not Carmy.

She sends the text before she can chicken out one Saturday night, as she finishes closing up.

Heading to Green Door Tavern for a night cap.

He puts her out of her misery, quick to respond as always, almost as if he was expecting her to (or waiting for her to, which, she decides is a little too much of wishful thinking).

I was just thinking about you! Just rewatched 2046 the other night. Want some company?

Yeah.

Let me close up. I’ll let you know when I’m on the way :)

The smiley face.

The fucking smiley face.

She discovers that the same dopey smile finds its way across his lips as soon as he enters the bar. The two of them quickly find themselves in yet another deep conversation about foreign films over, for him, a whiskey on the rocks, and for her, a tequila soda. There’s that same buzzing in the air between the two of them—chemistry, one might call it—as they move from Wong Kar-Wait to Jean-Pierre Jeunet with an ease that feels good to her.

Really good, actually.

So good that as soon as Sydney realizes it’s getting late, she doesn’t run in the other direction. She’s not sure what she’s expecting, but she thinks this time, she could stay. This time, she could talk to him till the sun came up, allowing herself to get lost in his soft brown eyes she finds more comforting than she should. It’s not till he brings it up that she notices again that:

“It’s getting late.”

“Oh shit. Yeah,” Sydney agrees, reluctantly, because she doesn’t want this night to end. Before she can say anything else, her body moves to get up, just half an hour away from last call.

The Restaurateur stops her, reaching out a hand that feels warm against hers as she pauses, her eyes locked with his.

“I hope it’s not uh, well, I hope it’s not inappropriate of me,” he begins, clearing his throat as he pauses.

“No, I-, I don’t want the night to-, you know… I lost track of time too and I-,” she stammers through, unsure of what she wants to say.

He smiles warmly, his hand moving to grab hers, as if, in spite of the fact that she can barely get the words out, he understands exactly what she’s trying to say.

“You can say ‘no,’” he prefaces with, a sure nod as his gaze returns to hers.

“Can I take you home?”

And the only response that makes sense to her is the biggest, most enthusiastic:

“Yes.”

Maybe it’s just a one time thing.

Okay, a three-time thing, considering it happened that night, then two more times after the sun came up.

But to Sydney’s surprise (and delight) he texts her later that day, and the one (three) time thing becomes a one to three times a week kind of thing (schedules permitting, of course).

They fall into a rhythm—and she likes this rhythm—they cook, work at their separate restaurants, and then she lets him fuck her into his mattress like they didn’t just work their own respective twelve-hours shifts.

The Pastry Chef lets out a laugh, noticing that it’s the third day in a row that Syd’s come in having ‘not gotten enough sleep’ yet still glowing.

“How’s the sex?” she smirks, shooting Sydney a look.

In return, Syd rolls her eyes, like she isn’t getting laid on the regular, her best friend waiting patiently for a proper answer.

She checks over both shoulders to ensure no one else is listening before lowering her voice.

“It’s the best sex of my life.”

She finally moves into her own apartment a month later.

Of course, it’s a decision she’s made on her own volition and has nothing to do with the hot Restaurateur who seems like he might have some kind of staying power—the same one that’s giving her the big bang of orgasms, but that’s besides the point.

No, it most certainly has nothing to do with that.

With Chef Cuadros officially out on paternity leave, The Restaurateur somehow still manages to find the time to help her move in between running two restaurants while developing the concept for a third.

It’s the first night he spends the night and they sleep—just sleep—since she started seeing him, though they christen the place in the morning.

“We’ve been talking about a full nixtamalization program. For the new spot,” The Restaurateur explains over breakfast tacos one morning—ones he made for her in her new apartment because, of course, they had to christen the place in more ways than one.

“Shit. That’d be dope,” Sydney replies, as they continue to bounce ideas back and forth. “Do you think you could pull it off in that small of a space?”

“I’m so glad you asked!” The Restaurateur grins, before going into a near-monologue about the handful of creative solutions he’s come up with, eager to soundboard a few ideas off of her.

But Sydney finds herself a little distracted.

It’s not that she’s not listening… but she’s got something else on the tip of her tongue that she’s been holding back. The Restaurateur is in the middle of breaking down the logistics, contemplating whether or not they could pull off what he’s labeled, Idea B, when Sydney finally musters up the courage to blurt out:

“I want to cook something for you. Like not in a restaurant, or anything. I mean. Here. I want to cook something for you here.”

“Yeah?”

A beat.

“Yeah, I mean. It doesn’t have to be like-, I don’t know, this big thing or anything. But. You’re always cooking for me,” she explains, unsure of why she feels so nervous as she continues. “I kinda want to return the favor.”

He only smiles.

“Then it’s a date.”

It started as the best sex of her life, but it’s as if he’s carved out a place in her life without her noticing, seamlessly woven himself into her life, and she, his, in a way that she can’t imagine what it was like before.

It simultaneously excites her and makes her feel uneasy.

Fuck.

She doesn’t really even know what she should call ‘it’ anyway.

They haven’t really talked about it—haven’t given it a label—but with shifts at The Bear for her, running two restaurants for him, and fleeting nights spent at each others’ places before it was time to do it all over again, it’s not like they’ve had the time.

She finds herself in late Fall, almost Winter, all dressed with a newly-done silk press at yet another James Beard fundraiser. Her coat was checked in long ago as she bares her shoulders in the near-off the shoulder, gingham-printed dress, with The Restaurateur by her side. He wears thick-framed glasses, his white-collared shirt unbuttoned low enough that she’s more than ready to head back to her place to undo the rest.

It practically gives her deja vu—the two finding themselves in an all-too-familiar place—as they stand across from Carmy and The Pastry Chef, sipping on their fancy champagne and making small talk to the best of anyone’s ability.

“Hope you guys don’t mind. Can we get a few pictures?” the event photographer asks as he approaches, noting that a picture of this year’s Rising Star award recipient is a must on his shot list.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Sydney replies, a kindness in her voice even through her discomfort.

It’s not lost on her that Carmy’s more than relieved that he doesn’t have to be in the spotlight anymore, eager to step out of the way.

She poses for a few photos solo before both Carmy and The Pastry Chef are encouraged to join in, taking a few more shots with her.

“And then can we get one of the two of you?” the photographer asks, this time gesturing towards The Restaurateur.

Sydney opens her mouth to protest, to let him off the hook, because what would that mean? Before she can say anything, The Restaurateur has happily agreed, wrapping an arm around her, his hand on the small of her back.

She exchanges a look with him, something that says, ‘are you sure?’

He only nods in response, a supportive smile and a softness in his eyes that puts her at ease as if to say, ‘of course.’

Instinctively, she reaches for him, his right hand landing softly against his midsection. She feels the warmth of his palm as his hand slides up, landing somewhere above her wrist, making another point of contact. Well, now they certainly look like a couple.

“Great! That’s great, you two,” the photographer grins after taking a few more shots, his eyes fixed to the screen on his DSLR as he plays back the last few photos. “Thanks so much.”

What could this mean?

What could this be?

She doesn’t have all the answers.

Not yet, at least.

But she’ll take a wild guess—one that fills her with a certainty that she can feel in her bones.

Because tonight, he stood proudly by her side—his hands all over her as if she were his, in a photo she’s sure will make it out of Adobe Photoshop—meaning maybe, just maybe, The Restaurateur could be here to stay.

#nolita fairytale's masterlist #sydney the bear #sydney adamu #sydney is the main character #sydney adamu x oc #sydney x male oc #sydney adamu fanfiction #the bear #the bear fx #the bear hulu #the bear fanfiction #ayo edebiri #pedro pascal

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thegatesofsilverandbone · 15 days

Text

Claire and Jess sat together on the rooftop of Claire’s apartment, the distant sounds of the city below mingling with the crisp night air. The sky above was a canvas of dark velvet, speckled with stars and alive with the promise of a meteor shower. They had both come here to escape the chaos of their lives, venting over cheap wine about their endless string of disappointing dates.

“I swear, I’m done with dating apps,” Claire groaned, tipping back her glass. “Every guy is either a total jerk or just so...boring. Why can’t I find someone who actually makes me feel something?”

Jess sighed, resting her head on her friend’s shoulder. “Right? I just want someone who’s confident and strong, but not a total jerk. Someone who’s got that rugged, masculine vibe but knows how to be sweet, too.”

A bright streak of light cut across the sky, the first of many meteors. Jess pointed, her face lighting up with excitement. “Quick, make a wish!”

Claire closed her eyes, feeling a playful thrill in the moment. “I wish for the perfect guy,” she said softly, her mind drifting as she pictured him. “Someone who’s tough but gentle. A guy who looks like he could fix a car or chop wood, but also wouldn’t mind just hanging out and having fun.”

As she spoke, Claire felt a strange warmth ripple through her body, like an invisible thread tugging at her core. She shifted uncomfortably, dismissing the sensation as nerves or maybe the wine. But as she continued describing her perfect man, the feeling intensified, spreading through her limbs and tugging at her very form.

Jess noticed Claire’s distracted expression. “Are you okay?”

Claire tried to respond, but her voice caught in her throat. She looked down at her hands, watching as her delicate fingers thickened, her nails shortening and hardening. Her palms roughened, the skin callousing as her hands grew broader, more capable. Claire’s arms swelled, her biceps rounding into defined muscles, and a dusting of dark hair began to sprout along her forearms.

She gasped, her voice dropping to a husky, masculine tone that made her flinch. “Jess, what’s—”

But Claire wasn’t the only one changing. As she looked up, she saw that Jess was beginning to transform, too. Jess clutched at her chest, feeling it flatten and harden, the softness of her body replaced by lean, powerful muscle. Her shoulders broadened, straining her shirt as they expanded with new, masculine strength. Jess’s long hair receded, reshaping into a tousled, rugged style that framed her quickly sharpening features.

Jess’s face shifted dramatically; her cheekbones rose, and her jaw squared, giving her a rugged, handsome look. A shadow of stubble crept across her cheeks, thickening into a full, well-groomed beard as her voice deepened into a rich baritone. She stared at her reflection in the window behind Claire, watching as her eyes became more piercing, filled with a playful glint that hadn’t been there before.

“Oh my god, Claire,” Jess—now James—rumbled, touching his new face with wonder. His fingers traced the thick beard, the sensation both foreign and thrilling. His neck thickened, and his chest sprouted dense hair, his torso now powerful and broad. As James shifted, his jeans tightened over muscular legs, his thighs stretching the fabric with every movement.

Claire, struggling with her own transformation, felt her waist thicken, and her hips lost their curves. Her body expanded, filling out into a strong, masculine form. The wine glass slipped from her fingers as they grew rougher, calloused from an imagined lifetime of hard work. Tattoos inked themselves onto her forearms, winding up her biceps in intricate designs, as though they’d always been there. Claire’s chest, now solid with muscle, sprouted a mat of dark hair that continued up to meet the scruffy beard taking over her face.

The changes continued relentlessly. Claire’s clothes morphed to fit her new, rugged frame—her shirt stretching to accommodate her broad shoulders, while her jeans hugged her muscular thighs. Her voice, now low and confident, rumbled as she spoke, filled with a playful charm that hadn’t been there moments ago.

James watched as Claire—now Ben—shifted further, his features becoming a perfect match for the ideal partner James had described moments earlier. Ben’s hair shortened, tousling into a casually messy look that screamed effortless confidence. His stubbled jawline framed a face that was both strong and approachable, the kind of guy you’d trust in a crisis but could also laugh with over a beer.

Ben felt his memories and personality reshaping with each physical change. He was no longer the indecisive and often unsure Claire. Now, he was Ben, a confident, laid-back guy who knew exactly who he was. His posture relaxed into a natural slouch, one arm resting on his knee as he looked at James with a grin, their connection deepening into something that felt familiar and right.

James ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, feeling the weight of his beard and the powerful muscles that defined his body. His chest heaved with each breath, broad and covered in a luxurious spread of hair. Every detail, every inch of his body, was exactly what Claire had wished for, down to the slight curl of his beard and the twinkle in his eyes.

The rooftop was no longer just a place of venting and wishes—it was their shared world, a space they had always claimed as theirs. In this new reality, Ben and James were partners in every sense of the word. They had been through everything together, from lazy mornings wrapped in each other’s arms to adventurous weekends that defined their bond.

Ben leaned back, his tattooed arm resting on the back of the rooftop couch. He smirked, the mischievous energy in his gaze now unmistakably his own. “I can’t believe how lucky I am. Who knew a few falling stars could make dreams come true?”

James chuckled, his deep voice resonating with warmth and affection. “Well, I wished for someone perfect, and I guess the universe delivered.”

As the meteors continued to light up the sky, neither Ben nor James felt the need to wish again. They had already found everything they’d been searching for in each other—a perfect reflection of what they had once only dreamed of. The transformation was complete, and so was their story, two hearts now perfectly matched under the vast, starry sky.

#transformation #ai art

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