#I got a new pen as a graduation gift!!

[bigbrainbiology]

Hanfu Mitsuba's here to announce that Sizz has got a new appy pen! <3

[perseephoneee]

I would love to see secret santa with isaac lahey for ficmas!

secret santa (isaac lahey x f!reader) ficmas 2023

꒰ ࿁ ˙ ˖ ໑ happy day 4 of ficmas!

a/n: my special special boy isaac for the holiday season. dedicated to @mayfieldss for being my wifey.

↳ masterlist  ↳ ship exchange ↳ join my taglist ↳ ficmas 2023

“How did you convince Derek to let you host a Christmas party at his loft?” you questioned, laying on Stiles’ bed as you crocheted. Stiles spun around in his desk chair and occasionally put more red string on his “murder board.” 

“Because of my charm,” Stiles turned towards you, clicking a pen in one of his hands. You paused your crochet project to look at him with exasperation. “Okay, fine; I promised to leave him alone for a month and clean his car.”

“That sounds more accurate,” you chuckled, resuming your project. You let out a huff of annoyance as Stiles threw a paper ball at your head. “Why is this so important to you?”

“I thought you liked Christmas.”

“I love Christmas; I want to know what has got you in the overt Christmas spirit this year,” you asked pointedly. You started another row as Stiles let out a short breath. 

“We’re all graduating, and I’m worried that we’ll never spend another holiday together again,” Stiles admitted, scooting his chair back to slap a new magnet on his board. You dropped your project, scooting to the end of the bed so you could look at Stiles. He refused to make eye contact. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you sighed, touching Stiles’ shoulder. “Even being friends with you couldn’t get me to leave this place behind.” Stiles smiled, covering his hand with your own. You knew Stiles was nervous that we would all go our separate ways and never speak again, especially with him attending the FBI academy in the fall. Even the people you knew Stiles would pretend not to miss (Liam, Isaac, etc.), as his friend, you were fully aware he would miss everyone. 

“Y/N…thanks for always being my friend,” Stiles sniffled. You jumped off the bed to hug him, Stiles laughing as you almost tackled him. 

“You’re my best friend, buddy boy– you can’t ditch me,” you collapsed on the ground at Stiles’ feet, a smile covering your face. “Now, what must we do to prepare for this party?”

“Well, Lydia has got most of it covered. I did manage to convince her to do one thing, though, as a gift for you,” Stiles held his hands in front of him like a movie villain, and you started to get very suspicious. You got back up on the bed, curling your legs into yourself as Stiles gave himself a drum roll. “I got Isaac to be your Secret Santa.”

“You what?” you screeched, eyes growing wide.

“Look, even though I think Isaac is the worst, I know you’ve had a crush on him for years. This is why he will be giving you a gift this year.”

“That’s not very secret.”

“I’m also setting up mistletoe all over the loft. There will be other casualties to my mistletoe plan, but I will happily sacrifice that for your happiness.”

“I…have no words,” you gulped. You liked Isaac since you first saw him, even before he became a wolf. And then he joined your pack, everyone started hanging out together, and your crush grew stronger. You jumped at the opportunity every time you got to do stakeouts or other missions with just Isaac. You didn’t believe that he liked you back, though. You were human, a lot quieter than the other pack members, and also prone to word vomit when feelings of awkwardness arose. 

“This way, you’ll have something he got specifically for you.”

“Unless he gives me a gag gift because he doesn’t care.”

“If he does that, then he’s not worth your time. I’m saying that as your friend with the knowledge that you are a great person,” Stiles grins. He turns back to his laptop, feet propped up on the corner of the table and fidget spinner in his other hand. You had a slight smile as you returned to your project, and that smile didn’t leave your face as you spent the rest of the night with Stiles. 

The party happened a week later. You, Kira, and Mason had spent time getting a bunch of decorations to make it look more festive and then left Lydia to boss Parrish around on where to put things up. Lydia had a vision; none of you dared ruin it. It gave you time to go home and get ready anyway. You dressed in a simple burgundy sweater with jeans and boots but bothered putting on more makeup than usual. You even clipped your hair back with some star clips you found in the back of your drawer. When you returned to the loft, your jaw almost dropped with how pretty it looked. Twinkly lights and tinsel covered the available surface area, and a tree was in the back with presents already stacked. There was a table with all the amuse bouches one could wish for, and the scent of cranberries and oranges filled the room. 

“Happy holidays, Y/N,” Peter said from right next to you, giving you a minor heart attack.

“Someone invited you?” you exclaimed, earning an eye roll from Peter. 

“I’ve been tasked with taking coats,” he sighed, already bored. You handed him your jacket and quickly left, not interested in being another meal. Malia was by the dining table eating all the different meats and cheeses. 

“Merry Christmas, Malia,” you said, grabbing an olive and popping it in your mouth. 

“Who knew food could be so fancy?” Malia mumbled, not taking a breather before eating more. She looked like a kid at a candy store, and it made you laugh. 

“Food is still food, just prepared differently,” you responded. You watched in slight admiration as she chugged a glass of champagne before eating half a block of cheese. You wished for her metabolism so you could eat so openly. 

“I like the pigs in a blanket the best,” a voice said behind you. You turned around and felt your heart catch as you saw Isaac, a slight grin on his face. He was dressed in a blue henley, and the lights reflected brilliantly off his eyes. “Although, I’m more a fan of the blanket.” He proceeded to suck off the bread part of the pig in a blanket, leaving you with a confused expression. 

“Did you seriously just suck the bread off?”

“I said I was more a fan of the blanket,” Isaac answered, finishing the rest of his snack with an expression that read duh. Before you could react to whatever that was, you were handed a holiday cracker by Lydia, who was running around and gifting them out. These were wrapped in a green and gold floral print and tied with red ribbon. You held your cracker to Isaac, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He took the other end of the cracker, and you both pulled, the contents exploding from inside. You happily picked up your kazoo and paper crown before helping Isaac open his Christmas cracker. You traded your kazoo for his deck of cards before putting your crowns on. 

“Let me help,” Isaac said, positioning the paper crown on your head at the perfect angle. His fingers brushed down your hair as he stepped back, and you felt a blush coat your cheeks before you could stop it. “Look, now you’re a king.”

“Not a queen? Or a princess?” you asked cheekily. 

“Pretty sure you could be whomever you want,” Isaac replied, hands in his pockets as he looked down awkwardly. For a boy who wasn’t always the best with words and frequently struggled to pick up social cues, he somehow managed to find a way to flatter you. Before you could respond, Stiles clinked his glass to alert everyone to Secret Santa starting. You found a spot on one of the couches, curling up into the corner. Malia sat beside you, offering you a candy cane she stole from somewhere. 

“Thank you guys for bothering to show up today,” Stiles started, fingers anxiously tapping the side of his glass. “I’m happy to be included in this group of people, and…I don’t intend to lose you guys even when we graduate.”

It was one of the more severe things Stiles had ever said, and you could tell that it took a lot of willpower not to break into a joke. Everyone clapped and yelled kind things, though, and you knew it relieved some pressure from Stiles’ chest. 

“Alright, let's start this party as we trash Derek’s loft!” Stiles clapped as Derek glared from the back. “Chill out, big guy; I was kidding.”

You had to give your friends credit; they put together some perfect gifts this year. You were excited as you had Kira the crochet fingerless gloves you had made in pink and black yarn. 

“It has a mitten cover that you can button back,” you explained as Kira excitedly put them on and cooed over how soft the fabric was. Liam did try to steal them at one point before you promised to make him a pair. 

You were shoving a cookie in your mouth when Lydia announced that it was your turn to receive your gift. Avoiding Isaac’s gaze, you watched as Lydia brought over a small box wrapped in brown paper with a silky ribbon. You anxiously untied it, carefully peeling the paper away. You were greeted with an emerald green velvet case that you opened with a small gasp. Inside was a simple silver chain with three different charms on it. One of the charms was the Celtic ruin for protection, another a car with a Christmas tree on top, and finally a coffee pot. 

“I think I remembered that your family uses that sign for protection all over your home,” Isaac mumbled, a flush coating his cheeks as you finally looked up at him. “And the car is for when we were sent to get the Christmas tree, and you argued with the seller for trying to overcharge us. And the coffee pot is because of how you complain about needing coffee every time we hang out.”

You could feel your eyes tearing up as you looked at the thoughtful gift. Not only was it perfect, but Isaac gave it to you and put a lot of thought into it. You sat up, enveloping him in a hug that caught him off guard. Your face was buried in his shoulder as you inhaled the sweet vanilla scent that seemed to follow him. He tentatively hugged you back, bringing you in even closer. 

“Isaac,” you sniffled, pulling away. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

The smile that covered his face was infectious, and you knew that if you sat there any longer, you would combust into giggles and likely start screaming (something Stiles has witnessed you do whenever Isaac would do something personal and pleasant for you). You excused yourself, exiting to the kitchen to get some water. As you poured yourself a glass, you also went to the hot cocoa bar and stole a snowflake marshmallow to nibble on. 

“Are you okay?” you hear Isaac ask in the doorway. You turn to face him, softening at the look of concern coating his features. 

“I’m fine,” you reassure. “It was just a perfect gift; I didn’t want to get too emotional.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Isaac whispered, looking down at an invisible spot on the floor. “I wanted to get you something that showed I cared.”

“I know you care,” you smiled, leaning against the counter. 

“I mean, like how I care about you,” Isaac breathed, slightly shaky. You furrowed your brows as your brain struggled to catch up. Isaac looked at you, waiting for realization to set in. When it finally did, your eyes widened to the size of saucers, and if the counter didn’t support you, you would’ve passed out. Instead of saying something, you glanced at the kitchen doorway's opening where Isaac was standing. 

“Mistletoe,” you whispered. 

“Huh?” Isaac looked confused, glancing around before finally glancing up. Conjuring courage you didn’t always have, you stepped right up to him and pulled him down for a kiss right under the mistletoe. He made a noise of surprise before finally placing his hands on your waist and kissing you back. 

“Happy holidays, Isaac,” you smiled, pulling away and looking up at him from under your lashes. His hand cradled your cheek before kissing you again, this time with the confidence of a boy who found his footing. You melted into his embrace, arms wrapping behind his neck and burying in his hair. One of his hands held the small of your back while he preserved your jaw, deepening the kiss. You let out a happy sigh as you let Isaac kiss the living daylights out of you as you thought to yourself:

This is the best Secret Santa ever.

[smalls-words]

Old Friends

Summary: Reunions aren’t always happy.

Pairings: ScarletWidow x GN!Stark!Reader

Genre: Fluff and Angst

Warnings: Bullying, panic attacks, high school (of course that’s a warning), mentions of disordered eating.

Requested: YES/no

Words: 3,111

A/N: May 20th at 5pm, I will be closing my requests as I have some upcoming uni exams to study for. I will still be writing, but I’ll be writing on the side when I’m trying not to burn out from understanding the difference between alkenes and alkanes :’)

*not my gifs*

You sat at your chair in the meeting room with your girls opposite you, their paperwork going smoothly whilst you did some work for your parents - answering emails from workers, doing some calculations for your dad and some financing for your mom. 

“Y/N/N…” Wanda grinned at you, biting her bottom lip.

“Yes, Wanda?” You answered, not looking up from your screen.

“Have I told you how awesome you look today? I mean, Tasha’s training sessions with you have been showing through…” 

You looked at her for two seconds before you pushed your glasses up on your nose. “Thank you, baby, but I’m not doing your paperwork for you.” 

She let out an annoyed groan and sank into her chair, making you and Natasha chuckle whilst the redhead finished. 

“What?! How?!” Wanda complained as Natasha kicked her feet up on the table. 

“Simple - get it done.” 

“Tasha, boots.” You warned her and she stuck her tongue out at you, your head shaking. 

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. 

“Come on, Wanda, you’re just writing a recount of what you did on the mission.” You smiled softly, leaving your computer to the side for a moment. 

“What am I supposed to say? I threw a few wiggly woos around and got the info?” She grumbled sarcastically, making Natasha laugh but you didn’t.

Instead, you stood and moved around the table, picking the witch up before sitting in her chair and placing her on your lap. She giggled softly and you kissed her neck, watching Natasha lean on your shoulder before giving her a kiss too.

You watched Wanda write smoothly, her handwriting neat and bubbly whilst Natasha’s was swift. You tucked your hand underneath Wanda’s shirt and lightly tickled her stomach with your nails, making her squeal lightly at your cold fingers. 

Finally, after a page and a half of recounting, she clicked her pen and placed it on top, turning around in your lap to face you, straddling your legs with hers.

“Can I have a kiss?” She asked and you nodded, giving her one.

A loud ping from your laptop interrupted and Wanda turned it around to see the screen. You asked her to bring it towards you and hand you the mouse, which she did, and you clicked on the new email.

Across the screen in bold, bright letters read ‘Y/N Stark, you have been invited to the reunion of your high school class at Midtown High! Please RSVP no later than tomorrow night so numbers and tables can be organised. Plus ones are, of course, welcome! Drinks and dinner will be served and payment is at the door. Further details are at the RSVP link below!’.

“A high school reunion? What’s that?” Wanda asked, trying to put her arms into your sleeves even though yours were already in there. 

“It’s where people from your graduating year all gather to catch up and see what everyone is doing.” Natasha answered as she pulled Wanda off of you and onto her whilst grabbing a blanket. 

“Should I RSVP?” You questioned.

“I think so. It might be nice seeing all of your old friends.” Wanda smiled, nuzzling into Natasha’s warmth. 

You opened the website and filled in the form to RSVP, stating that you’d be bringing two plus ones before submitting it. You closed your laptop and looked over at your girls, smirking as Wanda was ‘annoying’ Natasha by taking most of the blanket. 

“Come here, softie.” You grinned, picking up the witch whilst the Widow followed behind you.

You went to the movie room and grabbed the extra big blanket your dad had gifted for your latest birthday before you lightly threw Wanda onto one of the couches, smirking as she squeaked. You landed next to her whilst Natasha ended up on the other side of her, giving herself enough blanket to keep warm. 

You shivered slightly and watched as Wanda’s magic surrounded you, tucking you in close to her whilst the blanket was moved to cut off all of the cold air around you. She kissed your cheek softly and you nuzzled into her, thriving with her warm Sokovian skin.

“You’re always warm. Both of you.” You mumbled as the movie began to play.

“We were born in Sokovia and Russia, Y/N.” Natasha smirked, leaning across Wanda to kiss you softly.

“I’m right here.” Wanda grumbled.

“Yeah, but you kissed them earlier.” Natasha shot back quickly, making Wanda grumble and sink towards you.

“Sulky baby.” You murmured, kissing underneath her eye softly.

“Tasha’s being a meanie.” Wanda whined and you snickered, holding Wanda closely.

“You can be my heater tonight, Wands. Tasha can have a turn tomorrow.”

She smiled against the skin of your neck and kissed it before you felt her breathing even out, holding her close as you fell asleep too. 

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After a few days, you received another email, showing the table groups, pricing and dress code for the reunion - it was a cocktail, and you knew your girls were going to try and steal the show. 

Now, the night of the party had come. FRIDAY had helped you design an outfit from your father’s nanites and you watched it crawl onto your body, a simple black suit with a white dress suit. 

You stood nervously by the door and waited for your girls. It was almost time to leave and they were giggling upstairs, no doubt a cause of Wanda’s antics that never failed to make you smile.

One thing you hadn’t told them was your past. 

Their’s, although more traumatic, were much more interesting than yours. Wanda had interacted with an Infinity Stone to get her powers, whilst Natasha had extensive training to get to where she was today. You? You got bullied, teased, absolutely annihilated because of your father and your intellect. 

It wasn’t your fault, you were just… smart. You got A’s on tests without even trying and your projects never failed to wow your teachers. You won the first place award in your science fair regularly whilst being in the band too. You remembered your bullies well, and although you were sure that they had probably left those antics in the past, it didn’t mean it hurt any less.

“Ahem.” 

Broken out of your thoughts, you looked up to see your girls standing at the top of the stairs. Wanda was in a dashing velvet-red suit with a white dress shirt underneath and her hair hanging off of her shoulders beautifully whilst Natasha wore a grey version of the suit, her hair tucked up into a bun.

Your jaw literally fell and they came down the stairs to kiss you softly, their makeup carefully constructed whilst a few hints of magic upon their lips didn’t smudge their handiwork.

“And… there.” Wanda closed your mouth and chuckled.

“You two are gonna be the death of me.” You muttered, getting into the back of the car whilst Natasha sat in the front and Wanda sat next to her.

The car ride was mostly silent, there wasn’t a need for conversation when it was just you three. Presence was all you needed, but you would have liked a distraction from the thoughts rambling in your head. 

What if your bullies were there tonight? Would you react badly? Would you ignore them? What if they tried to talk to you? You couldn’t be childish and just ignore them, that would be rude. But what if they were still like that? 

You were glad to have had the training against telepaths by Wanda as your thoughts were hidden behind that maze, making her unable to hear those daunting questions. Soon, you arrived, and rolling up in a Lamborghini Estoque was your first mistake. 

You stepped out and immediately saw multiple eyes on you, helping Wanda and Natasha out before you closed the doors and locked the car. With the both of them holding your hands, you led them to the entrance and paid the pricing for the three of you. 

“Alright, we do have some name tags for everyone just so that plus ones can mingle without the awkwardness of not knowing names.” The cashier smiled at you three before you walked in.

Immediately, you remembered what the gym used to look like. The updated benches around the basketball court were nothing like the dingy seats you used to have. The courts used to never be painted, now you could see they were being painted weekly.

“Wow! Honey, this is so cool!” Wanda smiled widely as she saw the decorations of blue and gold balloons, ribbons and whatnot. 

“Yeah, very cool.” You answered.

“Hey, are you okay? You seem off.” Natasha’s hand fell to the base of your back but you shook your head, putting on a smile.

“I’m okay.” 

She didn’t believe you, but Wanda was too distracted to help confirm her suspicion. So, she went along and met some of your old friends, glancing at the tables list to find where you would be sitting so she could put her stuff down.

“Babes, I’ll be back.” She spoke to you both as she made her way to your table, finding your labelled names.

She scanned the other places until she bumped into a man sitting down in one of them, jumping away as he chuckled loudly. 

“And who are you? Natasha… nice to meet you, beautiful. I’m Jack.” 

She already didn’t like him. 

“Hi Jack.” She smiled falsely, but he couldn’t tell the difference. 

“Who are you here with?” He asked her, sipping on his beer. 

“Y/N.” She stated, sitting in the empty chair next to him. 

“Pah! You came with them? Really? Didn’t think they’d make any friends after high school.” He shrugged.

“Oh really? Why’s that?” 

“They were just… weird, you know? Too smart for their own good, doing everything but sports.”

“Let me guess, you were the captain of the football team.” 

Jack raised an eyebrow as he eyed Natasha’s chest. “I see Y/N told you about me. Was that the only truth they told?” 

Her eyebrows furrowed. “My partner doesn’t lie to me.” 

“Doesn’t? Or are you too daft to notice?” He smirked, watching her stand and walk towards you.

“Who’s Jack to you?” She asked straight up, interrupting your conversation with an ex-band friend.

She didn’t miss the confused look in your eyes. “There’s a few Jack’s in my class, Tasha.”

She eyed the man at your table but didn’t see your cheeks get drained of colour, turning around too late to see the difference. “Him. Who is he?” 

“H-He’s… He’s, uh, he’s nobody.” You answered slowly, your mouth suddenly dry.

Jack Harlow. The classic dumb jock back when you were younger. You actually had a thing for him before you realised your sexuality and your senses, finding the whole asshole gig to be a serious red flag. 

Natasha noticed your dry mouth before you downed the soda can in your hand - you weren’t planning on following your father’s exact footsteps. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats so we can do memories and fun awards the staff and myself have come up with!” Your favourite teacher cheered.

You remembered your classes with her, how she would always call on you for questions she knew you could answer. Her classroom was your escape at breaks and your home away from home. You took your girls’ hands and led them to their chairs, with Wanda’s fascination peaking as she saw some of your old friends. 

Dinner was served and you thanked the waiter that gave you your meal, admiring it briefly before you began to eat it. You could feel Natasha’s leg tuck against yours and you got confused, following her eyes to see Jack smirking evilly at you.

“Don’t eat too quickly, Y/N. We all remember what you were like back in the day.” He snickered, blushing and alarmed looks coming your way.

“Shut up, Jack.” You grumbled, now picking at your food.

Now Natasha was fuming and Wanda was picking up on it. The witch placed a hand on your shoulder and you looked up at her, seeing a brief flicker of scarlet in her eyes.

*Don’t listen to him. Food is good, my love. Food is fuel for avenging, okay?* 

You nodded and thanked her mentally before you continued to eat, the gesture calming Natasha slightly. She placed her hand on your thigh and smiled when you looked at her, watching a blushing one form on your cheeks. 

*You look stunning tonight, detka (baby). I can’t wait until we get back home and have some cuddle time.* She muttered into your mind and your heart swelled at the mention of it.

*I look forward to it, Tasha.* 

“Alright, everyone, if I could have your attention please?” A woman you recognised as your valedictorian, Kelly, spoke and earned the attention of everyone quickly.

Except for your girls. 

“Now, we have a short video of photos, clips and memories we thought would be nice to share. Dennis, roll the clip!” 

You looked over at the tech station and saw Dennis, an old friend from one of your classes who was genuinely one of the sweetest men you’d met. The lights dimmed and the projection cast itself onto the lowering board, music beginning to play in the background.

Natasha and Wanda glanced at the screen every time you blushed as they knew it was a photo or video of you, but their eyes were on you the whole time. They saw through your little shield as the last photo came up, your eyes darting away whilst theirs turned to the screen. 

It was easily recognisable as Jack throwing flour onto your soaked body.

“Alright, now for the awards!” Kelly chirped into the microphone, starting to hand out awards for Best Dressed, Class Clown, and so on and so forth. 

Wanda looked at you as your eyes were squeezed tightly, fists doing the same. She knew it was what you did when you were blocking certain thoughts, thoughts that she hated. She put her hand on your shoulder and you instantly froze up, your chest tightening beyond control. You stood up quickly and began to walk towards the exit as breathing was getting harder and harder to do. 

“FRI… FRIDAY.” You muttered, gasping for air. 

“Suit forming.” She reported into your ear, your suit of maroon and black tickling over your skin. 

“FRIDAY, what’s… what’s happening to me?” You begged, a soft whine leaving you as you fell onto the sidewalk.

“Mx Stark, you are having a severe panic attack. I am alerting your emergency contacts.” 

Natasha was already after you, getting lost within the hallway until FRIDAY appeared on her phone and guided her to you. Wanda raced out, searching for you by mind, and landed in front of you in your suit. 

“Y/N/N, I need you to open the suit. Please, dorogoy (darling), open it.”

You tried, you really did, but you couldn’t get much out. 

“Manual override: Natalia Romanova, Alpha 4.” Natasha spoke next to you.

“Manual override accepted: Natalia Romanova.” 

“Open the mask, FRIDAY.” 

Their eyes met your wild ones, darting around as you tried to grasp onto something, anything. You heard two clunks until a blurry image of your father knelt in front of you, your mother by his side.

“Y/N/N, we need you to focus. What are five things you can hear?” Tony asked, but Natasha swiped him away lightly.

“That’s not gonna work on them. Y/N, I’m going to touch you now, okay?”

Your vision was starting to go black, but you nodded, trying desperately to focus on the voice. 

“Look at them! Still such a loser!” 

Jack wasn’t supposed to be that voice.

“How did you ever become an Avenger? What, with Daddy’s money? Pfft, and the fact that you’re not straight? What a weirdo. You should be glad you got bullied in high school, and I am forever privileged to be your bully.”

You saw a bright red glow to your right until you felt a pair of lips kissing yours. Your entire chest stopped for all of about five seconds before you felt them slip away, your eyes opening and focusing on the beautiful redhead in front of you.

“H-How’d you do that?” You muttered.

“I, uh… I read once that holding your breath could stop a panic attack. So, when I kissed you… you held your breath.” She explained, checking over you with every touch of her hands. 

“I did?”

“Yeah, you did, baby.” 

You kissed her again before she helped you stand, your super suit materialising back whilst your parents stood in theirs. You looked over as Wanda came back to you, kissing you fervently, and you smirked through the kiss.

“Was somebody worried about me?” You snickered and she lightly hit your shoulder.

“I will always worry about you.” She grumbled before you noticed the red still in her eyes.

You looked up and saw Jack held upside down by several tendrils, blood rushing to his face. You looked back at Wanda with a raised eyebrow and she sulked, bringing him back down again.

“You’re dating an Avenger?!” He screamed, the title bringing out almost everyone in the hall.

“No, Jackie boy, I’m dating two.” You smirked, feeling their arms lace around your waist before you shot into the air, not wanting to stay any longer.

⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖🜃🜂🜁🜄⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖⧖

As you returned to the compound, FRIDAY gave Tony a report on your health and he let you go after he read it. You went back to your room and heard the sound of zippers falling down whilst pyjamas were being pulled up, still staring at the mirror in the corner.

Two arms snaked around your stomach before a chin rested on your shoulder, the taller girlfriend smiling softly at you through the mirror. 

“Cuddle time?” Wanda asked sweetly and you nodded, pressing against the symbol on your chest so that your super suit could sink away and let you put your pyjamas on. 

You turned around and saw both of them waiting eagerly for you, shuffling around so that a gap was in-between them. You slid into it and sighed happily at the warmth they provided, snuggling up so that their bodies were pressed against yours.

“You know… I stole a glance at your award.” Natasha smirked.

“Oh yeah? What did our baby win?” Wanda asked before you could say that you didn’t care.

The Widow looked at you and you rolled your eyes, knowing what was gonna happen. However, her finger between your eyes, stroking down your nose, was not helping you stay awake. 

“Our hearts.”

[mari-writes]

I can’t stop thinking about canon Bokuto being from a rich family, and him absolutely spoiling Akaashi. Knowing that Akaashi got a scholarship to attend Fukurodani,  I think he’s probably from a lower-middle class family.

Imagine Bo insisting that he buy him onigri from the corner store near the school. Gifting him cute little things like keychains and ballpoint pens. When they finally start dating after Bo’s graduation, he starts buying Akaashi progressively fancier items—after all, now he’s making his own money, too! So he can spoil him all he wants!

“You don’t have to,” Akaashi always says. “I know.” Bokuto always replies. “But I want to.”

The first big gift is a leather-bound journal he’d seen Akaashi mooning over. It's got golden clasps. Perfectly pressed pages. But very pricey. Bokuto knows his boyfriend doesn’t like it when he offers to buy him things on the spot, so instead he goes back to the store alone the next day to purchase the journal, which he gifts to him a week later. 

When Akaashi expresses mild interest in having a t-shirt of Bokuto’s first professional volleyball team, he ends up with an entire new wardrobe, including hats and scarves and accessories.

Bokuto also buys him books. Lots and lots of books.

He stalks Akaashi’s online wishlist and not-so-subtly asks what new releases he’s looking forward to. One time, he shows up to Akaashi’s university dorm holding two new tote bags, decorated with cartoon owls, each of them full of books. 

When Akaashi graduates from university, Bokuto goes all-out. Akaashi stares down in shock at the gleaming silver watch on his wrist. It’s covered in crystals. It’s weight is unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable.

It’s exquisite. Akaashi feels like crying. “This is too much,” he swallows harshly.

Bokuto smiles. “Nothing is too much when it’s for you,” he says, and Akaashi can’t believe this ridiculous man.

But despite Bokuto spoiling his man rotten, giving him everything he even hints at wanting, he ends up being too late on the most important gift of their now decade-long relationship.

Because it's Akaashi who buys the rings.

Imagine Akaashi saving up his pennies, doing thorough research for years, maybe even since they first started dating, because he knew they were destined to be together forever.

He ends up purchasing a pair of silver rings—one of them with a jewel the color of Bokuto’s eyes, the other with one the color of his own. He keeps Bokuto's ring hidden for almost a year, psyching himself up for the big moment.

When he finally reveals them, with a life-changing question falling from his lips in a breathy whisper, Bokuto breaks out in happy tears.

All the things his boyfriend had bought him pale in comparison to the look in the man's eye right now.

Priceless, Akaashi thinks. Absolutely priceless.

//

This is so random lol. I'm seriously coming up with these short little things on the fly. I hope someday I can actually sit down and right a fic again.  Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed! Also, thanks to Temari on Twitter for giving me the idea of rich!Bokuto 😘

[very-grownup]

This seemed to resonate with some folks on the other social media site

Also now reading "Moira's Pen" (2022) by Megan Whalen Turner because I'm not taking "The Odyssey" into the bath to be dropped by my tiny hands.

You would think that a collection of short stories - although it's not really that (errata maybe) - published after the conclusion of an author's series would be full of answers to narrative gaps, things readers have always been curious about, elaborations from the ending.

So I'm absurdly pleased that Turner continues to answer basically no questions beyond "what is the age difference between two characters?" and "who is Gitta?" and instead has scattered dozens of new questions for the reader.

I might have further thoughts in terms of how this all fits with Turner's approach to series structure as a whole because I continue to find that fascinating. If I don't, though, cheers for more material confirming Relius as the least wholesome queer character. What a gift.

(The bookshelf photos are here as evidence that I have in fact read some books.)

I think it all comes back to Turner bucking the conventions of the genre demographic she's published under. I feel like "The Thief" was published, and what she endearing calls The Geniad was conceived, just before the rise of YA as a "distinct" genre. (Genre is fake and a construct of the publishing industry.) There have always been books of interest to older teens, but just as the idea of teenagers is a relatively recent as something separate from a child, so to is YA as something distinct from children's fiction. I think, in being a constructed marketing thing, there are rigid expectations about what a series is, what formulae make something a series, how they work for both authors and audience, and that those things won't change. A famous(ly hateful and mediocre) author was seen as doing something new in having characters /age/ and /increasing book length/ even though the former is just how a bildungsroman works and the later is 'lack of editing'.

What's thought of as a YA series has, I think, become an expectation of pressing and breaking up the bildungsroman into something structured with all the variety of an Enid Blyton or, more contemporaneously, Babysitter's Club, if that makes sense? You'll have the same characters, probably with one central character, the same point of view, facing an escalating series of the same sort of thing, whether it's demons or dark lords or relationship complications or levels of schooling, ultimately culminating in the Big Thing: Satan or fighting your arch nemesis or marriage or graduating into adult life beyond the structure of educational institutions. Am I making sense? I think I'm making sense, I may be stating the painfully obvious. I'm tired. For the reader there's growth within the narrative but the structure makes the reading experience an easy one, literally, because you're reading same-ish things. That's what makes series so marketable and readable!

But pre-YA-as-a-genre, amidst the Blytons you also got:

- Everyone's problematic fave religious allegory from C.S. Lewis!

- Cooper's Dark is Rising series, which started Famous Five-y in structure and ran towards Tolkien!

- L'Engle's scientific-religious weirdness with the Murray family!

- Any DWJ that publishers try to coral as 'series'!

- (Friend Jen added Diane Duane's Young Wizard series.)

Megan Whalen Turner feels special because the way she's written her series calls back to what authors like the previously mentioned were doing before an expectation of audience and genre pressed books into something that asked less of their audience.

It doesn't have to be much.

But the way I have seen people, especially younger readers, talk about experiencing the series, is evocative of someone being given a new food with their meal and balking because it isn't what they asked for, it isn't what they expected, do they even want this?

In "The Thief" our protagonist is Gen, first person point of view.

In "The Queen of Attolia" our protagonist is still Gen, but out secondary protagonist is also a primary antagonist, Attolia, third person point of view, alternately limited and omniscient.

In "The King of Attolia" our protagonist is Costis (who is this Costis guy?! I want Gen!), third person limited.

In "A Conspiracy of Kings" our protagonist is Sophos (and sure, we know Sophos, but where's Costis?! WHAT ABOUT GEN? THIS IS GEN'S SERIES!), first person but also third person.

In "Thick as Thieves" our protagonist is Kamet a mostly-background character from several books back (BUT SOPHOS! AND GEN! WE'VE HAD SO LITTLE GEN!), first person.

In "Return of the Thief" our protagonist is Pheris (who is this Pheris kid?! Gen and Sophos are here but WHERE ARE COSTIS AND KAMET? ARE THEY OKAY?!), first person.

After each one, you love what you've gained due to the change, due to not getting what you 'want'. Still marketed as a series. Still /is/ a series. I can't imagine, for example, coming in to "Return of the Thief" cold. But Turner tells the story she's always intended to tell without conforming to reader or publisher expectations.

And she never answers questions.

This isn't to say she is disconnected from her fans. She has a lovely, engaged fanbase (she's on tumblr and not, sensibly, twitter). She delights in memes and fanart and reblogs so much of it.

But she doesn't answer questions. She doesn't even tell you how names are pronounced.

AND IN CONCLUSION that's why she's such a fascinating author and that is the kind of author who puts together a book like "Moira's Pen". Short stories, yes, but also short observations on ancient art that informed things in her stories, brief dialogues, poetry. There's a cake recipe.

Megan Whalen Turner finished a series that took her twenty-five years to write and the first thing she has published after ending that series includes a recipe for cake and I love that. It's perfect.

The stories in "Moira's Pen" bring up so many questions, dozens upon dozens, and there's no indication that Turner intends to answer any of them in future novels. And that's fine. Because Turner also spent six books teaching her audience that questions and empty space are part of storytelling and that the author's involvement in that, for the reader, begins and ends with the story you're given.

Okay, I think I'm done. Read "The Thief". It's fun.

[softly-potter]

we can’t be friends

Summary: After a tumultuous breakup, Pansy informs her friends Ginny and Hermione of a facility, Brighter Days, that uses a new obliviation technique to remove a selected individual from their memory. Hermione thinks it’s an unorthodox method…until she goes through a breakup of her own.

Inspired by the ‘we can’t be friends’ music video by Ariana Grande.

Pairing: Draco x Hermione

Word Count: 7,137

Warning: none

Find chapter 2: papers & pens and chapter 3: wait until you like me again here

-

Chapter One: you’ve got me misunderstood but at least i look this good

“I think she’s actually showered.” Ginny whispers, and Hermione squints as they walk arm in arm across the outdoor seating of the restaurant.

Pansy is sitting at their usual spot, her red nails tapping at the lip of her cup impatiently. She looks clean and crisp, a stark contrast to how she had been looking the past several weeks after her breakup had made it to the Daily Prophet. Pictures of her and Theo had been splashed across the pages for days, and Pansy had been in shambles. Now, she resembles the look of someone who has just left their hair appointment, obsessed with the results.

“Ladies!” Pansy calls when she sees them, a bright smile on her face. Ginny and Hermione slide into their seats, giving the waiter that approaches them their orders and immediately leaning forward.

“You look like a million gallons.” Ginny breathes, her freckled face a mix of curiosity and confusion. “I take it you’ve found a new bloke?”

Pansy wiggles her brows before giving a singular shake of her head. “Nope!” she says and grins. “Did you two ever keep up with Longbottom after graduation?”

Hermione thinks on this. Last she’d heard, he’d gotten married to Luna, moved to the countryside, nothing overtly noteworthy. The waiter sets their cups before them, and Hermione lifts a spoon, twirling it thoughtfully.

“Isn’t he married now?” Hermione says, and Pansy rolls her eyes with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Yes yes but that's unimportant,” she sniffs before leaning forward, chin in her palm. “He’s opened a memory clinic. A few months ago actually, been working on it since he graduated, Brighter Days he calls it.”

“Oh?” Ginny says, lifting her cup to her lips. Pansy nods and Hermione wonders where she could possibly be going with this train of thought.

“It’s an obliviation-focused mind center. You take a box of everything that contains reminiscences of the person you want to forget, and they go in and eliminate them from your head!” Pansy exclaims. “It costs a fortune but now I can't even recall… What's his name again?”

Hermione feels her mouth fall ajar. “Theo?”

“Right! Theo,” Pansy says, and reaches for her cup. “Now it’s like he and I never existed. To me anyways, which is all that matters.”

Ginny and Hermione exchange confused glances. Placing her mug back on its saucer, Hermione clears her throat. “Pans I’m so glad you're feeling better but, don’t you think that’s…odd?” she tries, and Pansy frowns. “I mean you were together for years.”

“And now we’re not.” Pansy declares. She takes a sip, her lipstick leaving behind a dull stain on the porcelain. “No sense in me just dwelling on it.”

“But you shared so much with him,” Ginny points out. “And now those memories are just what… gone?”

Pansy nods. “Mostly. Or altered. Instead of me remembering snuggling with him on the couch, I recall burying my face in Penelope's fur!”

Hermione lets out a low chuckle at the mention of Pansy’s dog, a consolation gift the dark-haired witch had purchased for herself the day after Theo moved out.

“While I'm sure that’s… easier to swallow,” Hermione says cautiously. “You can’t just not remember him.”

Tapping a nail against the table, Pansy narrows her eyes. “Yes, I can. And I already have.”

“And it’s safe?” Ginny challenges with a skeptical look. “Obliviation in itself is risky.”

“Yes, it’s completely safe and very little down time,” Pansy answers. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Longbottom wins an award or something for his research.”

“What’re the side effects?” Hermione asks, intrigued. She isn’t sure if she completely agrees with Pansy’s reasoning but she can’t help but be interested.

Pansy shrugs. “Nothing really besides memory replacement during a certain time period of your choosing. So, I still remember him from school but I can’t remember how we went about dating.”

“You met up again at one of Draco’s matches-“ Hermione begins but Pansy shushes her instantly.

“Granger! I paid all this money to not recall my time with him, remember?” She nearly shrieks and Ginny puts a hand over her lips to hide a laugh.

Hermione raises a skeptical brow but drops it. “I wonder what else Brighter Days offers. I feel like that process could be useful in trauma responses.” She says and takes a sip of her tea. Ginny nods, red hair slipping over her shoulders.

“Very true,” Ginny replies and for a moment her eyes darken. “I wonder if it can help the grieving process.”

Pansy leans into her palm, eyes darting between the two witches. “If you’re suggesting using it as a way to get over someone’s death, I don’t think you’ll be approved.”

“Approved?” Hermione and Ginny say in unison, and Pansy nods.

“There’s a whole list of prerequisites you have to pass and go through to even be considered, and then you have to sit down and do a verbal evaluation with Longbottom,” Pansy replies, reaching for her glass. “He’s the one that makes the final call.”

“How interesting.” Ginny muses, and Hermione agrees. She always believed Neville was smart, but this type of mix of magic and science was revolutionary. It intrigues her greatly, her thoughts quickly weighing out the pro’s and con’s of Brighter Days.

As the women finish their tea, Hermione waves goodbye, fishing out her mobile from her robes. Dialing her desired number, she holds the device to her ear, moving swiftly in between tables.

“I will never get used to this.” Draco says as he answers. Hermione snorts, barely suppressing an eyeroll.

“And that's why we’ll continue to use it,” she replies. “Practice makes perfect after all.”

“I miss you, when are you coming back?” Draco says instead of answering her. She can’t help but smile, her bottom lip slipping between her teeth.

“You just saw me this morning.” she chuckles and adjusts her purse on her shoulder.

“That barely counts, you were mostly asleep by the time I had to leave.”

Feet clipping on the cobblestones, Hermione tries to recall what had happened earlier in the day. “You’re right, I was indeed mostly asleep. Having a wonderful dream you awoke me from, actually.”

“Mmm? What was the dream?” Draco asks, and his tone makes her swallow. In the two years they’d been together, she still wasn't used to the feelings he could evoke from her even when he wasn’t in the room.

“Well, we were on holiday… It was hot. We were laying on the sand, feeling the sun on our skin.”

“Sounds lovely. Were we naked?” he asks and she laughs, taking the steps to the Floo network two at a time.

“No, you git. Well, you were shirtless, in swimming trunks.” she replies and draco hums on the other end of the line.

“Tell me you were in that striped bikini I love on you.” he murmurs and she suppresses another eyeroll.

“Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't,” she laughs, moving the phone to her other ear. “Listen I'm at the Floo, I’ll see you in a moment okay?”

Draco laughs, the sound deep like waves. “See you soon, love.”

Hermione ends the call, sliding the phone into her pockets as she grabs a pinch of Floo powder, and calls out Draco’s address before walking in.

The smell of chicken wafts into her nose the moment she steps out of the fireplace. Dropping her bag to the couch, Hermione grins as she takes in Draco’s back. His sleeves are rolled up as he chops an onion, a cream apron wrapped around his waist.

“Smells delightful.” Hermione says, slipping her arms around his waist and giving him a squeeze. Draco hums before twisting in her grip and placing a kiss atop her head.

“It’s nearly done, take a seat,” He replies. Hermione moves around him and sits down at his dining room table, elbows on the wood. “How was tea with the ladies?”

“Rather interesting,” Hermione sighs and runs her hands in her hair. “Are you familiar with Brighter Days?”

Draco looks up with a confused expression. “Should I be?”

“No, I was just curious. Anyways, apparently Neville started his own selective obliviation company,” Hermione replies, watching as Draco bends to open the oven. He slips on oven mitts before reaching inside, and pulling a tray out. “Pansy went, got treated.”

“Treated for..?” Draco asks and Hermione shrugs.

“Apparently she obliviated Theo from herself.” Hermione replies. Draco pauses his movements before settling the tray into the middle of the table.

“She what?”

Hermione nods. “I know! She just… erased him. She knows who he is, knows they dated but doesn’t remember the dating. The last three or so years of him? Down the drain.”

Draco straightens and unties the apron from around his waist before settling in the chair beside her. Hermione reaches for the bottle of wine on the table and pours them both a glass, her mind moving faster than her mouth.

“I think it’s a bit of an overreaction, in my opinion,” she says, recapping the bottle. Draco begins to cut into the chicken, steam rising from the meat and Hermione feels her stomach growl. “Yes it’s supposed to hurt but that's how you learn from them.”

“I’m assuming the treatment is expensive,” Draco replies and Hermione nods. “I can’t say I'm surprised by her decision but, it does seem like she rushed into it.”

“I agree,” Hermione sighs, picking up her cutlery. “What if she’s cut off any chance of them working things out and becoming, i don’t know, friends maybe?”

Draco snorts, puts a piece of chicken on his own plate. “My love, those two could never be anything but lovers. They’d kill each other if they were anything less.”

Hermione cuts into her chicken, taking a bite with a nod. They eat in easy conversation, Draco making her laugh so hard that her sides ache, and as they finish cleaning the kitchen together, he wraps his arms around her waist, pressing his front to her back and putting his chin atop her head.

“You smell nice.” He mumbles into her hair and Hermione giggles, soap caking up to her elbows as she scrubs a dish.

“My hair’s obnoxious,” she complains, and Draco makes a tutting sound.

“Nonsense,” he replies cooley, releasing his hold and reaching for the clean dish in her hands. “I hope my children have your hair.”

Hermione pauses, her tongue heavy in her mouth. She wants children, of course. She would love to have little blonde babies running around their home as she tries to get them packed for Hogwarts. Children had always been something she knew was in her future.

The thought of tying her soul to another's was an entirely different matter.

In the long line of Malfoy marriages, every couple was soultied to their intended. It ensured that the union would hold fast even in the instances of external affairs or death. Once tied, they could never be separated, forever be one. Draco, ever the traditionalist, believed children should be brought up in a married, unified home; the thought of a pregnancy out of wedlock was unheard of for him.

And the thought terrified her.

Hermione smiles tightly at him, and begins to scrub another plate. Submerging it into the water, her hands are damp as she passes it to him. Draco takes the plate and kisses her squarely on the nose.

She yelps, lets out a surprised laugh and gives him a look. Draco grins, baring his teeth, and Hermione has taken two steps away before she feels his hand on her arm, pulling her back. She turns and his lips descend upon hers, dragging her close as he kisses her.

Her hips are pinned to the sink, and his warm body presses hard against the length of her. Taught muscle against her soft curves, and his hands are needy, roaming everywhere, licking flames across her skin. She gasps into his mouth and the kiss deepens, ravaging and consuming.

Eyes fluttering closed she melts into his arms as she grips onto the fabric of his shirt and pulls him closer. Finding the buttons under his collar she undoes them, pushing it from his shoulders. Draco’s tongue slides down the side of her throat and she grips his shoulders as he bites at the junction of her shoulder and neck, groaning into her skin. The sound ignites her within.

Somehow they make it to their bedroom, and she isn’t sure how, her entirety lost in him. The air is thick when she feels the soft sheets beneath her. Her top has been lost somewhere along the way, and she feels his fingers pushing at her skirt, dragging down her thighs. His lips skim her skin before his teeth nip her shoulder and she shudders, eyes squeezing as her fingers fly across his bare skin.

Kneeling over her, Draco’s eyes are blown. Her fingers run down his chest slowly, touching the scar in the center of his chest with care. His hand closes over hers, squeezing gently as he holds it there. Pulling at him, Hermione drags her hand across the rippling muscles of his shoulders, her lips tingling from the pressure of their kisses.

Draco slips an arm behind her head and tangles his fingers through her hair, pulling her impossibly closer, breathing in the heavy aroma of her skin and twisting in the sheets of his bed.

Skin and sheets, Hermione tangles herself around him and drops kisses up and down his throat. Her tongue slides across his collarbones, listening to the way he gasps, tasting him.

He’s given her the power to nearly break him.

Shoving at his shoulder, she pushes him to his back, crawling down the length of his body and pressing kisses to every inch of skin she can reach. She pulls at his boxers and he lifts his hips, lets her pull them off. When she grips him, he makes a strangled sound, and she gently licks at his head. Draco huffs, his skin glistening and she takes him into her mouth.

She bobs her head, sucking him easily, her cheeks hollowing as her tongue stays flat against him. Draco lets out another strangled sound, his hands tight on the sheets as Hermione moves. With a light pop she releases him from her mouth, sliding up his frame and kissing him. Pushing her onto her back, Hermione feels him pull at the remainder of their clothing until she’s bare beneath him. He’s molten against her, parting her legs and pressing into her. There's a pinch and a sharp sound catches in her throat, nails digging into his skin.

Draco pauses, white blonde hair falling into his eyes as he waits for her to relax. He kisses her raggedly, and Hermione runs a hand into his hair, down his neck. Shifting beneath him, she rolls her hips and he gasps, tangles his fingers in her hair once more to pull her head back, his teeth scraping against her. Hermione keens and her hips jump against his. He jerks before sinking further. He moves within her, long deep strokes that pull exquisite feelings to the surface. Lips and hands dance across sweat-slick skin, arms and legs tangled. Their fingers entwine and she rolls her hips again, kisses across his face. Draco’s forehead meets hers and he gasps.

Draco’s lips caress her and his fingers tighten as he pins her hands above her head, his thrusts becoming harder. Quicker. The pleasure is white-hot, until she's whimpering, teetering at the edge, and Hermione pulls her hands free and wraps her arms around him, trying to cling to anything as she shatters in his arms.

When she stops trembling, he kisses her between the eyes, his nose dragging against her face gently. She feels boneless, her muscles like liquid, but when his breathing becomes ragged one more, she wraps her arms around his shoulders and he buries his face in her neck.

They’re gasping in an intertwined mess of limbs for a moment before he lifts himself and drops beside her, pulling her to his chest and dragging the sheets around them. He kisses her hairline, and Hermione shivers as she curls closer. Draco wraps his arms around her, his chin resting on the crown of her head, and she slips a hand to his chest, feeling the steady tempo of his heartbeat.

Eyelids growing heavy, she allows the thrumming of his blood to lull her to sleep, his taste still heavy on her tongue.

[a-b-riddle]

Pen Pals Chapter Four: First Day

C suggested that I go and get some clothes for my first week of work so the Saturday after my Friday interview. The dressing rooms were still closed which was a pain, but I kept the receipts in case I didn't like it or it didn't fit. I gave him a video call and was met with a black screen, as usual, as I tried on the outfits for him.

"Wear the first pair of black pants you showed me and the pink top." He was referring to the black straight leg slacks and the baby pink silk blouse with a chiffon tie. "Go get those boxes I sent you." He ordered. When I returned home from shopping I had two packages waiting for me on my doorstep.

They were both in standard brown shipping boxes, but after opening them I was met with utter shock.

"Oh my god." My mouth hung open as I opened it. "C. You shouldn't have." I didn't even open it all the way, but seeing the orange Louis Vuitton made me realize what he had done. When I finally did open it I found a beautiful beige purse.

"Every girl needs a new statement piece on their first day of work." He said. "It's the Lockme Ever MM. If you don't like it you can exchange it."

"I love it. And I can wear the pearls you gave me for graduation." I beamed still looking at the purse.

"Open the other one." He said almost as excited as I was. When I did I found a similar bag, but in black. "That one, I believe, is the Lockme Ever BB." I looked down at my gifts and didn't even know I had started crying. "What's wrong?" He asked, concern in his voice. "Do you not like them."

"There so nice." I pouted and wiped my eyes. "I love them." I cradled the purses to my chest as if a child who had gotten the exact toy they wanted on Christmas Day. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Good. You're welcome, baby." He said. "I got to get some things done before the end of the day, but I look forward to our video chat tonight."

"Me too."

"I'll see you in a bit, Love." I blew him a kiss and the call disconnected.

Holy-fucking-shit. These purses had to at least be at least $3,000 a piece. He spent what he gives me in an allowance on two bags. Holy shit. I had always bought my purses at Target, but this was... This was probably the most expensive thing I've ever owned beside my degrees that hung on the wall, but I couldn't carry those into work.

It's so funny to think a couple of months ago I sat in an empty apartment with nothing but a bed, crying about my life and now things had did a complete 180. My life had drastically changed in the best way possible. And it was because of C.

Monday couldn't get here soon enough. I was so excited to start my first day. I stopped and got a cup of coffee for myself, Mr. Stark as well as Mr. Rogers. When I got there security on the first floor got my badge and security access taken care of. I was essentially allowed to most of the 93 floors in Stark Tower.

I was then instructed to go to the same floor where I met Pepper. I was expecting to find her, but only found an empty desk and a folder with a sticky note on top of it.

Sorry I couldn't be there on your first day, something came up. Here is a basic outline of everything you need to know. Tony won't be down until later. If you need any help here is my cell. -Pepper.

I looked through the folder which would have been better put into a binder considering the amount of paper she put into it. I had barely started reviewing the documents when Steve walked up to my desk.

"Good morning, Mr. Rogers." I greeted. "I had time this morning so I did a coffee run." I handed him a medium black coffee from the coffee shop near my apartment.

"Good morning," he replied taking the coffee from my hands. "And please, just call me Steve." He insisted.

"I'll try." I assured him. "I grew up in Georgia so not referring to someone as Mr., Mrs., Sir. or Ma'am is kind of habit I'll have to break."

"You have manners?" He raised an eyebrow. "A shame. Tony tries to keep this place with a sense of impoliteness in the air. Thank you for the coffee."

"No problem. I hope plain black is okay."

"Do I seem like a plain black kind of guy?" He questioned tilting his head.

"I can go get some creamer." I went to stand when he broke into a smile.

"No, I take it black. I still like to keep some things simple." His attention broke away from me at someone coming through the lobby front doors. "Bucky," He greeted. A brunette with eyes just as blue and beautiful as Steve's walked over to my desk. "This is Bucky Barnes, we go way back."

"Stark's new assistant?" He asked and I smiled and nodded in response. "How you liking it so far?"

"First day: can't complain." I said. "Everyone is so nice."

"Plus Stark isn't up yet so he hasn't had the chance to ruin her day." Steve rolled his eyes. "Well, we will let you get to work and we'll see you around. Since it's your first day, I think Tony wanted to take you to lunch. Bucky will come around noon if he hasn't come yet and maybe we can steal you away instead."

"Oh," I said surprised. "Perfect. I'll see y'all later." I smiled at them as they left.

A few hours passed and I made myself busy with the list of things Pepper left me to do. Mr. Stark left his workshop and finally came down around 12.

"I hope you haven't had lunch yet." He said. "And sorry I haven't been down yet, I'm tinkering with a few things upstairs."

"Oh, no problem." I reassured. "Pepper left a very detailed list of instructions. So far nothing exciting except a few packages."

"So instead of apartment numbers, the floor is where it will need to be dropped off. Sometimes Steve and Bucky will get things in the mail too."

"Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes?" I asked.

"They live in the tower too." He said. "Makes things easier when we are all close together. How does Shawarma sound for lunch?"

"I was actually thinking Italian." Steve's voice came out of nowhere. When did he get back on this floor? I needed to find the stairs here at some point.

With his back still turned, he rolled his eyes. "Always has to be in charge." He whispered. "Italian it is."

Lunch was pleasant to say the least, even with the minimal banter between Steve and Tony. It was more like a sibling rivalry than a old married couple. Bucky had come along as well, mostly remaining quiet.

I asked if they always acted like this. He responded that it was when they were both quiet that it was more uncomfortable. He asked if I wanted to really wanted to start and argument was to ask who was in charge of the Avengers.

I shook my head and Bucky smiled. "So are you new to the city?" He asked.

"Sort of." I shrugged as Tony and Steve carried on their separate conversation. "I came here a couple of months ago before Covid hit and haven't really gotten out of my apartment."

"That blows." He said. "No friends in the city?"

I made a grimaced face and shook my head. "Not really." I said glumly. "I was supposed to start teaching when I moved, but covid made everything complicated."

"What were you wanting to teach?"

"History, but I specialized in World War II." I said before taking a bite of my Caprese salad with pesto sauce. C said I looked thinner and should be making sure to eat enough healthy carbs.

What he didn't know wouldn't hurt me. Or him.

However the saying went.

"Funny how the world works." He smiled before motioning his head toward Steve. "You're having lunch with two WW2 relics." I covered my mouth making sure none of my food showed as I smiled.

Steve and Tony eventually ceased their bantering long enough to join back into the conversation. They had asked me why I had gotten into studying history so extensively and very little personal information. Tony discussed a new prototype he was working on.

"Similar to how whales use echo location, the same will be done with this tracking device. Planes, vehicles, military equipment, but also testing out the device on animals to see if we can eventually use it on people."

The notion made my stomach drop. Mr. Stark quickly reassured the apparent qualm I had. "For willing parties only, I assure you. There was a missing persons report that came up when Pepper and I were watching TV. Young girl, about your age, man was convicted of rape and murder, but her remains were never found. And Pepper and I are trying to a family and I just thought 'that family will never know what happened to their daughter'."

The sentiment moved me. "So I thought, why not make it another tool for police to use? Cell phones and things like that can be destroyed, but even if it couldn't save them, it could at least give their family some closure."

"And even with tracking endangered species. Maybe even aquatic animals."

The idea didn't seem all that revolutionary in my opinion. Surely tracking devices like that have been proposed before...

When I got back there was a bouquet of daises and sunflowers sitting on my desk. "Was Pepper expecting a floral delivery?" I asked Tony setting my purse down on my desk.

"Not that I know of." He said stepping into the elevator with Bucky and Steve. "Unless she has a secret admirer I don't know about." The door closed and I was left alone with the floral arrangement.

I plucked the card from the top reading. 'Have a great first day - C.'

Only problem was, I never told him where I worked. Only that I would be working as a secretary for a tech company and that was the extent of it. He had watched me.

I'm glad Tony and the others had went up to their floors and did not see how ghostly pale my face had turned.

[blondiest]

Chrissy + possibly cursed, Eddie + chewed up, Hellcheer + handmade ☺️🥰

hiiii bestie 🥰 thank you for this, i love these 👀

Chrissy + Possibly Cursed

Imo there's simply no way that Chrissy doesn't own some weird-ass old dolls (Laura Cunningham just gives me a ‘buys a lot of dolls for her daughter, some of which Chrissy is not even allowed to play with’ vibes). Honestly, Chrissy probably gets rid of most of them sometime between her and Eddie's first place and their fifth one, because lugging a bunch of dolls from studio apartment to studio apartment gets old fast and she's not actually fond of most of them. However, there is one Madame Alexander doll that she got gifted by her grandmother when she was seven— one that's wearing a little Dutch dress and has two small braids— that she always, always keeps. It was one of the ones she was actually allowed to play with, so it's kind of worn-out / ratty, and one of its eyes closes more often / easily than the other so it looks slightly wonky most of the time, but she loves it. Eddie definitely thinks it's cursed but, given his general attitude towards the creepy/cursed, he is 1000% fine with Chrissy keeping it around (not that he'd say otherwise even if he was against it — he adores her too much to make her part with something like that).

Eddie + Chewed Up

What does Eddie own that ISN'T chewed up? Kidding, kidding— plenty of things. Probably. However, absolutely none of his pens are intact. Whether he's writing a song or planning a new campaign or just studying (pre-graduation or for his occasional one-off class in music theory), he's chewing on the caps of his pens. It's a holdover from his smoking habit, maybe, or maybe just a general stim.

Hellcheer + Handmade

I dearly, dearly love the idea of them making things for each other. Like. God. They definitely do that. So— in all likelihood, they have a lot of handmade stuff (little painted miniatures of their DND characters, mixtapes [and later on, CD mixes] galore, unevenly-knitted but profoundly treasured scarves and mittens and hats that Chrissy made, some off-kilter-looking mugs and bowls that Eddie made, etc). But one of the items they use the most is their matching aprons. They made them together with those fabric paints and some plain storebought aprons; Eddie's has devil horns on it at least somewhere, and Chrissy's is more chaotic and messy than one might expect (very colorful, many mixed motifs— she had a blast making it).

headcanon asks for characters / ships and their possessions ❣️

[helena-and-helena-meta]

The one thing he wished for

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was the story I had to rewrite, I rewrote it very early in the morning so this isn't completely proofread.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Atlas, the kingdom itself, is beautiful, but the people are another story. If you have less wealth than some, they’ll treat you like an insect under their shoe, but that’s mainly in the upper city. Mantle has those who can be kinder, but many only wish to survive, with the occasional Grimm attack and the soldiers patrolling the city causing unrest, which brings more Grimm. After Beacon fell, that unrest grew more and more, which brought more Grimm and more soldiers. This was the first time a huntsman academy had fallen. Then the news of Haven got out, as did the death of Leo Lionheart. It felt like Remnant was tearing itself apart at the very seams, and no one knew who was pulling the strings—well, no one but the four main headmasters—but now two of them had been killed, and the other two didn’t agree with each other’s methods.

The headmasters each had scouts: huntsmen and huntresses who graduated from the respective academies; Qrow reported to Ozpin; Lionheart had his hunters, but they all died; Theodore had many; and James had you. Those scouts watched over many things: the White Fang, which was now under the control of a more peaceful Faunus; the movements of the Grimm; and Remnant’s secret enemy, Salem. Reporting to James was a fifty-fifty thing. You two had served together in the academy before graduating, so you were close, but stress existed, and the war against Salem did, too. While he was always so sweet and civil with you, he allowed stress to overtake his mind, which caused Mettle to activate and throw things out of his control.

This was one time when you went to report the movements of the Grimm and Salem to him, and while you had news to give him, you couldn’t help but rush to see him. Every part of you wanted to see him to make sure he was okay. A smile graced your features with how quickly you were allowed in Atlas because of your status as one of General Ironwood’s most trusted. You held your scroll close to your chest as the elevator took you up. All you wanted to do was see his face, look into those beautiful blue eyes, see his smile, and maybe be gifted with one of his adorable chuckles. The sound of the elevator doors opening forced you out of your thoughts as you looked up and saw some of the Atlesian soldiers guarding his office. You showed them your huntsmen identification, and they allowed you to enter.

James didn’t seem to realize it was you when you entered his office. His tired expression broke your heart. He was swamped with paperwork, his eyes were sunken from many sleepless nights, and you also saw how his hands trembled slightly from his lack of self-care.

“Please tell me why you’re here.” James spoke softly, the sound of his pen scratching paper as he wrote, “James, it’s me.” That got his attention. It made him look up to meet your eyes. Your heart fluttered when you saw it, seeing his eyes light up with relief. “I wanted-”

You were cut off from finishing your sentence by James quickly jumping up and embracing you, holding you tightly to his chest as he stroked your hair. With you here, it felt like he could finally relax and let go of the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

James smiled as he held you close. How long has it been? When was the last time he had been this relieved to see someone and hold them in his arms? He was holding you close, just like how much worry he held over his people and the potential fall of Atlas. He ran his hand up and down your back, feeling your body—a sensation he missed so much. It was calming. It felt right. It was… It was home.

In this moment, he was yours and yours alone; if it wasn’t for the war against Salem, he would never let you go. If it weren’t for the war, then he would have you by his side all the time. If it wasn’t for the war...

But the war existed, and he wished it didn’t. That was the one thing he wished for.

[triscribeaucollection]

Muddle Along

The last chapter of Muddling Through is *still* fighting me over getting written, and yet I easily threw together a few thousand words together for what will become the fourth and final installment of my Muddied Waters AU. Hermione’s going to enter a rather different wizarding world this time around:

---

On her eleventh birthday, Hermione Granger received three sheets of parchment in the envelope addressed to her bedroom. First and foremost, the Hogwarts acceptance letter. Second, a list of all the things she’d need to buy for school. And third, a note from another child.

Hello, it started. We don’t know in advance who we’ll be paired with, for obvious reasons, but- I’m going to be your Wizarding World Pen Pal until the next school year starts! My name’s Evan, and my dad’s from a magical family, but my mum’s a muggleborn like you, and she’s told me a lot of stories about going to Hogwarts for the first time and hardly knowing *anything*. So that’s the point of this programme! I can help answer any questions you’ve got, and share things I think are important to know, and we can sit together on the train next September (just in case you feel nervous about getting aboard by yourself).

Best wishes, your pen pal,

Evan Harry Potter

---

The school representative who’d arrived with Hermione’s letter to explain about magic came back three days later. She told them that it served two purposes; to collect the written response of the muggleborn student if they wanted to attend Hogwarts, or to wipe all memory of magic from the family’s mind if they decided not to go.

Hermione saw her mother’s knuckles turn white at that, and her father’s jaw went tight, too. But she’d already decided to accept, so it was a moot point. She handed over the affirmative response she’d written in her best handwriting, and then asked about the pen pal programme.

“Ah, that’s been a fairly recent development,” the young woman said cheerfully. “The school rolled it out only a year or two before I got my letter; I still keep in touch with the pal they assigned me. Brilliantly helpful, she was, especially when it came to things you couldn’t just read in a book.”

Hermione wound up agreeing to it too. She’d been a little on the fence at first, but- it would be nice to at least try and make a real friend before going off to magical school in Scotland.

Rather than a delivery owl, apparently the usual method of sending mail for wizards and witches, Hermione received a small rectangular case, just the right size to hold an envelope or two. It locked, as well, with a four-number combination she could set herself. Rather than use her birthday, she picked the date of the representative’s return visit, September Twenty-Second: 0922.

Then she wrote a reply.

Dear Evan,

The woman from Hogwarts said this pen pal exchange could be quite useful for learning things that *aren’t* written down in books, so I think we should lean in that direction when it comes to what you feel I ought to know. I read an awful lot, you see. And I’ve got a frightfully good memory (or at least that’s what my parents say) so I don’t need to do a lot of re-reading, either. Mostly non-fiction. I like learning more than anything else, so I check out lots of history and science books from the library. I’ve started getting one volume a year of the Encyclopedia Britannica for Christmas. Should have the whole set by the time I graduate university!

I get other gifts too, of course, but- that ought to tell you right away what’s important to me. I hope we can be friends regardless.

Sincerely yours,

Hermione Jean Granger

---

The next morning, when she opened up the little case, a different letter sat inside than the one she’d written.

Dear Hermione (Or would you rather I address you as ‘Granger’?)

When I said at dinner last night that my new pen pal loves to learn and gets encyclopedias for Christmas, one of my uncles laughed until he cried, and his daughter said I ought to break out a dictionary in advance... Don’t take it personally, they just know I’d rather be outside flying on my broomstick more than anything else.

I would say I *like* reading more than love it, but I do enjoy a good novel. On really rainy days, my mum and I sit in the library together to share a story or two, at least until my dad shows up to start a tickle fight.

So! Things you can’t learn in books. I admit, my mind is drawing a blank.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Someone who cares - chapter 2

In which Eddie gets a job, Steve is a nervous wreck, and Richard Harrington acts like a douchebag.

Steve feels himself flush in embarrassment. He sees all of this every day, so he is kind of used to it. The truth is, even though he refers to it as an apartment in his head, it is actually a fully-fledged penthouse - complete with a wide, open floor plan, a floor-to-ceiling window front offering a sprawling view of the pink morning sky and, yes, the pool on the spacious terrace glistening peacefully in the slowly rising sun. It’s nothing new for people to stop short and look around with the same gobsmacked expression that Eddie is sporting right now. It just has been a while since he’s had anyone over that wasn’t Robin, so he kind of forgot to be prepared for it. 

“Yeah, I-” He scratches his neck awkwardly. “The place was a graduation gift from my dad, so …” 

“Uh-huh …” Eddie is nodding absentmindedly, taking in the high ceilings, sleek furniture and polished finishings with wide eyes. “Sure. My uncle got me an engraved pen for my graduation, but I guess this also works …”

[agentgrumpy-gils]

Anya’s SwynWrimo 2022 : Task 3

The Gift that Keeps on Giving: Make a list of 10 items your character has received as a gift and describe what the item means to them (if at all).  

cw: brief mention of dead merpeople

A necklace made of woven seaweed, with a green sea glass pendant: Given to him by his oldest sister Gul. She made jewelry and traded it. She told Gil she had swam far towards the shore in order to get this particular piece of glass. He was only twelve. The woven seaweed is frayed now. He wears it around his neck, still. 

A dagger made of shell: When he turned fifteen, his father presented him with this dagger. For hunting, he said. And to keep our family safe. Gil had the dagger at his side when he went onto land that year, searching for a doctor. It wasn’t enough.

A pair of snow boots: Shoes were so foreign to Gil — especially sneakers and boots and what not. Even when he had gone on land as a child, he was used to running barefoot on the sand or wearing simple sandals. The first winter in Belgium was cold. He had a pair of thin, canvas sneakers that soaked through the first snow. I’m so sorry, his foster father said, when he came home with his cold, wet feet. I didn’t think it was going to snow yet. He went out immediately to buy a pair of snow boots and showed Gil how to lace them up. 

A fountain pen: When he graduated, his foster parents presented him with a fancy fountain pen. Write to us, they said. Sometimes, he does.

A pair of cheap sunglasses: He almost blew his cover on his first assignment, because when he listened to the wiretapped audio, some poacher sneered about the corpses of merpeople, and Gil’’s eyes flashed scarlet. The agent he was with ducked out to a shop and bought a pair of sunglasses, handing them to Gil without a word. He was embarrassed. He kept them for a bit, a reminder of his weakness, before he sought magical aid. 

A New York Yankees baseball cap: The first week in New York City, Leo bought them all Yankees caps. We need to fit in! He jammed it on Gil’s head, and then made a comment about how nice his curls looked. Gil turned away, feeling a flush on his face. 

A Statue of Liberty keychain: Leo found out Gil’s birthday via the RAS database. You seem like someone who doesn’t want their birthday to be a big deal, he said. But I can’t just not celebrate a birthday — so here you go. Gil still has it on his keys. He lies about how he got it. The flame is slightly chipped. 

An Empire State building snow globe: This was a Christmas gift. It was not the first Empire State building-themed souvenir in the house, or even in Gil’s room. Leo kept bringing them home, like some Empire State building-fixated magpie. Gil left this one behind. He wonders if Leo kept it. 

A single red rose: I can’t just not celebrate Valentine’s Day — Before Leo finished that sentence, Gil kissed him and the rose fell to the floor. 

An I <3 NYC t-shirt: Folded on his dresser drawer with a note the day he left New York City. He took the note, not the t-shirt. He hasn’t opened it.

[jedielle]

I DON'T HAVE A PLAN

Way back when I was in high school, I had a lot of things I wanted to do

It was easy to dream and look forward to the future.

My escape at that time was to write a story that was nice unlike mine.

I am always overthinking and finding love elsewhere.

Always putting myself down and being judged for not being "enough."

What was that even mean?

At that time, I was unaware that other people's voices were slowly getting into my head.

"Why don't you have a job?"

"You should have known what you wanted in life after you graduated from college."

"Why don't you look for a job already?"

Whatever achievement I received, whatever accomplishments, I could not celebrate it.

I graduated from grade school, and high school, and eventually, I got my Bachelor's degree.

Yes, maybe, I'll smile but it was not genuine happiness.

Because there were always voices who would say otherwise.

Deep in my heart, I knew what I wanted to do. But I buried my dreams because I needed to step up.

I needed to be enough in front of the people who have achieved something in their lives.

I needed to have a "job" because, at this point in my age, many people have achieved great things already.

Those voices affected the way I view myself.

I needed to apply for a job and buried my dreams.

Little did I know, eventually, it would take a toll on me.

I was able to complete my studies. And if I could, I would study again because I was young when I graduated college. I was only 19 at that time.

But the expectations of people, I was not aware that I was hating myself.

I was not happy with the person I was becoming.

If I did not get the result I wanted, I would punish myself and tell myself that I was an idiot.

I used to have a plan. When I get to this point in my age, I should have accomplished this and that.

What happened to my plan? It goes down the drain.

And now, I'm stuck.

Why?

Because I was living for someone else.

I forgot to live for myself.

I forgot to enjoy the little things that made me happy.

Whenever I was able to have a new pen or a notebook when the new school year started.

To have a new pair of shoes for school.

To received a gift from my mom.

Late night snacks with my ate. And watching our favorite animated film.

A weekend family dinner.

I forgot to enjoy the little things.

I forgot to be happy.

I was in "survival mode" for as long as I can remember.

I am still finding myself. Because I've lost her.

She was broken by the opinions of others who told her that she had to be someone else or something else.

To have a "title" so people will talk to her. So people will have an interest in talking to her.

So, I'll say this now... I don't have a plan.

And I think that's okay.

I just want to live one day at a time.

Maybe, who knows, one day, she will find her young self and say...

"You don't have to believe them. Just believe in yourself. Because I believe in you."

[envysnest]

Snakeskin (Sephiroth/Reader) (ch. 9/?)

AO3 / Pillowfort

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13

Tags: First Time, Reader-Insert, Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Frank Discussions of Past Rape/Abuse, Everyone is Queer, Canon-Compliant (if you squint), Pre-Crisis-Core Seph, Slow Burn, i continue to disappoint my friends and family, sephiroth is a virgin and in this essay i will, Reader is a Cis Woman, fluffy sex, Praise Kink, Gratuitous Biochemistry

Summary:

You are a young biologist, fresh out of graduate school, working in Shinra's R&D Division under Professor Hojo. You had long since given up on finding a partner and starting a family, preferring instead the company of your cell samples and your scientific instruments.

As the conflict in Wutai worsens, you strike up an unexpected friendship with a First Class SOLDIER.

(Sephiroth/Reader Slow Burn)

No TW's apply for this chapter, but it is explicit (again!).

---

An alarm went off in the dark. Outside, it was still night, and the snow was coming down fast and hard. Even Midgar had settled under the gloom. Terror gripped you; you didn’t know where you were. You lifted your head and peered into the darkness.

Then the other half of the bed shifted, the alarm was silenced, and you remembered. 

You instinctively nuzzled into the warm, empty spot on the bed. Someone’s hand covered your lower back and pressed you into the mattress: a firm, soothing touch. It sat there for a minute, the room quiet. You sighed.

The hand lifted, and you fell into a dreamless sleep.

You were alone when you woke up. The cream curtains from the night before were drawn back and neatly pinned to the wall. Morning sunlight filled the windows; the sun was just rising over the city, sending light dancing two feet of snow. You rolled over and glanced at the small alarm clock on Sephiroth’s side: 7:39 AM. 

“Seph?” you called. 

Silence greeted you.

You got out of bed and stretched. The carpet was soft under your toes. Your clothes from the night before, along with Sephiroth’s, were gone. You wandered over to the bedroom door and poked your head out.

Empty. You were alone.

The lights were still on. The kitchen was near-pristine, the dishwasher churning away. A small note had been left on the counter:

Be back soon. Had a training thing I couldn’t get out of. Anything in the fridge is yours. -Seph.

Signed, as if anyone else could’ve left you that note.

You clutched the note to your chest and scanned the kitchen. The dishwasher had a tiny analog timer on its edge: SANITIZE. 0:37. CYCLE 3. A Shinra-co. microwave sat between black wooden cabinets. The dryer tumbled quietly; you could see your blouse and tights spinning together with Sephiroth’s jeans.

The fridge was silver and double-doored. There was a black screen on the right-hand door; when you tapped it, it chimed and lit up, showing you the inside of the fridge. 

Sephiroth had covered the other door in photos, and you seized the opportunity to scan them: Genesis and Angeal, laughing with their arms around each other. A clump of 2nd-Classes clustered around a fire in a vast field. The dusty red cliffs near Cosmo Canyon. Genesis wearing awful sunglasses in a gift shop. A cluster of new recruits, grinning and posing for the camera. Between photos were endless postcards and souvenirs: dangling keychains, beaches and forests and old ruins, WISH YOU WERE HERE, a fossil magnet, a seashell, a train ticket (already punched). A couple of ceramic seagulls held a yellowed fan letter; in clumsy pen, it read:

To Mister Sehpir Sephiroth, My name is Cloud I am your biggest fan. I’m from Nibelheiiem have you ever been it is a beutiful place with lots of mountains and fields also. One day I want to be a strong soldier like you helping the people and maybe earning enough money to buy my mom a big house because she deserves it. Ive been doing a lot of jumping jacks and I can do at least 20 push ups so I’m almost ready to fight you in a match. Please come to Nibelhiem someday so we can be friends. Yours truly Cloud strife

You opened both refrigerator doors and squinted into the blinding white shelves. Sephiroth had meticulously organized his food into categories, packing the fridge end-to-end with fruit, pre-made meals, drinks, and leafy vegetables. A plastic carton of chocobo eggs dominated the middle shelf. They were clearly farm-fresh: they varied in color from beige to gray to pale green. Your leftovers from last night sat on a lower shelf, right above a produce basket filled to the brim with unidentifiable green smoothies.

The left-hand door of the fridge was packed with glass bottles of mako: sickly green, stacked one atop the other. You winced. These were scheduled doses, mixed with a noxious protein solution: designed to be taken once daily with food. The amount in Sephiroth’s fridge made you faintly nauseous. You had probably signed off on an experiment request without any thought as to what that much mako actually looked like.

Were you poisoning him?

CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE, said the orange stickers on the bottle. CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE. CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE.

You shuddered and closed the fridge.

The cabinets below the counter were that same black wood. Past the dishwasher was a gleaming silver sink, empty save for a single glass. The faucet was capped with a tiny water filter. You stood on your tiptoes and pried open the cabinets above: more plain glasses, some novelty cups, a pint glass that said IT’S 5 O’ CLOCK SOMEWHERE! in cheery, chipped lettering next to a cartoon lobster wearing sunglasses. 

Near the sink was the espresso machine, along with a stack of well-loved cookbooks and jars of coffee beans. A bottle opener sat discarded. Nearby, an empty mug boasted SHINRA RESEARCH DIVISION in faded red, a dried coffee ring visible inside of it.

You didn’t feel particularly hungry. The only thing you felt was cold. You were still naked. You walked around the bartop, into the living room. Sephiroth had moved your overnight bag when he left, placing it neatly atop the couch for you. Masamune was gone from her high shelf.

You tucked his note inside the bag's inner pocket, retrieved an old GU t-shirt and your sleep shorts. After some consideration, you pulled out a pair of socks, too. The bag seemed comically overpacked, even for a weekend; you had gone through the endless possibilities of things and fluids you could’ve spilled on yourself or stepped into. Ultimately, you ended up packing for several days in some endlessly-cycling, nonsense climate. Your pill organizer was buried at the bottom.

Now dressed, you carried the pill organizer to the kitchen. You had to stand on your tip-toes to get a water glass. The sink burbled happily as you poured yourself a glass. Midgar prided itself on having some of the cleanest water on the Western continent, provided you lived on the upper plate. You still remembered the water filters from your childhood in the slums: the sour, rotten-egg smell of the brackish water pouring from the tap. The water from Sephiroth’s sink tasted like nothing. 

A drawer near the fridge sat packed with protein and granola bars. You shoved one in your mouth to stave off the inevitable nausea from the pills.

That’s a lot of medication, your GP had once said, eyeing you warily. You may want to consider weaning off of it.

How old are you? asked your relatives. So many pills for a twenty-eight-year-old.

But you couldn’t go back in time. It was a small trade-off for being able to live with yourself. The granola bar felt like cardboard in your mouth. 

You set your pill organizer back on the counter, next to your glass of water, and wandered over to the bathroom. The mixture of items on the counter had vaguely shifted from the night before: the toothpaste now rolled up, the mouthwash turned to the right, a washcloth (still damp) hanging from a towel rack. There was a tub of white hair gel, uncapped, next to the left faucet knob; the indents of Sephiroth’s fingers were still visible in the product. You screwed the cap back on. A menagerie of cleaning materials sat next to a small, silver trash can under the sink.

Out of pure curiosity, you touched the mirror gently, trying its edges. It swung open, revealing a few more shelves: floss, extra toothbrushes, bars of soap, several spare bottles of shampoo and conditioner. It was good to know you’d be able to grab extras off of Sephiroth, should you forget something. 

But there, on the highest shelf, was also a small tube of mascara.

Something in you twinged. Sephiroth wore makeup? 

It doesn’t help that I don’t look right.

You weren’t sure how to feel. He didn’t need your pity, and from his defeated expression when he had said that, he didn’t want it, either. The pink tube still made you feel cold, a little vulnerable, on his behalf. There was so much separating him from the normal world; even the scale of the apartment was built to him, as if Shinra needed to think hard about where he fit in their war machine. 

You had visited the Sector 3 Zoo as a child. Your parents forced you into a frilly dress that itched and rode up in the summer heat. Your mother had sported a matching dress; she held your hand as the two of you gazed into the glass tanks. Painted jungle scenes loomed in the background of each tank, highlighting a few forlorn animals clustered together on a plastic tree. The decorations gave the impression of a healthy life: a hint of nature, like a well-placed accessory or seasoning on a dish. Perhaps they had painted the animals, too.

You closed the mirror.

With the door to the bathroom closed, you could see a few shelves set into the wall behind you. All boasted fresh white towels and washcloths. You grabbed one and headed back out to fetch your makeup remover.

Clunk.

You froze. You strained your ears, but you could only hear the whir of the dishwasher, the idle hum of the refrigerator. Did you break something?

You peered into the kitchen. The clunk had come from the cabinets. There was an odd curve in the corner: the cabinet door stretched from end-to-end in a smooth arc, like a bad optical illusion. You pulled it open.

Beyond was a large metal dumbwaiter. The metal platter held a small assortment of groceries in a paper bag: dinosaur kale and a chunk of celery peeked out from the top. 

That explains the clunk, you thought. Sephiroth must have had everything in this apartment delivered. There was something immeasurably sad about the dumbwaiter, the grocery delivery. Either Sephiroth was so abominably overworked that he couldn’t grocery shop, or— worse— he couldn’t step outside of his apartment at all for the crowds. 

Or both. 

You pulled the grocery bag out of the dumbwaiter. As if prompted, it plunged into the metal chute below. You tried to peer into the darkness, but you felt nausea overtake you. The dumbwaiter dropped down, down, down, until, after a leaden minute, it clunked somewhere far below. 

And then there was a groan, and it shot up again.

You backed away, clutching the grocery bag to your chest. The dumbwaiter groaned to a halt inside Sephiroth’s kitchen, holding two cartons of chicken eggs in a plastic bag. Someone (or something) was on the other end, stacking items onto the dumbwaiter.

You set the paper bag down on the counter and carefully removed the eggs from the dumbwaiter. This time, it stayed put inside the cabinet.

Sephiroth hadn’t indicated when he was coming back. The kindest thing you could do was put his groceries away for him before they became too warm. You sorted the chicken groceries on the counter, refrigerating only what needed refrigerating. Sephiroth’s fridge had an intimidating-looking organizational system; as you shelved the eggs near the Chocobo eggs, you prayed you wouldn’t get it wrong. Sephiroth had been so wonderfully patient and gentle with you thus far, but everyone had their limits, especially with you. You shoved the worry down as you weighed a cucumber in your hand, considering your options. The vegetables joined the refrigerator baskets; the fruit was placed near the bowl of clementines.

You yawned as you closed the fridge door. Remove the makeup, you thought, and then back to bed until Sephiroth returned.

Sleep had removed most of your eyeshadow and mascara. You set to work cleaning your face. On the first swipe, the towel came away with an angry smear of concealer. Your mind raced: Could you offer to buy another towel? Should you throw it in the laundry, run it yourself? Or no, perhaps he paid the water bill. Between putting the groceries away and this mistake, you had some explaining to do.

You took a deep breath and neatly folded the towel on the bathroom counter. Better to beg forgiveness, maybe. You took care to leave the makeup stain visible; he could decide what to do with you when he returned.

Back in the bedroom, you caught sight of the books shoved under the bed. You wiped your damp hands against your sleep shorts. What could Sephiroth possibly want to hide from you? He could’ve put them into his crowded bookshelves, and you wouldn’t have been the wiser. These were books he must have been looking at recently: perhaps before bed, or just before your visit.

You knelt down on the carpet and peeked under the bed. The pile was maybe ten, fifteen books deep: just enough to be sizable without crowding the (otherwise empty) space. You dragged a few books into the light.

FEMALE SEXUAL ANATOMY - 1995 Revised Edition

Satisfied: Female Arousal and Orgasm

Becoming Better Lovers: How to Worship the Female Form

“He wasn’t kidding,” you muttered to yourself as you sifted through the books. The Science of Touch, said the next book, Why We Need It and How to Give It. You felt that stab of pity again, the feeling that you were back at the zoo, watching the sad animals on their plastic tree with their painted background. You would’ve been happy to help him touch you, or maybe not, your brain added, because you had pushed him away so thoroughly that even you didn’t know you wanted him until he was there. Fresh guilt ran through you: maybe he hadn’t thought himself able to ask. He had seemed embarrassed to admit his lack of experience, and for a moment, you scolded yourself for having pressed it out of him. 

No, said a different voice in your head. He told you because he wanted to. This voice sounded suspiciously like Sephiroth.

There were quite a few gil-store romance novels here, many of them dog-eared and broken at their spines. You snorted at the buff men on the cover, the authors’s campy pen-named names: M.S. ROSE, EARL LUV, JENNY SWOON. It seemed almost unreal that the Sephiroth would be just as taken with these as a village housewife. No wonder he had taken so poorly to being called such in bed.

You hesitated over the last book:

Loving the Fearful Avoidant Partner

You had a terrible feeling this book was about you.

With trembling hands, you opened the covers. Every page was littered with highlights, sticky notes, and cramped annotations in Sephiroth’s looping handwriting. There were bountiful dog-ears across each chapter, noting where Sephiroth had stopped and started and stopped again.

You sat back on your heels and slowly carded through the book. Every page, every sentence, had been examined, pored over, dissected: how to deal with touch avoidance, how to recognize dissociation, how to reassure your partner that you would be there again and again. Pencil filled every empty space on the page, and when Sephiroth ran out of room, he continued on sticky notes.

Tears welled up in your eyes. He had tried. He had wanted you enough to make you feel safe, had wanted you enough to read this book front-to-back and take notes. He saw you as someone to love, to care for and guide; not something to use and then discard at the first sign of trouble.

This is so much, you thought, swallowing around the lump in your throat. So much for you, angry and broken and sad and detached-from-everything you: resigned to cruelty, married to the dark room, the couch at the party, the dorm room bed. This was a level of care that sent a pang through those vulnerable parts of you, like a gentle hand stroking your hair, excruciating in its thoughtfulness.

You sniffled and returned the book to the pile. You curled up on the carpet, hands curled like dead birds to your chest.

Once, you had had a traumatic attack in front of your parents, the stress of everything raining down all at once during a minor argument. You had curled up into a ball, hyperventilating and wailing. They had screamed at you to calm down, and, when that didn’t work, turned their backs to you in disgust, as if you were a disobedient child. Later, they asked if you were “done,” that same disgust glimmering deep in their eyes. You learned early that no one was coming when you felt that way; except now, someone was, and you didn’t know what to do with him. 

You crawled up to the bed, burrowed under the covers. His pillow still smelled like him, warm and floral and inviting, like the flowers in the Sector 5 Slums. You cried into it, pretended like he was holding you again.

Plink. The telltale chime of the Shinra messaging system.

You lifted your head. Sephiroth's tablet lit up from the bedside table: Instant Message from xxx-xxx-2546. 

Sephiroth’s tablet background was instantly recognizable: Zack at the holiday party, clutching a reluctant Angeal close and holding a phone out at arm’s length. Genesis had his chin on Angeal’s shoulder, staring up at the camera with a coy expression. For a moment, you felt a surge of envy: Genesis looked so pretty, and even Angeal’s disgruntled smile seemed handsome. Zack was all teeth, all bright eyes and a brighter smile. 

But in the corner of the photo, back against the wall, was Sephiroth’s long, silver hair. He was staring at someone. You squinted at the photo. The tablet went to sleep again, and you tapped the screen twice to wake it.

You. He was staring at you.

You had your hand to your mouth, looking down at your champagne, looking small and shy. But it was clearly you, that was your blouse and your slacks, and that was the wall you leant against.

And Sephiroth stood beside you with his own glass of champagne, had even leant down to listen to you talk. There was an inquisitive, gentle look on his face as he watched you. 

Somehow, you got the feeling that Sephiroth had chosen this photo on purpose. No one would notice you in the background; all anyone would see were Sephiroth’s colleagues. But every day, with every message he got, he let himself sneak a look at you. This was a small, secret thing, like a locket: like a photo that somehow held another, better one inside it.

---

The front door opened. You startled awake.

“Hello?” you called.

“Hello,” came the easy reply.

Sephiroth’s voice. You relaxed into the bed. The door thumped closed, and there was a sound like jingling keys, the turn of a lock. You snuggled back into the warmth of the covers as his footsteps moved through the living room. There was a gentle thump, presumably as he set Masamune back in her wooden stand, followed by the clang of a metal thermos on the marble countertop.

He gently pushed the bedroom door open.This seemed like the first doorway that you hadn’t seen him duck to get into. He was in his full battle regalia, down to the leather boots. His gloves were gone. “There you are.”

You made to sit up. Sephiroth held out a hand. 

“Don’t move.” His voice was soft, still rough around the edges with morning fog. “Are you hungry?”

You hesitated. “You don’t have to.”

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “I want you to be comfortable.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I want to.” He disappeared around the corner before you could protest. You sunk back into the pillows, fighting off humiliation. He had just come back from work, and, judging by how dark it had been when the alarm went off, he had been at it a long time. The clock now read 10:42 AM.

You heard the click of a stove burner. Sephiroth called out from the kitchen. “Sleep well?”

“I did,” you called back, and it was true. You normally struggled with sleeping with others, even those few long-term partners: your brain sensing danger where there wasn’t any, feeling the terror of waking up in an unfamiliar bed, startling with every adjustment and snore from the other half of the mattress. You hadn’t even realized he was in the bed with you until he wasn’t. “Did you?”

“Very well.” There was a note of surprise in his voice. “I didn’t want to strangle the recruits for once.” The fridge sang as it opened: ding-dong. “You put my groceries away?”

You winced. “I didn’t know how you liked them,” you said, trying to keep the fear out of your voice. “I didn’t want them to go, like, go bad, so—“

“No,” he replied. “This is perfect.” He sounded awed, even humbled. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” You let out a relieved sigh. 

You listened to him putter around the kitchen. Outside, the train circled lazily around the plate, sending puffs of white steam into the sky. This high up, it looked like a toy, like the ones in the High Street holiday displays. You took a deep breath, just to reassure yourself this was all real.

You scanned the room again. One of the closet doors was ever-so-slightly ajar, revealing a dark, cavernous closet. In the sunlight, the patchy spackling above the doors was even more obvious. The small tube of mascara, the books shoved under the bed: secrets, secrets, secrets. You readied yourself to call Sephiroth, but he returned, holding a wooden tray laden with food.

You sat up in bed, let him set the tray astride your lap. The amount of food on your plate seemed excessive, and yet, you had the feeling he had tried to hold back: Three Chocobo eggs, sunny-side-up, wobbled next to a side of sausage. He had stacked toast and roasted potatoes on top of each other, swallowing the rest of the plate. A small bowl of strawberries was tucked in the corner.

You peered into the mug he set down on your nightstand. The coffee was even black. You hadn’t had to tell him how you liked it.

“This is—“

“Too much?” Sephiroth knelt next to the bed. “I wasn’t sure.”

You could hear the nervousness in his voice, and your heart swelled. “No,” you replied, picking up a piece of toast. He had already buttered it for you: real butter, not the chemical stuff in Midgardian supermarkets. “It’s perfect.”

He touched gentle fingers to the soft flesh of your arm. Goosebumps prickled there. “I’m glad.” 

You relaxed back into the pillows as Sephiroth stroked your bare arm. You had needed this: the care, the ample affection. It was like being a child again, like being held close to a parent’s bosom, knowing you were safe and loved there.

It was hard to accept that this didn’t have a catch. 

You stopped chewing your toast. 

“You’re thinking again.” Sephiroth’s voice was gentle, teasing. You hadn’t even noticed that his hand had stilled.

“This is nice,” you whispered to the plate. “How can I repay you?”

He brushed his knuckles against your cheek. You leaned into it, and he laughed and brushed your cheek again: just for you, just because you liked it.

He liked you. He liked that you liked him. There was no disgust or smugness at how needy you were for him: there was a wound in your belly, and he wanted to mend it. 

You closed your eyes as Sephiroth cupped your cheek. His palm was warm, rough, against your skin. 

He said, “You don’t owe me anything. I’m not interested in playing games.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

“Thank me?” he laughed. “It’s my pleasure.”

He stood and stretched. You tucked into the eggs as he strode to the closet and began removing his armor. You watched him idly while you ate. He rolled each shoulder as the pauldrons came off: left, then right. The gloves, as it turned out, had already been stuffed in a pocket; Sephiroth removed them and folded them neatly before placing them in a drawer. He tilted his head to the side and audibly cracked his neck with a small grunt of satisfaction. You jumped, but he didn’t seem to notice your surprise. 

Next came the belts across his chest. As he slid his coat off, you caught the gleam of the honeybee against an inner pocket. 

You spoke up. “You kept it.”

Sephiroth looked over his shoulder with a raised brow. You gestured with your fork at the coat.

He turned the coat over in his hands until the honeybee was visible. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Of course I kept it,” he said before looking back up at you. “Someone in my bed has a free punch if I ever lose it.”

You shook your head. “I would never.”

“Hush. I promised.” 

You ducked your head to hide your grin. The egg yolk on your plate was perfectly runny, and you dragged the toast through it. The slice was thick, sourdough bread that easily sopped up the yolk. The butter tasted fresh, fresher than whatever artificial spread you had at home. There was still food on the plate, and yet you were rapidly filling up.  

“Does the switch still work?” you asked. “I can fix it for you if it doesn’t.”

“It does,” he said. He had already hung up the coat, yet he removed it from the closet again, turned the lapel out just to show you. With a tug of his fingers, the honeybee’s wings lifted.

You bit into a strawberry; it exploded on your tongue, sweet and tender. You spoke around it. “You can add a little cleaning solution to the gears if it stops doing that.”

Sephiroth hummed and placed the coat back on its hanger. There were more scars on his pale back: bullet wounds, old cuts, more burns. He shook out his hair as he unbuckled his pants. You averted your eyes out of habit; with his back turned to you, he didn’t notice. You doubted he would even care.

Each strawberry you picked up was as succulent as the last. You snuck another glance at Sephiroth, but he had already dressed himself in dark sweatpants and a faded white shirt. He had his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes with a weary, scrunched-up expression. 

“Seph?”

“Mm.” He blinked hard and looked over to you. Even from this distance, you could tell some of the mascara had smudged, giving the underside of his eyes a softer, raccoon-like halo.

You pointed at the spackling. “What happened there?”

Sephiroth followed your gaze. “Oh.” He blinked hard again, like he was noticing the patches for the first time. “I used to hang medals up there. Plaques, dedications, all kinds of honorary bullshit.” He shook his head and turned towards the bathroom. “I was sick of looking at them,” he added, voice flat, “so I took them all down.”

A chill ran through you. As he disappeared into the bathroom, you called after him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he called. The sink turned on, briefly, before sputtering to a stop. “It’s a fair question.”

The strawberries now gone, you mixed the potatoes with the remaining egg. “Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have asked it,” you said.

A laugh. “I won’t answer you if I don’t want to.” He poked his head through the doorway, swiping the soiled towel you had left across his eyes. “I can be stubborn.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you looked down and shoveled potatoes into your mouth.

You pushed your plate away when he emerged from the bathroom, his eyes red as he dried his hands on the ruined towel. His eyelashes were gone, too; or no, you thought, they were only a stark white, and they were just as long as you remembered. He looked unreal, even a little terrifying, and you didn’t catch yourself staring until he looked up at you and gave you a shy smile.

You cleared your throat. “Pretty.”

His smile widened with something bitter. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“No, I…come here.” You reached out a hand. He walked over and, when he leant to take your tray, you cupped his cheeks. Yes, his lashes were white after all, and still thick enough to hide his eyes from you. His eyes traveled across the plate, across your chest, up to your mouth and, finally, your eyes, where he squinted in confusion.

You leaned forward as far as you could, and he closed his eyes and pushed his head forward, into the gap, where you could press a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Pretty,” you said again, more forcefully.

His hands tightened around the tray. “Mm.”

He stayed where he was when you pulled away. When he opened his eyes, he stared at your shirt: the old, faded GU gym shirt your parents had bought you when you had been accepted. 

You fidgeted, and this seemed to snap him out of whatever train of thought he had been stuck in. He stood, tray in his hands, and turned to leave, though not before you caught his mouth twisted in deep concentration.

“Seph?” you called.

“One minute,” he called back. You couldn’t read his voice. Your heart began to race.

By the time he returned, you had already scripted an entire apology in your head. You pushed the covers away, but before you could get out of bed to soothe him, he climbed on top of you.

“Seph—“

“Shh.” He kissed you, then, soft and wanting, like he was trying to solve something. You leaned up into him. He didn’t seem angry, from what you could tell.

You pulled away. “Mad at me?”

He tilted his head. This close, you could see the ring of mako around his pupils. The white lashes fluttered when he blinked. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know, it—“ You twirled one of his bangs around your finger. When you released it, it still held pin-straight. You twirled it again. “I just, you didn’t seem to like when I called you ‘pretty.’”

Sephiroth lowered himself completely onto you. You leaned back, propped up against the pillows, and he pressed his ear to your belly. He gazed out of the windows, scanned the Midgar cityscape. It felt good, feeling his arms wrap around you, holding you close to him. You brushed your nose against the top of his head. He smelled like boy there: powdery, human, all warmth and skin. 

After a long silence, he said, “I’m not used to it.”

“No one’s ever called you that before?”

“Plenty of times,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut like this admission pained him. “But it’s…different, coming from you.” He opened his eyes again. His voice was a soft murmur against your skin, his breath tickling your stomach. “I know that you mean it.”

“Do you like it?”

“I do,” he said.

His head was so heavy against your chest; you felt your heart rate slow as he nuzzled into your breastbone. This neediness, coming from him, somehow made you feel safer. You kissed the part of his hair, just because you could, and he sighed deeply, melting more impossibly against you. That just made you hold him tighter.

His voice was deeper when he spoke up. “I have work.”

“Oh.” You released him, making to sit up, but he stayed where he was, pinning you to the bed. You weren’t strong enough to push him off.

His eyes were still closed. “Just reports and checking my inbox.” He let out a frustrated growl and rubbed his cheek against you. “I told everyone I was unavailable.”

You patted his head in what you hoped was a soothing gesture. “Hojo does that to me all the time,” you said. “You should set up one of those out-of-office messages.”

“I did,” said Sephiroth. “I had Rhapsados set it up. It didn’t work.”

Genesis, you thought. A small coil of jealousy formed in your gut. You scolded yourself for being irrational; the man was cuddling you, and yet you were stuck on how his best friend had cornered you in your lab. You wondered if Sephiroth knew, if saying so would ruin the moment.

“Well,” you said, “fuck them for, for bothering you.”

He snorted and opened his eyes. “I’d rather not,” he drawled at the opposite wall. “I want to ignore them.”

You giggled. He turned his head, lifted your shirt just high enough to kiss the tattooed roses on your belly. 

You could feel his smile against your skin when he spoke up: “I’ll just be a few hours, and then you can do what you want with me. How’s that?”

---

You spent the rest of the morning on the couch in the living room while Sephiroth went through paperwork in the bedroom. Sitting in front of the TV made its level of disuse even more apparent: a thin layer of dust sat on the remote. Shinra provided him with every streaming service and channel known to man (and a few, you thought, only accessible to the very, very rich).

You replayed that odd expression he had had when you called him pretty: the way his mouth twisted, the way he kept his head down when he pressed it to your chest. It stuck between your teeth as you flipped through the channels. 

Why would I be mad at you?

Did he mean it? The soft words, the breakfast in bed, the gentle touches— did those mean something? 

What if he was just pretending? What if you had finally sparked a nerve with your comment, and he was trying to be polite?

You stared blankly at some documentary about mass-produced crayons. You felt ill at ease, turning over each syllable in time with the factory machinery. I’m— not— in-- ter— es— ted— in— play—ing—games. Clink, turn. You—don’t—owe—me—any—thing. Clink, turn. This was usually the end of the-- well, not a relationship, you chided yourself, but the something. After the sex came the awkward goodbyes, the dropped texts, the averted gazes in the hallway. Clink, turn. I—want—you—to—be—com—for—ta—ble. His voice was so clear in your head. You huddled closer to yourself. You had already served your purpose; what did he need you for now? Why pretend?

“Are you cold?”

You started violently, knocking over a couch cushion. A firm hand gripped your shoulder. You sighed audibly and pressed your hand to your racing heart.  

“I’m sorry,” said Sephiroth, a laugh at the edge of his tone. “I should wear a bell, or so I’m told.”

You rubbed at your eyes. “No, it’s…fine. Can you— what did you say?”

The hand at your shoulder loosened, drifted over your shoulder to rub your upper back. “I asked if you were cold,” he replied. He sounded so even, so self-assured, that your earlier doubts seemed ridiculous. You hung your head, staring at your hands in your lap: curled, again, like dead birds. The man wasn’t kicking you out; he was making you comfortable, and damn convention, he was acting as if this was the thousandth weekend together, not the first. How many times would it take for you to realize that?

You’re thinking again, and now the Sephiroth in your brain had a mocking, snide tone.

Sephiroth stopped rubbing your back and said your name gently. You looked up The documentary had switched to a Potion commercial.

“I could use a blanket,” you mumbled, and a minute later, one laid on your shoulders. You turned to thank Sephiroth, but he was already retreating back to his room. This was a different blanket than the one from the first date: it was heavier and made of a black fleece, like a warm hug around your shoulders. Down feather filling, said the care label. Weighted.

You pressed your nose to the fleece and closed your eyes. This smelled like him, too. You picked up the fallen pillow and tucked it under your head. 

Eventually, the documentary flipped over to a Chocobo-wrangling reality show, then a Cosmo Canyon documentary. The sun rose higher in the sky. 

A white bowl was set on the coffee table in front of you, filled with your leftovers from last night. Sephiroth’s voice came from your left: “Move over.”

You pressed yourself against the L-joint of the couch as Sephiroth lowered himself down next to you with a groan, his tablet in hand. One of those unidentifiable green smoothies was in a pint glass on the table: Going Insane, Back In 5!! A faded cactaur danced across his shirt; it wore orange Mideelean festival garb. It was a strong contender for the ugliest thing you had ever seen.

“You’re so far away.” He beckoned you. “Don’t you want to come here?”

You slowly extended your legs again. Sephiroth caught them and placed your calves against his lap. When he slid closer to you, you were able to sit up with your back against the couch corner.

He leaned forward to take the bowl of leftovers, passed it to you. There was a spoon in the corner, floating near the beef. “Lunch.”

“Thank you,” you murmured. He handed you a pair of clean chopsticks before settling back with the smoothie. The leftovers were just as good as they had been the night before: the fridge had congealed the broth into something smoother, more comforting.

Sephiroth tilted his head back and chugged half of the smoothie. He set the glass down on the coffee table. “What’s this you’re watching?”

You looked back at the television: it was that Chocobo wrangler show again. A heavyset man with a drawling accent explained the color variations in a wild black Chocobo. Wiz, said the bright orange subtitle. “Just whatever.” You picked at the noodles. “I wasn’t really watching it.”

“Mm?” Sephiroth settled back against the couch with his tablet. His hand idly stroked one of your legs. You shivered. “Do you like chocobos?”

You had visited a Chocobo farm once in high school: part of a biology class trip. You sat out the dissection of a Chocobo heart; more accurately, you fainted and spent the rest of the day in the emergency room. You had always been too soft, too open, for such things. “I…I do, yeah.” Wiz had moved on to scouting for a black Chocobo nest. "They’re cute.”

“I had the pleasure of visiting a farm west of Midgar.”

“Did you ride one?”

“I did.” Sephiroth gave you a coy smile. “You’ll never guess the color.”

You clutched the bowl against your chest and smiled back. “White?”

He scoffed, patting your shin in frustration. “How did you know?”

“What did you think I’d guess?” You picked up the remote and browsed through the apps again. 

“Most guess black. Wait,” said Sephiroth, his hand tightening briefly on your leg as an old black-and-white film appeared on the “Recommended” list. “Do you like movies?”

“Sure I do.” The film he stopped on was at least seventy years old; you recognized the movie star as she gazed dreamily up at her man. It matched the books under Sephiroth’s bed. 

“I’ve been meaning to watch this.” He placed his hand higher now, on your thigh this time, and again you shivered, warmth already pooling in your belly. “Would you like that?”

“Of c—“ You coughed around the sudden lump in your throat. “Of course.”

The movie opened on the heroine waiting at a train station. It was some famous actress, the kind who ran philanthropy projects in her old age and had acting awards named after her. Despite leaving the television on at home, you didn’t ever switch it to the oldies channel. Sephiroth, meanwhile, had already abandoned all pretext of working and was watching the screen intently. You drew the fleece blanket up to your chin.

The heroine moved through the slums, back when the slums were nice: before the garbage and the industrial waste and the plate above. From what you could gather, the hero was a cop (or a detective, or a private eye, or a something-or-other), and the heroine was trying to pull him away from a high-profile case. You looked between the screen and Sephiroth, but he was transfixed. Occasionally, he woke his tablet and pecked out a few messages with his index finger, took a sip of smoothie. You finished your lunch and set the bowl down on the table.

Through the film, he absentmindedly stroked your leg. You wanted to speak up, tell him how much you loved that: how familiar it was, how friendly. It was impossible to focus on the movie when he was touching you like he had known you for ages. You closed your eyes—

“What is riding the subway like?”

You looked to Sephiroth, but he was staring at the movie, head tilted ever-so-slightly in fascination. The hero and the heroine were riding the old Midgar rail system. The city whipped behind them as they spoke in hushed tones.

“The…the subway?” You remembered the mascara in the bathroom, the dumbwaiter bringing his groceries, and your heart broke for him again. “You’ve never been?”

“No,” he said softly. “Trains, yes. Subway, no.” 

“It’s kind of awful,” you blurted. “You’re not missing anything.”

“Yeah?” He still had that lost, faraway look on his face. You could see his eyes— those strange eyes— following the sights racing past the windows, beyond where the protagonists spoke in low, husky voices. Part of you wanted to lie to him: to tell him that the subway was fascinating and beautiful and clean, always empty enough for you to get a seat, always on time. 

You pushed ahead with honesty. “I moved plate-side so I didn’t have to take it anymore. It’s…it’s a l-lot, like…like everyone’s pushing you and a-and you don’t have any personal space and it’s…it’s like, like gross. Dirty.”

A concerned expression overtook his face then, like he was on the edge of a question. Sephiroth looked to you, looked back to the screen, and in the next second, his worry dissolved into nothing: cool impassivity. “I see,” is what he said. 

“Now you look, like, like you’re thinking.” That damned stutter. It always ruined your delivery.

“No,” said Sephiroth to the screen. There was a far-off quality to his voice that made you feel guilty for pressing, and you propped yourself up on your elbow to watch him. “No, it’s nothing.”

The mirth drained from you. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I, like, I made it seem a-a-awful.”

He squeezed your calf, a fond smile on his lips. “Shhh. I’m glad you don’t have to take it anymore.”

“You sure?”

He inclined his head. “I am.”

The movie was slow, artsy in a way that felt foreign to you. You yawned. Your medication had worn off. Already, the sky outside had taken on a lazy, golden color. 

You blinked hard, just for a moment, and the scene in the movie changed entirely. You blinked again, and the protagonists kissed, and the room seemed dimmer: you were nodding off, you realized. 

Just for a few seconds, you thought. I’ll close my eyes for a few seconds.

The sun sank lower in the sky. Your eyelids felt heavy, and Sephiroth’s lap was warm under your calves, and he was stroking your leg so gently.

---

You woke to something sizzling. The apartment was almost completely dark, save for the kitchen, where Sephiroth was fussing. The sun had long since set; Midgar twinkled below.

When you sat up, the weighted blanket fell off to the side. He had covered you in it while you slept, even tucked it into the couch cushions for you. The TV was muted, now playing a different film; this one was in blotchy color, showing grizzled cowboys peering across the Eastern desert. Their black chocobos shook themselves and tittered silently.

The couch pillow had a small drool puddle off to one side. You rubbed your cheek clean and looked over your shoulder. Sephiroth had his back to you. His hair was up in a ponytail again, but he hadn’t bothered to put on his apron.

He tilted his head. “Awake?”

That SOLDIER hearing is something else. You swallowed the urge to apologize, landed instead on: “I know we were supposed to have the weekend. Guess I was more tired than I thought.”

He bent down to remove something from the oven and place it on the stove. “You needed to rest,” he said. “I’m flattered you felt comfortable.”

Sephiroth didn’t sound upset. You placed your feet on the floor and neatly folded the fleece blanket. Still, it seemed like a waste when he had taken time off just for you. 

You spoke up. “I’m not thinking, by the way.”

“I didn’t say you were.” He did turn to you this time, flashing a toothy smile. It pained you how handsome he was. You looked away and petted the blanket like it was a fussy animal.

Sephiroth continued to prepare your dinner. He had long since cleared the dishes from your lunch. Your clothes were neatly folded at the other end of the couch; he had even zipped your overnight bag up for you. 

You watched him scoop a lump of green vegetables next to a steak. He eyed the way they sat on the plate before leaning in and poking them, rearranging them to his satisfaction.

So careful for you.

He spoke up. “Wine?”

“Yes, please?”

He served you on the bartop again, and the two of you ate shoulder-to-shoulder. A Chocobo egg wobbled atop his steak; on the stove, you saw another steak cooling, waiting for his second course. He leaned in to examine your steak from time-to-time, asking quietly if you liked it, if it was cooked properly. The seasoning crunched in your mouth; it tasted, somehow, like summertime, despite the snow outside. The green lump turned out to be a mixture of broccoli and spinach; the acrid tang of lemon sang on your tongue with each bite. Over halfway through your first glass of wine, he retrieved the second steak and ate that, too. 

Dessert was another helping of the fresh strawberries from that morning; he even put a dollop of whipped cream on the corner of the plate. The cream tasted hand-made; when you asked, the corner of his mouth quirked.

“Good eye,” he said. “Do you like it?”

You eagerly reached for a second strawberry. “When did you make fucking whipped cream?”

“It’s really not difficult,” he said. Before you could lift the cream-covered strawberry to your mouth, he gently took your wrist. “Let me—“

You turned to him, about to ask, when he plucked the strawberry from your fingers. He held it to your lips and raised his eyebrows.

Oh. 

You leaned in and bit into the strawberry, focused on not dripping juice and cream down your chin. When you looked up again, he had a soft look on his face that bordered on pleased, and the butterflies in your stomach kicked up again. These were romantic cliches, the type of stuff you saw in bad movies or in gil-store romance novels. 

He was mimicking them. 

You wiped your chin with your hand. Sephiroth didn’t know any better, didn’t let endless Valentine’s Days alone defeat him. You had given up the fantasy of being hand-fed the second a man pinned you in bed. Now, you felt that part of you lift its head with hope.

He proffered the rest of the strawberry with a questioning noise. You smiled as you finished it from between his fingers. Eating from him felt different: like he was truly caring for you. It didn’t quite kill the old panic that arose when you were vulnerable in front of him, but seeing, feeling, him dab at your mouth with a napkin certainly dulled its edge. Maybe the wine was making you brave.

When Sephiroth brought another cream-covered strawberry to your lips, you took it down in one bite. He smiled, close-lipped, and made a satisfied hmm when you made eye contact.

You cupped your hand under your mouth and chewed. “’S good.”

“I’m glad.” He waited for you to swallow before offering the next. “Hydroponically-grown.”

You bit just the strawberry’s tip, but didn’t move from the fruit as you chewed. “Where at?”

He craned his neck over the counter. “I’d have to look at the packaging. But I asked for local.”

“It’s not important.” You chomped down the rest of the strawberry, and, when you got to the stem, kissed the tips of his fingers. His breath caught, and you grinned. 

He fed you the rest of the strawberries that way. When you had eaten the last one, he stood and took the plates, but not before you swiped a finger through the remaining cream and licked it clean. A flush crept up his neck; he cleared his throat and moved past you, into the kitchen.  

“Let me fill the dishwasher,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”

“Okay.” But you didn’t move from your seat, watching him at the sink. His face was in profile to you as he rinsed your plates.

A droplet of sweat crept down his aquiline nose; it lingered at the tip, quivering, and then it dropped into the sudsy mess. 

I’m going to kiss him, you thought. He pressed his face to his shoulder, blotting off the sweat on his brow. It left a dark spot on his white shirt. I want to kiss him. 

You slid off of your chair, leaving your wine glass on the counter. 

You tiptoed across the kitchen tile. Sephiroth paused, lifted his head just so, as if he knew what you were doing. Even better, he seemed like he was waiting for it.

You pressed your palm to the small of his back, and there was no mistaking the way he shivered in response. 

You slid your arms around his waist and pressed your body up to his. 

Every muscle under your fingers was drawn taut and firm. He let out a shaky exhale and braced his hands against the counter as you drifted your hands across his body, feeling the soft give of his lower belly, the hard curve of his spine under your lips, his soft hair brushing your cheek. You reached for his nipples and reveled in the way he sighed yes, soft and secret for you, as you pinched and rubbed at them through his shirt. There was a soft humming sound, deep and resonant and pleased, and it took you a moment to realize that it had come from you, that you had let out that sound of deep satisfaction. 

All too soon, his body shifted, and you barely had time to reorient yourself before his lips pressed to yours. The affectionate kiss stood stark against how greedily he pulled you up against his chest. Your toes just brushed the tile, and you braced your hands against his chest for balance. He was hard, the sweatpants doing nothing to hide how much he wanted you, and it felt good against your belly, the press of his hips heady and sweet and still so gentle, somehow. Still no tongue when he kissed you; you’d have to introduce that yourself. You had imagined that this is what being a teenager in love felt like: dizzy and innocent, full of possibility, the emotional baggage left at the curb. 

“Can I lift you?” he whispered. 

“You’re kind of already lifting me,” you whispered back.

He laughed, then sighed. “Here.”

You felt his broad arm hook under your thighs, and you yelped as he lifted you up onto the counter. He deposited you on the cold marble and stood between your legs. Your feet couldn't quite reach the ground.

“Not fair,” you squeaked. “Give me some warning next time!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, but there was a teasing smirk on his face. You cupped his cheeks and pulled him down to kiss you, and he met your mouth in earnest. With him standing between your legs, you could access all of him: his waist, the smooth planes of his chest, his cock, his ass. You wanted to worship him the way he deserved, kiss away that strange, hesitant look he had given you when you had called him pretty. His lips were sloppy, eager, against yours, and when you returned your fingers to his nipples, he finally, blessedly, licked your bottom lip, trying to get you to open for him. (You did.) This was going too quickly for you to retrieve your tights from the wash; that idea would have to wait, still. His excitement made your blood run hot. 

You tugged on his nipples, and he surged forward towards you, like you were leading him by his tits. He snaked a hand between your legs and pressed two fingers to the seam of your shorts.

“No,” you said, batting his hand away. “You already did a lot.”

“I haven’t done anything,” he said. He braced the offending hand against the marble counter beside your hip. “I’ve only taken care of you, the way you deserve.”

“That’s a lot,” you replied. You reached for his sweatpants, pushed the waistband down to his upper thighs.

He tensed when you wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him forward. The blush had returned, painting his cheeks, staining the tips of his ears bright red. The words tumbled out of his mouth, all in a rush: “You don’t have to repay me—“

“No,” you said, “But I do wanna touch you. Take care of you.”

“Alrig— mm.” Sephiroth jerked his hips when you pressed your hand to his underwear. He was almost on top of you, as if he were standing on his tiptoes, trying to push his body into yours. You stroked the length of him through his underwear, marveled at how solid he was in your grip. This close, you could hear how his breath caught and sighed and lilted. You found where the head pressed against his right thigh, rubbed your thumb against it, and the way he groaned was almost violent, the cabinets next to your head rattling when he rested his forehead against them.

“Good?”

He laughed, and there was a low, ruined quality to it that went straight through you. “Good.”

“It— doesn’t hurt?” You continued to stroke him, cupping him through the fabric. “Right?”

“No.” This he punctuated with a messy kiss to the shell of your ear. “Sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“You,” he murmured. He shifted on his feet, and no, he wasn’t standing on his tiptoes, he was just very big and you, by comparison, very small. He held onto your waist with his right hand. “You’re sweet.”

You couldn’t help but smile, hiding your face against his collarbone. “You’re sweet.”

“We’ve been over this.” He removed his shirt, let it fall to the tile floor. You grabbed at his hips and squeezed, watched his belly ripple as he tensed. Already, his body was feeling like home, and you couldn’t tell him how grateful you were for it. “I’m not sweet, and I’m not cute, and I am not your little wife.”

It was hard to believe him when he fell so easily into your arms, his warm body like a shield from the rest of the kitchen. “Liar,” you said.

“You tease, but I’ll prove it.”

“You are sweet and cute and, absolutely,” you added, speeding your hand on his cock, watching as he licked his lips and thrust into your hand, “My little wife.”

He braced his hands against the counter. “At some point,” he growled, “when you least expect it, I’ll show you.”

“You— you had better.” You were rewarded with Sephiroth’s breath ghosting against your ear as he leaned in, panting hot and loud. “You can bite there, you know.”

“Can I, now?” It took him a few tries to latch onto your ear, but when he did, you jumped. He tugged eagerly at the lobe, the pain of his bite sinking straight into the center of you. As you braced your forehead against his shoulder, he chuckled. “Sensitive. I’ll remember that.”

“You had better,” you repeated, feeling dizzy and warm as you shifted to press your cunt against him.

“I remember everything you tell me,” he whispered as he started to rut against you. You arched your back, matching his thrusts, fascinated by his clothed cock silhouetted in his underwear. 

“Yeah?” you whispered. 

“Of course,” he whispered back. “Why wouldn’t I?”

His thrusts stuttered, and you took the opportunity to speak up: “Can I see how you, um, like….like to…?” Saying it aloud felt dirty, foreign: you wanted to watch how he touched himself, wanted to mimic that for him. You mimed jerking off, feeling your cheeks heat up.

Sephiroth seemed to catch your meaning. You saw his belly tense again, and when he spoke, there was a palpable hesitation: “You…can.”

He pulled away and tugged his underwear down just far enough to free his dick. You offered your hand, palm up, and he guided it to his cock. Silently, he encouraged your fingers into a loose fist, guided them up the shaft, then down again, letting you pull the foreskin down just long enough to let the damp, flushed head peek through. You repeated the motion, and he said, “Not so hard,” sounding choked, and you slowed down accordingly, loosened your fist until you heard him groan and felt him thrust into your palm. “Perfect.”

“This is right?” you whispered. You ghosted a thumb over his lower back, stroked him there in time with your fist. Goosebumps raised over his forearms as he returned his hands to the counter.

“You’re better than I am,” he choked out.

“No one’s better than you are.”

He laughed, and then he sighed. “I walked into that.”

You pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

His next breath came on a slow exhale: haah, somewhere just above your head. You tried gathering the precome from the head, using it to slick the way, and, when that didn’t work, paused long enough to lick your palm. He tasted like the ocean: clean and bright and salty. Sephiroth grunted at that, thrust eagerly when you returned your wet fist to his dick. Your pulse existed somewhere between your legs now: your heart had dropped down to the belly of this creature of pure need you had become. 

It seemed too early to use your mouth, though you desperately wanted to. It was easy to forget that this was still new for him. Perhaps other boys had touched him like this; you didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to ruin such a happy moment for the both of you. Better to spend that energy making it good for him, making him feel good: appreciated, admired, perhaps even loved.

He nosed your forehead. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

“Very much.” He punctuated “very” with a long slide of his hips. His cock twitched in your palm. “I wanted— “ He cleared his throat. “Wanted to make sure.”

You rested your chin against his shoulder and gripped his ass with your free hand, pushing him tighter against you. He let out a strangled gasp at how you dug your nails in. You flattened your palm and fingers against the underside of his cock, let him rut slowly, languidly, against it. When you brushed your lips against his neck, right where his fluttering pulse beat under his pale skin, he let out that strangled gasp again, sounding vulnerable and boyish, like you had found the very heart of him. You kissed him there, over and over, hot for how he moaned and bucked his hips for you, how he turned to putty in your willing hands. Your tongue, pressed flat against his collarbone and dragged, granted you one noise; your teeth against his shoulder, another. It was the same tender, drunken feeling you had watching— making— him come the night before, the rush of power from having a man twice your size so willingly open for you. You made a fist around his cock again, and he sounded wrecked when you began pumping him again in earnest, watched as his ass tensed and flexed with every thrust he matched you with. This felt softer, more delicate, somehow, than taking him inside you, and for a moment you remembered every lonely night you had had on your own bed, fumbling through your own body like it was an unfamiliar and disobedient machine. You were observing this in him, you realized: the discovery of the dark and secret thing, the clumsy fist and the friction against a barracks bed. Alone, while his friends were busy growing up and falling in love and being wanted.

The thought made your fist tighten ever-so-slightly, but it was enough for him, enough to make his thrusts erratic and unfocused.

“Like this?” you murmured.

“Like—“ Somewhere above you, Sephiroth turned his head, his deep voice breathy and confused. “What do you mean?”

“Do…” You cleared your throat, relaxed your fist. You felt mortified even asking. “Want to come like this, or…um.”

You felt his sigh float over your hair. “Oh. Hmm.” His thrusts slowed briefly, as if he was holding back. “This,” he said finally. His hands curled into fists against the marble. “Like this.” He swallowed. “Please?”

“Okay.” You pressed your nose to his shoulder. Your voice felt heavy and sweet with want, as if you were dripping molasses from your lips. “Yeah.” 

He arched his back and shivered: like a big cat stretching before a kill. You resumed kissing and nibbling at his shoulder, listening to him moan in your ear you as you worked him in your fist. There was something impatient driving his hips forward now, but you kept your pace deliberately slow, relishing how he grunted with frustration and pressed his nose to your cheek, breath coming in bursts over your fevered skin.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, please.”

“Good boy, Seph,” you murmured, just to feel yourself say it, just to see what he’d do, if he liked it. A thrill ran up your spine at voicing it aloud. “So good.”

His entire body curled in on itself all at once, and you felt him groan your name with relief when he finished. Hot come dripped generously through your fingers, spilling into your lap. You watched his release with fascination: how much he had wanted you; how bravely he handed himself over to you. 

When his breathing steadied, you slowed your hand, swiping the pad of your thumb across the head just to hear him hiss. He straightened and moved your hand out of the way.

“I’ve…” He winced. “Made a mess on you.” There was genuine concern in his voice as he turned your hand over in both of his. “I’m very sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” You felt a tiny, familiar pang of worry, seeing his release on your skin. There were negative memories there, too, an instinctive disgust towards the feeling of semen cooling on your skin, but you didn’t want him to feel guilty for feeling pleasure. If you shamed him, then you were no better than those who came before. 

He seemed to notice your staring and leaned across the counter to grab a paper towel. He wet it under the faucet. “Here.” Cradling your wrist in one hand, he wiped off your hand. “I feel terrible. I didn’t know there’d be so much.”

“Hey.” You put your hand atop his. “It’s okay. I liked it. I promise.” And that, too, was true: that familiar disgust cowered in the face of your pride, in the face of the warm affection you felt for him and your arousal still very much settled between your legs. You took the damp towel from him and resumed cleaning your right leg. “You’re starting to, like, sound like me. You know?”

“Don’t say that.” Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him smile as he reached for more paper towels.

“I just did.” You blotted at your shorts as he set to cleaning himself and tucking himself back into his underwear.

“Mm. You need those washed.” Sephiroth hooked an index finger under your waistband. “Would you like them off?”

“Mm-hmm,” you murmured. “Let me get off your counter.”

“No need,” he purred. The two of you wiggled you out of your shorts, and they joined his discarded shirt on the ground.

You hissed at the marble on your bare ass. “Seriously? I’m never eating your cooking again.”

Sephiroth tutted. “I do clean.”

When he dropped to his knees, you shrank back. “Wait. No.”

“No?” He sat back on his heels and looked up at you, his lips parted. “Are you—?“

“No, I just—“ You pressed your thighs together. Your voice came out as a half-hearted mumble: “I mean. You don’t…have to.”

He cupped your calves and leaned forward to kiss your thighs. “I want to.” He eyed you. “Unless you don’t?”

“I do,” you breathed. “But I just—“

“Then let me.” He inched forward. Letting him eat you out still felt indulgent: fistfuls of cake between your fingers, too full, too much. You looked away, feeling shy, as he leaned in to nose your cunt; it felt like you had become his meal. His voice was a low rumble: “Let me please you.”

“But your knees—“ you gasped as his tongue dipped into you, “—are gonna bruise.”

He barely moved his mouth from your cunt when he replied. “Badges of honor.”

Sephiroth teased you at first: soft flicks of his tongue against your clit, a gentle nuzzle between your folds, his hot breath against you like he was breathing you in. You didn’t have to tell him what you liked again: he seemed to move with muscle memory, clearly listening to your gasps and the cadence of your panting. You felt entirely too warm, too alive, like every cell in your body was attuned towards his next move.

Then, all at once, he latched onto your clit in earnest and sucked hard, those green eyes looking up to you to gauge your response. A bright shock of pleasure followed, and you hid your face behind a trembling hand. You felt, rather than heard, his laugh.

Your voice was high behind your hand as you turned away. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Mm.” His hand was warm against your inner thigh, his thumb stroking along the delicate skin as he encouraged your legs further apart for his affections. When he looked up at you again, there was a smugness in his eyes, and that only made you feel wetter. His tongue moved in lazy circles against your clit, and you bucked your hips into his mouth. When you closed your eyes, you were stuck on his face mid-orgasm: the gentle downturn of his brow, eyelids heavy with pleasure, lips parted in a delicate o, like he was surprised at how good you felt to him.

Sephiroth sunk a finger into you, then, and he crooked it like he was beckoning to you. It was just shy of where you wanted him, but the effort, the fact that he remembered, was pleasure enough. “Yes,” you hissed, except it came out as a strangled, “Mm,” and then you were coming. The satisfied moan he released when you came on his face made you shiver. The moment stretched, full and open: the kind of orgasm you turned away. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Want more?” he asked, still crooking the finger in the wrong place, looking so awestruck, so pleased with you, that you wanted to cry.

“Not now,” you whispered. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it is.” He pressed his cheek to your inner thigh and drew out his finger. You reached down and laced your fingers with his. 

The two of you stayed there in silence for a few moments: you sitting on the counter, him between your knees. He closed his eyes and drew lazy circles on your thigh with his free hand. It was still a strange feeling, being so satisfied with him: you brushed his hair out of his eyes so you could admire his peaceful expression. 

“I wanted to shower,” you said.

He opened his eyes to look up at you. His pupils shrank against the fluorescent light. “What’s stopping you?”

“You look so happy,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “I didn’t want to move you.”

He closed his eyes again. “I can move. Did you want company?”

“Yes.” The answer came as one blurted exclamation. You wanted him against you, wanted to feel his wet skin pressed to yours from behind. Maybe you could coax him into a hot bath afterwards.

---

As it turned out, you could.

Go to next chapter >>>

[sdog1blog]

Cody, NE

On a motorcycle trip about 25 years ago, I camped in Cody’s city park. On a trip last summer to the Rocky Mountains, our return brought journey had us passing Cody at about the time to call it a day, so we pulled the camper into the town park

The world must be flat as it drops off at the edge of town.

On the motorcycle trip, I had dinner at the local, had a nice chat with a sheriff’s deputy that lived in the area. He told me that he really didn’t care how fast I rode on the county and state roads as long as I backed off going through the little towns. He did say he’d bring a body bag for me if I got too enthusiastic. He also mentioned that US20 was patrolled by the state police and they did care about my speed.

When I came through here in the mid 90′s, the railroad tracks had already been torn up for likely more than 20 years. This grain elevator and the warehouses were abandoned then. To the west of the elevator there had been a derelict water tank from when steam engines hauled the freight.  

This had been a convenience store. A new one has been built on US20 that is run by the students of the local high school. The high school, the C-store, a gas station and a ranch supply are the only things keeping this little town from drying up and blowing away.

Cell service isn’t good and the locals are pretty poor.

A post office, gift shop (the hardware store is empty) and a bank branch is all that’s in downtown.

Perhaps a dozen or so houses occupied, some well kept.

South of US20 there is a stock pen/rodeo arena. On my motorcycle trip through here, that evening the local Roper’s Club was gathered. Basically rodeo events not including bull and bronc riding. 

Sitting in the grandstand I entered a conversation with a a couple of the ranch wives about life in the area. I learned a lot about ranching in about an hour. One of the women had her daughter with her, who mom proudly told me had graduated summa cum laude from the local high school.

I asked the girl if she had college plans and what they were. She planned to study marketing at religious affiliated school in either SW Nebraska or SW Kansas, can’t remember which. When I inquired on what her plans were post college, she became animated and declared she’d love to move to Denver, but most likely it would be Omaha or Lincoln. Looking past the girl, my eyes met her mother’s as a tear slid down her cheek.

In that part of the country, the children usually leave and always the best and the brightest.  

All photos by Sleeping Dog

[lisacatara-actress]

Almost Lisa- Pt 2, “Almost Musician”

*I retain all rights to my photography and story, story details, biographical information, fashion designs, art work, and anything and everything I have posted which is my own creation*)

Just settled in to write today at another cafe, this time in Trilith Studios in Atlanta, GA (I’ll eventually get to how I got here). I like the owners, a humble and kind wife/husband team who make mean pastries (alas, I'm gluten-free. I'm part Italian. WHY GOD, WHY?! ). Recently, I asked if I could flood their tall, bare white walls with my art and photography. Today, I'm enjoying this collaboration, the coffee, the view, and the tiniest feeling of community. What better environment to continue penning my story?

“Failure is not the end of the world. Trip, fall, face plant… But throw up a jazz hand and carry-on! “

So... 9/11 changed many lives. While mine was spared (I went uptown to sign a work contract, missing breakfast in tower 2 that morning), my Broadway dreams ended. People were afraid to patron the theaters which suffered greatly for the lack of attendance (as did the Artists). As time progressed, top billed name actresses were cast to play roles once reserved for trained singer/ dancers. There was no room for a newbie like me. I had nowhere to live, no other friends in the city, no job security... I needed to figure out my next move, fast.

In a series of random and unrelated events, I was introduced to a producer in Hollywood, CA who encouraged me to jump coasts to try TV and film and gave me the name of what he felt was a reputable acting class to get started. At first, I laughed. I was a city girl. I loved fine and performing Arts. I needed culture! California was surfing and camping (so I thought). I didn't see myself fitting in. I also didn't see myself surviving a New York winter, homeless. So I made the difficult decision to drive cross country and rebuild my life in new, unknown territory. But first, a stop in Cleveland for a couple off nights to appease my parents. They knew nothing of what happened to me in NYC during the attacks. Only that I decided to shift focus. And they never asked. 

I am 16 in the photo above, working my first job in Little Italy, Cleveland. My Grandparents were proud of this. They were proud and supportive of everything and everyone in the family. And they seemed to make every concert and special event I had (there were many), including my graduation from Eastman. Somehow these two stayed madly in love their entire marriage. They were truly the glue which kept our family together. Outside of our house,  the times I heard my parents laugh and saw them smile most was at my grandparents house. Two of the Tarantino Brothers built their own homes, side-by-side, in Euclid, Ohio where they raised their children. Every Christmas, we’d enjoy a family dinner and homemade pastries, then the families would swap houses and repeat. It was magic. When my grandmother passed, my grandfather passed a year later of a broken heart. And my father was never quite the same.

My parents are both incredibly smart and gifted. My father is a talented Architect. Mom was a teacher (until she had me), then worked for a doctor at one of Cleveland's top medical facilities. Great people, compassionate. They never really “parented” me. They were supportive and showed up for the many things I did. But seldom asked questions. They didn't teach life stuff or share personal experiences. Never spoke to me about boys. Didn’t talk me in or out of my decisions. I kinda just did my thing. If I got it wrong, I got the scowl of disapproval and silence. I think they were overwhelmed (three kids). Likewise, I opted to never share anything negative or challenging with them (the environment I grew up in was negative enough). To this day, they know nothing about most of my struggles and challenges, I spared them. It is exceedingly challenging to go through life the way I have with no foundation of family and safety to “hold” me (likely why I'm writing about it all now). In order to stay healthy and thrive, I always knew I would need to leave the nest. With my father staring stoic in the driveway, I pulled the car out onto the street, waved, and began the three day trek to California. Dad watched the until the car disappeared from view.

________

Sidebar. I spend a lot of time in cafes, sipping Joe or noshing, head down,  writing or editing. I don’t have people (or someone) to spend time with, thus I’ve always enjoyed opportunity to connect with strangers and share stories (I do this all the time, anywhere in the world. So if you see me, please say hello!).  I have a lot of photography, poetry, scripts, and art now. I’ll tell you the story about how photography entered my life later.  Anyways...

________

“Sometimes everything you want (everything which makes you happy) is on the other side of Fear”

If you've never been a brown woman traveling solo through the South of North America with Yankee plates, it'll certainly keep you on your toes. Interestingly, I've never had a problem dealing with others when traveling (not even in the Favela of Brazil). Most all dissonance I've received in my life was from colleagues and competitive “friends”. It's interesting to excel at communication with powerful decision makers at a very high level, but constantly be misunderstood by peers and those of lesser understanding and/or experience. Hollywood was about to teach me a few things regarding trust, friendships, opportunity. And a lot about myself.

In February 2005, I arrived in sunny California, mid-monsoon (exaggerating), struggling to find my way to The San Fernando Valley while unable to see ten inches in front of me. That year, several “Hollywood Hills” houses slid off their foundations, wrecked by flooding.  The new environment and lack of connection to a brand new city and life might have intimidated me. But I was focused. Somehow I managed to hear about a background casting company for television and film and immediately got registered. Then called every day to remain employed as a background artist until I earned my Screen Actors Guild card, got an agent, and enrolled in acting classes. It felt like a proverbial foot in the door.

Suddenly, my life regained purpose. There was movement. I was in Hollywood, working consistently on TV and film sets, booking commercials & print work, and spokesperson gigs for companies and products (a forte which kept me busy). I was on the red carpets (at this time more often interviewing, not interviewed), and establishing myself with casting directors. My energy was endless. Every win encouraged and inspired me to keep moving, keep auditioning and interviewing, keep networking.

The resume was growing, but I was hardly “blending in”. When you're talented, intelligent and you look like THIS...

...it’s unbelievably challenging to succeed past the gatekeepers who expect favors in exchange for your progress. It was more than just the (sadly) common and expected casting couch, or the inappropriate producer/ AD/ director/ lead actor... in the way. I found I could do absolutely nothing and still be found “difficult”.

There were times on set I would be asked by the 1st AD or producer to be tucked into the back of a crowd so-as not to intimidate or distract a name talent on the show. One actress had me removed from set and asked I not be hired on her show again.  I learned quickly that shrinking to spare the insecurities of others was not a forte of mine. So I committed effort to booking roles for myself. And I did.

It never occurred to me that I wasn't as deserving of opportunity as the celebrities I often worked with. I felt at home in those moments. But I did not welcome the ongoing assault of sexual objectification, manipulation and even blatant threats to derail my success simply for saying 'no” to decision-makers. I can affirm from the inside of the business that those “casting couches” and predatory behavior are real at all levels and departments in the industry. I can also confirm that saying “NO” makes everything more challenging. My career success was modest for it. But I take pride in knowing everything I've earned was done so by talent and professionalism. I had bounced back from 9/11, losing my first love (music), overcoming (brief) homelessness, and now established myself as an actress, working in Hollywood. Then I got the sign I was waiting for that I made the right choice and things were going to be alright. I booked something career-changing.

By 2007 I'd come close several times to booking major roles and recurring characters on TV shows. I was frustrated, but motivated by continued invitations to audition for the top casting directors. Then I got a good one! I landed a guest star on an NBC TV show alongside a few established name actors in a role which was expanded- just for me- based on the quality of my callback. That kind of trust makes your chest swell. It was validation. I earned it. It was a “Welcome Mat”. I arrived to set prepared for the week of filming and ready to assure producers they'd made the right choice.

The popular sitcom filmed all week in studio, then that Friday in front of a live audience (as a stage performer, I was in my element). We walked through rehearsals, marked things for camera and director, and got to know each other as cast. I was working primarily with #1 on the call sheet, a brilliant physical actor who was unexpectedly supportive of me as an emerging talent. He offered a solid piece of professional advice I've carried with me ever since: “Own The Room”.

"Some people show off their beauty because they want the world to see it. Others hide their beauty because they want the world to see something else"

That Thursday the execs rolled through to watch our dress rehearsal. Afterward I was pulled aside with accolades and a welcome I'd thought was the normal Hollywood deal. At their suggestion, I made plans to “discuss my future” with the casting director that following Monday. That night, when I returned to my dressing room, there was a hand-written note slid under my door with one word on it: “Dinner?”. Instant panic. Am I going to lose my job if I say “No”? What do I do? I don't want to create problems with anyone. I quietly grabbed my things and went home.

The next day was the live audience taping. I was a little on edge wondering where the note came from (I had my suspicions), but chose to behave as if I never received it. The show was a success, we took our bows, I thanked the director and cast and went home on a performance high. That Monday I kept my appointment with casting who offered a short list of larger agents to interview with. This was- I thought- a very good sign. So I interviewed with the agencies, gave it week to consider, then selected who I felt was the best match. When I called to speak with the head of the agency she apologetically explained that the WGA (Writers Guild) was about to strike and that we would have to reconvene in a few months. Well, a few months turned into 5, then 6, my calls and emails to the casting agent suddenly went un-responded to. I was forgotten and- now- unrepresented. The strike changed the career trajectory for so many like me. After how hard I fought and studied to make it this far, I was completely deflated for the second time in my life. It felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.

I was ALMOST a Success.

        (to be continued...)

(PS If you like what you're reading, I welcome contributions to the efforts via Venmo @LTarantinoDesigns)