#I have done this with gusto

[chrismerle]

my cat is obsessed with my bathroom rug, and considering I've dozed off on it when drunk, I can't even be confused. it is, in fact, a very soft rug.

[theevangelionthemesong]

ZAAAAAAAANNNNKOKUUUUU NA TENSHI NO TEZE

SHOOOUNEN YO SHINWANINARREEEeE

[groupwest]

i watched X last night seems kind of apt now considering events. in some insane way

[c4rr10n]

ok i’ve been thinking about my potential conflict of interest situation and i’ve come to the conclusion that on tuesday i’m just gonna ask him if he remembers what he said (lol). and i haven’t decided for sure yet but i’ll either ask him if he was flirting and if so to what degree, like idk if it was purely casual or like... does he actually want me to call him??? like is exchanging contact info something he’s genuinely interested in? OR i’ll be coy about it and say that surely, he meant it in purely clinical context, a totally normal patient-nurse kind of exchange, and that of course he’d never intentionally engage in a conflict of interest tort. and then maybe make a joke about house calls skdgsdjgshdjgsld 

[jaketsparrow]

SOMETHING... | JTK

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x f! Reader

Word Count: 10.6K

Summary: When you have to say goodbye to your professor and mentor, a cocky young professor steps in, Jacob Kiskza. Literature used to be your safe place, but now you feel him getting involved in every corner; it doesn’t help that you’re his TA. You deny yourself every opportunity to fall for him until…

A/N: Hi guys :) I know it’s been forever since I’ve put something together and I apologize about that, but this is life. This one has been on my mind since the Grammy U interview and I finally had the idea to put it all together. I hope you enjoy :) 

Playlist

*Also I'm so sorry I lost my tag list so if you want to be tagged here's a new form* Taglist

MINORS DNI

MENTIONS OF/ TW: Sexual content (of course), talks about death/grief, angst, swearing, Dom! Jake, restraints, possible orgasm denial, choking, alcohol use, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, ~some~ degrading, praise kink!, I’m sorry if I missed anything, but, etc, it’s filth. 

The classroom was cold in the early months of the year. You had gotten in the habit of wearing your coat through the 3-hour seminar. You were lucky that this class only ran once a week, but you often had to stay longer than the students, working with the professor for a few hours afterward. He was always elusive. Always eager to get things done as fast as possible; efficient and snappy. 

There was much to admire about him, but his personality often left you rolling your eyes. He always seemed a bit too sure about himself, always being the tough grader, pushing students further than they were willing to go. He cared a lot, especially about the subject matter. He still had that gusto in him to do things right, to be stern. 

He was new to the program; and before this, only about a year into teaching. You studied under his predecessor. She was a kinder old woman who cared deeply for you, like your mother away from home. She taught you everything- and even got you to change majors during your sophomore year. She supplemented your reading supplies, nurtured your abilities, and was always willing to sit in deep conversation with you. Discussing the classics, introducing modern pieces, talking about life, talking about it all. 

Professor Kiszka on the other hand… 

When he took over for Professor Meelo, he took very little time to rip the bandaid off. When you had originally been promised a TA position in the literature department, you were expected to be under your mentor, not a cocky white man. 

You spent weeks crying during winter break after first meeting him. The day you met him didn’t go exactly as you hoped. It was the week of finals when you found out Meelo was sick, and that she was stepping away from teaching. As if finals week wasn’t stressful enough, you had to come to terms with the fact that the woman who taught you everything was going to be leaving this world sooner than you would’ve thought. It was even more of a punch in the gut to walk into your introduction meeting to see… him. 

3 Months Ago

The walk across campus felt heavier than usual. The winter had been harsher than it usually was in early December. The wind whipped across your bare rosy cheeks, causing freezing tears to slowly fall out of the corners of your eyes. Almost like a bad omen, the weather continued to get worse as you sludged your way across the quad. 

The parking lot was nearly a mile away from campus, which was nice during the warmer months; the trees would sway across the crosswalk, blessing the sidewalk with fallen flowers and leaves. The grass was green and lively, a welcome mat onto a wonderful learning home. Between the cracks of the stone walkways, little dandelions would grow. You never understood the people who thought them to be unnecessary weeds. They were bright and yellow lively plants, and when the time of beauty passed, they passed their good wishes onto you. Blowing what once were vibrant petals into the wind. Who knew you’d miss the weeds on your walks?

Instead, now the stones were smeared with remnants of snowy footprints, broken earth that had been cracked through with the force of shovels, and the remnants of the dead earth.

Meelo called you just last week. You begged to go see her in the hospital, but she didn’t want you to worry too much. She agreed to call you every other day, just like your usual coffee arrangements. She loved them just as much as you did. She never had a husband or any children. Her students were her children, her soul was fed enough through changing lives that she didn’t want to take away that love from her students or prevent any child from feeling all of it. You were not the first to bear their soul in her office, but you might be one of the last. 

Meelo begged you to go meet the new professor. You had tried to rescind your TA position, but she blocked you at every chance she got. Even while in hospice she still managed to look out for you…

“Please, sweetheart. I know it’s not easy. But he’s young, he’s smart, I think you’ll have a lot in common with him,” She pleaded through the phone. 

“But he’s not you. I just, I thought… I thought I’d have more time…” Your voice trailed off. 

You tried to hold the phone away from your face, trying not to distress her more with the sounds of your whimpers and tears. 

Her voice started again, “You never know what you will learn from him. You have more time with me, but there comes a time when a teacher must share her students for them to learn more. If we stayed in our echo chamber together my dear I’m afraid you wouldn’t learn everything you need to know. Jacob is going to be a great professor, and I know you will learn a lot from him. His research and analysis work is quite extensive. The school and I hired him for a reason. Please. Just give it a try. For me.”

“Just for you.” 

And here you were trudging through, feeling every bone in your body telling you to turn around, to go home. But you were doing this not for you, you reminded yourself. For Meelo. She was right, you latched on to her from your early years in college and favored her over all of your other professors. They were kind and nice as well, but it didn’t matter to you in the end, if they weren’t Meelo, they were never going to compare. 

The building seemed colder than usual. The large glass windows were covered by their shades; no one wanted to see the gross state of life outside of the classroom. That’s hardly motivating to any student, the fluorescents would give more life than the grey state of the weather. 

You pull the door open, walk through the entryway, and follow your usual path down the hallway to Meelo’s room. 

The thing about old colleges, everywhere you turn is a little piece of history. Each room has housed many professors and many students. The building had life, had ghosts of its own hidden in each brick, in each stone. You felt the comfort of this presence moving through the hallway. 

You stop right before Meelo’s room, catching your breath before you enter. Trying to have an open mind. Kiszka could be something, or he could just be another man throwing words at you. Not that all men were the same, but a majority of the male professors here were lackluster, favoring the male students and the athletes who needed the better grades to stay in the school. And if they favored the women… You always felt a cold chill thinking about that. Thinking about why…

One last deep breath before you enter the classroom. You grab tight onto the handle of your tote bag and strut confidently into the room. 

It was empty. 

The beautiful artwork and posters that Meelo had filling the room were stripped. Revealing the natural state of the architecture. It was beautiful in its own way but didn’t feel like the educational home you once felt so blessed to be in. The desks were all shoved to one side of the classroom. The previous welcoming U-shape was demolished, instead providing a cluttered destruction of Meelo’s work. 

You stood awestruck in the shape of the room. There was no time wasted between Meelo leaving and Kiszka starting to make his mark on the room. The bookshelves that used to be filled in the back of the room had been emptied and their contents sat on the floor in boxes.

You walk over to the boxes, kneeling to gently sift through the carelessly placed books. This was Meelo’s library that she had collected for the classroom. Take a book, leave a book, borrow a book, bring it back. You loved visiting this wall every week, seeing what books your peers were interested in, and which books made their way into the library. Some new, and some returning after long months away. 

Sitting on top of the box was the classic “Brave New World”. Aldous Huxley. 1932. Not an original copy, but a new binding. It was like the universe was sending you signs. This would be a brave new world. A world where you might have to come to terms with the fact that Meelo would not be in your life forever.  A world where you might have to figure out everything with a new mentor. A world where you thought you would have years to work on your pieces with a woman who understood you, but now you would turn over your heartfelt pieces to a man. One who may not understand you the same as someone else does.

“A favorite of yours?” A voice perks up from the doorway. 

You turn to see him. Your eyes work your way up his figure. He’s wearing Chelsea boots, black thick linen pants, a white loose shirt with a black vest, and a dress coat over it. His chestnut hair lays over the shoulders of the coat, and his eyes are covered by circular gold-rimmed sunglasses. He oozes mystery. His arms crossed, surveying your crouched body by the boxes. You hate to admit it, but he may be one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen. 

You hold up the book towards him, displaying the cover. 

“Not particularly. I don’t like thinking about the takeover of technology. It feels too real right now.” You respond. 

He wanders over to you, taking his time, each step creating the most annoying echo in the emptied classroom. He reaches his hand out to yours, asking silently for the book. You hand it over to him and stand to match his level. 

He passes the book between his hands, admiring the binds, “Ah, yes, but perhaps something can be learned from the book if more understood its warning… if only more read it…”

“If only…” You let the conversation trail off. Your eyes wander back to the pile of desks on the opposite wall. You feel yourself zoning out, focused only on the change of the room, not on the man in front of you. 

“-Your favorite?” He asks. 

You snap back to the conversation, trying to recall the beginning of his question, “I’m sorry? 

“If this is not your favorite, can I ask which is?” He waves you to walk with him. 

You follow him into the office at the back of the classroom. He sits in Meelo’s chair, and you sit in the chair that had held you so many times. You wouldn’t be surprised if the cushion had a you-shaped imprint in it at this point. 

He asks a third time, “You don’t seem like the Jane Eyre or Louisa May student, so what is it?” 

You let your bag fall off your shoulder and you try to sit up in the chair, asserting some sort of professionalism. Your answer will hold some sort of judgment for him. Although you want to be offended by his comment about the female author’s classics, he’s right. They were never your favorite. 

“Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Meelo gave it to me as my first assignment.” You respond, confident in your answer. 

He nods in approval, “Lovely choice, very telling. Meelo said you were very bright–one for the classics.” 

He leans back in his chair, stroking his chin. His hand reaches up to the gold-rims and pulls them off, clattering onto the desk. He pulls himself towards the desk, resting his elbows on the table. 

“Are you going to ask me mine?” He asks, almost presumptuously. 

You fight back the urge to roll your eyes. Of course, he has to find a way to be important here. You adjust yourself in your seat, crossing your arms in the process. 

“If you want me to know, why don’t you just say it?” You retort. 

He chuckles to himself, “Lord of the Rings.” 

Your mouth falls so far open that you’re afraid a fly might buzz its way in. You lift your hand to your mouth and try to hide your disapproval.

“That’s a classic for sure.” You reply, “Not one I would’ve expected from a college literature professor, but a classic nonetheless.”

He pushes himself off the desk, running his hands through his long locks before they make their way onto the arms of the seat. 

“You don’t approve?” He scoffs. 

“I didn’t say that, I just said it’s not one that I would expect.” 

“I believe there is a difference between a personal and professional favorite. A favorite you could read over and over again, and you could enjoy without having to think too much about what it all means. it’s an adventure, its heroes and legends, it’s a call for relaxation and enjoyment. I’d rather have my favorite be a well-known classic than a deep thought-provoking story about purity.”

You fight every urge in you to slap the man sitting before you for disgracing such a beautiful novel. But you think about Meelo. You think about stepping outside of the echo chamber. 

“I think we may have different opinions on favorites, Professor Kiszka.” You say shortly. 

You feel the tension grow between you already. This would be a difficult semester. Even more difficult because as you felt your dislike for him grow, you couldn’t stop staring at the beautiful man sitting in front of you. His brown eyes stared deep into you, trying to assess his new assistant. You tried not to let him in too far. You were not fawning for him, at least you weren’t trying to. You wanted to fight off the growing warmth crying to spread through you. It was like seeing a handsome stranger in the bar; you knew the danger, but almost didn’t want to let yourself protect your heart. 

He was by far the youngest professor here, and the most eligible. No ring was on his finger. 

“Please, call me Jacob.” 

You stood up from your seat, throwing your bag over your shoulder. You try to compose yourself enough not to let any distaste escape from your lips. 

“Sorry, Professor Kiszka, I have finals I need to finish, it was a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to working with you in January. If you need anything from me before then, I believe the dean gave you my information.”

You reach your hand out awkwardly, trying to invite a handshake. He cautiously reaches his hand back, pulling you into a firm, but still gentle handshake. 

His eyes meet yours. The deep brown staring into you. Although you should have the power from your standing position, you knew he held all the cards from his seat. The handshake lingered longer than you had expected, both of you locked deep into staring each other down. He finally releases his hand. 

“It was a pleasure.” You start to leave the office, but he makes one last remark, “Oh, one last thing…” 

You turn to face him, “Yes professor?”

 He reaches into the desk and pulls out a cloth-bound book, handing it to you. You slowly return to the desk, taking the book from his hand—the Lord of the Rings. 

“Try it for me? You do have a whole winter break…”

You rub your hands over the cover, smiling at his request. You place the book back in his hand.

“I used to read it as a child. No need to give it a try when you’ve read it four times already.” You smile at him. 

Even if it wasn’t your favorite, didn’t mean it wasn’t a favorite. 

Present

In some ways, your relationship with him felt like a love-lost marriage. Just moving through the motions. You sat in on the classes and took note of who engaged, and who didn’t. You graded assignments, tests, and papers, with him always double-checking and doubting your work. You didn’t sit in on long conversations with him like Meelo. Perhaps some of that was your fault, always quick to get to work. He adjusted to you quickly, understanding how you needed to work, and letting you grieve. 

Meelo passed quickly into the semester. You cried once in front of him when the news broke. You nearly snapped his head off when he asked if he could help you. From that moment on he took on this cold persona, but you don’t blame him at all. You knew in your heart that you would not have the same connection with him as Meelo, so it was easier to never try. 

Through everything, your work never faltered, and your school work remained the priority. Perhaps it was a way to hide through all the pain but the calculated steps it took to grade provided a soothing rhythm amongst the distress. 

You never failed to notice all the times you caught him catching glances at you. You were silly to think that it meant anything more than just a quick look, but still maybe somewhere in your heart, you had hoped that maybe he was thinking of you more than his assistant. For weeks you watched him stroll into class, always wearing a disheveled but somehow put-together outfit. You loved seeing how he would piece together different clothes from his collection. Never repeating an exact outfit, but always finding new ways to repurpose the same items. 

One day he walked in with a new addition to his look, a cluster of pendants on a necklace. They looked older, more worn in than any new silver. You asked him about it briefly, trying not to engage in a further conversation. 

“They’re coins, Spanish coins, designed after ones from the 1600s. I think the jeweler lied to me when he said they were originals, but they still look okay… Do you think so? 

“You look like a pirate.” You responded. 

A sexy pirate. You shoved that thought deep into the back of your mind. Holding on to it, because you didn’t want to forget how good he looked. 

His Thursday classes were always one of the better ones. This was one that you had to take yourself for your graduate program. There was no TA’ing involved as that would be a huge conflict of interest if you got to grade your papers. You chose to sit in the back corner of the class by the window, in hopes that when spring rolls around you could watch the foliage return. The unfortunate thing about this choice was the waiting. February was colder than you had expected and the windows provided no warmth. 

When you were TA’ing you got to sit at the edge of the office and the classroom. Kiszka brought a space heater for you to place at the doorway. He joked he didn’t need his assistant ‘freezing to death’, because then ‘who would grade the papers’.

You tried your hardest to not let him favor you, but you knew he was someone who would be kind no matter how much you asked him to stop. He would leave books on the edge of his desk for you to read and when you tried to return them he declined and told you he already had a copy in his collection. You doubted that and always protested in fear that you thought you might lead him on. But in the end, it was always you walking out with a new book in your bag. 

He was trying his hardest to get along with you. Some days it was easier and you would entertain his questions, but other days it was easier to be quick and move along. This relationship was not going to be a fairytale. You had already found your soulmate once, and you lost her. In your mind, there was no more room in your heart to let someone in. And why should you prepare space for someone if you truly don’t know if they want to be there? 

This class although interesting became boring as the weeks went on. The class had fallen into a seasonal depression of sorts. Many like you had expected to have Meelo for the semester when you had booked your classes, so when Kiszka showed up and tried to shake things up… It wasn’t easy. He was skilled and smart, sure… But not the same. He craved involvement and wanted the class to join in with him, but often would push people further than they were willing to go. A room full of mid-20-year-olds was truly a space of burnout. Many of these students had already passed four, sometimes five years of school before they stepped into this class. They no longer have that lively interest in reading and analyzing literature but want to create their own.

“-And what was this author trying to convey through his use of metaphors?...” He asked from his commanding space at the front of the class, “No one?... No one picked up on this…? Or are you too scared to be wrong?”

Your attempts at fighting off eye-rolls also subsided the longer this course went on, and this roll came on hard. You’ve heard this line countless times through multiple classes. He wasn’t wrong, but he could at least find different ways to say the statement. 

“Y/N? Care to enlighten everyone?” He calls to you, in need of saving the class who had lost attention nearly an hour ago. 

“Sure. It’s a metaphor for how women are treated in society.” You answer.

He grits his teeth and sighs, “Not quite, but you’re close…” 

You lift yourself from your slump, “No, that’s right. She is clearly trying to convey the expectations of women in society and how we are treated. As a female author, she leaves these metaphors to be very simple for female readers to understand. For males, it’s harder to grasp that the severity of these situations could imply the treatment of women, but that’s what she’s trying to explain.”

He clasps his hands together giving them a brief shake, “That class, that is how you analyze. Literature can be read in different ways by different readers. The author may have a clear intention of what they are trying to write, but others may be able to relate it to other aspects of their life. I have my own interpretation, and you all may have others. That is how this should be working. There is nothing wrong, with how you analyze, just that you have the knowledge to back it up…”

Every time you tried to make him out to be the bad guy, he ended up being in the right. You hated how smart he was. You hated how much you wanted to watch him while he stood up there. You hated how he wasn’t her. But you knew you didn’t want him to leave. 

“So with that,” He continues, “Finish up the last few chapters and please come prepared with statements next week about your findings. I want you to dig deep; feel the author. I’ll see you next week.” 

The class starts their shuffle for the door, while you meander to your usual spot at the doorway of the office. The next class wouldn’t be in for 20 minutes, but you would at least have time to warm up. 

You click on the heater and walk over to Kiszka’s rolling desk chair. You take your coat off and rest it over the seat, pushing it over to the door. Kiszka finds his seat at the front of the classroom, pulling out his book of the week. He usually would try to follow you, asking you what you were reading, then the next day showing up to class with an identical copy. It was annoying and endearing how much he wanted to learn from you. You wondered if it upset him that you weren’t as keen on learning from him. 

He confided in you that Meelo was an idol of his as well, and although he didn’t get to learn from her, he was going to try to through you. 

You pull your copy of Anna Karenina from your bag and join him. Your chapters ahead of him, but you enjoy being one step in front of him. 

You peep up from the back of the room, “I didn’t ask, but please tell me this isn’t your first time reading this.” 

He lifts his head from the book slightly, eyes still skimming the page, “Third.” 

You sigh in relief. That would’ve been embarrassing; for him. 

You return to the book. You’re finding it harder to dive in today than usual, something is different… You see out of the corner of your eye that Kiszka has put down the book altogether, and you can sense him staring. This lasts a few moments, but you try to remain focused on the words, but catching yourself having to re-read the paragraphs; not processing the sentences you’ve already read.

A minute goes by and he hasn’t returned to his pages. Instead, you hear the squeak of his chair rolling over to his computer. A few clicks and a frenzy of taps on the keyboard. 

“Hey.” He prods. 

You look up again from the book. He peers at you over the edge of his computer and then closes it so he can see you better. He grasps his jaw lightly, stroking it in his hands. 

“Yes?” You asked, trying not to seem annoyed by the interruption. 

“Let’s go over your manuscript. I want to see it.” He continues. 

No. It’s not time yet. You’ve been meticulously editing it for months now. He wasn’t supposed to read it until midterms, you were supposed to have more time…

You drop the book into your lap, “It’s not ready…” You close the book, “Also we have class in twenty minutes, you won’t be able to read it all by then.” 

He stands up from his seat, straightening his vest out, “I canceled class. Pull it out.” 

Two Hours Later

Some time had passed. You both sat in his office now. Him at… his… desk, and you still positioned by the heater at the door. At this point you were warm enough to finally take your sweater off, stripping down to a simple black t-shirt. You saw him staring through the pages when you pulled the sweater off. If he had looked any harder you think he might burn a hole through the book.

The office was silent except for the occasional click and clack of the heater, and the flickering of the candle on his desk. He flipped through the lightly bound pages while you continued through your reading. Every couple of minutes you could hear the stroke of his red pen hit the pages. The words or corrections will wait for you later. You could sit and scoff at them later in your apartment. The man said his favorite book was Lord of the Rings, how could you possibly trust his editorial judgment?

You had made it about a hundred or so pages through your book, which was slower than you would’ve liked. You still couldn’t breach the interferences. You thought the silence would help, but hearing his hums, his pen strokes, the occasional sip of scotch… It was all a distraction. 

You couldn’t stop looking up from the book to watch him slyly admire your work. You knew your writing was good; Meelo had seen the early stages of it all. She heard the direction and loved every word… A complete sadness rushed over you thinking of how she would never see the final product. 

Kiszka would adjust himself every few minutes; switching positions in his seat. You wanted to trust yourself enough not to look every time he shifted his hips, but those linen pants he loved so much left little to wonder about him. You had a closeness to him that you didn’t want to admit. As many differences as there were between you, there were just as many similarities. He was an outsider here; you could see that clearly. The other professors didn’t trust him because of his age- the students tried to walk all over him because of that too. 

Even though you wanted to hate how pretentious he seemed, deep down you knew it was a facade to seem more studious to others. You saw the real him in glimpses. The kindness he offered to you that many others most likely wouldn’t have. Your youth and love for literature matched his perfectly, although you couldn’t always find the way to express it correctly. Your loyalty to Meelo prevented that at every chance. 

Letting him read this manuscript was a big step that you didn’t fully even realize until he had reached the halfway point. You wanted to go and rip the pages out of his hand, throw them out the window, prevent him from seeing you too deeply… But something inside you needed to know what he thought of it. 

Frustrated by your lack of progress, you lowered the book into your lap. You took this time to look around the room. It had changed so much since you had seen it back in December. Kiszka’s library had taken up the room, along with his record collection. When you would come by early in the morning to drop off the graded work, you would hear him playing some of it. Blues, rock, the classics. You never disturbed him during these times, it felt too intimate to interrupt. Instead, you would place the binder of essays on his classroom desk and scurry away before he could come to say hello. 

You place your bookmark into the page opening. You calmly stand and place the book where you once sat. Quietly, you make your way over to his collection.  

You see him peer up through the pages. Curious about your movements, watching you silently behind the manuscript. 

You lower yourself to the floor, sifting through the jackets of the vinyls. Alphabetical. Of course. You make your way quickly through the a’s and land through the b’s. As cliche as it seems, you truly love Abbey Road, and of course, there it is front and center with the other Beatles albums. You pull it out from the shelf, removing the jacket carefully from the sleeve. You lift the vinyl out and place it on the record player. It’s a modern one, which feels very out of character for Kiszka. He always seemed like the type to randomly have every item of his be nothing newer than 20 years old. 

You press play and lower the needle onto the music. 

Come Together plays softly through the speakers. You turn to look back at him, seeing if there is any protest. Instead, he has the red pen out, slashing across the paper. You grit your teeth and try not to engage. You return to his collection, running your fingers along the remainder of the vinyl. The plastic tickles through your fingers, creating a click, click sound as each jacket releases from your hold. 

Although you did want Kiszka to keep reading, you felt it was necessary to distract him, to try and persuade him to step away…

You continue from the vinyl collection, traipsing through the room. It’s like a library out of a movie, truly. You admired his office deeply and loved to gaze at it while he was lecturing. Sometimes when he was deep in his philosophy of literature speeches, you would lean back in the chair and try to read the book titles from afar. Your eyesight was good, but not good enough to make out the exact names of all of them. You never dared to peruse like this before, but this moment presented the perfect opportunity. 

You were his captive for the remainder of his reading. Well… In all reality, you didn’t have to be here, but you didn’t dare leave that manuscript alone. It had been stored with you in your tote for the past month. You tried to take chunks of edits at a time, working through it yourself when you had time but didn’t want to share it with anyone until you felt that it was complete. 

You tried to fight Kiszka off, but the notion of him canceling class meant that he found taking the time to do this very important… 

The books that were displayed on these shelves were not the type of books that you would find at your local bookstore. They were older, worn in, some of them originals, even some you haven’t read yet. Maybe he did have some things that he could show you…

 You make your way to the last set of bookshelves, rounding the back corner of the office. The last edge of the wall had his makeshift bar. 

The liquor was all dark, amber-colored. Very manly, you thought to yourself. Bottles of whiskey and scotch lined the makeshift bar. Jack Daniels, Sazerac Rye, Macallan Double Cask… You recognized some of the labels. 

Kiszka crept up behind you, “If you wanted a glass, you could’ve asked.” 

He reaches down below you to fetch a rocks glass from the bar. He grabs the Macallan Double Cask and pours a finger for you. The alcohol flows effortlessly out of the bottle, barely splashing into the glass.  He hands the glass to you, your hand brushing his. His touch is warm… Kind. He takes his other hand and grabs your shoulder, in a comforting way. You want to seem completely normal, but feel your cheeks getting rosy from the touch. You suck on your bottom lip and try to hide your face. 

You take a large swig of the scotch, trying to be mindful of not wasting such a good drink. He looks at you, shocked at your ability to take it so easily. 

“Wow. Good.” Is the only words he can mutter. 

You smile meekly. The praise makes you feel undoubtedly shyer than you had just before. 

“Are these originals?” You ask, pointing to the corner section of his library, “I couldn’t tell, and didn’t want to touch them if they were.”

“Many of them, yes,” He responds, “I trust that you would be gentle with them, please, which one were you curious about?” 

You make your way over to the shelf, placing your drink down on the small table near the corner. You reach up to fold out the red bound book. Its title was completely faded from the binding, but we’re curious as to which one it was. He follows closely behind you, close enough to almost be on you. 

He laughs, “Funny you should grab that..” 

You open the cover to find Lord of the Rings printed in big black letters. 

“Oh, dear god.” You sigh. 

“It is an original if that makes you feel any better about it. I know you hate this book, but still-”

“No, no,” You protest, “I never said I hated it, I just said it wasn’t my favorite. Remember we have different opinions on that professor.” 

He scoffs and takes the book from your hand. Rubbing the cloth binding with his thumbs.

“Want to know something funny?” He questions. 

You did. You really did. You wanted the connection at this moment… For whatever cosmic reason it finally felt okay to banter with him. You nod your head, approving him to continue. 

“I saw the movies before I read the books.” He laughs, “My brothers and I loved it, we were practically obsessed, but I was younger then and a stupid boy who didn’t read like I do now. Not the fairytale way most people find their favorite but it reminds me of childhood…”

You wanted to laugh, you wanted to make fun of him for it. But you knew that this was a special moment for him. A look into his past, a presentation for more. He places the book carefully back on the shelf, tucking it back into its spot. 

“Well, I guess that makes more sense now. But, as a graduate professor, you ought to just say you like the pretentious shit. No one’s going to take you seriously.” 

He turns from the shelf, “Who said I was worried about that? If I lie then I am a fraud. I don’t care if anyone says that.” 

Oh fuck. His confidence is so intoxicating. He’s right. Why should he care? 

“I just- I meant… I thought that the other professors-” 

“You thought that they don’t take me seriously? Right. They don’t. In schools like this, you have to earn respect. I’m not an alumnus, I didn’t go to Harvard, but I do a damn good job at what I do. As much as you may protest some of my teaching, I know what I’m doing.”

He breezes past you and strolls back over to the bar to pour himself another drink. You reach back for yours and hold it between your hands, trying to collect yourself. You hope that you didn’t hurt him. 

“Did I offend you?” You ask.

“‘Course not,” He takes a swig, “I just wish you would realize that it doesn’t matter what standards others hold you to. You are not someone else. You are you.” 

“I know that.” You respond dryly. Your answer didn’t sound as confident as you wanted it to be. It came out unsure and desperate. 

“Then why has your whole academic career been based on your relationship with one woman? Why must everything you do be for her?...” 

You stand there silently. Completely struck with emotions. Anger, sadness, discouragement.

“She… She made me who I am,” You pipe, “She’s the reason I am in this program.” 

He strolls back over to you, locking your eyes with his. It’s intimidating, this look he has on his face. He’s studying you, seeing how lost you feel. Truly for the first time you couldn’t even try to put up any walls. He had broken you down. 

He places his hand on your shoulder again, “Can I show you something?” He asks. 

Before you have time to even object to him, his hand moves from your shoulder to your waist, guiding you back towards his desk. You feel butterflies growing inside you. 

No. You can’t. You shouldn’t. He is your advisor. He is not someone you should feel this way about. He’s trying to help you, he’s not interested in you. 

The vinyl finishes its song and moves on to Something. He guides you into his seat. You place the glass down on the desk and wipe the condensation from your hands onto your thighs. He reaches over the desk and twirls the manuscript back in front of you. The pages sit open about two-thirds of the way through. He stands behind you, practically leaning on your back. His chest rests against your shoulder, pointing at the beginning of the page. 

“See this paragraph here?” He questions. 

You strain so hard to not melt at his touch. His hair is grazing your cheek. It smells wonderful, but you can’t admit that. He has this gentle but clean musk about him. He smells like a perfectly cared-for bookstore. A soft smell of tobacco and oak. The chains with pendants are draping over his neck, sparkling in the moonlight of the night, softly clanking together with his movement 

You need to focus. 

You respond, afraid that you waited too long, “Yes?” Your voice wavers, the lack of confidence creeping back through, “Is there something wrong with it?” 

He turns to face you, “Yes. I have a big problem with it.” 

You feel your heart sink. What could be wrong with it? The back half of the book is the best part, it is the part you feel most confident with. You feel confused. All of those walls and confidence you felt once in his presence were lost. 

“What…? What problem?” 

You look back at the pages, disregarding his closeness to you, pulling the bundle of paper back towards you, and flipping through to the previous pages. He puts his hand on yours, stopping you from searching. He lowers himself next to the seat, squatting to be at your eye level. His thumb wanders back and forth over your wrist. 

He smiles a crooked and cunning smile, “It’s some of the best writing I’ve seen in years, and the author was too scared to even share it with anyone. She lost someone and had to do this all on her own. That’s terrifying, but it’s still her work. ” 

You look at the hand holding yours. It’s strong but has a softness to it. It has a few rings sitting on them, but none a wedding band. You lower your head and release your wrist, grabbing it with your other hand. You sigh heavily and grasp your hands in front of the pages. Your hands travel up to hide your face, which presents a melancholic smile that you can’t let go of. You can’t tell if it’s the liquor or his presence, but you feel a glow coming from inside. 

You rush your hands past your face and through your hair, resting your hands on the back of your neck. Scoffing, you turn to look at him. His amused smile is irresistible. 

“You,” He starts, “Are an amazing writer.” His hand lifts from the pages and reaches up towards your cheek, holding your face in his palm, “And no matter who your teacher is, you can still do it on your own.”

Your hand finds its way up to his arm, holding him back. Staring longingly at each other. Both deep down knowing that this was about to lead down a path you couldn’t return from. 

“Professor-” You initiate.

“Jacob.” He replies. 

“Fine… Jacob. This- I… I don’t think.” 

He quickly removes his hand from your face and comes to his senses. “Oh, dear, um… I’m so sorry y/n… I…”

You let yourself slump in the seat. How could you? How could you squander that moment? After years of wishing to find a man who was at least half as interested in literature as you… Here you are throwing it away. But you could be right to do so. He was your professor, you were his assistant, the moral implications of this all… 

Jacob stands and leans back onto the desk, stroking his chin, concerned. Thinking about it all. You can see the nerves climbing through him. He feels embarrassed.

You reach your hand up to your face again, burying your emotions into your skin. 

“I just thought- I, fuck.” He continues, “I thought we were turning a corner, I was looking and I thought I saw you-” 

“You did.” You respond, “...I was looking.”

You lower your hand from your face to stare back at him. You put the manuscript back on the desk and stand. 

“You… You were?” He searches for the answer. 

“Jacob… For months I have looked. I didn’t want to like you. I didn’t want to admit that to myself. My mentor was my heart and soul, she was everything to me. I didn’t want to give you any chances because I didn’t want to lose someone like that again… I can’t handle that heartbreak. But…” You trail off. 

“But?” He inquires. 

You reach for the scotch glass and swirl the liquid around. Staring deep into the stormy amber. 

“Fuck it.” You take the last of the scotch into your mouth and turn back to Jacob, “You… You are what I’ve wanted. I can’t deny the way I feel when it’s just us. When I see you deep in thought, when you push me to go further; when you challenge me. When we’re alone, and I see you for the man you are. When I see how genuinely fucking amazing you are. And I’m so mad at myself for not opening myself to you.” 

Jacob peels himself off the desk and stances himself in front of you. He grabs your hands and holds them tenderly in his. You drop your head, your hair falling over your frustrated expression. 

“You were grieving, you wouldn’t have been ready for this.” He reaches his hand up to tuck your hair behind your ear. 

You look up to him with doe eyes. He was the older man, coming in for the prey. You wanted to be his. You wanted to have him. You wanted it. You denied it for months. You denied it from the moment you saw him. You denied yourself to knowing him in fear that this exact moment would happen. But here you were. Unveiling yourself to him in the very place you felt the first attraction. 

“I want to be ready. No, I am ready. I want this. I can’t deny myself happiness because of everything that happened,” You said. 

“Are you sure?” He asked. Trying to test you. 

You nod your head in approval, trying once again to keep the emotions bottled in. 

“I don’t want you to feel any pressure because-”

“Please don’t say it. I know. I know this is all morally fucked up, but I’m an adult, you’re an adult. Just treat me like one.”

He smiles, admiring your maturity, “If you want to do this, there are some things we have to settle first.” 

You look up at him confused, “Things? What things?” 

“More like rules,” He answers, titling his head playfully, “I need to know what you’re comfortable with. I don’t want to scare you even more than you already seem.” 

He returns his hand to hold your face, just like he previously had only moments before.

“I’m not scared Jacob. What rules?”

“As much as I like to be gentle with women, I also enjoy being rough.” He says through a velvety tone

You jolt back, at first fearful of his words, but relax quickly, reminding yourself you don’t need to be scared. 

“How rough are we talking…” You prod. 

The cunning smile returns across his face, “Don’t worry, I don’t leave marks, at least too bad of marks… And only rough enough that you’ll still be wanting more by the time we’re done.” 

You bite your lip at the thought. You’re no virgin at this point in your life, but you’ve never been able to explore this type of intimacy. Every man in college is practically an amateur at pleasuring women and even more so when it comes to exploration in sex. You’ve read plenty of books to know about the type of sex he was talking about. As much as you enjoyed the classics and the light-hearted romance, you still found yourself picking up a steamier romance book in private. 

You wanted that. Had practically dreamed about it before… 

Being here with this man, who was only a few years your senior, felt like you could practice this fantasy safely. He knew what he was doing, he could show you pleasures you didn’t even know you could enjoy. Even if you felt like you couldn’t learn more from your education with him, perhaps there were other things he could teach you. It was all becoming a bit too exciting. 

His hand moves slowly down from your cheek to your waist. His palms gently grazed your spine until they locked in on your love handles. 

“So,” He continues, “Are you going to be my good girl? Can you be good for me? Do you think you can take it?”

You reach out to his chest, moving aside his shirt which had barely been buttoned. With one swipe down his sternum, you unlatched all of them revealing his smooth golden skin. He watched you intently, seeing you explore his skin like never before. You traced your fingers along the opening, feeling your need to reach more grow. With each second that passed you felt the insatiable thirst to be close to him; to feel him. His grip on your waist tightened with each pass you made over his chest. 

His other hand joined him on your opposite side. You feared that your hips may break with his excited hold. You looked up at him, biting your lip, trying to remain coy. That soft smile appeared on his lips; you had answered with your body language. 

He pushes his hands further into you and lifts you onto the desk, your ass barely resting on the edge of the wood. 

“Words,” He said, pulling himself closer into you, resting perfectly between your legs, “Nothing’s going to happen until you tell me you want it to. This isn’t going to work sweetheart unless you use your words.”

“Jacob-” Are the only breathy words that you can mutter. 

You can feel him growing, feel the linen pants barely holding back his excitement. You feel your heartbeat travel from your chest, down into your stomach, into your… 

His hand moves up to your jaw, holding it firmly in his grip, “Y/N, follow the instructions. Words. I’m not going to wait much longer.” 

“Yes-”

Before you can even finish he’s pulling you into an embrace. Your lips meet his. The soft taste of scotch remaining on both of you created an intoxicating addicting feeling. It was complete passion, complete neediness to be one. His tongue introduces itself into your mouth… Soft, wet. Beckoning. The noises you both are making sound feral, completely unusual for the both of you. What once was a prim and proper relationship between you became a fervent desperation to touch… To fuck. 

His hands traveled down your body, first reaching your chest, grasping you completely in his hand. Rolling his palms over the front of your breasts, driving you completely mad. You wished the barriers of clothing had been completely stripped away, but he was too hungry to even keep you waiting for long. His hands reached under your shirt, plowing underneath the wire of your bra to find your naked breasts. A soft relieving moan escaped your lips through the breaths of the kissing. 

You reached your hands out to find the remainder of the buttons of his vest closing you off to his body. You made quick work of unbuttoning them, reaching your hands across his midsection; climbing to his back. Reaching up towards his shoulders, feeling the softness of his skin across the pads of your fingers. God, he was perfect. 

His fingers traveled to your nipples, running his thumb and forefinger over the bud of your nipples. Before you could even realize what you were doing, your nails dragged down his back, raking into his skin. He paused the kissing for a moment to let out a moaning growl. He slid his hands out from your bra, slipping down to the edges of your shirt, attempting to tug it off as fast as he could. You snatched your hands out of his shirt to raise them over your head, giving him complete access to strip you. 

He placed his hand between your breasts and forced you down onto the desk, your head falling onto the manuscript below you. He shook off his vest and was quick to pull his shirt off. 

“Seems like I’m not the only one who likes it rough, huh?” He asked. 

You lifted your head from the desk, “No, definitely not.” You responded. Unsure where this untamed version of you had even come from. 

“No, sir” He stated, pushing you back down. 

“What?” You asked, skeptical of what he meant.    

He mounted himself once again between your legs, grinding himself into you. He traced his finger down your neck, to the waistline of your pants.

“Sir… That’s what my good girls going to call me, okay?” 

You rolled your eyes, unaware that you were even doing so, “Call me Jacob,” you mock, “Call me sir.”

He reached back up to your jaw, pushing his thumb into your cheek, “If you’re going to be a brat we’re going to need to set some more rules. Good girls don’t get punished, but you’re already testing me.”

Completely stunned, you look back at him trying to emulate a softness, an apology. You had to admit though, you weren’t scared of him… If anything you were more turned on by the thought of his punishments. 

“And how would you punish me, sir?” You ask in your best sultry voice. 

He let out a low grumbling laugh. He studied your body, not even acknowledging your question, just thinking… Thinking of what he would do to you. He grabbed onto your hips and pulled you hard into his cock. There was no wondering anymore. You could feel how large he was, how excited he was. If your own body wasn’t blocking it you could probably see it entirely. 

“Maybe,” He starts, “Maybe you’re not going to be my good girl,” His hands dig deeper into your waist, “Maybe, you’re going to be my little slut.” 

The word echoed through the room. It sent a shiver down your spine, but not the feeling of being displeased, it was a feeling of being right. Being here with him, being under his control, felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off your shoulders. He could see you in a way that someone hasn’t seen you for months. He was learning every inch of you and would learn even more as the night went on. 

He leaned down from his high position to plant gentle kisses along your neck. Gingerly leaving behind little reminders of passion. 

“-And if you’re going to be my slut,” He whines through breathy kisses, “you need to know the safe words.” 

You run your hands up to his hair, feeling the soft strands between your fingers. Tracing his scalp over your fingertips. You don’t want to go this slow, the breaks are killing you. You just want to feel him. You want to feel him on you, in you, taking you completely as his own. 

His kisses finally reach the band of your jeans, but that doesnt stop him from exploring further. He pulls down on the jeans to reveal more of your stomach, delivering gentle almost tickling kisses. 

“Green,” He whispers, “Means you like it… You don’t want me to stop.”

His hand travels over to the button of your jeans, popping the metal away from the denim. Your eyes follow him, watching his hair fall over your stomach, the metal of his necklace chilling your bare skin. His shoulders look strong here, masculine, powerful. Watching him focus so intently on you is killing you. This is a man unlike any other that you’ve been with, he’s focused on treating you first, even if there were some other pleasures in it for him. 

“Yellow,” The zipper slowly starts to unravel as he pulls your pants further down, “Means you need me to slow down… If you need a break…” 

Your pants steadily fall off of your legs, finally being exposed to him entirely until they fall onto the floor. The only thing separating you from him now is your thong. Which you are now praising yourself for wearing today. He resumes his consuming kisses across your midsection, joining back down where he had left off. His hands slip underneath him to grab the edges of the lace, sliding off the thong with ease. 

His kisses start to graze you closer to your… 

He stops and lifts himself. His hand leads up to your mouth, putting his pointer and middle finger into your mouth. You accept them, excited for what it means. 

“Red.” His voice develops a more serious tone, “Means stop.” 

He removes his now slick fingers from your mouth, returning them down below. His fingers reach your cunt, and you welcome him with excitement of your own. Your body is in shambles waiting, wanting to know what it feels like. His fingers dance across your aching clit, his thumb padding the bundle of nerves, sending shockwaves through your deprived body. A loud distressed moan escapes you, you can’t help but express your enthusiasm. 

“Don’t worry sir,” You shudder through achy moans, “I don’t think I’ll need to use that one.”

“Good girl.”

Without any hesitation his fingers breach you, filling you up. He stands over you, watching you grow with the agony of pleasure. Your breath hitches with each pump, your back arching with each lift of his fingers. His thumb traces back over your clit, stimulating every inch of you. 

Every attempt at communicating the feeling faulters, except for, “Oh fuck-” 

Your body is shaking with each movement. He’s painting the perfect picture of an orgasm with just one hand. The power he holds, the knowledge he has. He knew how to please you better than you knew how to. 

His free hand makes its way around your neck, gripping it, holding you in place so he can work harder at you. You’ve never been choked before, it’s a completely new sensation. The gasps for air were something you thought you’d fear, but instead, you were wishing he’d hold on harder. 

“Green?” He asks, looking for permission. 

You nodded your head ferociously  

You feel yourself completely letting go under his control, something you feared once to let him have all the power. But here, now, held down to his desk… You never wanted it to stop. 

“Words.” He barked. 

Your hand reaches up to hold his wrist, “Yes, yes…” 

“Yes, what?” He asks again, his fingers slowing their movement. Clearly, he wouldn’t be letting you get away with anything. You had to be obedient and do as he told you.

“Yes… Please, Sir,” You beg. 

The words were getting harder to communicate. If he could finger you into oblivion, you might let him if it meant you could feel this good again. 

He smiled in approval and resumed his previous pace. Steadily building faster, and faster. Harder and harder. You could feel how wet you were becoming, it really didn’t take much for him to draw the excitement out of you. The swirls of his fingers and the vigor of his motions were precise… Calculated, trying to accomplish only one mission; and he was close to succeeding. 

Your moaning only got more frequent and louder, you couldn’t hold back. The pleasure was far too great to stay quiet. He almost let you be loud too, only for a few moments before reminding you of your location. He lifted his hand off your neck to lift a single finger to his lips and then pointed around the room. 

“If my good girl can’t stay quiet, I’ll have to make her. We don’t want anyone spoiling all the fun.”

You nod your head, remembering you were still in his office. Your surroundings had escaped you completely; only thinking of him and you. 

His thumb started to apply more pressure, practically begging for you for more. A softer moan forced its way out, helpless to be silenced. His hand plasters itself over your mouth, holding you silent. The pads of his fingers resting deep into your cheeks. 

“I know baby, it’s so hard… You’re gonna be so good and come for me now, okay?” 

Finally being relieved of speaking, you nod your head, ready for the climax. His fingers dive upward, grazing the sweet spot buried inside of you. The pressure, the sensation it’s all too much. You feel your belly tighten, your back arching. He’s trying to hold you steady as you writhe in pleasure. There’s no stopping anything now. 

“Do it baby, come on… Be a good little slut for me…”

Your eyes roll deep back into your head. You feel the sweet sensation of release wash over you. Like a wave of ecstasy, traveling from your toes, past your aching clit, through your belly, all the way to your head. Stifled moans slip through the cracks of his fingers. His fingers stay at their steady pace, pushing past your orgasm. You feel yourself dripping around him. You’ve never come this hard in your life, you’ve never felt the devotion to make you feel this good. Your body is quivering around him, unable to shake the overstimulation. You’re squeezing onto his wrist, trying to come down easy, but everything he’s doing is making the sensations crash into you. 

He takes his hand away from your mouth and you immediately gasp for air, trying to find serenity. 

“Oh god,” You moan, “How did you-”

He shuts you up by taking his mouth to your soaked cunt, sliding his tongue through the mess he made. You place your hands beside you to sit up slightly. This was a sight you did not want to miss. You take his hair in your hands and tuck it aside. Each stripe of his tongue makes you wince, you want him to stop, but you can’t let him. It feels too good. It’s too much but just the right amount all at once. 

He was consuming you, desperate to explore every inch of you. Wildly eating you up, trying to capture every last drop of his work. You were spilling into him, it was never-ending.  It was like you weren’t even there; everything except your pusy. This was a high that you never wanted to come down from. He was devoted to keeping you there as long as he could, but you couldn’t hold on for more. 

You fell back onto the desk, squirming through it all. He had you right where he wanted you. You let yourself fall into him, trying to take it all. Your hands reach over the desk, trying to find somewhere to hang onto, but instead knocking the scotch glass off the desk. Shattering loudly beneath you. 

Jacob didn’t stop though, he was completely distracted, locked in. You couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Yellow.. Yellow..” You begged, completely overstimulated and shocked. How could you even ask for that?... But it was impossible to withstand any more sensation. 

He stopped slowly, easing you out of the enjoyment. His hands reached up over your thighs and rested on your hips, slowly petting them with his thumbs. He looked up at you through glazed-over eyes, completely drunk on your arousal. He didn’t want it to end. 

Slowly raising himself back to a standing position, you could see how hard he had gotten. He felt just as much pleasure as you did. He was completely lost, coming back to reality. Chin dripping with your wetness… 

He leaned back over you and kissed you sloppily. The passion was more fiery than before. You did something to him and he did even more to you. It was strange to taste yourself on his lips, but exciting nonetheless. You were caught up together. Complete and one at that moment. And then it all stopped… 

Footsteps approached outside the classroom. You both stopped. He removed himself from your lips and raised his head to listen. 

A knock at the classroom door. 

“Hello?” Someone called out. 

There was no mistaking that someone was in this office, between the music, the glass breaking… They knew. 

“Everything okay in here Kiszka?” 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. He stands and reaches for his shirt, buttoning it with no haste. He grabs your shirt and pants and kicks them under the desk, “Go, get underneath the desk,” He whispers, “Now.”

[wrathofthestag]

So I have a new headcanon that eventually, Jack will write a cookbook. After years of watching Bitty cook, Jack picks up a lot. At first, he's shy in the kitchen and looks to Bitty for reassurance and guidance. Gradually, he dives into cooking with gusto. Much to Bitty—and Bob's—delight, he becomes more fearless and adventurous in the kitchen.

With Bitty's busy schedule, Jack begins cooking more meals at home. He approaches Nate the team's dietitian for info on cooking for athletes. They have long chats and Nate gives him lots of books and recommends some online courses if Jack is "really interested." Which he is!

Jack then finds himself making lunches for the guys. Tater draws a cute little cartoon of Jack with a chef's toque that he tapes to the nook wall.

Like everything Jack approaches, he is 110% and is diving into the science of food, particularly in relation to the athlete. Bitty is charmed beyond belief.

"Honey, this is delicious and you have definitely outdone me when it comes to cooking for the team."

"Euh, thanks, Bits."

Jack blushes but feels good when he brings food for the Falconers. And blushes even more when the guys chirp him as they happily dig into Jack's creations. It's then that Jack finally understands, truly understands what Bitty feels when he cooks for others.

Soon, FalcsTV is always abuzz about Jack's cooking, especially with Tater's What's in Zimbonni's Kitchen? segment. So, it's no surprise when Bitty's agent approaches Jack about a cookbook for athletes.

"Bits is the chef, not me," he quickly replies.

But Bitty's agent, and Bitty, smile. Soon the book debuts and, of course, it's a hit.

Shitty and the team chirp Jack within an inch of his life.

"What's with the beefcake photo, brah?" Shitty razzes (as the pride shines on his expression).

Bitty quickly shushes him.

"The publisher knows what the masses want, Byron."

Jack's a little embarrassed, but ultimately, he doesn't care. He's proud of the work he's done and smiles as he puts a copy of Eat More Protein next to all of Bitty's cookbooks in their kitchen.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Anakin flirting with m reader and ending making out? Pls

Anakin Skywalker x Male reader

Headcanons

You are a non-jedi general during the Clone wars, cuz yall lost focus and had a consensual workplace relationship.

This turned out a lot sweeter than i had planned ngl.

You were a general during the clone wars. You weren’t anything special, you couldn’t use the force, you weren’t from some rich or special background, your name didn’t carry any weight. The only gift you seemed to have, was your inability to be affected by the force. All in all, you weren’t anything to write home about.

Of course, that’s also what made you so damn useful in your role. No one kept an eye on you, everyone underestimated you, you could get away with so much because to most people in charge, you didn’t exist. You not being able to be manipulated by the force, also made you extremely skilled in what you did, without anyone seeming to notice.

Your feat of climbing the military ranks in leaps and bounds only got you mild acknowledgments, and a handful of attempted manipulations from some people in power. But when they realized you didn’t bend, but you weren’t important enough to get rid of, they left you alone.

At 22 you had reached the rank of senior general in the republic army, placing you above even a good chunk of the jedi you fought against, which was also why you had been placed with the 501st, to apparently teach their general the basics.

Anakin and Obi-Wan had both been unsettled by the fact that they couldn’t sense you in the force the first time you met. Every being, even the nonliving, had a presence. But you didn’t. it was like you didn’t exist.

That took quite some time to get used too, especially to someone as force sensitive as Anakin. But over time you two started getting along, and though it took him some time and a lot of grumbling, Anakin did learn quite a lot from you.

The flirting had been subtle in the beginning, or as subtle as Anakin could be. From getting your help on reports and readings he just “couldn’t understand”, to getting you to help him stretch after he had spent hours going through his katas.

You weren’t oblivious, you couldn’t be with the life you lived, so of course you noticed his attempts at flirting. It was endearing in a way. To see someone who was supposed to have no connection to people like that, seem so drawn to you.

It also left you feeling uneasy in a way, as you had never really had much time to relationships or even flirting for that matter, having spent all these years making something of yourself.

Alongside the flirting you two became good friends, and you had even signed yourself up to stay with his platoon, even when your training was done. This was also where you learned he had had a thing with Padme, but they realized they were better as friends a while ago.

When you shared your own lack of experience, it seemed to boost some of Anakin’s confidence, seeing as you both were on new ground. And like with anything else, he took to it with gusto.

The fact that you never turned him down or rejected him, sometimes even laughing and playing along, only made Anakin try even harder. It was cute, to see him trying his best to woo you in a subtle and less noticeable way, seeing as he was still a jedi and it wasn’t actually allowed.

The 501st knew though. Of course they knew, and when Ahsoka came around she figured it out very fast, and she most likely took up the role as hype man and background support.

Your flirting became part of your dynamic, it was just something that you two did, which to outsiders was just seen as banter to keep the spirits up.

It also didn’t go past flirting for a long time, seeing as you guys were always surrounded by people. And being besides Anakin didn’t let you slip into the shadows like you were used too, since he would glow so brightly.

The need for privacy was what had you two slinking off to the side during one of the nights in camp, the platoon having settled down on a planet and waiting for their next orders. Anakin and you had decided to wander off, settling somewhere nearby, but far enough away to get some time alone together.

There might also have been a bottle of alcohol in your coat. It was nowhere near enough to get either of you drunk, especially with the force helping clear it out of Anakin’s system quicker than average folk. But it was enough to loosen up and get comfortable.

Your normal banter of flirting was constant, but as the buzz settled it became something softer and somehow hotter, the feelings growing thick in the air and noticeable enough that even you, who was as force sensitive as a rock if not lesser, could sense it.

Anakin must have made some corny pass at you, that cocky grin on his lips and his hair brushed back and out of his face, letting you truly see his handsome features. Something came over you, later you would blame the force, but it just felt right.

Leaning in and closing the gap between you seemed to have shocked Anakin, his eyes wide before he seemingly melted against you, arms wrapping around your neck and torso and pulling you even closer.

The kiss was far from the most skilled or pleasant, but your shared lack of experience was fully made up for by enthusiasm.

Anakin would pant and grunt as the kiss turned steamier, lips parting and tongues rubbing together, spit gathering at the edges of your mouths and a line of drool running down his chin. His eyes were shut tightly in concentration, his brows furrowed and hands grasping as your coat.

You had no idea how long you two were laying there, kissing like two lovesick fools from some romance novel. Hands were grasping and exploring, but never going further than that. Now wasn’t the time to go any wilder than what you were doing, but the possibility of it was enough to make the kiss even better.

When you pulled away, Anakin leaned after you with a soft noise, bottom lip pouting out and red from the insistent kissing, his eyes cracking open to look at you with the softest look you had ever seen from him.

“Not all of us can hold our breath for hours” you snarked with a soft chuckle, since you knew he could, thanks to the force. Your jedi grumbled, but tucked his head under your chin, still clutching you close and brushing his lips against your neck.

Neither of you spoke for a while, just holding onto each other. You found yourself brushing your fingers through his hair, Anakin almost arching into the touch like an affection starved tooka, a sight that only made you smile more.

“I like you a lot” he mumbled, glancing up at you through his lashes with that insistent determined, but somehow still soft and warm look in his eyes. Just seeing him like that made you wanna kiss him again, to devour him whole.

“I think I like you too” you replied, an upwards tick to your lips as you pulled him close again. Even without the ability to feel the force, you could still feel it flare, like the sun rising in the morning. It would be no surprise if Ahsoka knew exactly what had happened, and the padawan would be confronting you guys about it later.

But right now all that mattered was laying there with Anakin, and maybe stealing a couple more of those deep insistent and longing kisses, since he sounded so pretty when you did. You guys could deal with everything else later.

[angelsdean]

a very specific headcanon i have that i've just written into one of my longer wips (so you won't see the scene for an age) is that john is kinda a dick abt food and dean's eating habits. and he's just. so oblivious to the amount that his kids are suffering when he's gone. because dean sure as hell is not gonna bring up how the money is never enough, how they're near starving toward the end of some weeks. how they've relied on charity more than once. so when john comes back and gets them big full meals and dean especially practically inhales his food (bc he's hungrier, bc he's given more of his portions to sammy) john chides him to slow down, it'll make himself sick etc etc. but dean struggles. and he's always SO eager for burgers and pie and carb-y filling things. because he's starving. but he gets a reputation for "eating junk." john teases him for it. or berates him for it when he's feeling especially mean. when dean's older, stanford era, and they meet up for a hunt and get lunch dean still digs into his food a little too quickly, he asks the waitress for pie with a little too much gusto, and john shakes his head, laughing, saying it's a good thing dean's a hunter, it's a good thing he's got the grueling work to keep him fit or else all those burgers and pies would've definitely caught up to him by now. laughs at how dean still eats too fast, "you've done that since you were a kid. never grew out of it, huh?" and dean bites his cheek, bites back a remark about why he always ate so fast, why he's still always squirreling away food and jumping at every "free food" "free samples" opportunity even now when money is easier to come by

[2btheanswertothequestion]

(The final part of November Paramedic; part 6 is here and the AO3 version is here. If you want to avoid the smut, you should read on AO3.)

Eddie's apartment is full of song, but for probably the first time since he moved in it's not metal.

Max sings This Old Heart of Mine with gusto, her attention glued to her fingers as they move on the fretboard. She's in an awkward position, sitting slumped and with her leg propped onto five pillows on the coffee table. An elastic bandage is wrapped around her knee. Steve was right – she did exacerbate the injury by walking on it, and had to spend the next three days on bed rest. The knee already looks a lot better, less swollen but likely still tender, not that she's uttered a peep about it. Today is the first day she's been up and running, though not without support. Since crutches is the uncoolest kind of mobility aid Eddie took it upon himself to dig out a cane from his closet for her to use. When he asked if she liked it, she said it was great for thwacking people; he assumes that means 'yes'.

On the other end of the couch, Gareth taps along on a handheld drum. Max felt like she kept losing the rhythm and wanted extra help. Eddie is certain she was doing fine, but hey, if it calms her last-minute nerves, so be it.

The song ends, the last note lingering in the otherwise silent room. Max heaves a sigh, guitar slipping from her grip as she relaxes into her seat.

Gareth is beaming with pride; Eddie feels it too. Approximately two months of practice led to this. Just two months! He knows that she's been diligent, but still – it's impressive. Damn, he has the raddest little neighbor.

He rests his elbows on the couch's backrest and pokes Max's shoulder.

"It sounds great. You'll do amazing tomorrow."

She nods, lips tugging into a sweetly pleased smile.

"I'm ready," she says. Craning her neck, she locks their gazes. "Are you performing too?"

"No. The stage will be only yours. Although," he pats the acoustic in her lap, "I will of course be there and make sure you treat DragonSlayer with the respect she deserves."

Max's eyes crinkle with mischief.

"She won't react to you ever again after I show her what real talented fingers can do," she says, wiggling said fingers at him, and giggles when he gasps like a Victorian lady at the implied vulgarity. Turning to Gareth, she asks, "Are you gonna be there?"

Gareth's expression crumbles.

"I can't. Something is going around at work and we're short-staffed, so I'm no longer free," he says miserably. "I'll come next time. You'll do it again, right?"

She smiles wryly. "Unless I crash and burn."

Eddie pushes off the backrest and rounds the couch. He hates to spoil the mood any more, but…

"Before I forget," he says, piercing them with an unamused look. He also tries standing with his hands on his hips, but there's no way he can convey the same bitchy determination Steve can with the stance, so it feels hollow. He crosses his arms instead. "You two need to stop conspiring against me."

They blink at him, baffled.

"What?" Gareth says.

"You've been trying to set me up with Steve!"

"Well, yeah," Max says. "But not with him."

"Yeah, not with her."

It's Eddie's turn to blink. Releasing a breath that shudders with emotion, he closes his eyes and rubs circles on his temples.

"You're telling me you've worked independently of each other this entire time?"

"Seems like it!" Gareth laughs, though the mirth dims quickly. "But… who's done the best job?"

They whip toward each other. Their postures are tense, bow strings drawn and ready to shoot. Flames of competitiveness engulf them. Weirdos.

Gareth points at Max. "I made them go on a date!"

"I made them go on two dates!"

"I'm the reason they got to know each other!"

Max scoffs. "Oh, please. As if I wouldn't have eventually introduced them."

"Would you?"

"Sure. They're both older brother figures I can't get rid of who're hopelessly single and into men." She shrugs. "Why not?"

Eddie gasps again, this time more like a grandmother who's been presented with an incomprehensibly scribbled drawing from her toddler grandchild.

"I'm an older brother figure to you?" he asks, bending down to Max's level, his tone patronizingly light.

She sends him a withering look and reaches for her cane.

"Well, they almost kissed on my date!" Gareth shouts.

Max’s jaw drops. She loses her grip on the cane but gains a terrifying intensity in her eyes. A chill runs through Eddie, the tips of his appendages tingling. This is the closest he's ever gotten to catching frostbite.

"What," she says flatly.

Eddie scrambles away, metaphorically and physically, in case she decides to smack him anyway.

"N-no, we- It wasn't- Our faces just- But we didn't!"

"But it was so close," Gareth says, fingers pinched and with maybe the fraction of a fraction of an inch of air between his thumb and forefinger.

"Huh." Max continues staring Eddie down like she's plotting his murder for keeping secrets. He's about to point out that he can't be set up with Steve if he's dead when she swivels back to Gareth. "I'm making them go on a third date."

"Wait, what? When?"

"Open mic tomorrow night," she says, like he's an idiot. The scrunch of Gareth's mouth indicates that he agrees with her.

"Shit." He pats himself down, in search of something. "What time is it? Where's my phone? If I text him now I can schedule a spontaneous hang-out for tonight!"

Eddie's eyes double in size.

"Woah, woah, woah!" he exclaims, hands raised and palms facing out, as if he's warding off wild animals. "You have Steve's number?"

Gareth pauses his search to tilt his head at Eddie, like he's a puzzle he can't figure out how to solve. Or maybe just like he's a huge fucking moron. "You're telling me you don't?"

Eddie clamps his lips together; fights the urge to fidget beneath their judgmental stares. Max slowly shakes her head.

"Dumbass. You need us."

Eddie makes an ugly face at her. "Shut up."

She tuts. "So aggressive. That's a symptom of sexual frustration."

"I'm not-"

"Remember: thin walls."

"They're not that thin! I never hear you!"

"Because I know how to keep my business to myself. And you've heard me practicing the guitar, haven't you?"

He has. Shit. He buries his face in his hands.

"Shit."

"That's right," Max says snippily. "I hear everything. Every. Thing."

"Oh," Gareth says. He squeezes her good knee, oozing empathy from every pore. "Oh, you poor, innocent girl."

She soaks it up, lamenting, "It's been awful."

"Yeah… But, um. You realize that if they get together, then… "

Gareth trails off as Max nods miserably.

"Yeah, I know. I'm resigned to my fate."

Eddie pushes the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until he sees stars. He needs friends who are less invested in his sex life.

Max leaves soon after, cane clacking louder than necessary against the floor. (Eddie suspects he might not get it back once she's healed.) She stops in the doorway on her way out. While smiling in a manner that makes him break out in a cold sweat, she tells him not to take his car to the open mic and to dress nicely.

And then she's gone.

Gareth harrumphs.

"She's planning something for tomorrow. Damnit. This is unfair, you know. She's known him longer; she can talk to and influence both of you in ways I can't. I'm at a disadvantage here."

Eddie, without replying, twirls on the spot and faceplants on the couch.

Gareth groans above him. "Oh, what is it now?"

'Same as always' is what he'd like to say. Instead, he saves his breath by rolling onto his side, curling up his legs, and giving Gareth a look. It must convey how he feels, because Gareth's irritation melts off, replaced with something gentle. He squats by the couch and brushes a stray lock from Eddie's forehead. A bit like how Uncle Wayne would when he still lived at home.

"Eddie, man, you don't have to be nervous. He likes you."

"That makes it worse," Eddie says, voice raspy and thick, and fuck, he's not going to cry over this, is he? Bawl when a boy doesn't like him is normal, not when they do. "He likes me now, but if he finds out I'm his obsessive quasi-stalker? Then what?"

"I think you're blowing this out of proportion," Gareth says. He starts scratching at Eddie's scalp; it's good enough to dry his tears and slow his pulse. "Max knows about the calendar and she doesn't mind!"

Eddie snorts derisively. "Because she's nineteen and doesn't yet understand how some actions can have terrible consequences."

Gareth frowns at that with obvious disapproval. "She's still an adult. For that matter, so are you and Steve? Just talk to him about it." He sighs. "Look, I don't think he'll mind so much that he'll never get over it. And if he does… it sucks. But you'll live. There are dozens of hot guys out there, waiting to be swept off their hot… feet." He pauses to snicker.

"You're so bad at this," Eddie whispers; Gareth snickers even more.

"You know why I've stuck by you all these years?" he asks once done laughing. "Why I even started hanging with you in the first place?"

"You had stoner aspirations and I zero qualms selling weed to fourteen-year-olds?"

Gareth flicks his forehead. "Because you're cool. And likable. And you make people happy when you're around. So go out there tomorrow night and sweep those hot feet!"

Eddie snorts. Then again. His diaphragm tightens, air forces past his pursed lips, and then his body shakes with laughter. Gareth is grinning proudly, of himself and possibly Eddie as well. He snakes his arms around Eddie's waist and pulls him so close the mirth rattles through them both. It takes an eon, but at last, the laughter abates. Eddie’s lungs are sore and his eyes are wet with happiness, and he's still got an armful of best friend clinging to him.

"I'll call you the day after tomorrow." Gareth punctuates the promise with a squeeze, before pulling back. "Lunchtime. And I'll expect progress. Okay?"

Eddie nods. "Okay."

Gareth beams, ruffles Eddie's hair, and then he too leaves the apartment.

Eddie turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t sigh as much as make noise while gravity pushes the air from his lungs. He could fall asleep here, on this uncomfortable couch. Turns out guitar lessons, worrying, and funny friends deplete your energy.

Before his eyelids slide shut for good he drags himself up to brush his teeth and go lie in his real bed. He needs a proper night's sleep if he'll survive tomorrow.

He wakes up on Saturday having dreamt of Steve. He eats his breakfast while thinking of Steve. He replaces brake pads, rotates tires, and talks to clients while thinking of Steve. He returns home and showers off the sweat and oil while really thinking of Steve.

He also spends a lot longer than usual contemplating how thoroughly he ought to wash himself. Fate dictates that if he cleans as if he might get laid, he won't be. However, if he's perfunctory about it, he's more likely to score. Ultimately, he does an extensive scrub. Rather be presumptuous and get nothing than be unhygienic and get lucky.

Then comes the worst part: picking an outfit.

Max told him to wear something 'nice'. Jesus. 'Wear something nice', what did that even mean? Dress less like himself? Dress more like himself? Something skimpy? Or snug? He has those leather pants that make his legs look divine, but they might be too much. He doesn't want to look like he's trying as hard as he is. Also, he's going to an open mic in a coffee shop at seven in the evening. There will be high schoolers, retirees, families with children, and others present who do not need to see his dick imprint. 'No' to the leather pants.

But maybe…

The hangers clatter and screech as he pushes them aside. Sticking his arm far into his wardrobe, he then pulls it out grasping his other battle vest.

The one in leather.

He hasn't worn it out yet. It's only recently finished, and almost ended up looking too nice, too pristine. It's not really him, not the way his frayed and trusty denim vest is. But it's still a thing of beauty: band logos immaculately painted onto the leather and spikes adorning the shoulders, collar, and lapels.

It's fucking badass. Him, though a little nicer.

He pairs the vest with his tightest Metallica tee – the one with the sleeves shorn off and the neckline cut into a v deep enough to show both tattoos – and distressed, black jeans, rips over the knees and a big hole along the inside of one thigh. The retirees will just have to fucking deal with some exposed skin.

A crowd is thronging inside Connie's when he arrives ten minutes to seven. They've built a makeshift stage on one short side, crammed between the cream'n'sugar station and a huge monstera. Microphones, stools, and a keyboard stand upon it. All the café's tables are pushed to one half of the floor, letting people mill between them and the stage. None of them seem to be his people, though.

Eddie weaves through the crowd, scanning it for short redheads and tall hunks. Nothing… nothing… not-

"Eddie!"

He turns, coming nose to nose, like tip to tip, with Steve, who's… wow. Call him the moon and Eddie a wolf, because he's about to start howling.

He's wearing pants, not jeans, that hug his hips without being obscenely tight and a fitted, teal dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled up and the top two buttons left undone, allowing yet another tantalizing peek of the sculpted pecs beneath. Nice but not too formal, if you ask anyone. Positively edible, if you ask Eddie. His mouth is actually watering a little, which is a sign he's been staring for too long.

Lifting his gaze from Steve's chest to his face, he realizes he could've taken his time because Steve is also staring. At Eddie.

Steve's breaths are slow but deep as he bites his lip hard enough to dent it, tongue flicking out to soothe the mark. Eyes glowing like embers, he trails them over Eddie's body, threatening to set him ablaze.

Eddie's jeans are too fucking tight for this.

"Starting to worry you wouldn't make it," Steve says, low and gravelly.

"No, I just, uh, running a bit late…" Eddie says, faltering as Steve drags a finger along the lapel of his vest.

"Haven't seen you in this before," he murmurs.

"It's new. First time wearing it."

"Where'd you get it?"

"I made it."

Steve's brows jump. "You made it?"

"Make like one-third of my clothes and heavily alter the rest. Metal's all about DIY, baby."

Chuckling, Steve grabs both ends of the attached leather belt and opens the vest for a better look at the Metallica shirt underneath. He doesn't ask any questions about the band, thank God, because Eddie's brain is too liquid to answer. If Steve opened the vest a bit more he'd be undressing him. Or if he tugged at the belt Eddie would stumble into him, he's so off balance.

But Steve does neither; he closes it and lets go.

"I left the others at the table. C'mon."

The rest of them also look nice, Robin in suspenders again, this time paired with shorts, and Lucas in a black sweater-red jacket combo that reminds Eddie of all the cool boys he pined over in high school. Both of them gush compliments at the sight of his vest; their childlike enthusiasm is a pretty effective boner killer, phew. The only one not mentioning his outfit is Max – she's silently staring at the tablecloth, hands in her lap and head bowed.

"Hey, Red," he says.

She looks at him, eyes like clear ponds and her freckles stark against her white skin. It might be his personal bias, but she's the prettiest of them all tonight. Canary yellow t-shirt dress and oversized jean jacket, one shoulder artfully slipping down. Loose, wavy locks cascading past her shoulders. Barely chipped nail polish and glossy lips, but no other makeup. She's radiant.

And she's shaking.

He slides into the chair next to her.

"You're still ready?"

Max nods.

"You know, I still feel like puking every time I perform."

"Yeah?" she breathes.

"Yup." His fingers encircle her wrist, squeezing. "You're gonna crush it."

She smiles tightly.

"Do you want us to film it?" Robin asks. "To show your mom?"

Max's first reaction is a frown, which evaporates at the mention of her mom; then she nods so hard she's indistinguishable from a bobblehead.

"Yes!" she says, and that's the last bit of conversation between them, for the next second the lights dim and Connie ascends the stage to announce the start of the open mic.

It's three hours long, with fifteen performers given ten minutes each, plus a few for getting on and off the stage. Max is number eight, which means she'll have about an hour and a half to sweat before it's her turn. And maybe she does manage to sweat it out and dry off, because when her time comes she strides up with the poise of a seasoned veteran.

A café worker helps her up and adjusts the mic for her. She hooks the cane on the stool and situates the guitar across her lap – one of the younger audience members shouts "Dragon!" to everyone's amusement. Once the laughter stops, she puts her mouth to the mic and emits one stuttering breath.

"Hi," she says. "My name is Max, and I'll be playing two covers and one song I wrote." She giggles as some onlookers whoop their approval. "All three are dedicated to one person here tonight. He knows who he is."

Then she plays. It's the best fucking thing Eddie has heard, not just tonight, but ever.

Her voice is strong, her rhythm is perfect. When she pauses for breath her expression defaults into a blinding smile. She breezes through The Isley Brothers and Stevie Wonder as the crowd claps along. Eddie manages to tear his eyes from her only once, to view the others' reactions. Robin tries to hold her phone steady as she sways in her seat, Steve is misty-eyed like a proud dad, and Lucas…

Lucas sits slumped forward, chin pillowed on his hands, pupils huge and dark. Lovestruck.

After You Are the Sunshine of My Life she takes a breather, sipping from her bottle of water. There's a shift in the air; the audience settles, mood sobering. When she resumes playing, the notes are softer, slower. A melancholy made bearable by her warm tones.

Max's song is about a happy then and an uncertain now. It's a song about guilt and regret. About apologizing and vowing to improve. About past loss and about future hope.

Above all, it's a promise.

It strikes like a blade through Eddie's chest. He shouldn't be hearing this. None but three, or maybe just one, of the people in here should. It's not for their ears, because they can't ever truly understand. It's too personal. Yet, she plays it for them. Tearing open her flesh and breaking her bones to show them. Listening to this is a privilege.

Her last note is a tattoo – covering up those before her, impossible to erase by those following her.

Max smiles and bows, again like a pro. As the café erupts into deafening applause, Lucas shoots from his seat. Appearing by the stage, he extends his arms to her. She hooks hers around his neck and lets him lift her down. Smiling at each other, they rest their foreheads together like they're the only ones in the room. Shit, perhaps they are.

They walk back to the table with Max's cane underneath Lucas' arm, she using him as her crutch. Arriving, the first thing she does is ask Eddie:

"How was it?"

He schools his expression.

"Red. I'm ditching my band. From now on, you and me – duo."

She boxes him in the shoulder, the shine of her smile rivaling a star.

The rest of the open mic is nice, even though the highlight is over. Still, live music is live music (and leaving in the middle would've been unacceptably rude), so they stay until Connie closes the night by thanking everyone present and encouraging them to come back next time.

Outside, they stretch their unused limbs until their joints pop, then walk a few blocks to Steve's car. It makes sense for Eddie not to have taken his van, he tells himself. The BMW is big enough for all five to sit comfortably, and he'll save on gas. Still, there's a disappointment pooling in his gut, because this means Steve will drop off Lucas, Max, and Eddie at their places before driving himself and Robin home. It's not a bad thing! He has yet to figure out how to breach the subject of the calendar. But… getting some more time to talk to Steve without amateur musicians drowning out the words would've been nice.

(This is what he gets for being so thorough in the shower.)

"Well," Robin says, hands clasped behind her head, as the BMW beeps unlocked. "I'll see you guys later."

"Where are you going?" Eddie asks.

"Steve and I live just past that building," she says, pointing. "So, I'll walk while he drives you guys."

Oh.

The disappointed pool freezes. Eddie swallows thickly. This is fine. It means nothing. Steve will drop everyone off and then go home, as planned.

He gets shotgun. Really, it's given to him because Max and Lucas commandeer the backseat, snuggling up on one-and-a-half seats while DragonSlayer claims the third. Eddie doesn't mind in the slightest – not when the kids are so close they're basically on top of each other, slotting together like a pair of puzzle pieces. Watching them separate when they arrive at the apartment complex will be devastating.

Except.

They do not go to the apartment complex. They go to a neighborhood Eddie's never been to before, parking outside a two-story house. So, they're dropping off Lucas first, then Eddie and Max, and then Steve will go home. Just as planned.

"I'm staying with Lucas tonight," Max says. "The DragonSlayer is all yours, Eddie."

She slams the door shut, the two of them walking up the shingled pathway hand in hand.

Steve hums pleasantly. "I think that did the trick – they're an item again. About time, don't you think?"

"Uh, yeah, yep, sure took them long enough, yeppers," Eddie's mouth says with negative input or permission from his brain.

Steve grins before pulling out, shirt straining against his arm as he turns the wheel and holy shit, Eddie is alone in a car with Steve!

Is everyone conspiring against him?!

Steve makes small talk during the drive, recounting which songs he recognized, sharing his favorite performances, asking for Eddie's more knowledgeable opinion. Eddie responds to the best of his abilities, which is to say 'poorly'.

When they stop by a red light and Steve absent-mindedly undoes the third button on his shirt, Eddie’s mouth dries up and he stops responding altogether, fearing his tongue will crumble to dust if he tries. If Steve is put out by Eddie's conversational skills reducing to various affirmative noises, he doesn't show it.

Finally reaching the complex, Eddie resolves to at least croak a 'thank you for the ride'. But when he turns to do just that, Steve is already looking earnestly at him with his large, honeyed eyes.

"It's really nice of you, teaching Max to play. Thank you."

"Oh, 'twas nothing." Eddie clears his throat. "She's a good student."

"I'm curious: is there a difference between acoustic and electric?"

"Not really. Electric is a little easier, 'cause they're smaller and the strings are lighter."

"Acoustic sounds better, though," Steve says and laughs at Eddie's answering grimace. "All right, maybe not to the metal master," (Eddie stifles a gigglesnort; what an adorable dork), "but to a common listener, such as myself, acoustic is nicer. You can try to change my mind if you want, though."

"By… playing both for you?"

"Yeah."

Eddie gulps audibly. "N-now?"

Steve's smile is almost too wide for his face. He cocks his head, a lock of hair falling into his eyes, who are gleaming like gold in the light of the nearby street lamp.

"I'm not busy."

Eddie leads them up the stairs to his fourth-floor apartment. Their steps echo in time with the drumming of Eddie's heart. His grip on the DragonSlayer is unyieldingly stiff, lest it slides from his clammy palm.

This is fine. Steve is going to listen to him play and then go home, just as planned.

Like the building, the locks are old; his key jams and needs to be rattled before the door opens. He lets Steve in first, then closes the door behind them. Steve waits patiently, back to the wall and chest inches from Eddie's. Has the hallway always been this cramped?

Eddie turns to fumble around for the light switch, breath hitching when Steve touches his shoulders. Grasping the vest's spiked lapels, he pulls it off Eddie's frame and hangs it on the coat rack. Next, he grabs the guitar – warm, dry skin brushing Eddie's – and props it by the doorpost. Last, he looks at Eddie, his eyes searching, searching, searching…

Disregarding his sensibilities, Eddie nods.

Steve kisses him.

The force of it sends them stumbling, Eddie's back slamming into the wall. Their mouths smush together and their noses bump; for a moment it's too hard, too much. But then Steve angles his head, their lips melding, and it's perfect. Like silk sheets and rose petals, like champagne and chocolate truffles, like summer nights and meteor showers.

Steve mumbles something about waiting, about wishing, about finally. He's touching Eddie everywhere, chest pinning him against the wall, hands running up and down his arms, thigh pushing between his legs. His hard cock pokes against Eddie's groin, and it feels so thick.

All of Eddie's nerve endings are lighting up, sending tingles to converge in his belly before shooting back out to his limbs. He has no regrets. Everything he's done or that's been done to him was worth it, because it led to the best fucking kiss of his life. Steve will have to keep him after this – exposing him to this kind of touch only once would be cruel.

It's gentle, is the thing, but with the passion of a thousand lovers. Steve cups his face, tipping it, thumb caressing his cheek and fingers rubbing circles in his hair. His lips, soft but determined, parts Eddie's for a quick taste that leaves him wanting.

Eddie tries chasing, but Steve withholds – fucking teases – and goes back to nipping and licking. Rolling his hips until Eddie gasps, then slipping in his tongue to stroke the roof of Eddie's mouth. Then he starts over again, repeating the cycle until Eddie is whining, his knees so weak he slumps onto Steve's thigh.

Grabbing hold of his ass, Steve hoists him up. Eddie squawks, legs automatically wrapping around Steve's waist. Steve grins, juuuust on the wrong side of smug, and steps away from the wall, carrying Eddie like it's nothing. It would be infuriating if Eddie wasn't too busy wondering if, and if so for how long, Steve could fuck him like this.

"Bedroom?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, it's, uh, through there," Eddie says, pointing in what might be the right direction.

Then he yanks Steve's head back by his pretty hair and swallows his moan. Because with Steve's hands occupied, it means Eddie can do whatever he wants. And what he wants is shove his tongue as far down Steve's throat as he can.

It takes them a while, but they reach the bedroom. Steve deposits them on the bed, bringing them from vertical to horizontal in a smooth slide without breaking the kiss.

Eddie wraps tighter around him, wanting to feel him everywhere and always. Alas, Steve disentangles them with a chuckle. He sits up so he's kneeling, legs spread, Eddie's thighs resting on top of his. A hungry glint in his eyes, he undoes one more of his buttons, then forgoes the rest by pulling the shirt off like a sweater and flinging it aside.

Eddie wastes no time touching him, groping the firm pecs and caressing the soft belly. The coarse hair tickles his palms.

"Fuck me, you're perfect," he murmurs.

Steve giggles, pink blooming on his face. Coaxing Eddie's hands off him, he arranges his limbs on the bed, and Eddie lets him – he can do anything as long as he does it shirtless. He smooths his hand over the Metallica logo, pretty much petting his chest, before rucking the shirt up to Eddie's chin. Steve's eyes are black, more pupil than iris; he thumbs at the tattoo on Eddie's ribs.

"I was hoping you'd have more," he says. His other hand slides across Eddie's leg, fingers ghosting the edge of the large hole before one slips inside, tucking between the denim and the skin of Eddie's thigh. Eddie gasps; Steve smiles. "How much do I need to take off to see all of them?"

"Why don't you find out, big boy?" Eddie says, breathless but grinning, scooting closer to rub his ass on Steve's dick.

Steve rips off Eddie's shirt, tosses it where he tossed his own, and crashes their lips together as he unbuckles Eddie's belt.

Eddie hums into the kiss. It's perfect. Steve is perfect. The whole thing is as if out of a dream. Jesus Christ, it is straight out of one of his fantasies. The only thing missing is… is…

The uniform.

Fuck. He can't do this. Not like this. Fuck.

Eddie breaks the kiss, gently pushing Steve away.

"Eddie?"

He shakes his head, eyes screwed shut. Looking at Steve right now is impossible – the shame will consume him. He shouldn't have let it go this far.

"Eddie? What's wrong?" Steve asks. "Please, I-"

"There's something you gotta know." Eddie forces his eyes open. The least Steve deserves is to be looked at while given the truth. Also, this is the first and possibly last time Eddie will see Steve on top of him. He should savor it. "I haven't been completely honest."

Steve's eyes dim. "You're married."

Eddie goggles. "What? No! Shit, I've never had a relationship go past the three-month mark. No, it's… Um…"

He sighs. Here comes the music; time to face it.

"You know that calendar you did? Gareth told you his mom had it?"

"Yes?"

"He lied. It's mine. I have the calendar." He inhales deeply, then lets it all out in one fast gust. "I recognized you the first time we met and I thought you were so hot and Gareth thought we should try finding you at the university and we did and then we hung out and now, uh, now we're here."

Steve blinks owlishly. "Oh."

"Yeah. I've jerked off to your picture for two and a half years and I thought you should know." Eddie rubs his eyes; they're burning, and his nose is clogging. Shit, not now… "So, um. If you want to stop, if you never want to see me again, I understand. I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"It- Huh?"

Eddie's jaw slackens. He gawks up at Steve, who calmly meets his gaze. But it can't be this easy. It's never this easy, not for Eddie.

"S'fine." Steve shrugs. "Was that all?"

"Uh. Yeah."

"Good."

He dives back to resume the kiss, except this time it's hotter, dirtier, Steve licking behind his teeth and sucking on his tongue so Eddie's toes curl. He yanks Eddie's jeans and boxers down to his thighs, Eddie's cock springing out. Steve grips it, but doesn't stroke or squeeze – just holds. Eddie starts rocking into his fist and oh, oh, it's so good but not enough. He's so hard his head is spinning and he needs Steve's hands and his cock and he needs he needs he needs-

"Eddie," Steve says into Eddie's mouth. "What d'you want me to do? Tell me."

"Mmm, I want… Fuck, I needed you inside me two years ago."

Steve licks a wet stripe along his throat. "Whatever you want."

Then he sits up and flips Eddie over. Eddie grunts at the sudden movement, but his cock between his stomach and the mattress feels heavenly, and Steve parting his ass cheeks is even better, so he's not complaining.

He's especially not complaining when Steve leans down, rubbing his nose against Eddie's tailbone.

"You're okay with any part of me inside you?" he asks, breath warm on Eddie's skin.

Eddie groans. "Yes. Anything! Just touch me!"

Steve does, dragging the flat of his tongue from Eddie's taint up to his hole.

Eddie keens, burying it in the pillow due to those damn thin walls. It probably doesn't help, because he's being loud. He usually is, but not like this. Turns out Steve's tongue is amazing no matter where he puts it. He swirls it around the hole, laps heavily against the rim, slowly loosening Eddie up.

He writhes and moans, cock leaking precum on the sheets. Jerking forward, he humps the mattress for two sweet, relieving seconds before Steve grabs him by the hips and holds him in place. He would've griped about it if Steve hadn't immediately plunged his tongue into Eddie's hole. But Steve does, so Eddie screams instead.

Fuck the walls, he's having the time of his life.

He has been rimmed before, two or three times, but not this intensely. He hasn't been fucked by another man's tongue. Because that's what Steve's doing, lips on Eddie's ass and saliva dripping down his taint. He's as far in as it can go, tongue thrusting and stroking and… oh. Oh! Oh, fuck-

Eddie jolts, despite being held down, because Steve just flicked his tongue tip against someplace sensitive. He whines, begging Steve to do it again. Steve laughs, the sound reverberating through Eddie's ass, and does as told. And again. And again.

He flicks. Eddie screams.

He flicks. Screams.

Flicks. Screams.

And Eddie's on fire. His legs are shaking, his insides are thrumming, the pleasure courses and courses in electric waves and shit, did he just come?

"Holy shit, I think I just came," he says, fingers cramping where they've clutched the covers.

Steve pulls out with a slurp.

"Oh, cool," he pants. He crawls up the bed, his hard cock dragging a wet trail on Eddie's leg. "D'you wanna take a break or keep going?"

Eddie groans. What kind of a fucking question is that? His cock is still hard, and Steve's cock is hard, and Eddie is reeling from the best orgasm he's ever had, and does he want to keep going?

"Steve…" he says. "If you don't fuck me now, then I'll… I'll… " He trails off, slurring.

"Yes," Steve says, catching on anyway. "Okay. Yes."

He sounds wrecked. Glancing over his shoulder, Eddie is met by perfect hair in disarray, cheeks flushed and blotchy, a chin glistening with drool, and Steve's wild, ember eyes. Assured he's not the only one losing his mind, Eddie thumps his head back on the pillow. Bending his knees, he pushes his ass into the air and reaches back to spread his cheeks with his own fingers.

"Then hurry up, big boy," he croons, index finger circling the spitslick rim. "Before I do it myself."

Steve laughs, high-pitched like he's drunk. He fumbles for Eddie's lube and a condom he brought, thank fuck, because Eddie only has expired ones.

Lying on top of Eddie, Steve aligns their arms and interlocks their fingers, and pushes in. Eddie whimpers, because as loose and cock-starved as he is, Steve is huge, the tip alone wrecking his already sore ass. Steve shushes him gently, brushing away sweat-damp curls to plant a soft kiss at his nape. He rocks slowly, squeezing Eddie's hand and rubbing his hip, until the stretch gets better and the pain eases.

And then they fuck. Or maybe 'make love' is a more fitting term, because they hold hands during most of it. And sometimes, Steve will ease off, going so slow and sweet it borders on edging, drawing high-pitched noises from far down Eddie's chest. Then, once satisfied, he speeds up again, fucking harder while whispering compliments into Eddie's skin.

He makes Eddie come two more times, by fucking him and by jerking him off. At least, Eddie thinks that's what happened when he wakes up some hours later. He got a little delirious with pleasure at the end, though, so he's not a hundred percent sure.

He yawns and stretches. It's dark out, but the blinds are open and light pours in from the street lamp that for some reason had to be positioned right by his window.

"That light is the worst," Steve mumbles, burrowing into the pillow.

"Hmm, yeah. But I don't have to have my own lamp on. I save on electricity."

"Economical." Steve laughs, peeking up from the bedding. He's beautifully rumpled, bathed in shadows and light. "How d'you feel?"

"Awesome… did you clean me up?"

"Kinda had to – you passed out. I'm not letting you sleep with come crusting all over you," Steve says, nose scrunching.

"Not my fault. Blame your cock!"

They laugh again, together. It's nice. But it would've been nicer if there wasn't still one tiny thing nagging in the back of Eddie's head.

"Hey," he mumbles. "When you said… that the stuff with the calendar was fine, did you mean it? Or was your judgment clouded by horniness?"

Steve snorts. "'Course I meant it. I don't mind."

"Jesus."

"Do you want me to mind?"

"No. It's just that I've been putting off telling you about it because I was afraid you'd be upset. It's pretty creepy."

"Yeah, but…" Steve props his head onto his fist and shrugs one shoulder. "I guess it would be creepier if it were someone else. But it's you, and I like you, so… it's just flattering."

A grin stretches across Eddie's face. "You like me?"

"Uh, yeah." Steve rolls his eyes, but his face is also splitting in half. "Don't you like me?"

"I do."

Eddie winds his arms around Steve's waist, pulling him in for a kiss.

"I thought so," Steve says after their lips part. "I just didn't know how much – if you wanted to just fuck or if you wanted something more. Max was hinting you wanted more. And your friends seemed too invested for you not to want more. Then Robin told me 'he definitely wants more'. So I knew it was safe to go."

"Christ, dude, I like you so much I've given myself ulcers worrying you didn't like me back!"

"Sorry," Steve says unapologetically. "You can stop worrying."

They embrace, trading chaste kisses as they snuggle. Alternating between whispering nonsense and drawing patterns on each other and simply looking, unabashed and unhurried.

Then, Steve pulls away with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

He asks, "So where do you keep that calendar?"

Eddie's heart and stomach leap, trading places and knocking every other organ off course. He lunges at Steve, coiling around him like an octopus and trapping him to the bed.

"Nooooo!"

Steve guffaws. "I'm not gonna look for it! You'll have to tell me where it is."

He cocks his head at Eddie, sweet, innocent, evil. Eddie groans with the vigor of an annoyed pre-teen. Releasing Steve, he points at his desk.

"Top drawer."

Steve flies up, rummaging through the drawer before Eddie can blink. Whooping in triumph, he holds the calendar in front of himself and begins flipping through it. Eddie pulls the comforter up to his nose to hide his blush.

"April is missing?" Steve asks.

"The model was a cop."

"Ah."

Steve reclaims his spot on the bed. He's reached November and is scanning the photo with an approving smile.

Eddie grunts. "Are you admiring your own photo?"

"So? It's a good picture." Steve smirks at him. "I know you agree."

Grumbling, Eddie hides completely beneath the cover. This is what he gets for being honest. He's never telling the truth again.

"What do you say about me fucking you while wearing the uniform?" Steve asks.

Eddie throws off the comforter and catapults into sitting.

"We can do that?"

"Sure," Steve says easily, like he didn't just turn Eddie's world upside down. "Unless…" He leans in, lips hovering over Eddie's. "Unless you want to fuck me while I wear it?"

They don't fall back asleep until hours later.

(In fact, they sleep in until 11 am, when Eddie's alarm goes off. Gareth calls by lunchtime as promised, but Eddie misses it. He's too busy getting fucked against the shower wall.)

"You're not allowed to break up," Max says later that day, during their guitar lesson. The open mic might've passed, but she needs to learn more if they'll perform together. "It'll be awkward if you're exes. I won't be able to hang out with Steve if you're next door – I'll have to move."

Eddie smiles. He should point out they're not really together yet; that they've only barely started dating. Instead, he says:

"We won't."

And he can't explain how, but it's as if some higher power whispered all the answers to him while he slept in Steve's arms and he knows, he just knows, that he's telling the truth.

------------------------------

Thank you for reading. You're the best.

Oh, and I realize that I introduced things that excited a ton of people (such as Eddie meeting everyone else), so I might have to write a mini-sequel where that actually happens. Not now, though. Later.

Tag list: @rougenancy, @raisedbylibrarians, @yourebuckingkiddingme, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @emma77645, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @eddielives1986, @stevesbipanic, @the-redthread, @fandemonium-takes-its-toll, @henderdads, @gay-little-bitch, @lenore1232, @zerokrox-blog, @eddiemunsonswife, @cherrycolas-things, @ediewentmissing, @princess-eddie, @atombombbibunny, @ajamlessbaby, @dogswithforks, @grimmfitzz, @cutiecusp, @cuips-not-cute, @manicallydepressedrobot, @messrs-weasley, @madaboutmunson, @mightbeasleep, @suikatto, @brassreign, @snapshotmaestro, @courtjestermunson, @csinnamon-fox, @spectrum-spectre, @spinmewriteround, @just-super-fucking-gay, @escapingthereality, @oneweirdcryptid, @deehellcat, @misticageri, @lovelyscot, @linkydinky06, @rynnytintin, @anything-thats-rock-and-roll, @theysherobinbuckley, @freddykicksasses, @winterbuckwild, @sideblogofthcentury, @subparbrainfunction, @pemsha

[luveline]

JADEEEE I love roan so much can we please have a mother daughter day??? And Roan tells everything they did to Eddie as soon as they get home and he’s just so happy that you love roan so much !!!!!

thank you for your request! dad!eddie x (nearly step)mom!reader

"What is it called again?" Roan asks. 

You smile down at her little beatific grin, knowing that she knows and knowing that she wants you to say it again. "It's called a mother-daughter day. Where moms and their daughters spend the whole day doing mom and daughter stuff, like manicures and haircuts and coffee. Or, cake. No coffee for you, princess."

Eddie's blow dried Roan's hair so that almost all of her curls agave been straightened, and the dark length of it fans over her shoulders, soft as spun silk. He dropped you and Roan off in the centre of Hawkins town to spend a day with Wayne (that you called a father-son day, and he called chores day —Wayne's not taking me out for shopping and treats, sweetheart, he's gonna break my back in the yard).

The very first port of call, you decide, is hair. You take Roan into a quiet hair stylist's where you'd made two appointments, her smaller hand swinging in yours. The room is cool but inviting, and it doesn't take much convincing to get her into one of the chairs. 

"What do we want?" the hairdresser asks, bending down on Roan's left and meeting her eyes in the mirror. 

You do the same to her right. "We don't want much cut off, do we, Ro?" 

You'd already talked about it with her yesterday, wanting to make sure she doesn't have anything done that she doesn't want, or anything Eddie doesn’t approve of. 

"No, just the little bit," Roan says. 

"Can she have a wash and blow dry, too?" you ask. "She has the most beautiful curls when it's dry. We only did it like this today so she could see how much was being cut off." 

The hairdresser agrees with gusto. A second hairdresser comes along to do your hair, and it's a good thing you'd wanted Roan to have the full treatment, because you almost mess your own up constantly by turning in your chair to speak with Roan's hairdresser about what it is their doing. 

When you're finished, you're not shy about standing watch. The hairdresser is a sweetheart, fawning over Roan's pleased face as she rubs shampoo into her scalp over the sink. "Hey, Ro," you greet, "you look like you're enjoying yourself." 

"Hi, mom." 

"She's as good as gold," the hairdresser praises, "she's so polite." 

Roan shies away at the praise, worse when you agree. "She's my greatest love," you confess, "that's why I'm spoiling her today, because she deserves it for being so good all the time." 

Roan absolutely still tantrums. She misbehaves as every kid does, she hates vegetables, she makes those silly potions in the bathroom and she breaks things on purpose. But she's still a great kid. She deserves more than a special day. You'd treat her to this stuff all the time if you could. 

When Roan's hair has been dried and moussed with a diffuser, you pay your (unfortunately large) debts and compliment her all the way to the cafe. 

"Sweetheart, you look so beautiful, I wish I could show your dad right now, your curls haven't looked this bouncy and shiny in ages," you say, stroking a rogue one from her cheek. 

"I think you look beautiful, too," she says, almost walking into a woman coming from the cafe door. 

You pull her into your legs to avoid collisions and lead her through the door. "Thanks, baby," you say. If you were at home you'd grab her up, kiss her chubby cheeks, and maybe cry a little bit, but instead you take her to a nice table and buy her two different slices of over-expensive cake. One slice of triple chocolate fudge cake, and one slice of toffee cake with caramel buttercream. You tuck napkins into the collar of her nice dress and tie her hair back, fingertips sliding gently against her scalp as you pull it away from her face. She's extremely enthusiastic, spoon to her mouth before you've managed two loops of her scrunchie. 

"Eat up, princess," you say, stroking her shoulders clean of lint and stray hairs. "We have a super busy day still waiting for us." 

And the day is super, super long. It's night time by the time you and Roan get home via Hawkins lone taxi cab. Poor Eddie's literally waiting on the porch swing. 

"Holy crap, girls, I thought you were gonna call me," he says, rushing down the path to help with your shopping bags. 

"Dad, you're not supposed to see how much money mom spended," Roan declares, running around him on the path with a couple of bags in her clutches. "Don't worry, I'll hide them!" 

Eddie raises his eyebrows, waiting until you've thanked the driver and started up the path before asking, "I'm not supposed to see how much money you spent?" 

"That's a joke," you say. "You know, it happens on TV. I thought it was part of the mommy-daughter experience." 

"Oh, gotcha." He sidles in close to you as you take the few steps up to your door, not-so-subtly taking the shopping bags out of your left hand. "You look fucking beautiful, in case you don't know. Your hair is so pretty." 

"They barely did anything to my hair." You're not disparaging your stylist, she did exactly as you asked. It looks the same as always, but freshened up. 

"And yet." 

You step into the house and shut the door behind you. Eddie places your bags off to the side and turns to you for a hug rather than a kiss. He's maddeningly sweet like that. He hugs you so tightly that your back crunches. 

"Missed you… Thank you for taking her out today. I love how much you love her," he says against your cheek, punctuating with a quick kiss. "I thought you'd be home hours ago." 

"How was Wayne?" you ask through laughter. 

"Healthy enough to put me to work." 

You cup his cheek. "And how are you?" 

"Tired. Please tell me you bought me a present." 

"We bought you lots of presents," you say. "You might want to sit down." 

Eddie grins like a kid at Christmas, sweeping the bags into one arm and all but yanking your wrist from its socket as he pulls you to the living room with the other. You laugh as the two of you collapse into the couch, Eddie shouting, "Roan, come back, sweetheart! You don't have to hide anything you've got, just let me see your hair!" He rubs your arm. "She went off so fast I didn't see it. Have they scalped my girl?" 

Roan tramples back down the stairs like a stampede all by herself. She races around the couch and onto the armrest on Eddie's side, a struggle but one she manages with enthusiasm. 

"Okay, daddy, lookit. Mom told them to give me the sparkles and stuff," —she holds up her hands to showcase her painted nails— "aren't they the prettiest ever? Ever ever?" 

Her nails are small, and every inch has been decorated. Black polish at her own insistence encrusted with pink-white gems that sparkle when she wiggles them. Eddie likes her nails, but he loves her hair, combing her hair with two gentle hands at once. "Aw, sweetheart," he murmurs, "you look so pretty, they've given you your curls back." He looks at you. "How did they do that? I swear her curls don't bounce up like that even when I try my hardest anymore." 

You lift a bag into his lap. "I got some stuff on the hairdresser's recommendation. We can do it at home." 

He holds her little face carefully. "It's like when she was a baby." 

"Dad," Roan says severely, pulling his hands from her face, "we don't have time for crying. You haven't seen my new dresses." 

He pulls himself together with the help of your comforting hand on his thigh. "I'm not crying, you just look so pretty, Roro. And forget dresses, I want presents." 

"Y/N took me to Masy Daisy." 

Eddie looks at you out of the corner of his eye. "Maybe I don't want to know how much you spent after all." 

"It wasn't so bad, handsome," you say warmly, dropping your cheek into his shoulder. "They really were beautiful. Every one she tried on…" 

"How many did she try on?" he asks, like he’s scared of the answer.

"Just a couple… with matching shoes. And cardigans.”

Eddie sighs and leans back. “Best get the fashion show started, Roanie. Sounds like we’re gonna be here a while.”

[crows-home]

A little fic about Vince the day before things went to hell. Warnings for mentions of cannibalism, murder, blood.

It will go like this:

[Un]

“What’s this?” Rody will ask, surprised as he looks down at the plate you present him with. You will keep him late, after all the chefs have left for the day. Just the both of you, so you can savor the reaction, all to yourself.

“It’s-” for you. It’s a gift. It’s that ex-girlfriend you can’t shut up about, but who will now nourish you in ways you could never return. It’s all your love, neatly presented. It’s my heart, bared before you. It’s yours. Take it.

“-leftovers.” you will say instead.

[Also on Ao3]

[Deux]

Rody will take the plate, equal parts confused and curious. Tilt his head to the side and hum, like some mutt. He’ll eat it here, in the restaurant, he won’t take it home like he’s been doing all week. You won’t give him the choice.

He’s so stupid- too uncultured to comment on the presentation, but that’s not what you will focus on. 

The fork will sink into the meat, into its pre-cut slices, nicely. You will note the way his lips wrap around the utensil, how his eyes will widen as the flavor seeps in. Pupils will dilate and his breath will catch, so clear and damning in the echoing kitchen. You’ll note the way his throat bobs around the swallow, and the way he will grin.

[Trois]

“Vince!” Rody will look at you. His eyes will shine, that warm honey golden brown that haunts your dreams. His gaze is admiring, reverent. “This is amazing!”

You won’t be able to stop the way your heart will thump in your chest, so loud you will wonder if he can hear it. You’ve never been able to so far. Maybe it will be more. Maybe it will beat so fast it’ll leave you feeling winded. How will you cope? You should prepare for that.

“I know.” you will respond, airily, after taking a deep breath.

He’ll dig in, clean his plate with a gusto, the way no one has ever done before. It will disgust you, the way he shoves food in his mouth. Uncultured pig. But beneath the disgust will be a bone deep satisfaction that you’ve never felt before, so you can’t imagine it now.

[Quatre]

While he eats, Rody will look up at you, every emotion clear as day on his face. Like it always is. He’ll be so clearly impressed and grateful and yes, happy. You will have made him happy.

And he would say:

“Whatever you did this time, it really worked. It’s so rich and the spices are blended so well! So moist and the baste is-”

Ah. No, not that. Rody’s not- he hasn’t got a sophisticated palate to have those opinions. He’d probably chew through half a boot without noticing anything wrong.

Maybe…

“They were so wrong about you,” he will look you in the eye. Trusting, honest, raw. Your mouth waters. “Those articles. The critics. You’ve always had it in you. This is just- it’s so good, Vince! I can taste the heart that went into this.”

Yes.

[Cinq]

He’ll ask if there are any more leftovers, desperate and hungry for more. You’ll say no, that’s all you had, just to delight in the disappointment that washes over him. Of course he will- it’s the best thing he’s ever had. He’ll be ruined, after this. He won’t be able to get the taste out of his mouth let alone settle for anything other than your cooking.

Now you know. Now you are able to- to touch people, like this. Touch him like this, in a way you will never experience. That’s a power that you’ll never give up.

So you will tell him no, sorry, that’s all that was left.

“What’s your favorite food, Rody?”

“Hm?”

I’ll make it for you next. There’s plenty of meat left.

“You never told me.”

“Still don’t have one…” He rubs his chin and looks up. Where will the two of you be then? Still in the kitchen? Or will you have this conversation outside, after the dishes are left and as you shut and lock the door behind you? Every thought about her will be so far from his mind as you both leave her- what’s left of her- in the freezer.

“Although,” he’ll smile at you, cheeks flushed and oh so happy. So alive. “I guess tonight my favorite is- whatever you make!”

--

“Shit!”

The knife slips out of Vincent’s hand and clinks against the tile floor.

He blinks back to himself, away from the daydream, and scowls. His breathing is labored and his face is flushed.

“Always distracting me, even when he’s not around…”

He bends down with a sigh and picks up the knife. He takes extra care to step around the puddles of blood to make it to the sink and rinse it off. Too much blood, so much more than he’s used to, is making things more slippery than he’s used to, but the general process is the same. Second nature for him.

It doesn’t disgust him- what he’s done. Who he’s done it to. Her eyes weren’t the familiar brown he ached for. Her hair was too light, too neat, not the wild, fiery ginger mess that’s been dashing around his dining room. Barely presentable for his job but- it’s soft. Vincent knows it’s soft. His hand remembers the way it felt underneath his skin when he dried Rody off.

Vincent shivers again, and realizes the tap water is still running.

Shutting it off, he makes his way back to the counter. There’s still much to prepare before the day begins.

—

The countdown doesn’t even begin; Rody just had to go snooping where he doesn’t belong. 

Now there’s blood, his blood, that fills your mouth. His cartilage, soft and squishy between your teeth. You swallow it down. A piece of him, inside you.

Rody staggers and screams, his expression growing more horrified, pained, disgusted by the second. His eyes go buggy and he brings his left hand up to his wound, he’s crying. No. No, no, no, no-

You think about his smile. His kind, soft, moronic, naive eyes were supposed to be fixed on you, were supposed to find you. It wasn’t supposed to be this way-

He’ll never love you now.

It’s- it’s his fault. All of this. Here you were, trying to do something nice, and he spits it back in your face. It’s not like you were ever going to tell him what [who] he was eating. He could have lived in blissful ignorance. Happy, content, with you-. He would have forgotten about her eventually.

He calls you insane, and he might be right, but he doesn’t have to be so dramatic about it.

Ugh- now he’s accusing you of being a fucking cannibal, Jesus Christ. Imbecile. Your eye almost twitches in annoyance. Of course he’d jump to that conclusion, it’s not like he uses his brain to think for more than two seconds. You ought to take the other ear, for that. Or a finger. A hand.

…An arm. A leg. Your eyes trace his body, slowly.

Did- did his ear taste like anything, going down? You can’t remember. It- maybe it did. Maybe what you need is something meatier.

The girl never would have tasted like anything to you and in hindsight, of course she wouldn’t have. Maybe not even to Rody either. You never loved her, and she never loved you. Rody, though… Rody would be made with all your love. That’s what people talk about, right? That’s what you needed all along.

He comes to the realization at the same time you do. Your eyes meet. Honey brown. Alive, alive, raw.

He’s what you needed all along.

[seretoningghost]

Tomura Shigaraki x Male Reader

WARNINGS : LIME! BLOWJOB! Mild sizeplay(?) Small cock appreciation for Tomura😊💕. TOP MALE READER.

Haha. This one's a bit short but its cute.

Idk if you'd call this a lime cus like - blowjob? But Idk? No sex happens.

Ha- Imagine Y/N having a quirk that causes him to overheat when he uses it.

Quirk not mentioned.

(I HAD TEXT TO SPEECH READ IT BACK TO ME SINCE I WAS BUSY- AND YALL- WHY DOES IT MAKE EVERYTHING SOUND SO BAD😭)

THIRD PERSON POV

Y/N huffed, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge.

Panting quietly as sweat dripped down his body, grabbing his waterbottle.

Tomura slugged into the kitchen, bored and not sure what he wanted to do.

He thought he'd maybe look for a snack - and oh, looks like he found one.

Grinning as he spotted Y/N, eyes gleeming mischievously.

Tomura stood beside the island table, suddenly feeling quite aroused - damn stupid horomones, no matter, as he was lucky and had a boyfriend.

Tomura arched his back slightly, sticking out his ass as he put his elbow on the countertop, propping up his head with his hand.

"Oh~? Overheating again? You know that is really some pathetic quirk you have~.. Being driven to even pass out from such a pathetic side effect~.." Tomura teased with his raspy voice, with a shit eating grin.

Knowing fully well Y/N was a important and vital member to L.O.V, and that it pissed Y/N off more than it rationally should.

...

That and Y/N could pound his ass sore in a fucking instant- a blush rose to Tomura's face, still not loosing his gusto.

It was still so entrancing to him that Y/N was bigger and stronger than him, and Y/N was immune to his quirk - so Tomura couldn't stop him even if he wanted to.

Y/N, who was chugging his ice cold water, huffed - pulled his water bottle from his lips and growled.

Having heard this teasing before he was so fucking done with it.

"Shigaraki you better shut your mouth- because I swear to god if you open your mouth one more time you'll regret it." Y/N glared.

Shigaraki grinned wider, eyes glinting happily, he tried to play it off - but his body collectively shivered.

Shigaraki calmly opened his mouth, his smugness still apparent as he kept his mouth open.

...

And that's how Shigaraki ended up laying on his back on a bed - head hanging off the edge, face dripping with drool - and completely getting his mouth fucked out of it.

Shigaraki would be giggling and moaning in gleeful lust - had he space in his mouth to do much more than let out a guttural moan with each thrust.

Shigaraki most certainly didn't expect this to be his punishment - but he didnt exactly object to his empty mouth being put to use.

If anyone had asked him before this moment - Shigaraki would have asked to be fucked, but Shigaraki had never like this before experienced the sheer joy and sexual enjoyment there could be in giving a blowjob.

Shigaraki was beginning to question his ability to ever again not have something stuffing his mouth.

Shigaraki had his tongue lolled out against the topside of Y/N's cock, loud lewd blowjob and instinctual gagging noises leaving his throat.

It was messy, and that was making him so horny.

A whine leaving his throat as Y/N roughly and quickly throat fucked him.

He wanted to touch himself so bad - but each time he tried Y/N said no and moved his hand away.

Shigaraki's cock throbbed against his pants, a rock hard tent pert in his pants, his cock making a large wet spot through his boxers.

He was so close to cumming - and he wasnt even embaressed at that anymore.

Shigaraki shifted his legs again, having them propped up and bent at the knees.

He didnt care how pathetic it made him look - he wanted to cum so bad - and keep cumming, Y/N was fucking his throat so good.

His eyes were practically crossed he was so fucked out of it.

There were almost no thoughts behind his eyes.

Just one remained, cum.

Whether he came - or Y/N came, he didnt care anymore. He wanted cum.

Shigaraki slowly and feebly shifted his hand - reaching for his zipper - as if being slow Y/N wouldn't see him in the lit room.

"Shigaraki.. Stop that. I said that t-this is your punishment. You can't touch yourself." Y/N groaned.

Shigaraki shuddered, feeling Y/Ns cock fuck his throat somehow deeper - it was like all the smarts in his brain were being fucked out of him.

He moved his hand away, gripping onto the bed - his gloves really coming in handy now.

Tomura suddenly bringing his thighs together and rubbing, Y/N grinned, panting as he watched.

Tomura was being a obedient little cock slut - keeping his throat open and staying still - despite how hard Y/N fucked his throat.

It was even more cute and demeaning that Shigaraki was following his commands and instead rubbing his thighs together like a bitch in heat.

"You wanna cum so bad don't you~?" Y/N teased with a grin, he was close, he just wanted to see how easily he could get Tomura to cum.

Y/N could tell by the loud moan Shigaraki made each time he got the chance that he was affirming Y/N.

"Yeah~? Yeah~? Using nothing but my cock ramming in your throat to get off~?" Y/N whined, feeling closer than he was before.

Tomura's eyes rolled back pleasurably - not that Y/N could see at his angle.

"Alright then slut... Cum~.." Y/N purred, taking a firm grip around Tomura's throat.

Shigaraki's thighs shuddered hard, a loud high pitched whine exiting his throat.

He creamed in his pants, hard.

His cock sore and throbbing from the lack of stimulation, already shuddering from the gross feel in his pants as the wettness stickily webbed between his cock - abdomen - and boxers.

It quickly getting colder.

Y/N groaned, the sight alone of Tomura convulsing on his cock causing his to cum.

Jizz shooting into Tomura's mouth.

Shigaraki moaned pathetically, his cock feeling overstimuated by the soreness.

Enjoying the large mass of sticky cum in his mouth.

A soft shudder racking down his spine.

After a few thrusts Y/N pulled out, panting loudly.

Tomura pawwed at the cum in his mouth with his tongue, soaking in the favor before swallowing.

Dribbles of cum leaking out of the corners of his lips, but he didn't care.

"Oh my... What a good boy~..." Y/N teased with a grin, putting himself back inside his boxers - still leaving his pants unzipped, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Tomura's head.

Y/N ran a hand through Tomura's hair - Tomura letting out a soft 'ghhahh' of a sigh as he finally caught his breath.

"Your still hard~... I'll just take care of that~.." Y/N grinned, licking his lips as he leaned over.

"N-No!"

Y/N looked back to Tomura.

"I-Im just so... S-sensitive - I-I can't..." Tomura whined.

Y/N was shocked, usually Tomura had a high libido and was ready to go at practically any time.

Y/N smirked, and cooed.

"I'll be gentle.. I promise~..." Y/N said as he leaned closer - undoing Tomura's zipper.

"A-Ah... N-No- please... Y-Your tongue is just so-"

Y/N wide swipe licked Shigaraki's cock from tip to base.

"W-Warm! A-a-and b-Big!" Shigaraki shuddered - cock twitching wildly against Y/N's tongue.

Shigaraki shifted on the bed whining as his cock ached against Y/Ns tongue.

"Such a big messy load this time~..." Y/N praised, gently lapping against the side of Tomura's cock.

"P-Please..." Tomura whined, looking at the ceiling.

He didn't know if he was asking for more, or begging for Y/N to stop.

But Y/N didn't pay heed, Tomura knew his safe word.

"I think this might be your biggest load yet~.." Y/N cooed as he happily licked another broad stripe on Tomura's cock.

"b-big..." Tomura squeaked - feeling Y/N's large tongue swipe against his member.

"I'm not big, your just small.. Just like your cute handsome cock~.." Y/N purred, gently taking hold of Shigaraki's base with his index and thumb - tilting his cock to lick at the topside.

Y/N always loved Shigaraki's 3-4" cock, easily being able to envelope him in his warm mouth and get whines out of him - pleading how it was too warm or stimulating.

Y/N was standardly a big guy already - but something about the exaggeration between their sizes was super hot.

Y/N opened his mouth wide - making unnecessarily lewd wet noises - spit webbing between his teeth and tongue.

Y/N was horny all over again, he wasn't hard - but even if he did get hard it would be enough to just please his lover.

Y/N made sure to flatten out his tongue as he licked stripes across Tomura's pelvic section - making his tongue as wide as possible as he lapped up the thickening cum.

Once that was all done now he just had to finish off Shigaraki's cock.

"Juuust a bit moooore~.." Y/N teased with a grin, opening his mouth noisily wide.

Shigaraki's cock twitched - before Y/N knew it Shigaraki's hands were intangled in his hair - pushing him down roughly.

Holding his head in place as Tomura fucked his mouth hard and frantically - his hips bucking up forcefully.

Y/Ns body getting hotter at how sexy it was, pushing down and doing his best to suck and swirl his tongue.

Shigaraki was huffing and whining frantically, his cock throbbing and aching from abuse - but Y/N's mouth felt so warm and soft and so good.

Shigaraki didn't care how desperate or premature it seemed - Y/N was just so hot and he wanted to cum so bad.

Letting out a sudden moan he threw back his head - Y/N placing a hand on Shigaraki's hip as his back arched.

Y/N making sure to lean in even further and lap up Shigaraki's load.

Y/N pulled off with a pop once Shigaraki had rode off his high, grinning as he looked at Shigaraki.

"Satisfied~?"

Shigaraki was panting softly, but he shifted his gaze to Y/N - seeing Y/N grin - with cum dribbling down his chin.

"Would you stop doing that!" Shigaraki whined - covering his face as he blushed.

"Doing what~?"

"Leaking cum and spit on purpose!" Shigaraki groaned.

Y/N chuckled.

_________________________________________

Hello! You made it to the end! :3🎉

Also thank you to everyone liking my stories you mean the world to me!😘 You would not BELIEVE the amount of motivation it gives me!

[hanktalkin]

Demo found out about the tattoo at the same time everyone else did: the next morning in the pregame showers.

He’d been wondering about the pain in his shoulder, but not with any sort of gusto, certainly not with the level of curiosity that kept him reminded enough to investigate properly. It was only when Scout whistled and said, “Well somebody got real lucky last night. Or really unlucky I guess, knowing you.”

“What are you on about, Scout?” Demo grumbled, attention focused on trying not to irritate the tender spot, which, annoyingly, hadn’t lessened in pain the way post-bender bruises usually did.

“Just thinking. If it was serious you would have been bragging about her way before this. Nah, nah, I’m guessing you were so wasted last night you got that on a dare, don’t even remember her face or nothing.”

“Scout!” Demo said, whirling on him, wincing a little as the hot water hit the sore spot. “Get to the point before I’m fed enough to give you a swirlie.”

“You got a chick’s name tattooed on your back.”

Scout said it smugly, having guessed—correctly—that Demo had no memory of the drunken escapades that had led to him getting it.

“What??” Demo bellowed.

If the other mercenaries had been performing some level aloofness, having noticed as Scout did but preferring to simply watch it play out, they couldn’t help snicker their amusement as Demo spun in a circle, hopelessly trying to get a glimpse of the supposed tat. Shower spray scattered against all nearby bystanders.

“You better not be pulling my leg you little mutt,” he said.

“Nah pally, it’s all right there. Schmaltzy heart around it and everything. Though maybe you didn’t dig her all that much, it ain’t that big.”

“Feels massive,” Demo pouted. “Hurts like someone took a bite out of me.”

“That little thing? Psh. Call me when you get a full-color.” Scout tapped his own chest.

But Demo didn’t want to think about Tom Jones, he wanted to think about last night, to try and remember past when he and the BLU Soldier had met up for clandestine drinks for their weekly night on the town. Had they gone to try to pick up women after that? The whole night was a muggy smudge.

“Snipes,” he said desperately, “tell me the twerp isn’t pulling one over on me.”

“Sorry mate.” Sniper shook his head. “It’s there-”

Christ, what else had Demo said or done? If he knew himself he’d no doubt been in one of his pathetic, romantic moods. What other kinds of promises had he made? He needed to track her down and clear all this up-

“-But if it makes you feel any better,” Sniper continued, “this Jane woman probably appreciated the gesture. Who knows? Maybe she got your name tatted too.”

A long, realization-dawning pause.

“…Fuck,” Demo said.

[natalievoncatte]

It was just a night, much like any other, when everything changed. Kara was tired- between the apartment fire and her work that day at CatCo and mopping up another alien crime ring, she’s barely slept in four days and had been skipping meals. It was a rare thing indeed when Lena was pestering Kara to eat lunch.

As soon as she reached the house, she glanced up and tilted her glasses down. Lena was in the kitchen, hard at work. A quick scan of the countertop revealed the mess she’d made putting together her homemade gyoza. As with everything in her life, when Lena decided to learn to cook, that she might pamper her girlfriend and her superhuman appetite, Lena went into it fully, taking culinary classes and equipping the remodeled kitchen of their suburban homestead with every conceivable gadget. Lena’s first change to the house was a bump-out that turned the already expansive “chef’s kitchen” into a near-commercial level culinary laboratory, and she threw herself into making dumplings with the same gusto with which she had set about solving the energy crisis, as if the freshly made potstickers awaiting the oil heating in the gas-powered commercial wok were as vital to humanity’s future as the fusion plant she was building in the desert.

Kara stopped in the entryway to the kitchen and drank Lena in, enjoying the fleeting moment before she was noticed. Hands covered in flour the elbow, Lena hunched over her cookbook, expression furrowed in deep concentration. She’s dressed down in a baggy flannel and patterned leggings that hugged the inviting curve of her hips that cried out for Kara’s hands, and wore her hair in a simple, loose ponytail. Everything about her was soft and cozy and home, and Kara would trade a king’s feast for one taste of those soft lips.

The whole scene played out in her mind. She’s sidle up behind Lena, who’d crack a joke about Kara being dressed as the CEO, and pretend she hadn’t noticed Kara’s return. Kara would let down her hair and bury her fingers in it, then her nose to devour Lena’s scent. As soon as Kara’s lips found the curve of Lena’s jaw, dinner would be indefinitely postponed and Kara would sate her hunger in other and better ways.

Then, she heard it. Beneath Lena’s heartbeat, strong and steady and safe, was another. A tiny, racing thing, like a baby bird. Kara stood there dumbfounded for too long a beat before she understood and let out a soft cry.

Lena looked up.

“Darling? What’s wrong?”

Kara fought to keep her voice from choking but failed. “I love you.”

“Did something happen?” Lena said, turning from the counter. “Kara, what is it?”

“I love you. I’m not angry and we’re okay. I just need Alex. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Lena nodded. “Okay.”

Kara was out the door and in her suit and flying just fast enough not to endanger Lena. They’d been trying for months for this; dozens of visits to the Fortress, tests, experiments. She knew that, eventually, it would work.

It was hitting her now. Kara landed a little too hard on Alex’s back porch and knocked on the glass.

Alex was there in an instant. “Kara? What’s wrong? Is everything…”

“Lena’s pregnant.”

Alex’s face went briefly blank. “Oh.”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

Kara stepped into the house, sat down. As she took a seat, sweeping her cape to the side, Alex poured them both glasses of seltzer water and joined her. They sat quietly for a long time.

They were both quiet for a few minutes before Alex said, “How did you find out?”

“I heard it. I don’t know if she knows.”

“Kara,” said Alex, “did you run?”

Kara looked up sharply, eyes stinging with tears. “What have I done?”

“I don’t understand.”

“We made a baby, Alex. A little person, a living being we’re bringing into the world. What have I done?”

“Kara?” Said Alex, resting her hand on Kara’s. “Slow down, okay? Breathe. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Lena and I talked about this,” said Kara. “This life we have, being together, all the risks. We agreed to it. This little baby didn’t. She’s going to see her mom getting her head punched in on TV. What if I get sent to the Phantom Zone again? What if I die?”

“You won’t-“

“I already have,” Kara snapped, surging to her feet. “How many times, Alex? How many? What if there’s no magic grass to bring me back next time? What if I leave them alone?”

Alex stared at her, face an unreadable mask, heart racing.

Kara turned, frantic, and paced Alex’s kitchen, her eyes drawn inexorably to Esme’s drawings on the fridge, to the pictures of Alex and Kelly on the living room wall.

“So don’t,” said Alex.

“How?”

“Maybe it’s time for Supergirl to hang it up.”

Kara froze, and this time it was her own heart she heard hammering in her chest, batting against its cage of ribs as if it might break free. Her eyes found the mirror above the living room sofa and she saw herself now in the colors and crest of her house.

Her house.

“What do you mean?”

Alex stood up. “You have died three times,” she said. Clinically dead. I was there. Maybe it is time for it to stop.”

“I can’t do that to them again,” Kara agreed.

“No, but I’m not saying this for them, Kara. I’m saying it for you. You paid. Whatever debt you think you owe, you’ve paid it.”

Kara covered her mouth in her hand, biting back a sob as the tears came.

“Why should I have this, huh? Tell me why I should have it? Just because they all died and I didn’t?”

Alex stood there, stuck silent. Kara knew the hug was coming before it arrived, and melted into it. Alex gripped her firm and strong.

“I have so much to lose now,” Kara sobbed.

“No, Kara. You have so much to live for now.”

Kara’s eyes flicked open. She stared last Alex, ignoring the sting of free flowing tears. The thought of all that had come before. The sight of Krypton, crumbling in a green flash as if devoured by some great primordial dragon. Reign and Red Daughter, the darkness that has gripped her between death and Sol’s loving warmth, gifted by the soul of this Earth herself.

They were not grave markers but way stones, not portents of doom but a map. A map that led only one place.

“I have to go. Lena.”

“It’s okay,” said Alex. “Go home to your girl, Kara. Call me when you’re up for it, and maybe you can talk to Kelly, too.”

“I’d like that.”

A few minutes later, Kara came to a gentle landing on the upstairs balcony and entered through their bedroom. She could smell dinner, and a quick glance told her that Lena had finished cooking and was waiting for her downstairs with a glass of juice- not wine. Lena turned it in her fingers, her face a mask of worry. Beside her sat the potstickers in a big bowl, kept warm by a damp towel. Another look revealed a pregnancy test hidden in Lena’s shirt pocket.

Kara reached up to slip on her glasses and dissolve the suit, the stopped.

Instead, she took it off, slipping out of the suit before changing into a threadbare sweater and some joggers. Later, she would fold it, put it in a box, put it away.

Right now she slipped into the kitchen, padding silently behind Lena on bare feet, savoring the quick flutter of Lena’s heart when Kara embraced her from behind. Kara made sure to press a kiss to her cheek before deftly sliding the test from Lena’s pocket.

“You used your super senses, didn’t you?” said Lena. “That’s not fair.”

“You know what’s not fair?” said Kara. “Being the most beautiful woman in the world, and in my house no less. The audacity.”

Lena gave her a crooked smile. “Technically, this is my house.”

Kara placed a hand on Lena’s belly and spread her fingers in an wide, protective grip.

“Our house,” she whispered.

The potstickers, unfortunately, went cold.

Seeing their partner make them a meal.

[starz222]

alhaitham — mahal kita

synopsis your group project takes a weird turn

contains fluff. translations are in parenthesis. not proofread. modern au

notes this lowkey short but this has been on my mind for so long

you were assigned a group project by your teacher on the cultures of various nations. it was just a matter of going to see them since there were 3 people in each group and you were placed with the other two who shared a dormitory. 

you walked over to alhaitham and kaveh's shared dorm after getting dressed comfortably for your project. as soon as you open the door, you’re welcomed with an apartment that combines two distinct styles and aesthetics.  it was a perfect representation of alhaitham and kaveh, they both stood out but clashed with one another.

“oh, you’re here.” al haitham walks into the living room wearing his pajamas. his gray hair is messy and his shirt is unaligned. “i told you they’d get here early!” kaveh shouts from their kitchen, “y/n, do you want some coffee? and i’d like to apologize on my roommate’s behalf.” he scoffs and rolls his eyes at al haitham. “sure, thank you, kaveh!” you take the cup of coffee from his hand at sit at the table.

“look at him, cutting our time shorter!” kaveh huffs, “what do you mean? i’m right here aren’t i?” his roommate speaks from behind. “can we just get done with this already?” al haitham takes the seat next to you. you begin to discuss the project with the two of them. you talk about how you can format the project and what else you should add, and speaking of cultures, you bring up an important factor in culture.

“i don’t speak that many languages,” you say, “but you speak lots of different languages, right?” you turn to al haitham, and in response he nods. you ask, "can you say something in one of the languages you know?” 

“alright”, he accepts your request. “mahal kita, y/n. gustong-gusto kita, kaya ako nalang yung dapat piliin mo.” (i love you, y/n. i really really like you, that’s why i’m the one you should choose.)

kaveh spits out the coffee he’s been drinking and looks at al haitham like he’s gone mad. what did you just say? he speaks with his eyes and his shocked look. “why? what’d he say?” you turn to kaveh, the two of them weren’t even hiding how they were practically having a conversation about what he said in front of your face. “he said that—” kaveh stops once he locks eyes with his roommate. those eyes looked like they were hungry for blood! at least, that’s how kaveh interprets it.

“nevermind– he just swore at me in tagalog..” kaveh sulks and looks away, wiping the coffee from the corners of his lips. “yeah, you’re an ass sometimes.” al haitham crosses his arms. oh, this bitch is really going to insult me? two people can play that game. he leans in and whispers in your ear, “he said that he really likes you.” and leans back to take a look at your expression. you argue, “that’s not true. he would never—”

“it’s true.” al haitham cuts you off. “i do like you. kahit di mo ko mahal, mamahalin pa rin kita hanggang kailanman." ( even if you don't love me, i'll still love you forever.)

-

truth be told, the only reason why al haitham looked like he hadn’t gotten any sleep was because he didn’t. he couldn’t go to sleep as his mind filled him with a mix of emotions hitting him everywhere all at once. worry, anxiety, anticipation, happiness, you name it. he hoped that kaveh would be able to lighten the mood and make him less awkward around you than he already is. he barely got any sleep because he couldn’t stop thinking about you. 

when he saw you just standing there in his home, he rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. he refocuses his gaze on you, and fuck, you’re not his imagination. lucky enough his roommate helped him escape unknowingly. but then again, brought him to confess his feelings to you.

-

“....mahal din kita?” (i love you too) your entire face heats up, you look at kaveh. “did i say it right?” he’s just staring at the two of you with his mouth agape, “will he be okay?” you ask al haitham. “just give him a few seconds.”

he slams his hands on the table, “what the fuck just happened. i’ve been sitting here the entire time?!”