#gift drabble

[rowan-sins]

A/N: I’d like to wish a very happy 22nd birthday to my friend @ladyk8tie​ and so here is a drabble I wrote for her!

Summary: It’s your birthday!

Soft sunlight filtered through dense forest leaves and the near-transparent drapes to your bedroom window. His bedroom window. Did it matter all that much? With how often you laid in the king’s bed, with the way that some of your favorite gowns had made a home in his closet. Not really you decide, snuggling further into the soft downy pillow your head rest upon. It did not matter at all who’s bedroom this was, not when you shared the space without thought now a days.

His pale hand rests upon your thigh, under thin covers. His hand is warm, as it ghosts over the soft dips in your hip and up your waist.

“Good Morning,” he whispers, leaning down closer to your ear, “happy birthday, My Queen.”

You moan into the pillow.

“Do you not wish to get up?” You can hear the soft smile in his tone, the one he only does around you.

“Uh-huh.”

“So,” his voice is soft, teasing almost, “am I to leave to fetch our breakfast?”

“Nu-uh.” He can see you shake your face into the pillow. “No breakfast. Only cuddles.”

“Only cuddles?” He asks, eyebrow raised, “no fresh raspberries and yogurt and brioche I had made especially for you?”

Your head pops up out of the pillow lie a ferret from it’s den. “Brioche?”

He laughs. “You know what, I’ll let you eat breakfast in my bed. Just the once. Happy Birthday.”

[storyofmychoices]

You deserve a nice ask and all the good and beautiful things. I hope you have the best of days and the best of weekends. You are marvelous!! I wrote you a little gift <3

The amber liquid sparkles as I twirl the cut glass tumbler delicately between the fingers. The firelight glows golden when filtered through the bourbon. Somehow the flames make the drink burn hotter and taste smokier than they would normally be.

Or maybe that’s just the quality of the bottle, I think to myself as I glance at the worn label beside my dark green leather chair.

Whatever the case may be, liberating this bottle from the side table in some long forgotten corner of this godforsaken palace had been the best idea and one that still draws a smile to my lips.

I’m beginning to think it’s the tiny jabs and small victories that will be the only thing to see me through this investigation.

I watch, mesmerizing by the refracted light.

It would be easy to find myself disappeared or poisoned in this country.

I look at the liquor again. This is how I’d hide poison. No one would smell death over the pain. Who knew death smelled of almonds and entitlement?

How did I find myself here? I wonder.

How’s that film saying go?

Of all the gin joints…

I sigh. This line of thought ain’t entirely healthy. But fuck if it ain’t true.

Of all the cases to come across my desk, of all the penthouse I could’ve walked into, of all the rich royalty I could have crossed paths with, it had to be him.

Why the fuck did it have to be him?

I finish off the bourbon. It’s a bit of a not all together unpleasant burn. Reminds me I’m alive somehow and, even more so, reminds me just how easily this could be my last case.

Our last case.

I look up to find him still studying the lab report Ruby dropped off. Countless medical books and, I chuckle, a pharmaceutical dictionary laid open as well.

“I just don’t know about this?” he says still concentrating on the report.

“I imagine you don’t know a lot about anything,” I tease. “You probably had your bread buttered on both sides since the day you were born.”

He looks up surprised, but grins when he sees my smirk.

“Why, Lilah, are you messing with me?”

“Me? Never, doll,” I wink.

lksjdf I absolutely love love love this! (even if it's a bit angsty) AHHH

^^^ totally mean when I opened this and started reading, knowing fully well the wonderful person behind the words and the lovely vibe you brought me.

Me to you always ^^^^

I will reblog again in the morning with a proper reblog because I have lots that I need to share about this! (but for now, my puppy has decided that I don't need time for myself to reply to this appropriately!... at least he's cute! ) I didn't want to not reply today so here is my initial thank you post! With many more thoughts coming soon!

Thank you my wonderful friend for always being so lovely and generous!

[coffeedrgn87]

Written for my darling @basicallyahedgehog to reward them on getting out of their car and doing the shopping. I said I'd pick an item from their very random shopping list and incorporate it into a short drabble, and I did. Bestest G, here are 500 words of Drarry 'life-happens-in-the-kitchen' tooth-rotting fluff for you. 💜

Draco wasn’t exactly sure why he couldn’t bring himself to close the fridge door. It wasn’t like the longer he stared, the more likely it was that food might magically appear. 

Unfortunately, life didn’t work that way, although he often wished it did. Especially because his husband was a complete scatterbrain who could never seem to remember to do the weekly shopping.

Presently, the only two items in his and Harry’s fridge were a box of lava cakes and a pack of feta cheese that was a day away from reaching its expiry date. Despite his sweet tooth, Draco didn’t fancy the molten chocolate cakes. The feta cheese was an option, but since they were out of tomatoes and cucumber, Draco didn’t feel like eating the cheese on its own. What he really wanted was to send Potter (in moments like this his mind always reverted back to calling Harry by his last name) a Howler to complain.

Before Draco could actively execute that thought though, two arms circled around his midriff and a warm and familiar body pressed itself flush against his back. Draco instantly relaxed into the embrace and closed the fridge.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured, resting his chin on Draco’s shoulder. His breath was warm against the side of Draco’s neck and Draco shuddered a little. He pushed further into Harry’s embrace and Harry tightened his hold on him.

“You always forget,” Draco grumbled.

“Yeah, I do. But— And you’ll have to credit me for this, I never forget about you.”

Even though Harry couldn’t see it, Draco rolled his eyes.

“One day, you’ll accidentally starve me to death.”

Harry’s rumbling laughter reverberated in Draco’s ear.

“Ever the dramatic one. Let me take you out for dinner?”

Draco turned in Harry’s embrace and glowered at him.

“Potter, it’s seven in the evening. Good luck getting a table anywhere in London. I refuse to go to some dodgy fast food—”

“What if I told you that I already have a reservation?”

Draco wanted to complain about Harry’s rude interruption, but Harry’s question sank in, he found that he couldn’t. Despite his best efforts, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Harry Potter—”

“Potter-Malfoy,” Harry interjected with a wicked glint in his way-too-green eyes.

Draco huffed a laugh.

“Harry Potter-Malfoy, you are the worst.”

Harry grinned.

It was his signature lopsided grin, the one that melted Draco’s insides, turning him into a lovesick fool. Harry’s eyes continued to sparkle and Draco felt a little dizzy. His knees felt a bit weak, too.

“Did you really book us a table for dinner?”

Harry nodded.

“Yes. It’s your birthday tomorrow, but since I’ve got to work, I figured we could start the celebrations early. And yes, there will be cake.”

Draco wanted to say a lot of things in response to that, but none of it felt right. So, he did the next best thing. He twisted his fingers into Harry’s hair and kissed him until they were both breathless.

[dawnrider]

I FINALLY finished this here little gift drabble for the lovely @superpixie42 in commemoration of her newish fox kit! Ya see what I did there?? A little peek into post-marriage, pre-baby InuKag life in this modern AU. I hope you like it!

A Bushel and a Peck on AO3

Diaper Pails and Puppy Dog Tails ("chapter" 5)

@fantastiqueparfait , @heavenin--hell, @clearwillow , @thunderpo , @keichanz, @meggz0rz , @zelink-inukag , @cammysansstuff , @mcornilliac , @redflamesofpassion , @superpixie42 , @orpheusunderneath , @cstorm86 , @lavendertwilight89 , @hinezumi , @wenchster , @hnn-wnchstr , @lady-dark-69 , @itzatakahashi , @juliatheanimelover7 , @kazeinori , @theinuyashareader , @inupotter , @eternalnight8806-3 , @smmahamazing , @willowandfog , @gaysonthefloor , @sistasecbhere , @jennybean91 , @alerialblu , @laurenintheskyy , @arcprz , @nsr0716 , @liz8080 , @nartista , @dreaming-of-soup , @rootpatterson , @bluejay785 , @memusicmuse , @fawn-eyed-girl , @ruddcatha , @neutronstarchild , @thisshipisbananahs , @eringobroke , @thornedraven , @fandomobsessions016, @omgitscharlie

[penname-artist]

A smol gift for my buddy @ask-shu-todoroki (initially I was going to draw this but instead I figured it would be more fun to make a drabble of it to try and write again). Humanized, and warnings for some serious hotness. Also Conan and Avgustin both belong to Shu, even in people mode.

-

Siddeley had been aware of the familiar voices in the hallway, hushed and excited like they were gossiping about something. He chose to ignore it though, flipping through his book with little else on his mind. Conan appeared out of the corner of his eye suddenly, sitting down beside him and cuddling up to him with a warm sigh. Avgustin came around, casually glancing over at the two of them. It wasn't until he spoke that Siddeley realized that spark in his eyes.

"Siddeley," he spoke, deep and thick, "are you busy?"

"Not particularly," Siddeley told him, "just chilling, enjoying the afternoon." Conan shifted beside him, rubbing his head into the crook of his shoulder. Siddeley bookmarked his place and set the book aside, gently stroking Conan's leg.

"That's good.." Avgustin said, joining them on the couch. He sat close at Siddeley's other side, but rather than lean back into the cushion, he was turned, facing Siddeley with dark, lustrous eyes.

Siddeley had the mind to wonder what they had up their sleeves.

"You seem tense," Avgustin noted, "is something wrong?"

"Oh, no, just.." Siddeley glanced at Conan, and back to Avgustin, "Wondering what you guys are up to."

Avgustin leaned in. "Maybe I can ease your mind.." he cupped his hand against Siddeley's cheek, meeting his eyes for a long moment, before pressing their lips together. The kiss was so soft and so light, Siddeley was taken aback. Avgustin pulled away, smiling.

Conan shifted at Siddeley's other side, reaching his hands up to slide over his buttoned shirt. He hummed, wearing the same soft smile as he leaned in closer. Siddeley's face felt very warm. Too warm, maybe.

"Wh-..what's all this for?" He asked, as the both of them seemed to cling to him, leaving gentle pecks against his neck and cheeks. "Special occasion?"

"No," Conan said, kissing his throat, "we just wanted to spoil you."

"Just let us take care of it from here..." Avgustin added, pulling him in again for a fuller, deeper kiss. Siddeley sighed into his mouth, stunned in being overtaken by the two taller blondes. Conan was unbuttoning his shirt, his hands gliding down his toned chest and stomach, and further until Siddeley gasped suddenly. Avgustin pried off of him again, chuckling,

"You do seem worked up. We should help you take care of that..."

Siddeley's face reddened, pressed between the two males, who seemed to know exactly what they wanted to do with him...

[motelofmermaids]

clay beresford loves to bend you over his desk.

“clay… oh!” a large hand snakes up to your face, clamping it over your whiny mouth. you muffle needy, pathetic moans against his hand, eyes rolling back. “shhh,” his lips ghost against your ear, your body responding in a shudder. “c’mon, baby. you don’t want people hearing, no?” his cock teases your entrance once more, his tip running through your glistening folds.

your pencil skirt rests above the curve of your ass, and clay bites down on his lip at the sight. “wouldn’t want anyone else to see you like this, baby. my heart might give out.” and your eyebrows knit together, a moan slipping past your smothered lips as he slides back in. his other hand grips your hip tightly, pulling you closer to his cock, giving you no choice to move as he indulges in your sweet, tight heat. “fuck…” low and deep, he whispers, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation.

“does this excite you, my love? my considerate secretary… always such a dirty girl for me.” he punctuates his words with his deep thrusts, driving you nearly delirious as you take it. your weak attempts at moaning were no use, and clay couldn’t help the smile that adorned his lips as he watched you claw at his desk—the rustle of documents scattering from their original, neatly stacked piles. “leaving me a mess?” he leans down closer, his breath fanning across the back of your neck. you whimper, clenching around his twitching cock. “i’m treating you well, baby… and you’re leaving me a mess to clean up?” he taunts with a grin, his hips moving painfully slow.

he moves his hand, instead letting his fingers play at your lips before slipping two digits in. you suck softly, drool dripping down his long fingers as you force yourself into silence. “good girl, baby—fuck, you’re always so, so good… taking it well.”

he knows exactly how to push you, leaving you a disheveled mess, bent over his desk. it’s a ritual, one that always leaves your soaked underwear filled with his come—needing to run to the bathroom before it drips down your thighs. and clay… he’s addicted to it. addicted to the intense pounding of his heart, the high that comes with treating you so, so well.

[spidehpig]

can’t stop thinking about soap being the kind of boyfriend that takes you on arcade or carnival dates. he definitely takes all of the games WAY too seriously. absolutely smokes everyone at skeeball. probably does those stupid punching bag/hammer strength tests just to show off in front of you. he doesn’t even let you win he’s that competitive. but it’s kinda funny and endearing. he wins a TON of tickets and then gets you the biggest fucking stuffed animal they have even as you protest and tell him that you have no place to put it.

his little mohawk popping around the head of the giant puppy stuffed animal he won you boyish smile plastered on his face while he ignores your protests. you’re stuck with the thing forever now.

[ioniansunsets]

heartsteel christmas dinner 👉👈 who brings what? i can picture Sett staying in the kitchen to prepare ham/turkey 🥰🥰

✖ Heartsteel Celebrating Christmas with You ✖

✖ Word Count: 1.1k

✖ Tags: Established R/S

✖ A/N: You host a Xmas party with your partner uwu (posting this early so maybe if you guys like this I’ll write another quick one for the afterparty and gift opening?)

----

Sett was the best person to celebrate with. Mama taught him well, he was there early in the morning, hells, he stayed over the night before. Up before the sun even rose, the two of you spent time lovingly together in the kitchen. Waking up early with Sett kissing the tip of your nose and carrying you to the toilet to freshen up. Trying to keep you awake as he holds your hand and leads you to the kitchen right after. Cooking up a mad delicious Christmas dinner, baking cookies and frosting them together, laughing as he held you close, face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, giggling together as frosting gets on his nose and his ears twitch in frustration. It was cold out, but with the oven heated up, his arms around your body and the two of you in sweaters Sett’s mom knitted. Maybe winter was even warmer than summer sometimes.

Kayn was a surprisingly thoughtful guy. He knows he can’t cook, he knows he can’t do any cute little handicrafts, he knows his limits. So he does what he does best, help out however he can. Sneaking into stores and buy whatever things you need last minute. Almost a challenge to him finding somewhere selling Christmas Cake and Turkey the day of and somehow still making it to the party early. Staying by your side and trying his best to do exactly as he’s told, you need dishes washed? Its your Christmas gift today, he’s on it. You need someone to decorate the tree? Easy, Rhaast is a surprisingly good at hanging ornaments on trees. You need motivation? Kayn has it covered. A cheeky smile, a soft kiss, loving words of support. He is there. (Hide the presents though, the one thing he doesn’t have is too much self control, Rhaast wants to know, Rhaast has to know, Rhaast found his gift hidden in the locked closet-)

K'Sante straight up tells you to take it easy today. He has friends and connections. You two have a private reservation to the best dinner spot at the roof of an expensive hotel. Sure having a Christmas party at home is sweet and humble but you’re his precious lover! And there was other opportunities to enjoy a warm homely holiday dinner together after you two get married. He was making sure you enjoyed all the glitz and glamor now, friends and family around the two of you, soft music playing in the background as the hotel staff handle all the food and drinks. He holds you close as the two of you overlook the city, lights sparkling both in the stars of the sky and across the ground as the lights in buildings, it was a sight to behold only emphasized by the soft kisses on the back of your neck and the warm hand wrapped around you.

Ezreal was known for holding the wildest of parties, everyone he knows was invited. So nothing was new when he said he would plan things, you just needed to show up and love him. It was a trademark Ezreal party alright. The largest and brightest tree you’ve ever seen set up by the fireplace, a potluck filled with all sorts of dishes from all his friends, decorations strewn across the room and gifts piled up so high in a corner it was almost its own tree, music so loud you heard it before you even stepped in. And when you did step in, eyes meeting his, he immediately blinks to your side, throwing himself at you in the tightest hug he’s given you in a while. A bright smile and a sparkle in his eyes before his lips meet yours, still almost embarrassing to be loved so brightly in front of everyone but at the same time so endearing to know how much he loves you to show you off like this. As everyone else talks loudly all around you, Ezreal sits by your side, one hand firmly clasped in yours under the table as he eats with the other.

Yone was more of a, “ I just want to spend time alone with you this weekend.” kind of guy. Something sweet and different about going out with him on a Christmas date, laughing together as you two go to ice skate (he tries and is graceful most of the time but when he trips and stumbles it is so cute), hands in yours as you two walk around in the evening, enjoying the lights as other sickly sweet couples walk past you. As the night comes and the air gets colder, he would hold you close, wrapping a scarf around you, hands wrapped around yours as he drives you to a dinner reservation in the heart of the city. Nothing too expensive but nothing to cheap either, it was a nice restaurant that he has brought you many times before, just that tonight there was a Christmas special menu, cute decor seen throughout the establishment as you two walk in. There was really just something nice about spending the whole day alone with each other for company. Maybe he was just old or sentimental, but he wouldn’t trade all this for anything.

Aphelios wants to be alone with you but at the same time, he loves his sister and band. So as a compromise, you two celebrate with Heartsteel at night but spend the morning in each others arms as he stays over the night before. Cold weather meant that snuggling up together as you wake up late, soft smiles and softer kisses in the warmth of the bed. Lazy mornings as Aphelios slowly gets up to get the two of you breakfast. With hot chocolate in one hand and some cute pastries in the other, soft music playing in the background, and your partner laying lovingly on your shoulder, this was truly the epitome of winter romance. Getting dressed together, adjusting each other’s hair and outfits, excitedly walking out of your place back to Heartsteel dorms to spend time with his family (both blood and non-blood related). Sure it was noisy with the other boys around, but when you two quietly sit on the couch, Aphelios could secretly admire you as your eyes light up, talking and interacting with everyone important to him. There was a soft of comforting silence enveloping his daydreams around you.

[amalia-uwu]

Hmm.

What are you two up to? 💜💙

Where are you carrying the sleepy boy?

What is he dreaming of?

What's on your mind?

Is he heavy?

Is he a squishy, soft teddy bear?

So many questions.

Drabble :

“Carry you in my embrace”

Notes comments:

Thank you so much for this! I love the whole piece so much!

Sans's expression is so soft, serene and beautiful! I love the way you drew him wrapped around me!

I love how I'm holding him!

I love the hair etc.

The colors are also so soft and a beautiful combination.

I love it thank you so much! It gives a soft, beautiful, cozy aura.

As always this is one more beautiful piece of art, that I receive from you!

Each drawing has its own story to tell!

You are an amazing artist and great inspiration! Fudgie! 💙

Thank you so much! 💙

Now unto the Drabble!

💜💙💜💙💜💙💜💙💜💙

We were sitting on the couch watching TV.

At some point I noticed Sans dozing off.

He couldn't stay awake. I saw his eye sockets closing. His head falling forwards.

I chuckled. Hehe!

How can he be so adorable? He was such an adorable baby boy. A baby girl. A cutie pie! I wanted to squish him mercilessly in my embrace!

He just looks so cute when sleepy.

Okay, he looked masculine and adorable anyway. But even in sleep he looks handsome and adorable!

I shuffled closer and wrapped him in my embrace. He smiled in his sleep.

His cheek bone on my shoulder. I brushed my hair at my back, so they won't bother his face.

We stayed there for some time. Just cuddling.

There were many thoughts on my mind.

One thing is sure tho; that, I loved him so much.

I didn't know what he was dreaming but, I could tell he was happy.

There was a soft shade of blue hue on his cheekbones and a relaxed genuine smile on his face.

As much as I loved cuddling him. I knew, that the couch wasn't comfortable.

I was thinking how to carry him. «Will he wake up? Be scared? How will I lift a well build skeleton man?

... He is all bones. He can't be that heavy. I'll try to lift him. Worse case scenario.. Is that he falls on the couch and me on top of him. I am quite heavy. He doesn't have organs like me. He doesn't have skin like me.. How heavy can he be? Well... Let's find out»

I picked him up softly. He wrapped his bones around me.

Hm.. He wasn't as heavy as I was expecting him to be. Heh! He was a bearable comfortable weight.

I could carry him as I carry a child.

I was surprised I could carry him around with so much ease. Truly fascinating. Heh!

Another thing I loved; is how soft he is. How squishy.

Despite him being made of bones; he was pleasant to touch, hug. Physical contact with him felt incredible.

He was warm, soft, squishy. A teddy bear. I could feel his warm breath on my neck.

I could feel some of my hair touching his face. Heh, our souls were close to each other.

He was content and calm.

I walked upstairs to his room carrying him in my embrace.

Heh, he was doing an effort to keep it as clean as possible.

I laid him in his bed carefully. As I attempted to untangle him.

He took a hold of my clothes and refused to let go.

A soft whine left his teeth.

Welp, okay then. So be it.

I laid next to him and cuddled him closer. I could smell his clothes amd bedsheets. So, his bedsheets smelled like green apple. While his clothes smelled like green soap. It wasn't bad. I.. liked it!

Soon enough I covered ourselves with the weighted blanket he had.

I kissed his mandible and got comfortable next to him. He hummed softly.

I closed my eyes too and joined him for a nap.

"I love you sans!" I whispered.

He smiled and mumbled "i love you too".

The end 😘

Thank you for reading! 💙

[waddingham]

oH Ted as the 'someone coming every week to cook and stock her fridge with meals'!! your brain does so much good work and I am so thankful we get to reap the benefits <33

yeah!!!!!! and i couldn't think straight until I got rid of it!!! here take this it's killing me!!

×

She begs Phillip to keep her on. She begs him, tries to double his fee even, to keep him from total retirement, but he's steadfast in his decision. 

The thought of hunting down another chef is horrific. But he gives her no choice. 

She blows through them like tissues for three months, suffering over-complicated meals, over-powering flavors, chefs clearly trying to impress as if she wants a Michelin star meal every night. She doesn't – if that was what she wanted she knows exactly where to get it. 

When she's at home she just wants good food, that's easy to reheat and easy to eat. Which is how she ends up finally succumbing to Leslie's repeated insistence that she give his man a chance.

“He comes over once a month,” he tells her, more than once. “Puts together some things we can freeze and just pop in the oven. Simple enough for the boys to do it, so Julie and I can have at least a couple evenings where they can feed themselves.”

He brightens when she gives and asks for his info, and when she gives him a call, she's struck dumb hearing his American accent.

She's running out of options, so she takes a chance on him.

×

She taps her fingers on the counter, waiting for the doorbell, checking her watch when she finally hears it. He's perfectly on time, but she feels like she's already searching for a reason to be disappointed with him.

He has a pleasant smile for her, though, and a friendly demeanor and a firm handshake and a handsome face – none of which she can immediately find fault in as they introduce themselves.

“I'm sure you're busy,” he says as she leads him to the kitchen. “So I appreciate you taking the time to let me peek at the kitchen and ask you a couple questions.”

“Of course,” she says, used to the procedure by now. Most of them have some kind of sheet they have her fill out, usually via email, but she doesn't mind taking a moment to meet the person who's going to be cooking her food.

“Oh, this is nice,” he compliments, looking around the kitchen, as he sets down the backpack hooked on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, gesturing for him to claim a stool. “Though you can probably infer from your presence that it gets little use.”

“That's okay, I'll go easy on it,” he chuckles, pulling a binder from his bag and opening it up on the counter. “First, though, I wanna make sure I know what I'm cooking.”

He doesn't have a questionnaire or the like, it seems. The lined paper in front of him is blank before he scrawls her name at the top.

“How many people am I cooking for, first of all?” he says without looking up.

She licks her lips, her gaze shifting. 

“Just me.” She keeps her tone matter-of-fact. She hopes.

The way he glances up makes her doubt whether she managed it.

“Makin’ it easy on me already,” he says with a soft smile, adding a 1 to the corner of his sheet. “You have any allergies or dietary restrictions?” 

“No,” she says, then adds, “Though, I do have the tendency to drop meat for a while every so often.”

“A part-time vegetarian?”

She cracks half a smile. “Sure.”

“Okay,” he chuckles. “What kinda meals are you after? Breakfast, lunch, dinner?”

“Dinner, mostly, though I won't say no to the occasional breakfast. Mostly out of curiosity.”

She doesn't think any of the chefs she's hired have offered to make breakfasts.

“I make a mean frittata,” he grins. “What do you like, then? What are some of your favorites, so I can get a feel for what you want?”

“When I eat at home, I want quick and easy,” she says. “The less steps for me, the better. I don't want extravagant, elaborate meals. Shepherd's pie, any kind of pasta, soups, salads. Fish, chicken, red meat on occasion, not every week preferably. Anything veg heavy will probably be a hit with me.”

He nods, taking rapid notes in what must be a very familiar format to him. He fires off a few more questions for her, elaborating a bit further on what she likes before switching gears.

“Anything you absolutely don't want?”

“Not especially,” she says. “I don't like to limit a new chef too soon. I'd rather you make me your best and I'll let you know.”

“Uh oh,” he smiles.

He does that a lot.

“Am I on trial?”

She opens her hands up, giving him a small smile and he chuckles.

“I've had six chefs in ten weeks,” she tells him. “So yes, maybe a little bit.”

“Why didn't they fit the bill?” he asks curiously. “So I can avoid a similar fate.”

“I don't think they quite believed me when I told them how simple I wanted things,” she says. “Too many sauces and sides and heat this up separately and put this on this. If I want a five course meal, I know where to get one. When I get home from work, I want to throw something in the oven or dump it on a plate and microwave it, not anything glamorous.”

He looks pleased to hear it – he seems to actually relax slightly, as if he'd been uncertain he could deliver on what she wanted.

“Well, I can guarantee you that going too fancy will not be a problem with me,” he says, writing a few more things down. “I'm used to basic.”

“Good.”

“I've got Tuesday afternoons free, if we're doing every week.”

She nods.

“Between noon and four, if that works for you.”

“I'll be at work, so you'll have free reign,” she says, opening a drawer on the island and pulling a house key from it. “Make yourself at home.”

“Alrighty,” he says, taking it from her. She watches him pull a roll of masking tape and a ring of maybe half a dozen keys from his bag. He rips off a piece of tape and labels it with an RW before adding it to the keyring. 

“If you ever have any requests, that number you have is my cell. Shoot me a text before Tuesday if you want it that week, or you can leave me a note.”

“Okay.”

“And let me know if you think of anything else you want me to know,” he says, starting to pack everything away again. “If you hate olives or can't stand Bleu cheese.”

“I love olives,” she says emphatically. “And there's no kind of cheese I will refuse.”

“Cheese is the best, right?” he remarks. “They're all good. Yellow, white, hard, soft. Even stinky, moldy…still good.”

She snorts a bit, but fully agrees.

“I'm pretty much always stocked with fresh mozzarella to nibble on so feel free to help yourself.”

“Oh, don't tell me that,” he says, shaking his head. “I'll clean you out every week.”

She chuckles as he throws his backpack over his shoulder. 

She sees him out, intrigued now to see what he cooks up for her.

×

When she gets home on Tuesday, there's a delicate cacophony of smells hanging in the air and she remembers for the first time today – after a long, trying weekend – that Ted was meant to come.

And apparently did.

The kitchen is spotless (thank God – chef number two had a tendency to slack on the cleaning up bit) and she eagerly makes her way to the fridge.

Each covered pan has a strip or two of tape on top – 35 minutes @ 175° the small square one requests. Thank God. One singular step.

If it tastes like shit, she's going to cry.

It reveals itself to be a lasagna and she flips the oven on, lets it get hot while she peeks at the rest of what he's made, then pops it in the oven while she goes upstairs and gets comfortable.

She notices the extra pan by the kettle when she comes back down, this one without a lid, left on a trivet. 

Three neat rows of shortbread lie within it, a note flat on the counter in front of it.

A little extra treat – maybe a bribe so I don't end up being Disappointing Chef Number 7 – and a thanks for giving me a shot. I'm told these are a winner with a cup of tea. 

He's signed it with a mustached smiley face that makes her chuckle.

They smell divine. She can't resist prying one up and taking a bite.

“Oh, fuck me,” she mutters to herself, looking at the biscuit with a bit of wonder as it melts on her tongue, perfectly sweet and salty.

Oh, wow. She glances at the oven, then the pan in front of her.

She might have struck gold.

×

Everything is delicious. He's clearly not a professional five star chef, but every bite has her in disbelief.

It's just so good. She was skeptical, but he even nails a shepherd's pie for her, dumping cheese on top without her even requesting it. Nothing is unpleasant or poorly made, nothing has her thinking to text him and tell him she didn't love it. His portions are more than enough for her and she frequently takes what's left to the office with her. She has never taken lunch with her to work. Ever.

His cooking tastes like dining at a friend's house, like family made it, like he loves cooking for people and puts it in every bite.

And the biscuits. She finished the pan before the week was even out, unable to help herself.

She's a little bit devastated when there are none on the following Tuesday. 

She leaves a note the next time she expects him.

Any chance for biscuits again? 

She's ecstatic to find a fresh pan when she gets home.

She's nursing her last three by the weekend, determined to make them last long enough to request more.

×

I hope no notes is a good thing?

She's been meaning to text him, tell him how pleased she is with everything he's made, but it continued to slip her mind.

How am I doing?

No notes is a very good thing, she sends back. Everything has been absolutely delicious.

Oh good :)

I love to hear it

The biscuits have become a problem though

No biscuits next week then?

God no

I'm hooked on them

Don't do that to me

You got it boss

×

She almost laughs at herself when she gets home.

She's turning down dinner dates and good-looking men in favor of a date with the container labeled prosciutto stuffed chicken breast in her fridge that she's been thinking about all day.

He'd probably get a kick out of the fact that his food is so good it's ruining her dating prospects, but that's most definitely not something she'll be telling him.

She gets herself a little bit of this week's salad while she waits on the oven – romaine with candied walnuts, dried cranberries, gorgonzola, sliced green apple with a deliciously sharp vinaigrette. She peruses the fridge in her typical Wednesday fashion – on Tuesday evenings she's made a habit of grabbing the first thing she sees and letting him surprise her – looking for the small container of sauce that the lid of the chicken makes mention of.

She chuckles when she sees it. Some of his notes on things have gotten more elaborate, sometimes teasing, sometimes with a wine pairing suggestion, sometimes just with a little smiley face. The lid for the sauce only says creamy pesto, but there's masking tape wrapped in a spiral over its sides, covered with writing.

I know, I'm gonna get in trouble for making a separate sauce for something but all you gotta do is dump it on when it's done! It's worth the extra step I promise! 

She snickers around her salad, setting it on the counter. 

It's well, well worth the extra step.

×

When she gets home on Tuesday, she's unexpectedly greeted by a strong, delicious smell and noise from the kitchen. She leaves her heels and her coat before turning into the kitchen.

Ted's at the stove, looking almost mortified as he immediately starts apologizing.

“I'm sorry, Rebecca, I'm so behind today, but this is my last one and then I'll clean up and get out of here–” he rambles, but she's taking him in more than listening. Namely, she's taking in his tired bloodshot eyes and his disheveled hair and the way his hands shake as he gestures to the mess of the kitchen. 

“I'm sorry–”

“No, Ted, it's alright,” she insists. “It's not a problem.”

“I'm almost done.”

“Are you okay?” she asks gently.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I just need to finish this…”

She frowns and rounds the island, unconvinced and unsettled – he's almost frantic with energy.

“Come here.” 

He frowns as she pulls him away from the stove.

“No, it'll burn–”

“In which case I'll survive with one less meal,” she says firmly, pushing him to the dining table. “Sit.”

He does – reluctantly – and she gets him a glass of water.

“Take a deep breath. Relax,” she insists before stepping to the stove. The pan there has a sauce in the making, a plate of meatballs next to it, as well as a pot of water getting hot.

“What needs done here?” she asks.

“I can–”

“Stop,” she commands, lifting a brow at him before he can rise. “Sit. Just tell me.”

“The, the cream needs to go in,” he says. “Give it a second, then the other two little bowls there, the Dijon and the Worcestershire and then the spices.”

“Okay,” she says, keeping her voice steady, hoping it'll relax him, show him she's far from upset that he's still here.

She follows his instructions, pouring the measuring cup of cream in and mixing it with the little whisk that's already there. She lets it get hot, then adds the rest, stirring it in.

“What am I making?” she asks with a small smile.

“Swedish meatballs,” he supplies, sounding distracted. “One of my favorites.”

“Swedish, hmm?”

“Well, I can't speak to them being authentic,” he says. “Recipe was my mom's. And she's definitely not Swedish.”

It smells delicious – whatever spices she just added were warm and aromatic and it makes her mouth water.

“What next?”

“Uh, turn the heat down and let it simmer,��� he says. “Needs to thicken.” 

She dutifully turns the stove down and then joins him, taking a seat next to him. 

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he deflects, “I'm fine. Just…didn't sleep so good and then this morning was…I'm fine.”

She doesn't push, seeing how much effort he's putting into forcing a smile and changes course.

“Do you have anywhere else to be today?” she asks.

“No, no, you're my last client on Tuesdays.”

“Then stay,” she insists, gesturing to the stove. “Looks like enough for two.”

“I shouldn't,” he tries, shaking his head. “I should get out of your hair.”

“You're not in my hair,” she asserts. “I would enjoy the company and I'm most certainly not complaining about getting a meal fresh off the stove.”

He looks her over for a moment, presumably looking for any hint of falsehood before he nods a bit haltingly.

She smiles.

“Should, uh, should put the meatballs back in to finish ‘em,” he murmurs. “And get the noodles on.”

“Yes, chef,” she says, giving him a wink when he finally smiles. 

“I'll do it,” he says, and she lets him this time for how much calmer he seems. She occupies herself by offering him a drink and pouring herself a glass of wine. He accepts a couple fingers of a scotch he's apparently had his eye on for the last few weeks and she watches with interest as he takes a sip.

“Oh, that's nice,” he mutters. 

“The only one I buy anymore.”

“You have excellent taste, I have to say,” he remarks. “Thank you.”

She helps him get the rest of the dinner together and is glad to see him relax more and more, until he's smiling easy as they both sit at the island with bowls of noodles and meatballs.

“Well, it smells fantastic,” she says, eagerly stabbing a forkful of noodles and half a meatball.

It's delicious. Creamy and warm and truly everything about it screams comfort food. 

“Oh, Christ,” she mumbles around it. 

“Yeah? That one a winner?” 

She nods emphatically, eyeing him as she chews.

“Nothing you make is bad,” she mumbles, watching him take his own bite.

“That's ‘cause I only make what I know I can make good for you,” he chuckles. 

“Why's that?” she asks. He can take a chance on her – he's built up plenty of faith in him already. One bad meal isn't going to have her canning him.

“Oh, to impress of course,” he says with a crooked smile that she returns. 

“You've already done so,” she says. “I haven't had a single thing I didn't like.”

“I'm very happy to hear it,” he says, sounding very genuine about it.

They eat slowly because conversation comes very easily. Whether it's the drink or the distraction of her company, he's light-years away from the frazzled ball of anxiety she was met with.

“Safe to assume you don't enjoy cooking much, huh?” he asks her as they both scrape their bowls. 

“I don't think I would mind it if I had ever learned,” she muses. “But I've had a cook for most of my life and learning how now just to feed myself seems more trouble than it's worth.”

“You've had a cook most of your life?” 

“My parents kept one when I was a kid, and then when I was married, my ex-husband insisted on a cook,” she says, half rolling her eyes. “Thank you, by the way, for not inundating me with pork pies and sausage rolls and roasts and dousing everything in gravy.”

“I enjoy a good gravy, but, oof, that's heavy eatin’ right there.”

“Too heavy,” she agrees. “Though my tastes were rarely taken into account.”

He hums as he wipes his mouth and she finds understanding in his eyes.

“How long were you married?” he inquires.

“Twelve years,” she says slowly.

“That's a lot of gravy,” he says more seriously than the words might call for. She hears his meaning plain enough.

“Yes. It was.”

“Well,” his tone brightens a bit, “now you got me to make whatever you please.”

“Too right,” she chuckles, sipping her wine. “And it's always spectacular. I don't know how you do it, what you're lacing everything with…”

“Oh, I just make sure I put a little love in everything, that's all,” he grins.

She takes in the sight of him, smiling and content, his creased eyes warm, and she likes this. She's enjoying this. She likes him. 

It's so hard to know though, even as his eyes move over her face, the quiet stretching long, if she likes him or if she's simply missed enjoying a comfortable meal at home without having to do it alone.

Her eyes drop, aware of how intensely she’s looking at him. She's not sure when it happened but they're both turned completely towards each other on their stools, leaning on the counter, and his fingertips are right there at the edge of hers – the mere straightening of her fingers would bring them into contact.

“I appreciate you letting me stay and have some of your dinner,” he says softly.

“You made it,” she offers with a grin.

“You paid for it,” he returns.

“It's not a problem at all,” she says, meaning it wholeheartedly. “It's nice to have some company.”

“I'm gonna be honest with you, Rebecca, you don't seem like a woman who would have any problem finding company.”

Her brows lift alongside the corners of her mouth, a little internally delighted by his boldness.

“I think I'll take that as a compliment,” she grins.

“As it was meant,” he assures.

“In which case…I'll amend to say it's nice to have such comfortable and easy company.”

His cheeks round, his gaze dropping in something akin to bashfulness and she thinks it really might just be him that's growing on her.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she says, her smile slanting crookedly. “Even if I pretty much made you.”

“I didn't wanna impose. You were very kind to give me a second to…calm down.”

She's not sure if it's embarrassment, exactly, or shame that has him toying with his glass instead of looking at her.

“Felt like I was trying to catch up to myself all day,” he admits.

“I know the feeling,” she sympathizes.

He's quiet for a moment before he responds. 

“My ex-wife was supposed to come out with our son in the next couple weeks here, but she called and they pushed it back until the summer.”

His frown is back and his gaze is faraway, but she doesn't speak.

“Been here for almost a year now and they still seem to be getting on just fine without me.” He sounds like he wishes he could say it with detachment, but it comes out rather devastated. 

“They're in the States?” she asks gently, pulling him back to here and now as he shakes himself a bit. 

“Yes.”

“Why don't you go see them?” she tries, though she's very aware she's got the bare minimum of facts.

“‘Cause I'm still stinging from her snapping that she just needs some goddamn space,” he says, giving her a twisted, wry little grin. 

She frowns but he shrugs, lifting his drink to his lips. 

“S’pose it's about time to just get over it,” he mumbles.

“That's not easy to get over,” she says kindly. “Especially from someone you love.”

“No, it's not,” he agrees. “Ain't much love to lose these days, though. You're probably right, should just take matters into my own hands, hop over the pond.”

“Don't go too long,” she says, only half teasing. “I shouldn't be left to feed myself for a prolonged period of time.”

He smiles again and the sight has warm satisfaction melting in her.

“Oh, if I go anywhere I'll set you up, don't you worry,” he assures her.

“Thank goodness.”

It's odd how difficult she finds it when she rises and steps away. A part of her wants her to stay put, keep the space between them minimal, but she writes it off as a result of just how long it's been since she had sex.

“Now, I don't see any biscuits,” she says. “But I suppose I'll give you a pass this week.”

He rises with a soft chuckle, following her with his own dish to the sink. 

“No, no, I'll do it,” he says as he starts to clean up from dinner. “Unless you need your kitchen back.”

She starts gathering dishes – he must clean as he goes, because it's not nearly the mess she'd imagine would come from cooking four whole dinners. 

“Oh, for what? You think I have a chef on the side coming over tonight?”

He turns, expression scandalized, a hand landing on his chest as if he's been shot.

“Tell me you'd never.”

She chuckles, joining him at the sink, hands full.

They clean up together and then she pours them both another drink before she claims a stool, content to watch as he puts together a batch of biscuits. She watches him move comfortably around the kitchen, chatting easily with her, and it's making an impression, one she's blatantly ignoring.

She half expects him to try to leave her once they're in the oven and has her excuses for him to stay at the ready, but he sits again, waiting the half hour they need to bake at the island with her. He asks her about her job, how she came to own the club, and conversation wanders to and fro.

“I'm intrigued to see what you've cooked up for me this week, chef,” she remarks at one point.

“You know I ain't really a professional chef, right?” he chuckles. “I dropped out of culinary school actually.”

“Really? Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “I wasn't having fun. I love cooking, I love making food and feeding people, but I didn't wanna do it the way they train you to, you know, cooking in a restaurant or joining the race to be the next big something. I like doing it this way. Getting to know people and cooking what they like. Feels like I'm paying the bills by cooking for friends and that's…” He clicks his tongue with a nod. “That's just perfect for me.”

“Well,” she says, smiling at how clearly he loves what he does. “You're still a chef. Definitely to me at least.”

He rises when the oven chimes, giving her a smile. 

“That's enough for me.”

The biscuits have filled the kitchen with the warm scent of vanilla – the same scent that's usually still barely lingering when she gets home.

He stays long enough to let them cool slightly and cut them and she watches as he arranges them on the trivet by the kettle, just as he always does. He packs his things up then and she sees him out, exchanging smiles and goodbyes.

She's still smiling when she finally goes upstairs to change for the evening and it takes her a while to identify the feeling.

She feels like she just got home from a really, really good date.

×

It wasn't a date, so she doesn't know why she's disappointed when she doesn't hear from him again over the week. She doesn't contact him either, trying to recategorize the evening in her mind. 

She's very pleasantly surprised, in that case, when she comes home the following Tuesday and he's still there. She knows by the smell of something sweet and nutty filling the air before she even gets to the kitchen. 

It's spotless this time. He's not all anxious energy this time either – he smiles when she peeks in, looking rather uncertain about his welcome, but it still makes something deep in her chest ache.

It's rather nice. To come home to a smile from someone.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello.” She lets her smile ease his uncertainty and her tone ask her questions for her.

“I, uh, wanted to say thank you,” he explains. “For last week, when I was…when I wasn't feeling so great, for being so kind, letting me hang out for a while.”

She starts to wave it off again, but he continues.

“I made a little something special for ya. Something I can't really leave for you to reheat later,” he says, gesturing to the ovens. “If you want a little snack?”

She nods eagerly, kicking her heels off toward the stairs before she joins him.

He pulls a dish from the oven and sets it on the counter. He fiddles with something there, but she doesn't see what until her turns, sliding a round plate to the center of the island between them.

Whatever it is is perfectly golden brown, looks delicious and smells heavenly.

“Honey baked brie,” he informs her. “With some walnuts and some fig jam, tiny bit of rosemary.”

“Oh my god,” she almost moans. “And it's what, wrapped in pastry?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he smiles. “Thought it might be something you like.”

“I can tell you already you're correct,” she says, rounding the island to find them some forks. “I can't wait to taste it.”

“Let me know how you like it.” She frowns, but he's got a small smile when she looks up. “I'll let you…”

“You think I'm going to eat that entire thing myself?” she asks, lifting her brows as she pulls two forks from the drawer.

“Well, I know how much you like cheese,” he chuckles.

“I'll share,” she says, handing him a fork. “With you.”

She doesn't even have the patience to sit down – she slices her fork through the pastry and creamy brie begins to ooze out. She scoops it up with some pastry, catching a nut and a bit of fig and shoves it in her mouth. 

“Careful, it's hot–”

“Fuck me,” she mutters without thought.

It's delicious. Creamy and sweet and savory, the pastry flaky and buttery. It's rich and indulgent but not sickeningly so and she’s in love.

She's bringing another bite to her mouth when she realizes he's just smiling at her, pleased as punch.

“Please eat some,” she begs around her bite. “Because I can not eat all of this and I will if you leave me alone with it.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, cutting off a bite for himself. 

He hums, pleased with his handiwork. “Mm. Not to toot my own horn, but that's good.”

“Mm!” she hums, getting an idea. She steps away to the wine cooler, squatting down to look for one of her less frequent whites. She comes back with a pair of glasses and an off-dry Riesling.

“This was a bit too bright and citrus-y for me, but it might be gorgeous with this.”

“Okay. You’re the sommelier here, not me,” he says as she pours, then slides a glass to him.

“Oh, please, your pairings are always spot on.”

It does go nicely, complimenting every bite.

“God, this is lovely,” she tells him. 

“I'm glad you like it,” he mumbles around his own bite. 

“Did you make the pastry?”

He shakes his head. “No. Normally I would, but I didn't decide on this until I was shopping today and that takes some time.”

“How long did this take?”

She listens with interest as he explains how he made it, amazed at how straightforward it sounds.

“Christ, it sounds like I could make it.”

“Uh oh,” he says, eyes widening. “Am I talking myself out of a job?”

“Oh, hardly. Even if I figured out how to make everything you cook for me, I'd still keep you around,” she admits. “You’re good company.”

“Well, that's nice to know,” he smiles, eyes soft.

“Also, knowing how to definitely doesn't mean I actually have any desire to cook any of it myself,” she chuckles. “So you still have plenty of use.”

She winks with her teasing as his warm laugh has him tucking his chin, his crows feet deepening. 

“I see how it is.”

She can't help but take him in, delighted by how carefree he is today. God help her, she really does like him – she wants to know him better. He's so genuine, so unselfish and generous, and she wants to keep him smiling.

“Thank you,” she says when she finally really can't eat any more, maybe a quarter of the round of brie left on the plate. “That was very kind of you.”

“No, thank you,” he echoes. “It was nice last week, to sit and eat with someone and I needed it.”

She nods get agreement, leaning her hip against the counter.

“I won't, uh, make a habit of just hanging out here, though,” he says, presumably to reassure her.

Her brows tip, eyes on his as she lets out a disappointed, “No?”

His lips part, but he doesn't manage to form a response. It hardly matters – they're communicating plenty in their gazes, trading glances at each other's lips. The moment stretches, and stretches, her breath changing to suit the surplus beats of her heart at the intensity in his warm eyes.

He leans closer, tipping his head, and something jolts through the center of her when he kisses her. She returns the gentle pressure, daring to part her lips to close them against his. Her fingers curl into her hand at her hip with restraint, fighting the urge to sink into his hair or pull him closer.

It's too delicate, this lovely feeling, and draws a tenderness up through her she hasn't been able to find for months.

He eases back slowly and she catches the breath he stole. Her eyes open, finding his still closed and she watches his parted lips begin to tighten as he fights a smile. The sight inspires one of her own, pulling at her cheeks as he opens his eyes, the smile winning and straightening his mustache out.

“I, um…”

She rolls her lips into her mouth, not even trying for words. She has none.

He can't find any either.

She drives forward again, prepared this time with a little extra breath in her lungs, a little more confidence. He kisses her back with a little more something too and she can't restrain her hands anymore from rising to hold his face. She tries to imbue the motion of her lips with plenty of invitation, but it's not until she pulls back and he follows, wavering toward her, that he steadies himself with a hand on her hip. Her attention goes straight to the heat of it through her dress as it slides to a more respectable height on her waist.

“You are very welcome to linger here as much as you like actually,” she exhales.

“Oh, I feel welcome,” he says, voice low.

She grins, pulling him in again. “Do you?”

“I sure do.” 

He barely gets the words out before they're kissing again. She opens to him, tastes the brie and honey and the dry sweetness of the wine and finds it appropriate that he should be so indulgent. His hands finally make their way around her, narrowing the space between them even more. She's not sure when her arms found their way around his neck but they tighten there in response.

He doesn't let her go far when they part again, dropping a kiss on the corner of her mouth, her cheek. Her eyes close with the sensation, the scratch of his mustache and his warm lips. 

“I really like cooking for you,” he murmurs.

The way he says it makes it sound like a deep confession and she feels silly for how fluttery it makes her to hear. She smiles against his lips and discovers this isn't new information to her. It's in every bite.

“I know you do,” she says low in his ear. “I can taste it.”

“Can you?” He sounds surprised and pleased.

“Yes.” She guides him back to her lips. “I can.”

[storyofmychoices]

Girl, I don’t care what you say.

Your ass better be there.

Don’t make us come drag you out of your house.

It will be fun!

The text messages kept streaming in and she smiled slyly. They were so easy to rile up sometimes.

She slipped into the dress she had picked out for the occasion and put the finishing touches on her hair and makeup. One quick glance in the mirror before she left their apartment to greet her car share driver at the corner.

The drive across town wasn’t bad at this time of evening. Early enough that most people were not headed out for the evening.

She hopped out of the car with a bright smile. Thanking her driver and tipping her extra. No like to shuttle happy couples around any day but especially not on this day.

The squeals and cheers that greeted her when she made her way over to their table drew stern, admonishing glances from some of the patrons.

“Told you she’d come,” Sienna beamed.

“No you didn’t,” Kyra laughed. “You were coming up with alternatives for dinner so we could convince Olivia to join us.”

“Merida was ready to throw down,” Jackie smirks.

“You were too,” Merida chides.

“You guys are too easy to mess with,” Olivia smiled earning claps and proud oohhs from the group.

Olivia laughed along with the rest of them. This wasn’t how she imagined spending Valentine’s Day but with Bryce on call she had to admit that this was nice.

“We will convince you to join us every year,” Jackie interrupted her thoughts.

“That or I’ll just have the chief put Bryce on call each Valentine’s Day,” Merida smirked.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Olivia gasped.

“Now I feel like I have to,” Merida smirked

“She’s practically daring you to,” Jackie smiled wickedly.

——————————

Happy Valentine’s Day! I took the liberty of drabbling a little something for the Open Heart girls celebrating the day as only they could.

eee what a lovely surprise to find this in my inbox. Thank you for always being the most wonderful gem.

This is so so cute. hehe I love these girls. What a lovely group of friends!

I know Liv would want to spend Valentine's Day with Bryce but can you really go wrong with this group?! No! She can have Bryce any other day, this could definitely be a new tradition. I mean I agree with Jackie, Olivia was practically daring Merida. 😏

[trappolia]

MY SWEET VILLAIN, MY DARLING GOD ── nanook + gn!reader, 1.3k

nanook's birth was a fiery thing; a light piercing through the clouds like golden death, scorching the world once known as adlivun. their birth preceded the collapse of an entire universe, one that had somehow persevered through the emperor's war and was strengthening their defences against the coming of the swarm's march. the old towers of this already dying world had crumbled as the sun rose for the very last time in adlivun, marking the coming of destruction incarnate.

but for all the chaos and death their birth brought upon, the day they came into being is of no real importance to nanook. they do not remember the constellations shining upon their home when they first ignited it, nor do they recall whether or not the heat remained or if the cold dark was the first thing they felt, for adlivun was long gone by the time their golden irises illuminated what was left of the world.

it is a curious thing; for all they have discarded and forgotten of their birth, they remember yours.

what is a god? certainly not immortal, that is for sure. pantheons have collapsed with the passage of time, forgotten in the seas of lost religions. aeons are just as susceptible to death and collapse as the universes they traverse and conquer. on the same spectrum, the birth of a being as powerful as an aeon is an anomaly felt by the entire universe, a single ripple that results in the violent waves of a turning tide. such concepts are merely specks of dust for them. what use do they have for such worries, when their lives are mysteries in the known worlds, tipping the balance of the scales simply by existing?

nanook’s fascination with you could be dismissed as another consequence of the butterfly effect. they should have nothing else on their mind beside righting the worlds’ wrongs, ridding the universe of the cancer that emerges from the boundless stars to taint civilisations. war. death. destruction. finality. nanook is a jagged puzzle made up of the gods and mortals they had killed, universes scorched from existence like a supernova; and yet, you fit into their life like you were meant to be there all along.

“my sweet villain,” you whisper into their ear, saccharine sweet and painfully loving in all the ways they do not deserve. “my darling god.”

no, they want to say. they are a villain, yes — your sweet villain, if you continue to insist — but a darling god? no, that has always been you. for a being whose existence has been dictated by their status as avatar of entropy since birth, nanook finds that everything seems to come together when you press your lips against theirs, your taste sweeter than ambrosia.

you are their most infuriating distraction, they think as you sit together amongst the stars of a universe that has yet to die, clinging onto their last rays of sun and hope before nanook ends it all. it is their sweetest punishment, to have to sit here with you in their arms, so easily drawing their thoughts away from their duties and ideals— and for what? looking at the stars together? how pathetic.

pathetic, in the way they recognise these stars, these constellations. it is rare to come across any two galaxies that have the same formation of stars, as likely as to find a needle in a haystack, as mortals say. but here they are, their eyes dragging over the stars glimmering in the abyss. they know these patterns. they know their stories.

they remember the day.

“it’s your birthday,” they murmur. even in this soft tone that nanook only ever reserves for you, their voice is a booming bass that reverberates throughout the galaxy. somewhere, another star dies out.

“hm?” you say cluelessly, looking up at them with eyes that shine brighter than the golden ichor that drips down their arms.

“a mortal custom,” nanook replies gruffly, feigning nonchalance even as a shiver runs down their spine at the touch of your fingers upon their skin. “the stars are the same as they were the day you came into being.”

“ah. so it is,” you say when you finally look at the constellations.

it is a strange thing— a humiliating thing; the way nanook can barely breathe when you are looking at them, and how the air grows stale when you aren’t. it’s as if the aeon of destruction is utterly dependent on your attention, your love. how pathetic. how miserable.

how true.

the aeon may have only ascended recently, the youngest of all known paths, but they have made their mark on the universe already; whether it is with the presence of the antimatter legion, or the existential crisis brought upon by nanook’s very life. with their birth, one could no longer deny that destruction is the inescapable destiny of all the known universes; expansion, fusion, and then annihilation. it is the same for aeons; the survival of the fittest, to destroy or be destroyed, to absorb or be absorbed. for as long as people still walk on the path of destruction, nanook will continue to aim for the complete devastation of this tainted universe. they alone are the sole being who truly understands what a mistake the birth of this universe was. each ship and planet may follow a different path, but what civilisation does not speak the common tongue of war? what universe does not know death, pain, destruction?

“what universe does not know love?” you would ask them in response to that. your hands come up to cup their cheeks in your palm, and nanook is undone. “even you know love, my violent delight. why else would you have remembered the position of the stars the day i was born?”

“would you like your death day to be on the same day as your birth?” nanook questions you without any real malice, their voice breathless as you drag your thumb over their bottom lip.

you laugh, and nanook hears the stars sing with you.

why is it that mortals bother in the struggle of survival? they think. nothing lasts forever, not even the great aeons themselves. civilisations rise and fall, galaxies materialise and collapse. for a new beginning, the book must end. it is simply the way of things. nanook knows this. nanook has always known this.

and yet, in these moments with you, they cannot help but cling onto your immortality. they cradle you close, because if the aeon of destruction — of all things lost to violence and death — cannot kill you, then what can? if lan of the hunt shuns yaoshi of the abundance for loving the living too much to the point of cursing them with immortality when it is too heavy of a burden to hear, then it is only a matter of time until they realise that nanook is a threat to the balance as well. what is life without you? merely the act of existing, rather than living— chasing a goal, without ever stopping to see the stars and consider the stories behind them.

in death, nanook will be remembered as many things, and the antimatter legion will carry out their legacy just as all the previous aeons’ factions do in the present day. even if they must continue nanook’s ideals in the shadows, the aeon of destruction will shadow the known universe for all of eternity— for what civilisation exists without the pain of violence and death? destruction is a concept as sure as life and death; immortal, even if its aeon has long passed. that is nanook’s goal, their sole purpose of living.

but on this day, nanook allows themself a singular moment to hope that when they die, the universe will know them not only for the destruction they had reigned upon the universe, but for the fact that they did it in your name, for they had loved you above all else.

[twola]

Yo yo yo! I have a request. Do Arthur x f!reader where he's teaching her to fish because Hosea/Dutch has found out shes weirdly squirmy about fish but she's being a reluctant brat about things and Arthur loses his temper 'GODDAMMIT wOmAn!' Style. Make its as unhinged smutty as you please (so a LOT 😏) Thank you! 😘😘😘

Ooh. Well now - I do not like fish that much, so this isn’t a stretch for me 😂 This was super fun!! I hope you enjoy.

Gone Fishin'

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

As Arthur reaches the end of his convalescence after his run-in with Colm O’Driscoll, Hosea has a task for him - teach one of the girls how to fish. The task, he finds out, is a little harder than he imagined. Also, he’s a little harder than he imagined. 

Lemoyne was warm. Warm and humid, buggy, and miserable. Arthur’s work shirt stuck to his skin, even after shedding his full union suit underneath his clothes, he’s still too damn hot. 

He’s hot and bored.

The pain in his shoulder is just a niggle at this point, but Grimshaw refused to let him go work again, even though the wound has closed up, scabbed over, and is scarred with new pink skin. 

Three more days, Grimshaw pointed at him, and with that tone that he knew he would catch hell from her if he disobeyed.

But he’s past languishing under the shade of his tent. Idleness may suit a drunk like Uncle - but not a man like him. He is a man of action.

He needs to do something. Or he is going to go crazy.

-

“Oh, come on, dear. It’s relaxing.”

“Hosea, I don’t do fish. I don’t like eatin’ them, and I sure as hell wouldn’t like catching them.” You huff, standing at the end of the dock. 

Hosea sits next to you, a fishing pole in his hand as his feet dangle over the side of the dock. You fiddle with your skirts as you gaze out at the lake, the water glinting in the afternoon sun.

“It’s an art, dear girl.”

You scowl down at him, “Fish are disgusting.” 

He laughs, “Oh, you. We’re on a lake, you’re gonna have to get used to fish real soon, missy.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. It’s hot, and you wear just a simple white chemise top tucked into your cotton skirt, baring your arms and decolletage to the sun, a welcome opportunity after almost freezing to death in the Grizzlies. 

Hosea looks back toward the camp, where he sees Arthur mulling about. An idea strikes him, genius, as his ideas often are. He stands up, and waves over to the recovering gunslinger, “Arthur, c’mere! Got somethin’ for you to do!”

“No- Hosea,” you whisper harshly, clenching your fists in your skirts, “What are you doing?”

Arthur approaches the end of the dock, running his hand through his long beard, not having shaved in weeks at this point. “Hosea,” He grunts, then looks to you, “Miss.”

“Dear, you need to learn the fine art of fishing. And Arthur over here? He needs somethin’ to do other than sit around pissin’ off Grimshaw.” Hosea waves his free hand toward the camp,

Hosea claps Arthur’s back with his free hand, then turning and tugging you toward the gunslinger on the dock.

“Now you kids take the boat and get on out there, it’ll do both of you some good.”

“Wait wait, wasn’t it you and Dutch makin’ fun of me for the trout incident? I shouldn’t be teaching anyone how to fish.” Arthur shakes his head.

“Nonsense, boy. You caught plenty last time we went out. Besides, it’ll get you out of camp.”

“Fine.” Arthur groans, grabbing the fishing rod from the older man’s outstretched hand.

“Hosea-”  You whine, but your benefactor nods his head, cutting you off.

“Go on.” 

You roll your eyes, following Arthur as he steps into the rowboat moored at the dock, taking his outstretched hand, and helping you step into the small boat.

“You kids have fun now.” Hosea waves, a smile on his face.

Arthur grunts, picking up the oars and pushing off from the dock. You sit in the bow of the rowboat, scowling, as Arthur rows away from the camp, scanning the horizon. A hushed quiet falls as he guides the boat southbound, the camp becoming smaller and smaller as he rows deeper out into the lake.

“Why do you want to learn how to fish?”

“I don’t.” You huff, your arms crossed over your chest.

“Then why the hell are we out here?” Arthur stops rowing, a scowl also settling in on his face.

“Cause you can’t say no to Hosea.”

“Looks like neither can you.”

An awkward silence settles in between you.

“Well, we’re out here now. Might as well make the best of it.” Arthur says, pulling the oars into the hull of the boat and picking up the fishing rod. He holds it out to you.

You let out an exasperated sigh, refusing to uncross your arms.

Arthur grumbles, adjusting the hat on his head, before drawing the rod back and pulling a feathered lure from his pocket, placing it on the hook. He casts the line further out into the lake. 

“Didn’t really plan on fishin’ today, otherwise I’d have some live bait - worms or crickets or whatnot.” He turns back to you, tugging on the rod slightly, glancing back as the lure bobs in the water.

You glower, scrunching your nose at the mention of live bait.

“I hate fish.” You grit out.

“Oh, hush.” Arthur chides. The line pulls, and he feels something bite.

“Here ya go!” He pulls back the line, the fish hanging in the air. With a grin, he swings the pole in your direction, the bluegill flopping on the line, getting closer to your head.

You scream, standing up in the boat and batting the fish away from your face, causing Arthur to jerk to the side, dropping the fishing pole in surprise. The boat violently bobs side to side with your movement.

“Goddamnit, woman!” Arthur yells, nearly falling over the side of the boat as he tries to catch the pole that you batted away from him.

“I told you I don’t like fish!” You screech, sitting back down slowly as the boat bucks. 

“That’s it, Christ; you’re such a goddamn brat!” Arthur throws the pole within the hull of the boat and grabs the oars, thrusting them into the water forcefully. He heaves the oars, forcing the boat forward as he angrily pulls and pushes back toward the shore, breathing heavily as he propels the boat through the water.

“Arthur - wait-”

“Waste of my goddamn time,” He continues, fuming. It actually feels good to work his muscles like this.

“Arthur!”

By then, it’s too late. The boat hits a sandbar and beaches itself, and the speed at which Arthur was rowing causes the boat to lurch violently, sending you flying forward into his body, and you both tumble to the hull of the boat, a jumble of limbs and your skirts.

Arthur pushes you up, and you nearly fall backward with the force of his shove.

He swears as you get your footing, sitting up and looking for the oars as he pulls himself back up to his seat.

The oars are nowhere to be found. He probably dropped them when he beached the damn boat. Actually, as he squints, he sees one floating away from the sandbar, back toward the middle of the lake.

“Shit.” He curses.

“You idiot.”  You sneer at him, lifting your boot to find it wet with lakewater, a hole having sprung in the bottom of the hull, the wood splintered as water rushes in. You hike up your skirts as the level of water rises within the boat.

Arthur jumps out of the boat, grumbling, looking this way and that as you climb out as well. The sandbar the boat is beached upon is on one of the small islands off the shore of the lake, a good fifty feet to the mainland. He curses to himself as he looks back into the boat, the hull filling with water.

“Now what?” You ask critically as you let your skirts down, following him as he stalks along the island’s shore. 

He doesn’t answer, looking around at the sandy ground beneath his boots.

“Watch out for the snake.” He points at the ground next to you, and your eyes dart downward as a brown water moccasin slithers by.

You scream, jumping toward him in fear away from the snake as it glides away into the water, and in a jumble of limbs, you’re somehow climbing the man as he stumbles backward.

“Get me out of here!”

Arthur tries to have some sort of propriety as he tries to regain his balance, but it’s hard when the only hold on you he can get is to loop his hands under the backs of your thighs. You’re clutching at his shoulders, trying to get yourself off of the ground, and end up finding purchase on him by wrapping your legs around his hips, your skirts askew as you pant in terror.

“Fuckin’ stop-” Arthur grunts, stumbling backwards, finally losing his battle with gravity as you and he tumble into a sand dune. His hat flies off, rolling on its rim in a circle, finally settling a few feet away.

Of course, of course, it couldn’t suit him to land in any kind of proper or decent way. No, no, he had to land completely on top of you, slotted between your hips, your skirts creeping up while his traitorous, immature, villainous cock swells at the pressure of his weight against your clothed cunt.

The air has been knocked out of your lungs, but beneath him, you gasp as he tries to move. Your knees frame him, skirts fallen to your hips to show your skin. Your arms are still thrown around his shoulders as he tries to push himself up, his hands slipping in the sand, causing him to crumble down on you, his hips fully pressing down on yours.

Shit. Shit.

He’s trying to think of anything - rotten meat, Uncle’s laundry - anything to stave off the growing erection tenting within his pants. But alas, he is a slave to his own biology, as his cock stiffens and his blood rushes into his groin.

You stare up at him. His eyes dart away in embarrassment, a blush deepening on his cheeks.

Then, you do something that throws him even further into this pit of arousal he finds himself in.

You slowly roll your hips against him and he cannot help but to let out a low moan in response and press his swollen cock against you harder.

Christ, your hair has fallen from its bun, spread out on the sandy soil of this island like some sort of halo.

Two minutes ago he wanted to throttle you. Now, underneath him, he wants to make you gasp and cry and oh, to say his name in a high whine-

“Fuck-” he curses, but before he can go any further, your hands move from his shoulders to the back of his neck, and you pull downward gently - not enough to move him, but enough to give him permission.

He waits for a moment, searching your wide eyes, your open, wet lips, and in that moment, he throws caution to the wind and leans down to slot his lips against yours. You continue to roll your hips against him, crossing your ankles over his back in a surefire sign of what you wanted, whining into his mouth.

And fuck, if he wasn’t going to give it to you.

As he leans back on his knees, sliding his arms from around your waist, he paws his suspenders down and starts unbuttoning his pants, desperate to free his swollen cock. He grunts with a hint of satisfaction as he pulls his length from his pants, closing his eyes as he strokes himself several times. He faintly recognizes your squirming beneath him, and when he’s opened his eyes again, hand still on his cock, he’s struck by what he sees. You’ve shimmied down your bloomers, skirts flipped up and over your hips, pooling across your waist.

Your folds glisten with moisture, and his hips jut forward near uncontrollably, his cock seeking out your warmth, his body yearning to bury itself within your hips.

“Y- you sure-?” One last chance - one more opportunity to back away from the precipice - to realize that you are both being ridiculous - one second ready to kill each other, the next…

“Arthur please.”

Well, there goes his reservations.

One of his large hands spreads out over your hip, the other around the base of his cock, and he presses the swollen, dripping head of his cock against your folds, trailing downwards as he parts them to your opening, groaning in pleasure as he slips in half an inch.

His hand leaves his cock as he leans back over you, arm landing next to your shoulder, as he gently presses his hips forward, sliding in as you shut your eyes in overstimulation. By the time his hips press against your own and he’s sheathed in you to the hilt, your eyes flutter open as you let out a breath you were holding. Arthur’s other arm comes up to bracket you in, his mouth hanging open as a strand of his honeyed-brown hair falls forward between his eyes.

He lowers himself down to his elbows to press himself completely against you, seeking out your lips again as he bucks his hips forward, causing you to mewl into his mouth, your arms wrapping around his neck, one hand cupping the back of his head, fingers threading into his long hair, grasping it tightly as he settles into a rhythm of rolling his hips back and forth.

You pull on his hair and he groans, thrusting hard into you in response. Seems like you aren’t over your surly mood. He finds a hard and punishing rhythm, again feeling good to work his muscles after his convalescence.  It had been much longer than that since he’s worked these particular muscles.

“A-Arthur-” You moan loudly as he continually strokes that spot within you. He grunts in response, pulling his cock nearly out of your cunt before slamming his hips back into you.

You shriek in pleasure, and for a moment he’s thankful he’s marooned the two of you on this island yards away from the shore of the lake.

“Y’gonna come for me?” He harshly whispers into your ear, “Y’gonna come on my cock?”

That does it.

You cry out, back arching against him, head thrown back into the grassy dune, a high keening sound that makes him moan helplessly in response, gyrating his hips as your cunt clenches hard around his length, warm and wet and perfect.

“Fuck - fuck - woman…” He groans, rutting forward as you come down from your high, his cock pulsing and covered in your warm slick, and he is forced to pull himself from you, gliding out as he sits back on his knees and starts to pump himself.

You look up and god, is he a sight. His hips buck forward as he strokes his length, his mouth hanging open and muscles of his abdomen clenching under his shirt tails. A low moan escapes him as his other hand flies to cover the head of his cock, and he comes with his eyes screwed shut, looming over you.

He pants, for several moments, before opening his eyes. You sit up, needing, needing more, and you loop your hands around his neck again and pull his lips to yours, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He grunts in surprise, but leans into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours.

You pull back, a smile creeping across your face, and as he opens his eyes, he cannot help the same.

“Is that how your lessons always end?” You laugh as he tucks himself away with his clean hand, leaning to the side to wipe his other hand in the grass as a half a smile creeps across his face.

“Only when the student is difficult.” He rumbles, tucking his shirt back into his pants as you start to pull your skirts down over your thighs.

“Mm.. I do remember you offering to teach me to shoot before Blackwater.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow as he rebuttons his pants and slides his suspenders back up. “Y’gonna be a brat about it?”

“Of course.”

He smirks, reaching for his hat on his knees. You push yourself up to stand, shaking your skirt free of sand and grass as you look for where you tossed your bloomers in your fit of passion.

“Arthur.”

“Mhm?” He replies, running his hand through his long hair before placing his hat back on his head.

“How are we going to get back to shore?”

-

Hosea smokes a cigarette sitting by the scout fire, the sun having gone down some time ago.

He’s starting to feel a niggle of concern that the two of you aren’t back. The both of you can certainly take care of yourselves.

You’re stalking back toward your tent, your clothes soaking wet, hair plastered down your neck. You refuse to give Hosea even a passing glance as you head back to the women’s tent.

Hosea arches an eyebrow as Arthur walks closer, also fuming. Also soaking wet. The gunslinger looks at Hosea briefly before carrying on.

“Lesson didn’t go as planned.”

[arcielee]

Our moonlight drive.

Summary: A night drive with your boyfriend. Paring: Modern Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 700+ Warnings: Modern Aemond fluff to soothe the soul.  Author's Note: This story is dedicated to the lovely, the talented @babygirlyofthevale 💜 This is a drabble, sweet piece inspired by the masterpiece in motion Comet Donati by @inthedayswhenlandswerefew (chapter2, oh my goodness). A big thank you to my darling beta readers for your help! Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond​ @annikin-im-panicin​ @watercolorskyy​ @schniiipsel​ @sylas-the-grim​ @aemondx​ @fan-goddess​ @httpsdoll​ @theromanticegoist​ @hb8301​ @lovelykhaleesiii​ 

Night is coming with its amber smear of burnt oranges and yellows overwhelmed with the purple hue swallowing the last of the day’s light. The route is familiar, a routine drive towards your favorite sweet spot, and the windows are down, letting the cool air knot your hair.

It isn’t far and Aemond parks further back, quickly out and moving to grab your door; you smile with the gesture as he shows that he is firstmost a gentleman, especially when it comes to you. You follow his steps and he reaches for your hand without looking back, knowing fully well that you will take his hand, enlacing your fingers with his own, a perfect fit. 

The ice cream parlor is a town antique, with a window opened for the late night crowd to come by. You order first and he leans against your backside, over your shoulder with the shimmer silver curtain of his locks spilling forward.

You feel the warm rumble when he adds, “She also would like sprinkles on top,” and reaches to take napkins from the dispenser. 

You peer up at him, a warm glow of pleasure that he remembered, that he knows your simple pleasures. 

There is a stone bench that you both straddle, facing one another with your treats in hand; he offers you a spoonful of his ice cream and leans forward to lick your waffle cone. The napkins he grabbed come in handy, helping the failing battle against the muggy night, the sweet spill of sprinkles over the cone’s edge. 

Once done, more napkins are needed to clean up and he takes your hand again, leading you back to the car. 

This is the only time you willingly place yourself in his blindspot, whenever he would drive but Aemond does not seem to mind it. He likes how you play the role of reconnoiter during daylight, but tonight the roads are empty and this allows you to sink comfortably into the passenger’s seat, enveloped in his scent of leather and his cologne, with a hint of smoke, and you enjoy the press of his large palm into the softness of your thighs, his thumb drawing small circles on the outside.

His vehicle is an imported stick shift, sleek and meticulous, allowing him the control he strives for in every aspect of his life. Aemond is careful, calculated, and you see this in the mirrors added, an extension and a reminder to his half vision; he always turns his head fully to check before a lane change, and this allows him a moment to look at you. 

And you are looking back, ever watchful, ever aware of him. In this moment, the blue lumination from the dash gives an iridescent shimmer to the sapphire stone set in his scarred socket, an ethereal glow to the sharp contours of his face.

You feel the warmth return to your cheeks when you see the curl of his lips into a smile that only belongs to you. 

“Do you trust me?” the low timbre of his voice asks. 

And you do, with everything you have to offer, with every molecule wrapped within you thrumming with a loyalty that began from the moment you met. You remember the play of his perpetual smirk, both inviting and enticing, and what you felt bloom with the first kiss shared, sparked from the touch of his soft lips against your own. It is a feeling that grows still, a sense of comfort and safety with his intimate touches, igniting something that you were not aware existed within your heart. 

You keep this to yourself though, and hum your acknowledgement, your grin gleeful. “Where you go, I go,” you remind him. 

He does not turn homewards, but instead his long fingers curl around the wheel to rotate, to follow the vacant weave of road lit by his headlights and the settling nightglow. Aemond looks forward and you can see the dimples that line his cheek; only after he settles into gear does he reach for your hand, bringing it up to his lips for a gentle kiss and nestles the hold onto his thigh. 

Your fingers curl around in response, a perfect fit. 

arcie’s masterlist

[dottores]

YOU GUYS MUST LOOK AT WHAT TEE GOT ME FOR MY BDAY!!!! SHE GAVE IT TO ME EARLY FOR CONGRATULATIONS ON FINISHING MY FIRST WEEK OF LAW SCHOOL

[blenselche]

familiar.

@unicornmachine the brainworms!!!! aaaaa!

She begins to remember things, like how his cracked molar would catch on the tip of her tongue, or the oddly musical pattern of his wake-up joint pops… how he only gentles when you're lathering strawberry scented shampoo into his scalp, how his hands grab with a jarringly insecure hunger. Fi isn't a homewrecker, but her insides twist up with a ferocious, venom coated jealousy upon the dawning realization that magic wasn't the only thing stolen away from their world, pinching herself and digging her knuckles into a dark green bruise she's worked into her thigh at the sight of him happy with someone else. A small, shameful part of her comes alive in the back of her brain, whispering hopefully that he'll remember, too, when his eyes stutter over her face.